One of our blogging friends, Carol Moessinger, wrote this account of her beloved cat, Furry Wurry. Carol also just authored and published an exciting new novel, “A Woman’s Role”. See her book interview,
Her name was Furry Wurry, a gray, white, and orange mini-cat. I say mini because Furry Wurry was smaller than the average tabby, or barn cat as we called the felines of unknown origin that showed up on the door step of our rural home. In her case, she was the only survivor from a litter of a semi-wild female we called Muv. But what she lacked in size, Furry Wurry made up for in attitude.
Why did she have such an unusual name? Well, when she was young, she was more than a cuddly kitten, she was fluffy, and when she purred her happiness-motor sounded like a miniature whirling windmill. So, within the first few days of her residence with us she became Furry Wurry.
She was tough. If another cat or even a large dog wandered through our yard, they didn’t stay long. Before rushing them, her fur would puff up, her tail would become the size of a bottle brush, and she would hiss, spit, and growl until they took off.
There were other quirks in her personality. Sometimes we took a week-end off to visit family, leaving her some new toys, well stocked food dishes, and the run of the house. She wasn’t happy, and when we returned, she showed her annoyance by sitting in the middle of the living room floor with her back to us. We could call her a dozen times, but that cat ignored us, until she felt we got the message. Eventually, we ended up taking her with us. Believe it or not, she was a great traveler.
In those days we had a wood burning stove in the living room which supplemented our furnace heat. During the winter I kept the stove roaring. The cat loved to sleep in front of it, stretched out full length on her back, paws curled, and tail swishing. I could only guess that she was dreaming of stalking field mice through dense summer grass as she snoozed on the semi-circle of warm slate that surrounded the stove.
One bitterly cold day in January, when the brakes of the school bus screeched at the top of the drive-way, and my son and daughter returned from school, she roused herself as usual. Stretching, she let forth a bobcat-sized yawn before sauntering to the door to greet them.
After backpacks and jackets had been dropped on the floor, Jimmy whose hair was stylishly long during the 1970s took her place in front of the stove—a good spot for a quick nap. Within seconds he was sound asleep. Teresa, who was the cat’s favorite human, lingered in the kitchen talking to me. And Furry Wurry hung out with the girls.
When the three of us trooped into the living room, the cat stopped in her tracks. Her eyes grew huge, she hunkered down, her tail snapped, her backside wiggled. Jimmy’s face was turned away from us, and Furry Wurry could see nothing but the mass of sandy hair draped across the slate. An unknown interloper was in front of the stove and had taken her favorite napping spot.
She sprang into action. In an instant she crossed the room and leapt onto Jimmy’s hair, spread around his head like a thick dark-blond lion’s mane. With jet speed, her paws plunged into the waves—raking up and tossing strands in all directions.
Teresa and I burst into noisy laughter. Jimmy unceremoniously roused from a sound sleep reacted with shock, then anger. He jumped to his feet, and with that particular glare reserved for teenaged boys, surveyed the room. Furry Wurry, being the smart cat that she was, realized she had done something wrong. Tail straight out, she turned and charged across the living room, skidded around the corner into the kitchen, and peeped around the edge of the central island work area. Jimmy ran in hot pursuit.
I stopped laughing long enough to tell him that she must have thought his hair was another cat trying to take her place in front of the fire. I asked if he had gotten scratched. No. She had only tangled his hair. The two made peace, but he never found the incident as hilarious as Teresa and I did.