Cats I Have Known

July 2, 2026 by DickH Posted in Uncategorized Leave a Comment

Cats I Have Known

By Leo Racicot

The jury’s still out on whether I like cats. I must, huh? Through no doing of my own, I inherited two. I’ve also over the years cat-sat for friends. Nobody forced me to do that although I must say there’s really nothing to it other than allowing the cat to stare at me the whole time, wondering who the heck I am and where their real mom or dad is. I somehow made it through these awkward stints wanting to give a helping hand to a friend on vacation or in the hospital but hoping against hope the feline wouldn’t turn on me. Because cats can and do; unforgettable is the story my friend, Lisa Kempskie, told me about the time her cat attacked her out-of-the-blue, viciously ripping the flesh of her legs to ribbons. That cautionary story about the unpredictability of felines has stuck with me whenever I’ve been nannying little Whiskers or feeding his Friskies to voracious Max. I simply don’t trust cats nor do I think you should either; the mythic mystery of them is that you never know what they’re going to do next. Neither do they…

In 1993, my beloved girl, Mio, needed to be put down. I was too broken up to even think about getting another dog. A co-worker, Marie Anne Drouin, suggested I consider taking in a feline.. She told me her neighbors, the Pelletiers, were giving away their kitten, Mickey, the reason being Mr. Pelletier had suffered a stroke. Mickey had a habit, as kittens do, of climbing all over Mr. Pelletier as if he was Mount Everest. Mr. Pelletier, paralyzed, had a hard time shaking Mickey off; a chronic problem. The Pelletiers liked Mick but had decided to give him away. Diane and I drove over to their home in Pawtucketville to meet them and Mickey. Mickey was adorable. The visit offered the added bonus of finding out that Mr. Pelletier had known our late father. For many years, Diane and I hadn’t run into many people who had. Mr. Pelletier regaled us with tales of Papa, an extra treat when meeting Mickey. I took it as a sign that I should give the little guy a home. Well — “ball of energy” doesn’t begin to describe the physical rigor Mickey came equipped with. That boy literally flew. He could be very loving, would ask to be embraced and when I picked him up would for a minute or two lovingly nuzzle my neck, purring all the while. Just as suddenly, he’d turn into Count Dracula, sink his teeth deep into my neck and hiss. Vampire Cat! I’d always fall for this set-up — the kiss followed by the kill. I never did learn but I liked him a lot; he could be such a winning fellow, if trouble with a capital T. I thought of re-homing him but never could bring myself to do that. When my health took an unexpected turn, requiring me to seek out-of-town treatment, I left Mickey in the care of Rico and his mother who took very good care of him for the rest of his life. I never saw Mickey again. When he was thirteen, Mickey developed cancer of the mouth, untreatable. Rico very reluctantly had him put down.

Cut to 2020. My beloved dog, Buddy, passed away. Again, the inevitable heartbreak kept me from wanting or even thinking about acquiring another canine. Plus, I was getting on in years, didn’t think I was up to walking a new dog even though Diane begged me to let her find a replacement. Then one day she said, “Well, how about a cat?” Ugh. I didn’t know if I wanted to go through that again; the vampire side of Mickey was still fresh in my mind. One of Diane’s cinema co-workers, Tina, announced on Facebook that her cat had had a litter. It all happened so fast. Diane was drawn to a picture of the female of the litter, her brother, Keanu, peeking out from behind her. Hallowe’en Day, 2021, Diane brought the female home. I fell in love with Maggie instantly; The country was still in the grip of Covid and The little gal came equipped with her own tiny mask, a raccoon-like area around her eyes reminded me of the masks Diane and I were wearing. Covid Cat! She also sported a tiny, white mustache just above her lip giving her the look of a feline Adolf Hitler. She was charming and came to have (and still has) many names; at first because of her long nose and blue eyes that were a bit crossed, I started out calling her Barbra Streisand. But that didn’t sit too well with Diane. Rico was home from Florida, met her and said, “Call her Chi-Chi“. We quickly nixed that idea in favor of Diane’s friend, Debbie’s suggestion, “Call her Maggie. Maggie May” (after the Rod Stewart song). So, Maggie it was. To this day, if I’m cross with her, I call her Margaret which has led to my friends referring to her as Thatcher and The Prime Minister. I thought it was such a hoot, and still do, when Edmund White referred to her in an email as “Mademoiselle Marguerite Racicot of the Lowell Racicots”. One gesture of Maggie’s that to this day cracks me up is a gesture she came with. She will look at something new (food, a toy), stare at it, sniff it then wave it away with her paw, as if saying, “Be gone with you! Unacceptable!” I knew where I stood with her the day she walked up to me, sat down, looked me over from head-to-toe, made that gesture and walked away. “Well”, I said, “I see how it is….”

