Scratching away at raising a family ~ March 31, 1988

 David Heiller

Miss Emma missed her calling when she decided not to be a mother.

Actually, it was our decision, not Miss Emma’s. We drove her to the vet’s, while she sat howling in a cardboard box. Cats don’t like to be neutered, much less spayed. Not any more than people do. I should know, but that’s a subject for a future column. Far in the future.

Miss Emma is the seventh in a long line of cats for us. There was Carson, then Garrison, then Sadie, then Chauncey, Hickory, and Murphy. Dogs killed two, an owl carried Murphy off one spring night, the others died by disease and attrition.

Miss Emma has lasted the longest. We got her free from Silver and Bernice Anderson of Sturgeon Lake in the spring of 1983, when she was about four months old.

Malika and Miss Emma

I always have felt sad in a sentimental way that Miss Emma couldn’t have kittens. There were always kittens at home when I was growing up. The matriarch cat in our house, Cindy, gave birth like clockwork twice a year to a litter of kittens, for about 10 years straight. There was something special about watching Cindy nurse her young, how they would nuzzle into her stomach, kneading with their paws while they sucked. Cindy would lick them clean while they nursed, then serve as wrestler and referee after they finished and started to play.

Miss Emma missed out on all that, until Malika was born in June of 1985. They seemed to like each other from the time Mollie came home from the hospital. There’s a picture on our living room wall of Malika in her basket sleeping, at age three months, with Miss Emma curled on the blanket by her feet.

We worried about it at first, Cindy and I did (Cindy my wife, not Cindy the cat). Malika loved Miss Emma from the start, but she showed that love by grabbing fistfuls of fur, or that twitching tail. But Miss Emma did not scratch or bite back. She gritted her teeth, and endured the torture, and when she could endure no longer, she would simply pull away and hide.

Hanging out:  Miss Emma and Malika in the maple tree.

When Malika started to crawl. Miss Emma sensed the time had come to start training her “daughter.” I still remember the day the training began. Cindy’s mother happened to be visiting us. Mollie had grabbed Miss Emma’s tail, and wouldn’t let go. They sat locked on the living room floor. We heard Miss Emma give a low growl. We warned Mollie, “You better let go now.” Miss Emma reached around quicker than a wink and scratched Malika’s hand. Just a tiny scratch, but Mollie seemed mortally wounded. She let go of the tail and started howling herself.

Cindy and I stood frozen, waiting for a sign from Grandma Olson. Grandma didn’t disappoint us. “That’ll teach you to hurt the kitty,” she told Mollie.

Cindy and I let out our breath at the same time.

Since that day, Miss Emma has taught Malika how to be nice to cats. We’ve tried to help in our cumbersome, wordy way. “Pet her like this,” we showed her, stroking Miss Emma slowly across the back.

Malika would try it for a few pets, but soon the twitching tail was too much, and the petting turned to pounding. Miss Emma would not simply jump up and run, nor would she gouge a deep scratch. She would uncurl her claws from their padding, and give a little pat. Malika would cry, “Semma scratched me.” But the pounding would stop, and the petting would begin again.

Miss Emma and her wood box.

Now, Miss Emma and Malika are almost inseparable, though like all good relationships, it’s the love-hate variety. Last Saturday morning, Miss Emma sat in the bottom of our empty wood box in the kitchen. Malika spied her in there, and crawled inside.

“Semma and I are best buddies,” she said.

But Tuesday night, Malika had a complaint. “Semma’s going to scratch me again, and Momma called the doctor,” she stated after her nightly trip to the potty.

That would be news to Momma, who was at her aerobics class.

“She scratched me right on my tummy.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because we going to get mad at her.”

“Why did she scratch you?” I repeated.

“Because like that,” Mollie answered, swiping at her tummy.

“Not where. Why? What were you doing?”

“Because I was going to play right behind him, and I was going to call the doctor, and I was going to get Semma out of my bed, and I’m gonna scratch Semma.”

“You can’t scratch her.”

“I’m too bad.”

Somewhere in that twisted dialogue lay a confession and an apology. Once again Miss Emma had taught her daughter a lesson.

The lessons will continue. Miss Emma will again take her place at the foot of Mollie’s bed. Someday she won’t have to worry about her tortured tail and pinched fur. She’ll be able to pull in her claws and sleep peacefully, next to a daughter she can be proud of.

Isn’t that every mother’s dream?