Thirty-Seven Ties and One Angry Cat

We are cat people. Well, I'm at least from cat people. My husband could happily live without the furry felines leaving long hairs on his black office chair, filling up the litter boxes on our back porch, or meowing wake-up calls each morning when they want to be fed.

But cats were my comfort, my loving foster kitties during the many years my husband and I spent childless. So, even though they've now taken a back seat to the three human children God has blessed us with, they still hold a special place in my heart (and lap).

Then we moved into our new home with our three indoor cats...and an anonymous kitty started leaving angry messages each night. Anything plush left on the floor was a target--rugs, bluejeans, blankets,stray rags, a paper box filled with the kids' shoes.

Six nights of messages from the disgruntled. Six mornings of cleaning, soaking, spraying on Simple Solution, and trying to anticipate her next move. Six was more than enough.

I figured I knew who the culprit was--the one who refused to come out for breakfast, supper, catnip rollings or any lovin's. So, last Saturday, Doug brought down the cat cage to take her down to the old house for an extended stay while we determined if she really was the real troublemaker. But in our exhaustion, we were just too tired to find and dig her out from whatever piece of furniture she had barricaded herself beneath.

As if she knew her time was up, the messages suddenly stopped.

By this point, I had pulled up the new rugs proudly placed at each entrance door, diligently made sure nothing plush was left on the floor at nights, and placed any partially filled boxes high up on the shelves. I hoped that meant there was nothing left to leave messages on...and that everybody was finally adjusting to life in a bigger home.

Then came yesterday.

My mother and I returned home overheated, drenched, and drained from a morning plant-run. Assorted cacti, three huge hanging pots of donkey tail, and an unwieldy pot of firesticks (my favorite) were transplanted to their new home.

And we? We got the angriest message yet.

During our absence, the anonymous kitty climbed atop a settee that was piled high, loaded from one end to the other with "stuff" I had yet to put up, including my husband's two rotating tie racks...and she unleashed the fury of Niagara falls.

Thirty seven ties were soaked.

T-h-i-r-t-y s-e-v-e-n.

As tired as I was, I easily could have just sunk down on the floor and started bawling.

Thankfully, my mother was there. She loaded down the washroom sink with a tie bath of vinegar solution, mounted a rod the full length of the bathroom tub, and hung each tie on hangers to drip and dry.

Within minutes of my almost-meltdown, the accused was banished to the outdoor realms of our farm (several hundred acres).

And there were no messages this morning.

Tabby is less than happy with the arrangement. Granted, she's scared, terrified, confused. And I feel bad, really bad that she can't be inside with our family, but I can't live with my new home being turned into a litter box every night.

Today, I ironed all thirty-seven of those ties. Except for a slight vinegar smell that will dissipate, it appears they're fine. This afternoon, the children even tried to get Tabby to come out of her hiding place on the back porch, but she wasn't having any of it. She's currently on day 2 of her hunger strike. And I'm feeling like a miserable cat-mother.I've prayed about this, but over the past two weeks, God hasn't given me any words about cats. I know I've done the right thing for my family's well-being. Now, we can only wait and hope she was the guilty cat. And if not, then I have more difficult decisions to make.