By Amy Goldwasser and Peter Arkle
Master is a sleeper agent.
Like the Russians say, you don’t choose the cat, the cat chooses you. Lars and Irene named their gutsy wee thing for the walking, talking, tram-riding devil’s-associate cat in Bulgakov’s “The Master and Margarita.” When they brought him home, a few years ago, he fired out of the box, puked, put his tail in the air, and decided that this would do. He thinks it’s extremely rude when guests don’t say hello to him. He spends his weekdays in Long Island City (where he has agreed to use the toilet) and his weekends in the country by a lake. He is no good in a canoe.
Like the Russians say, you don’t choose the cat, the cat chooses you. Lars and Irene named their gutsy wee thing for the walking, talking, tram-riding devil’s-associate cat in Bulgakov’s “The Master and Margarita.” When they brought him home, a few years ago, he fired out of the box, puked, put his tail in the air, and decided that this would do. He thinks it’s extremely rude when guests don’t say hello to him. He spends his weekdays in Long Island City (where he has agreed to use the toilet) and his weekends in the country by a lake. He is no good in a canoe.
Lucky regrets not flossing.
A black-cat collection is not a black-cat collection without a Lucky. Full custody of this one was ceded in a divorce to Christy, who, in 2007, was so taken with his sleek look, aloof behavior, and auspicious name that she resisted heavy promotional efforts by shelter workers on behalf of a black-and-white rival. Lucky has not had much luck in terms of keeping his teeth; only one fang remains. For several years, he reluctantly shared his Brooklyn home with All White Cat Wafu. Lucky could barely conceal his glee when she died. He’s been known to hump faux-fur blankets, and when he is especially displeased (like when Christy leaves on vacation) he poops in the bathtub. This is somehow both naughty and considerate.
A black-cat collection is not a black-cat collection without a Lucky. Full custody of this one was ceded in a divorce to Christy, who, in 2007, was so taken with his sleek look, aloof behavior, and auspicious name that she resisted heavy promotional efforts by shelter workers on behalf of a black-and-white rival. Lucky has not had much luck in terms of keeping his teeth; only one fang remains. For several years, he reluctantly shared his Brooklyn home with All White Cat Wafu. Lucky could barely conceal his glee when she died. He’s been known to hump faux-fur blankets, and when he is especially displeased (like when Christy leaves on vacation) he poops in the bathtub. This is somehow both naughty and considerate.
Princess (of Long Island) fishes for compliments.
When the house is nice and dark and everyone is in bed—people Paul, Patrice, Brian, Matthew, Christine, Colleen, blonde brother-cat Maxwell and Lab-retriever mix Sadie—Princess likes to take the dish towel that hangs on the stove to another room and howl and howl until someone tells her she’s a good girl. She and Maxwell were originally intended to live there for a week as kittens (on loan from rescuer Aunt Irene). That turned into thirteen years. Her fur is like velvet, but she is a little overweight. Princess looks like a raccoon from the back, because she waddles.
When the house is nice and dark and everyone is in bed—people Paul, Patrice, Brian, Matthew, Christine, Colleen, blonde brother-cat Maxwell and Lab-retriever mix Sadie—Princess likes to take the dish towel that hangs on the stove to another room and howl and howl until someone tells her she’s a good girl. She and Maxwell were originally intended to live there for a week as kittens (on loan from rescuer Aunt Irene). That turned into thirteen years. Her fur is like velvet, but she is a little overweight. Princess looks like a raccoon from the back, because she waddles.
Sashi is scheming.
A shy beauty of Siberian descent, Sashi lives in Park Slope with four humans: two large, two small. She yells at the woman in the morning and the man at night. She is starting to manipulate the kids. Sashi is fifteen years old but looking great, often mistaken for twelve. She enjoys freeze-dried chicken by candlelight and full-body rubs. She does not enjoy overachievers, beef, or pork.
A shy beauty of Siberian descent, Sashi lives in Park Slope with four humans: two large, two small. She yells at the woman in the morning and the man at night. She is starting to manipulate the kids. Sashi is fifteen years old but looking great, often mistaken for twelve. She enjoys freeze-dried chicken by candlelight and full-body rubs. She does not enjoy overachievers, beef, or pork.
Sonny was a lump.
