PiCatso

I didn’t know he was an aspiring artist. He had gone upstairs and disappeared for a while. I thought he was taking a nap, but I was apparently wrong. A couple of hours later, when I thought it was odd that he had been gone so long, I went up to see if he was still napping. That’s when I found out my orange tabby was a pastel artist.

We had an old 1910 section house in a little podunk town in Kansas. We bought the house after I miscarried my third child. The corporation that I managed a medical practice for had let me go. I had taken a leave of absence because I was a bit devastated, and the day I returned to work, they let me go.

The corporation, rather than risk my seeking legal counsel on the matter, offered a generous severance package and a glowing recommendation. I accepted. We were living in Colorado at the time.

Colorado is notorious for its mile-high cost of living. Yes, pun intended. We were renting an apartment near my work, and had married a year or two earlier. Apartment living is fine, but we now have the opportunity to use the funds I was offered to buy a home. The only issue was the cost of that home in Colorado.

So, we thought it through and decided to move. We came to Kansas to visit my husband’s family and purchased a home here. That’s laughable, since I had vowed as a teen never to live in Kansas. Never say never. It’s a sure-fire way to ensure it will indeed happen.

We were in our new home when Kiwi claimed us. You read that right. He made his choice very clear. My hubby was building a desk for his mother in the garage one night when the little king walked in, meowing up a storm.

He came right up to me and started rubbing against my leg. I wanted him right then. If you have read my stories, you understand my propensity for rescuing animals.

We already had two cats and had no plans for a third. I knew that.

I looked up at the kitten and said to him, “I am not the one you have to convince.” There were four of us in the garage at the time. I continued, “You need to convince him.” I did not point or say who “him” was supposed to address. I had knelt down, holding the kitten in my arms, when he jumped down and walked right up to my husband. My husband was sitting on the floor, putting parts together.

Kiwi jumped onto him and landed square on his shoulders. He began to purr so loudly we could all hear it. Then he rubbed his face against his victim’s neck, and I knew. I knew we had a new kitten. He had made it clear he had claimed us and was going home with us.

Fast-forward a few years. Kiwi had grown into a ham. He thought he was a dog, I believe. He would jump into the tub each day and bark for someone to come in and turn on the faucet so he could slurp water from the spigot. Yes, he would literally bark. “Row, Row, Row, Row.” I wish you could all hear it. It was an unforgettable sound.

Guests would come over, hear it, and ask if we had gotten a dog. “Nope, that’s Kiwi, the cat,” we’d tell them. The rest made for a good laugh.

Kiwi had an amazing personality for a cat. I had so many photo opportunities to catch him in mischief and silly antics that I have a zip drive full of those moments.

One fun shot was of him sitting on the very edge of the kitchen sink one November. We were thawing a turkey for Thanksgiving in a water bath, and he sat there, staring at it, daring it to move as he drooled. Well, not really drool, but you get my meaning.

I walked into the kitchen and nearly peed myself at the look of complete and utter rapture on his face at the thought of having enough unguarded time to tackle getting to the fowl in the plastic wrapper. It was another Kiwi moment, which we had enjoyed many of in his lifetime.

The day we found out he was an artist as well as a dog, an aspiring chef or a butcher, as it were, was one of the most classic Kiwi moments. We have never forgotten it.

I went upstairs, calling his name. I could hear him meowing back at me. Yes, another quirk he had. He would respond when called and fetch his favorite mouse toy, bringing it back. Incredible cat, as I said.

He was answering me back, but his voice was muffled. I kept searching. I went into the upstairs solarium, which was empty except for some artwork, art supplies, and a litter box. I called out again and heard a meow behind me. He was inside my husband’s portfolio.

Kiwi had apparently been seeking a cozy napping spot when he decided to slither inside. What he found inside must have awakened his inner artiste. He rolled around like a cat in love, and when I got to him, he emerged victorious, looking like a Monet.

Head to toe, Kiwi was covered in pastels. His orange-and-white coloring was now orange, with abstract splotches of blue, purple, pink, and yellow. He was a Picasso.

I was laughing so hard that my husband came up, curious about what I had gotten into. When he walked in, he saw our resident artist and broke into a tear-jerking laugh. Then we got serious.

It was going to be something for giving a grown cat a bath. Those pastels needed to come clean; otherwise, my furniture was going to become a gallery of surrealism.

Oh, my sage cat, upon hearing the word “bath," took off. He had had them when he was a kitten, but had not had one in a long while. Let me just say, bathing an adult cat with sharp steak knives at the tips of his fingers is a daunting and blood-letting experience.

Kiwi was a work of art. I miss him.

Tips are a sweet confection. I am a cheap date.

(Published by Activated Thinker on Medium, June 2026)

#humor #art #pets #stories #writing