June 24: Ode to Pyewacket

Although I wanted and planned for it, I wasn’t convinced Pyewacket would adapt to skoolie life. I am glad I was wrong. 

I rescued him in 2012 when he was at least a year old. A cat-loving co-worker’s best friend’s neighbor was trying to place a cat she learned about from her friend’s sister’s dentist’s receptionist’s daughter who could no longer keep him. (OK, so maybe I got some of that chain wrong. It was nine years ago.)
He had been through about four families because of moves and allergies before he got shoved in a carrier and screamed the hour it took to drive back to my condo. He was not a happy cat. To this day I don’t know that he’s truly happy, but at least he’s content most of the time.

I can no longer remember the name he had, but whatever it was, it didn’t match his personality; I changed it to Pyewacket – from “Bell, Book, and Candle” – in the hopes he would become my familiar. The most interest he’s ever paid to magic, however, has been wacking items off altars, chewing on brooms, and wandering in and out of sacred circle during rituals.

He’s beautiful. Large at sixteen pounds, he is mostly white with a black tail, a black splotch on his lower back and a small black spot on the back of his right front paw. I never measured him, but one of his superpowers allows him to block off use of a doorway, hallway, chair, couch, or a full-size bed just by plunking down and stretching out. His other superpower is to do that plunking down on whatever you need next. At the moment, it’s the remote control.

From our beginning it was clear he was never going to be a lap cat. He rarely purrs. As a rule, Pye does not like other breathing creatures. For the first five years, I don’t think he even liked me. He tolerates me and complies in relation to how many treats I use to bribe and how often I pull out the water bottle. He trusts no one. And here I’m sure it extends to me, yet he’s forced to depend on me and that must be irritating. 

Everyone’s instinct is to reach out and pet the pretty kitty. Many of those who don’t heed the warning left wearing Band Aids.

We learned to give one other lots of space as we co-existed. Every natural remedy failed – from pug-in units to CBD fish oil. Then, at some point he began laying next to me in bed after I was asleep; when I had to get up to go to the bathroom, I got scratched. Sometimes I would roll off the far side of the bed, just to avoid a confrontation. 

Retiring and relocating were difficult but when we got to New Hampshire, life changed. I stayed in the bedroom with him for two weeks pretty much 24/7. We both got used to living in a small space. He wanted nothing to do with the five dogs, nine cats, and two people – not counting the goats and horses outside. I had visions of him joining the gang, but it was not to be. Pye is an only child and does not play well with others. I tried to place him before I left Connecticut, but no one who knew him wanted him, and the rescues and shelters would not take an older male with an attitude who bites. It was do or die. He had to come with me. A telephone consultation with a psychic in California was worth the money. Whatever he did calmed Pye, whose tail stopped swishing and smacking for the first time ever.

Turns out, Pye seems to like bus life when the bus is not on. When I start up, he hides in the back of the clothes closet. When we stop, he runs around looking out all the windows. 

On my last, long road trip, my love overflowed. He began coming when I called him. He let me pet him for more than three strokes. I could scratch under his chin and behind his ears as long as I wanted. I would scoop him up and cuddle him for two seconds at a time and he tolerated it even though he didn’t like it. And he did not fight me last September when I picked him up and carried him to the bus, and off again when we returned. 

Those almost 500 days gave us a lot of time up close and personal. He stopped using his claws when taking a swipe. His bites did not draw blood, it only held me long enough and hard enough to know there was something serious being conveyed. The more attention I paid to him, the more I realized the only him he was aggressive with me was when he wanted food … and sometimes treats if I had gone a day without doling them out. I also learned, thanks to a friend, that if a cat can see the bottom of his bowl, it’s considered empty. Life had more joy and I bled less. Pye taught me to curl up on the bed for a nap in the sun, and began coming to bed whenever I did. He began to tolerate more visitors on the bus for longer periods of time – clearly preferring women to men. I began to notice he makes soft snoring sounds when he sleeps, and he can go from sound asleep in a box to levitating with a confused look and wide eyes. In fact, the amount of time he sleeps surprised me.

I talk to him all the time, and when he starts making his crazy cat cries, I put words in his mouth. Well, now he has his own platform, conceived on the dark moon, and birthing on the full moon. Look for Pye’s Perspective.