Total mellow dude and loverboy Sonny lived with us in the East Village until—sadly but appropriately—Valentine’s Day, 2005, when he curled up on our bed and died young. We like to think the cause of death was contentment. He was impressively happy and lazy and heavy and unskilled in the ways of cats. He would fall off large, secure surfaces. He didn’t clean himself much, so he was often mucky. Once he got his claw stuck in the spine of a dictionary, which he dragged around for quite a while until he fell asleep next to it, unbothered and still attached. Peter still swears that one night, at bedtime, Sonny looked right at him and said, slowly, deeply, “Alllllright.” Beyond color of fur, he had not a single thing in common with the future chic and shiny size-zero ABC heiress Mimi Goldsparkle.
Total mellow dude and loverboy Sonny lived with us in the East Village until—sadly but appropriately—Valentine’s Day, 2005, when he curled up on our bed and died young. We like to think the cause of death was contentment. He was impressively happy and lazy and heavy and unskilled in the ways of cats. He would fall off large, secure surfaces. He didn’t clean himself much, so he was often mucky. Once he got his claw stuck in the spine of a dictionary, which he dragged around for quite a while until he fell asleep next to it, unbothered and still attached. Peter still swears that one night, at bedtime, Sonny looked right at him and said, slowly, deeply, “Alllllright.” Beyond color of fur, he had not a single thing in common with the future chic and shiny size-zero ABC heiress Mimi Goldsparkle.
Salem (the Younger) is drinking your water.
The sleek two-year-old Salem, who plays with bottle caps, lives with Cat (Cat!) and her fiancé, Mike, in the Financial District—where he will always drink out of your glass, never his bowl. He is likely right now stranded on top of a giant mirror in the living room.
The sleek two-year-old Salem, who plays with bottle caps, lives with Cat (Cat!) and her fiancé, Mike, in the Financial District—where he will always drink out of your glass, never his bowl. He is likely right now stranded on top of a giant mirror in the living room.
Ronaldo wins.
When stretched out, Ronaldo is almost three feet long. In a feat of expert-level cuteness one day in April, the thirteen-and-a-half-pound, three-year-old big boy rubbed up against Rebecca and flopped on his back at Meow Parlour (Manhattan’s first cat café). Now a Brooklynite, adopted with his black-and-white friend Roger, he winningly fixes his slightly cross-eyed stare on Rebecca to try to wake her up before he resorts to sniffing her eyeballs. Patience is his weapon. The ultimate ninja cat, he can wait quietly forever for a human to trip over him and drop food. Or, when his younger brother is bugging him, Ronaldo will just sit and sit on Roger’s head. He totally wins, every time.
When stretched out, Ronaldo is almost three feet long. In a feat of expert-level cuteness one day in April, the thirteen-and-a-half-pound, three-year-old big boy rubbed up against Rebecca and flopped on his back at Meow Parlour (Manhattan’s first cat café). Now a Brooklynite, adopted with his black-and-white friend Roger, he winningly fixes his slightly cross-eyed stare on Rebecca to try to wake her up before he resorts to sniffing her eyeballs. Patience is his weapon. The ultimate ninja cat, he can wait quietly forever for a human to trip over him and drop food. Or, when his younger brother is bugging him, Ronaldo will just sit and sit on Roger’s head. He totally wins, every time.
Kim is in the bath.
Not being Kardashian fans, Sara and Francis dropped Kim’s last name when they adopted her this winter—along with her orange tabby foster mate Kris—from a Valentine’s Day date at Meow Parlour. They live in Queens, where Kim blends in perfectly with a furry black blanket they have draped over a recliner. She nearly disappears, unlike a Kardashian. She is obsessed with the bathtub, walking along the ledge, lying down in it when it’s still wet, and using it as a kill corner to bring toys she’s caught (and will growl to protect). The one time she fell into a full tub she hopped back out and shook herself off—no drama, no selfie.
Not being Kardashian fans, Sara and Francis dropped Kim’s last name when they adopted her this winter—along with her orange tabby foster mate Kris—from a Valentine’s Day date at Meow Parlour. They live in Queens, where Kim blends in perfectly with a furry black blanket they have draped over a recliner. She nearly disappears, unlike a Kardashian. She is obsessed with the bathtub, walking along the ledge, lying down in it when it’s still wet, and using it as a kill corner to bring toys she’s caught (and will growl to protect). The one time she fell into a full tub she hopped back out and shook herself off—no drama, no selfie.
Ringo has just landed.
