Hong Kong Calico

Picasso was born in February 2000. According to local astrology,the Year of the Dragon. Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon? I rescuedher from the SPCA in September 2000. Someone had stuck her in adonation box. I don't even want to know what that means.

I had very definite plans. A calm, quiet, lazy girl who would becontent spending all day cooped up in an 18th floor Hong Kongshoebox apartment.

There she was. In a glass cage. Her roommate was playing with acat toy that some people dangled before her, ringing the bellsand acting like a kitten. Meanwhile, she rested on a perch,mildly disgusted by all the commotion.

Once I reached in, but not before, she rubbed her head on my handand purred. Yes, I decided, I'll take the quiet one. Thepaperwork said she was four months old, based on her size. Theguy who handled the adoption looked at her teeth and said, "No,she's probably seven months, just underfed."

When I got home, I told my wife, "She has a naughty face, butshe's really very sweet."

I returned two days later, after the desexing operation, andbrought home my shy, quiet cat. I set down the cat carrier,opened it, and there she was. Scared, skinny, gorgeous.

My wife, the painter, stated that the kitten looked like aPicasso. If Picasso had painted a cat, this is how it would havelooked. Black, white and ginger all in unique swirls andpatterns. Thus, we named our new kitten Picasso.

Picasso camped out in the spare bedroom, between the wall and thenearby wardrobe, atop some luggage. A very confined, safe area.The room was full of other hiding places, naturally, since we usedit for clothing storage. Space is a rare commodity in Hong Kong. Imarvel at the folks who live with two kids, grandma, and aFilipino maid.

"She may be too quiet," we worried for the next two days."Boring."

We need not have been concerned. That's how long it took her torecover from the surgery, and to realize that her masterful conjob was a resounding success. Don't you know that all cats, whenseeking a home, pretend to be angelic? Then, when everything issafe and you've been lulled into that false sense of security...BAM!!

Picasso loves to play with pens, lighters and balls of paper.Knocking massive marble balls from the windowsill always gives asatisfying bang. On the polished wood floor, they sound likebowling balls when they roll. Never in a straight line, leadingto hours of fascinating study. The hair on her tail sticks outlike a bristle brush and her eyes look feral as she rushes madlythrough the flat. What will she attack next? Possibly the largesilk butterfly on the wall. No one ever knows, not even her.

She loves pouncing on wall hangings, and attacking funnel webspiders on the television. She knows how to sit on the remotecontrol and turn on the TV, but it's much more fun to lift thelid on the computer printer and watch the cartridges move.

Her favorite room may be the bathroom. Picasso can watch peoplein there, on the toilet or in the shower. She can smell things.She can stare at herself in the mirror. She can attack the box oftissues, although she knows not to do that. Not that knowingstops her. This is a cat, not a dog. She just lies atop the basinfull of shredded tissues and says "meeeeowrrrrr..." Roughlytranslated, that means, "I didn't do that. I just found themhere. I don't know how they got this way." Even though we bothknow it's a lie.

She can leap from the basin to the wall that divides the roomalmost in half, landing on the 4 inch space between that wall andthe ceiling, slamming into the roof on the way. From there shecan climb onto the light above the mirror, then leap all the waydown to the floor when someone opens a tin of tuna.

Imagine you're a guy about to take a leak, only to have a catjump on the toilet and challenge your aim. Now imagine herbatting the stream, perhaps even taking a sniff. Then when thetoilet flushes, she must stick her head way down in there for aclose-up wide-eyed look. She's stopped doing all that,fortunately.

The bathroom has a tub, which is great for rolling in or hidingin. Recently I saw Picasso licking a bar of soap, then lickingher white chest. Maybe that's how she keeps it so clean.

Or perhaps her favorite room is the kitchen. She and the kitchendidn't get along at first. She leaped on the stove at a bad timeand burned her whiskers. Now she's learned that it's safe onlywhen the burners are off.

The kitchen offers many opportunities to observe coffee brewing,cooking and dishwashing. Best of all, it has a tap. The waterfalls down, then vanishes into the hole. How does that happen? Ifshe's feeling a bit energetic, I can simply leave it dripping andgo on my merry way. She'll appear half an hour later, face andpaws soaked from batting at the water and trying to bite it.

When the pipes stopped up, she was extremely fascinated with myrepairs. Running water and an open cabinet. This combination wassimply irresistible. Ditto when I repaired the toilet. This is acat who is definitely obsessed with understanding plumbing.

The bed is also good, because she can lie on Daddy's chest andpurr. This after fifteen minutes of "kneading bread" on a stomachthat bounces like a waterbed. Picasso almost never bites. Shedoesn't sleep at our feet, but she does visit often. Sometimestoo often.

Did you know that a bite on the leg or the toe is a friendlymorning greeting? Picasso taught me that. Two minutes later, it'salso good to sniff my face, purr, and perhaps lick my eyelashes.

She gained some weight, incidentally, and looks her age now. Sheis not fat, but neither is she skinny. If I fed her every timeshe demanded it, she'd be more bloated than Garfield.