Maggie can be a lot. I thought of her as mostly my sister’s cat but before she passed away, Diane asked me to promise to take care of Maggie. How could I possibly say ‘no’ to my sister’s dying wish? So, here we are, Maggie and I, the only company each other has. I never thought I could love a cat but have come to think of her as a real blessing although believe me, there are days and there are days; she’s developed a habit of waking me up at 2 and 3 a.m., deciding she’s my personal Feline Alarm Clock. She does this by climbing all over me as if she’s scaling a mountain. Once I’m up and she’s fed, what does the little minx do but go back to sleep, leaving me to find something to do at that ungodly hour of the day. Not….Fun…

But when Maggie was a kitten, she could be charming, smart-as-a-whip; for example, she knew instinctively from Day One that ice cubes belong in water; we’d toss her one so she could play ice hockey and before it melted would pick it up in her mouth, walk it over to her water bowl and plop it in. She did the same with plush goldfish toys, would carry them over to the bowl, seemed to know fish belong in water. No matter how many times Diane and I would take the fish out, she’d fetch them and carry them back to the H2O. She also could — I kid you not — push a cd or DVD into the player when asked to. Amazing. Early on, she loved music, had actual favorites; she liked Midori, the violinist, and would sit nestled between my legs listening attentively to Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concerts for hours. For some reason she found Nina Simone to be not her glass of tea. Poor Nina (whose music I love) would get the Unacceptable gesture any time I put her on the player.

Possibly, my own desire to have a dog caused me to make Maggie part dog; she follows me everywhere, at my command, and listens the way a dog will listen. I don’t know where I’d be or how I’d get through the days without her. She’s more than a bit Heaven-sent if Heaven did indeed want me to learn that “cats ain’t so bad….”

The first cat I knew was a black-and-white tom called Squiggy. Squiggy belonged to Joe and his family. Joe and I liked watching him prowl around the yard and garden, climb the over-abundant pear trees there, watch the rabbits in the rabbit hutch Joe’s babcia (grandmother) kept in back, licking his chops lasciviously. I found Joe’s playful approach with Squiggy reassuring but didn’t want to follow suit even though Joe encouraged me Squiggy was perfectly safe to play with. In those days, I was afraid of everything, my proverbial shadow. Not knowing felines, I kept a safe distance from Squiggy…

I liked my Cambridge Public Library co-worker, Bill Salem a great deal so when he asked if I’d mind his and his partner, Gene’s cat, Sweetheart in exchange for a stay in their South End townhouse, I jumped at the chance. Bill assured me Sweetheart more than lived up to her name, wouldn’t be any trouble. I was also at a time in my life when I needed a rest, an escape from what had become the daily grind of work and life. I had a great, two weeks with Sweetheart; she was such a honey of a girl. At first, she spent a lot of time staring at me, wondering “Who the heck is this dude??”. Eventually we became fast friends. She even liked giving kisses, something most felines aren’t known to do. It was difficult saying goodbye when Bill and Gene returned from their travels. I look back fondly on my time with Sweetheart, the quiet days I spent in her home.

Joe and his friend, Sam, had a cat, Cupcake. Another very loving, loveable girl. Sam, who’s always made his way house-sitting for friends and acquaintances, would tote Cupcake everywhere he lived; that gal sure got around. As cats do, she relished her window time no matter where they lived. I snapped a nice picture of her in one of her favorite windows at The Cornish Artists’ Colony in Plainfield. One day, Cupcake wandered off into a Vermont forest and never came home.

Whenever I’d sleep overnight at M.F.K. Fisher’s Last House, her two beautiful “torties”. Zazie & Neepa, thought nothing of jumping on my head in the middle of the night and perching there, purring. I never did know what attracted dogs and cats to my head. Maybe they think the shiny dome is an oversized egg, their mom’s belly, a giant pillow? At any rate, I’d be too sleepy to shoo them away. I’d let them rest there for as long as they liked. It lulled me back to sleep.

GB (Grey Boy for short) is a stray who decided some years back that my house and the house on either side of me, are his sanctuary/nesting grounds. At first, I thought he was a girl; he was so very small, almost kittenish, pretty pearl grey fur. I liked him right away and began leaving food out for him as often as I could (as does my Southeast Asian neighbor (so, no mystery as to why he continues to like this block). On really hot days, he can be found resting under the shade of one or another of our bushes and trees. When long periods of time go by that I don’t have a GB sighting, I panic, thinking a possum, a hawk or the elements have gotten him. I’ve grown so fond of him. Though he’s still a little bit cautious around me, he perks up visibly at the sight of me, even if I don’t come bearing gifts and we’ve sat for long periods in my yard blinking at each other (blinking signals that a cat feels safe and relaxed in your presence). We’ve become good friends over the years. Clearly, he’s stronger than he looks; otherwise, how could he survive the rough, New England winters, the heavily-trafficked streets? A real champ of a cat. I love him and would take him in but know that wouldn’t be good for him or me or for Maggie. And I’m too old to be refereeing cat fights. GB’s probably so used to being an outdoor cat, he wouldn’t be comfortable finding himself confined. Whenever he does make an appearance out-of-the-blue, it cheers me right up, lights up my day. I guess maybe I like cats more than I realize…

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