Though silky, jet-black young Ringo is an easygoing boy, he always looks somewhat startled. When he arrived at Meow Parlour, he had a single white whisker on each side. One day, he lost one of them and seemed very upset by the asymmetry. Until he lost the other. The one-year-old puppy-cat personality, a Taurus, likes snuggling, soccer, and yellow submarines. He dislikes magnetic anomalies.
Though silky, jet-black young Ringo is an easygoing boy, he always looks somewhat startled. When he arrived at Meow Parlour, he had a single white whisker on each side. One day, he lost one of them and seemed very upset by the asymmetry. Until he lost the other. The one-year-old puppy-cat personality, a Taurus, likes snuggling, soccer, and yellow submarines. He dislikes magnetic anomalies.
Yoshi wants in.
Despite the Japanese boy name, Yoshi is a thirteen-year-old girl. She was a stray who won the hearts of her cat-speaking people by jumping the highest of all her littermates—five, six feet, straight up. She was a champ dealing with the two little humans who later joined her household. She currently lives (and uses her words, with an impressive vocabulary) in the bucolic suburbs outside New York. In an ideal scenario, she is lounging on the warm floor of the upstairs bathroom, eating shrimp.
Despite the Japanese boy name, Yoshi is a thirteen-year-old girl. She was a stray who won the hearts of her cat-speaking people by jumping the highest of all her littermates—five, six feet, straight up. She was a champ dealing with the two little humans who later joined her household. She currently lives (and uses her words, with an impressive vocabulary) in the bucolic suburbs outside New York. In an ideal scenario, she is lounging on the warm floor of the upstairs bathroom, eating shrimp.
Tino is a wild card.
An aggressive cat from the very beginning—2001, three weeks old, eyes crossed and barely open when two boys in a public school in the South Bronx brought him to Catherine in a shoe box—Tino has no play mode. For six years, he reigned in terror, going from docile to destroy: the hand dangling off the sofa, the sleeper with a little skin exposed, the dark-hallway ambush. Then, on the recommendation of a cat behaviorist, Catherine and Dan brought Owen—a younger, kinder, fatter, gray cat—into the house to temper Tino’s more psychotic episodes. The attacks were reduced by approximately ninety-five per cent. Now fourteen, Tino is a cuddler, but cuddling with him is like cuddling with Jack the Ripper. He does not like much except food: corn on the cob, Brussels sprouts, black beans, asparagus, and cream cheese. He has retired to the countryside north of New York to live out his remaining years.
An aggressive cat from the very beginning—2001, three weeks old, eyes crossed and barely open when two boys in a public school in the South Bronx brought him to Catherine in a shoe box—Tino has no play mode. For six years, he reigned in terror, going from docile to destroy: the hand dangling off the sofa, the sleeper with a little skin exposed, the dark-hallway ambush. Then, on the recommendation of a cat behaviorist, Catherine and Dan brought Owen—a younger, kinder, fatter, gray cat—into the house to temper Tino’s more psychotic episodes. The attacks were reduced by approximately ninety-five per cent. Now fourteen, Tino is a cuddler, but cuddling with him is like cuddling with Jack the Ripper. He does not like much except food: corn on the cob, Brussels sprouts, black beans, asparagus, and cream cheese. He has retired to the countryside north of New York to live out his remaining years.
Vano is uptown.
Vano lives in a multigenerational, international Armenian family—mom, dad, grandfather, sons Haig, fifteen, Vahan, twelve, and sister Nairi, nine—on Fifth Avenue in Lower Harlem. He was born here two years ago, along with five siblings, in the closet. This was shortly after the family had admired then taken in a beautiful cat who’d been walking the streets for weeks, secretly fed by their doorman. How could anyone abandon something so precious? Within an hour of naming her, it was discovered that Anoush was pregnant and soon expecting. Vano chases sticks and balls when you throw them. He likes ice and even water. A city kid, he shows disdain for the outdoors.
Vano lives in a multigenerational, international Armenian family—mom, dad, grandfather, sons Haig, fifteen, Vahan, twelve, and sister Nairi, nine—on Fifth Avenue in Lower Harlem. He was born here two years ago, along with five siblings, in the closet. This was shortly after the family had admired then taken in a beautiful cat who’d been walking the streets for weeks, secretly fed by their doorman. How could anyone abandon something so precious? Within an hour of naming her, it was discovered that Anoush was pregnant and soon expecting. Vano chases sticks and balls when you throw them. He likes ice and even water. A city kid, he shows disdain for the outdoors.
“All Black Cats Are Not Alike,” by Amy Goldwasser and Peter Arkle, is out this month.
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