Siamese cats are gifted with a wide range of vocalizations. The commentary about the breed says they like human interaction. What they don't tell you is that they especially like human interaction at interesting times and go out of their way to find and capitalize these times....

I have two Siamese. A regal blue point named Sophia, who is eldest and rules the house, and a seal point named Spike. Spike adopted another kitty, Moses, who grew into a large 15 lb orange and white striped kitty, while maintaining his delicate soprano meow. Spike, at a petite 6 -7 lbs., was one of those Siamese cats who could sound like he was the biggest baddest cat in the universe with his deep yowl. You were always stunned to see it was in fact tiny.

My three cats are all indoor kitties and have established a truce with the canines and come to terms with the fact that the child is not going to go away so must therefore be avoided at all times unless she is sleeping, in which case they like to cuddle up with her because babies are so warm...Cats are also opportunists, but then you already knew that.

My husband and I both work and our daughter goes to daycare during the week. Not much happens in my house that does not get reported to me by Spike. And as you can imagine, with a four year old, two large dogs, two other kitties, and a couple a fish, a lot happens in our house while we are there, away or otherwise unable to witness the goings on. Spike feels it is his duty to observe and report these events, word for word, blow by blow. I rather think he has a photographic mind. He rarely leaves out any detail.

I just wish Spike would choose a time to report that wasn't Dark:30, and - as I often cajole my four year old - if he would use his "inside voice." But then he wouldn't be a cat who by nature, make their own hours and rules.

So each night at Dark (this is sometime after your eyelids close and you take that deep deep breath of sleep and the house and household all get quiet and snuggly), I get a report of the day's activities. Starting somewhere in the house, Spike begins his broadcast in echoing yowls that rip you from the warm embrace of night time dreams to lie there blinking in the darkness and debating if there is enough energy in your body to go chase the cat down and tell him uselessly to shut up, or to merely raise the fingers to snap to let him know you are awake and will take the report now if he gets his hiney into the bedroom pronto. The snap takes less energy. It still may take 3-4 more yowls to arrive in the bedroom.

So I listen groggily as the yowls grow closer until with his usual Brrrp?, Spike has hopped up on the bed and thrust his head under my semi conscious hand, purring and reporting with little Meo, Yarr, Brrp, gru brps, purrrrr, thruuu Merus...

He has an extensive vocabulary. I imagine he's ratting on the dogs who managed to somehow enter the child's room and make off with a beloved baby doll, eviscerating the doll's bean bag body and strewing white plastic beads all over the house while consuming quantities of them in the process, or about the plant next to the fish tank that Moses knocked over getting a little to up close and friendly with the finned ones, or the neighbor's dog who sadly has been left alone too much and barks fearfully at everything. I hear the minutia of when he took a nap (several), when the other cats took their naps, where the best napping was had that day, if the food bowl needs topping off, if the dogs are passing gas and why on earth does the small 2 legged one keep thinking he wants to be petted by sticking fingers.

I "shush" and continue my mindless massage of his head. All that said, Spike polishes my chin (I bravely remain still and think that my Mary Kay lady has told me time and again that masking once a week is key to maintaining a smooth and youthful complexion and that this probably doesn't count - though I have not seen any fine lines on my chin!).

And then Spike creeps up on the pillow to purr loudly in my ear. It's our ritual. I know what's coming but like the Star Trek Borg say - resistance is futile. The sooner I get it over with, the sooner we can all go back to sleep. I let the purr lull me into near unconsciousness until, sensing my near state of nirvana, Spike reaches out to scrape off my eyelids with that 10-grit sandpaper tongue of his. He pats my cheek with a gentle paw as my eyes tear, and then hops off the bed to seek out a warm snuggly place to sleep while I peer in the darkness, my eyes watering with pain until unconsciousness quickly claims me.

One night he did not come and wake me. I woke up thinking I'd heard him, but the house was silent. And as deepening sense of how very wrong this was came over me, I found myself out of bed in the cold and dark Colorado winter night to search the house. My husband joined me. The other 2 cats followed us around, looking bored whenever we looked at them, but clearly interested in whatever dragged us out of bed. Eventually we had opened every closet door and called everywhere inside for Spike without any luck. He had to be inside, but it was not like him to miss a report. And he always came when he was called.

Hoping nothing had happened, yet imagining all the horrors of what could of happened, we gave up and headed back to bed. I checked the linen closet one more time, with the hall light on now because my husband and the 2 dogs had joined me in our search. There behind the clean towels in a warm nest of guest towels, Spike blinked up at me with sleep eyes.

Merrru?

What about my report, I asked, relieved and ticked at the same time because we had passed this closet half a dozen times calling his name.

Apparently the day was quite boring and not worth reporting (a first), because he looked at me, blinked one eye shut very slowly and oh so deliberately, and then yawned a tremendous yawn. The other eye slid shut slowly and he snuggled his chin down on the towels and wrapped his tail over his nose to keep it warm.

I left the closet door open and went back to bed.

So much for rituals.

Copyright © Martha Cowley
March 9, 2003

Read Martha's other story: Melted Butter