Jazz the Rocker Cat

I have lived with cats most of my life. I have sought out cats and cats have found me. I have never had more than two at a time, except once when I had four. Usually I only have one. I like cats.

My family visits me occasionally. Some of them think I have had the same cat for many years. I like garden variety tabbies and they all look alike. But they are not interchangeable. All have very distinct personalities. But if you only visit once every year you might be forgiven for thinking it was the same cat.

The first in the most recent string was Baby. I always have trouble naming cats and agree with T. S. Elliott who contended that cats have names but they won’t tell us. Later I had a cat named Chat and a cat named Cat. But Baby was the first in this particular string of tabbies.

Baby was small and sweet. She sat on my lap and purred. After Baby’s demise I got Jazz. I loved that name! I was proud of myself for coming up with something that sounded like I had put some effort into it. And it did take effort, late night Internet searches, painful ponderings, quiet reflection and about two weeks time.

Jazz was a great name but not such a great cat. He was nasty with everyone but me (and sometimes not so nice to me either.)

One day Jazz walked across the living room and a bit of light glinted off his lip. There is not much shiny about cats so it caught my attention. I called his name and he looked over. It appeared that Jazz had gotten a lip piercing on one of his midnight excursions. Dangling from his lower lip and causing him no distress, and from his demeanor considerable pride, was a small fish hook. On closer inspection it still had a bit of dried minnow attached.

I was afraid to part his fur in case he had gotten a tattoo when I wasn’t looking. But the lip ring had to go.

Jazz was not one to go quietly into the pet carrier so I tossed a towel over him, scooped him up quickly and gently shoved him in. He looked like an angry punk rocker with his fur disheveled from the towel and with the lip ring. And he sounded like some new age punk singer as he voiced his displeasure during the car ride. He continued his vocalization while we sat in the vet’s waiting room. People looked into the carrier but no one said – cute kitty. No one even said – poor kitty. You could see that everyone knew that Jazz was a player and the piercing was just another expression of his counter culture personality.

I left him there for the vet to deal with. I was assured that they would be able to remove the hook with local anesthetic – I was to call later to pick him up.

I called later. They said they had to give Jazz a general anesthetic and would have to keep him overnight. He was, they said, a little difficult to handle. I thought, you mean he was a crazed rocker cat hyped on adrenalin or some other chemical, forcefully resisting the removal of a statement of personal life style preference. I am cat – I am pierced - hear me roar.

But I went along with the “little kitty” comments and pretended that I thought Jazz was a sweet domestic cat and not some demon spawn.

When I arrived the next day the veterinarian’s assistant was displaying long angry scratches – gouges - on both arms.

“Oh my gosh! What happened to you?”, I inquired.

“Just a little run in with one of our patients. Not a happy camper.”

“It wasn’t my cat was it?” I asked this question with great trepidation. What exactly was my responsibility in this?

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t”. But you could see in her eyes that she wasn’t sure at all. I sincerely wished I was there to pick up a dog or a turtle or even a snake so that I could share a ‘those darn cats’ comment with her.

When I told her I was there to pick up Jazz, the pierced rocker, she tried to smile. She suggested, as though this was common practice, that I might want to go back into the recovery room and get him myself. She said that poor kitty was scared and that my familiar face and voice would calm him. I’ll give her credit. She said it with a straight face and a certain conviction. Maybe she believed it – but I doubt it.

When I entered the recovery room I heard a low moaning suitable for a horror movie. It was a familiar sound – it was the sound Jazz made whenever he was particularly unhappy with the way he was being treated. It was the sound he made in the carrier and when I locked him away from small children. But now he had ramped it up a notch. Now it sounded more than unhappy, beyond annoyed. It had the sound of vengefulness.

I took one look at the very angry, messed up cat, crouched in the back of the cage and thought – oh shit. At the sight of my familiar face, Jazz stopped moaning and changed to a growling noise that many cat owners have never heard. With the cage door shut I said – “Hi sweety” and waited for him to calm at the sound of my voice. No such luck. I carefully opened the cage door a tad and reached in to let him smell my fingers. Maybe that only works with dogs.

He gave me a quick swipe with his thankfully clawless front paw. And hissed.

I turned to speak to the vet assistant and realized that she had closed the door to the recovery room and that she was on the outside. I called out to her and she called back that she had shut the door in case Jazz tried to bolt. I didn’t embarrass her by asking why she was on the other side of the door. I asked for a towel.

She of the clawed up arms opened the door a crack and handed me a t-shirt. I think it might have been hers. I think there was blood on the front.

Faint heart ne’er won fair maiden – nor captured ticked off rocker cat. So I opened the door, tossed the t-shirt over Jazz before he could run. I grabbed up the bundle of fur, fury and T-shirt. One back leg, one of the ones with claws, escaped the package and inflicted some damage before I got it under control.

“Quick, quick!” I yelled. “Get me the carrier!”

Wounded assistant used her foot to shove the open carrier through the door – which she promptly shut. “I’ll just be in the way!” she called out. No help there.

The T-shirt barely contained the twisting, screeching, bundle of fur that I lovingly called Jazz. Somehow I got the whole thing into the carrier and slammed it shut. Jazz extracted himself in a final flurry of fur and spit. He crouched in the back corner – eyes glowing red – a continuous hiss from between his hookless lips.

I paid the vet assistance and apologized for the injuries that Jazz had inflicted on her. She denied it was Jazz. She couldn’t look at me when she murmured – “it was some other cat”.

I got a Christmas card that year from the vet’s office. It announced that they were moving – but strangely the new address was crossed out. Seemed a little extreme, but I can’t say I blamed them.