When I edited her web page, she tried very hard to help. She hitall kinds of buttons, opening and closing windows and creatingdesktop shortcuts. Finally, she realized that it happened becauseshe was pushing the buttons. She cocked her head to one side,fascinated. She looked at me, then back at the screen. Sheunderstood what was happening, but she's still working on why. Ihave faith in her.

Once she saw a photo of some other cat on the screen. She battedat it for two or three minutes, claws out. It was worse than thefunnel web spider. I must turn off the computer when I'm notusing it because Picasso likes to log onto the Internet.Seriously.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with a stomachpain, but that's just her pouncing on it again. In the nextsecond, she kisses my forehead or sniffs my eyelashes again. Shedoesn't pounce on my wife's stomach. No, she prefers my wife'schest. Her claws have gotten quite sharp recently.

We no longer need an alarm clock. Picasso sneaks into thebedroom, with the stealth of a born hunter, sticks her mouthdirectly in the closest ear, and lets loose with a blood-curdlingMEEEEEOOOWWRRRRRRRR!!! Convinced that we're awake, she returns tothe couch and sleeps contentedly.

One thing about the tri-colored Picasso alarm clock, however, isthat she doesn't know when we want to get up. She visits atmidnight, 1, 2, 3, etc. She also doesn't bother to check thecalendar.

As of late, she's become a more discriminating alarm clock. Sherealizes that nothing wakes me up, so she concentrates herefforts on my wife. At the moment, my wife is responding byimitating me and lying unmoving. It's working, but one neverknows for how long.

Apparently, Picasso feels that we don't need sleep anyway. Eitherthat, or we're simply deaf. We never know when we'll hear thingscrashing in the living room in the middle of the night, orperhaps some strange howling.

By now you may be wondering why I'd keep such an insane cat. It'sbecause we love each other.

Does your cat wait for you to wake up in the morning so she cansay hello? Does she run to the door and talk to you when youreturn from work or an errand? Does she know your scheduleintimately, adjusting her sleeping habits to wake up and stare atthe door at lunchtime, waiting for you to pop in for a quickvisit? Picasso does.

She often visits me when I'm reading in bed, rubbing and purringand saying, "I love you, Daddy." When I'm working at thekeyboard, she watches contentedly from a nearby perch. She alwaysfollows me or my wife around the apartment when we cook or cleanor whatever because she loves to watch us do stuff.

Every cat I've owned has run as far away from me as possible whenI clean the litter box. Picasso supervises. As soon as I'm doneshe gives it an inspection and a test drive, but that's notunusual for a cat.

"Being a cat means never saying you're sorry." I never met a catwho'd disagree with this statement, until Picasso. If I scold herfor something, most of the time she genuinely apologizes. Shemight do it again a week or an hour later, but she just can'thelp herself.

Naturally she has mellowed with adulthood, and she was never verybad to begin with. She's an angel at least 90% of the time. Asfor the rest, we all have to blow off some steam sometimes. Lifewith Picasso is never boring.

Shortly after her arrival, I bought her a scratching post. Sheabsolutely loved it. But as she grew older, and longer, it becametoo small. It's seventeen inches tall, perhaps acceptable for akitten, but not an adult. A cat really needs to stretch her bodyto its full length when she's sharpening her claws.

Back in the United States, this would have been simple enough. Goto the pet store and buy a bigger one, right? Not in Hong Kong. Ihad to find myself a pet store with an employee fluent inEnglish, explain what I wanted, and order it from a catalog. Itwasn't as difficult as it sounds, actually. I'm getting the hangof Hong Kong now.

Picasso watched in fascination as I assembled the fifty-two-inchmonstrosity, with four perches of varying heights and sizes. Thelongest of the three posts, one that rises from the floor, is awhopping thirty-two inches from the ground.

As I completed the construction, I discovered that one of theperches had a hole missing. I didn't have a drill. I couldn'tsimply take it to the store for a spare part because it wasimported from the UK. Plus, repackaging it at this stage andreturning to the store would have been cruel to Picasso.

I "drilled" the hole with a hammer, some nails and a screwdriver.When I finished the job, exhausted and sweaty, Picasso ignoredthe post in favor of the empty box. She spent days sleeping inthat box. Now it's lined with towels, plus all the stray paperballs and rubber bands she's found to stash in it, and it servesas her bed. It's beneath the dining room table, giving her afour-poster bed.

Finally she discovered the scratching post. She leaped atop it,putting her at eye level with me, and gave me a grateful meow anda kiss. She loves it. She can sit on a perch and look over myshoulder as I type this.

Do you remember what I said before about her claws getting quitesharp recently? This is why. But aside from an occasional attackon the feet beneath the blankets, Picasso usually keeps them toherself.

There are two problems with writing about Picasso. The firstproblem is, it becomes obsolete so quickly. The second problemis, I don't know when to shut up. I think I'll just do that now.

You may rest assured that Picasso will be living with us for along time to come. We're all much happier this way.

Article Tags: Hong Kong, Alarm Clock