Laura Cadenhead Shares Origin of Critter Speak for Her Book “Hollyhood Critters”

As a teenager, I’d sit in Mother’s sewing workroom, watching her work. Aggie, our cat, did too. As much as the flurry of Mother’s creativity fascinated me, the sound of her mimicking the cat’s attitude, swagger, and disdain entertained me as Aggie casually sauntered, swayed, and slouched on the high-end textiles.

Agamemnon, Queen of Colors and Fabrics

Reds, blues, pinks, greens. Stripes, plaids, polka dots, pin stripes, floral prints, and a big fat Persian cat. Her face and head seemed inordinately large with whiskers like porcupine quills extending the width of her rotund body, all covered in grey fur with a milky white belly made for the perfect tuxedo coat.

“Oops,” Mother would say about the grey dot on her back left paw.  “She must have stepped in the paint on the way out.”

Her tail was long and bushy. It rose like a flag as she trotted up the steps that led to the land of color and texture.

“Here she comes,” Mother said, lifting her chin to imitate Aggie’s regal queen-like prance across the ping pong table made into a cloth-cutting and sewing table.

Aggie maneuvered through stacks of fabric, pillow batting, and thread spools, a collection of cat delights.

“Hmm, should I choose silk, seersucker, cotton, or taffeta?  Who needs a high shelf or windowsill for a luscious cat nap when I’ve got a playroom full of all sorts of cushy things to wallow and relax in.”

Sniff, sniff. Aggie looked up at us with heavy disdain in her eyes.

“I will try out this bright pink pillow sham,” Mother continued in a mocking tone as she cut damask panels for a client’s draperies.

Meanwhile, Aggie pumped her paws up and down like the sewing machines that seemed to run day and night on the piles of squared off wool and scraps of cotton. She stared straight at us and turned her ears opposite directions, one forward and one back, ready to strike if interrupted.

Mother and I scanned the workroom, pointing out evidence of grey fur on light colored fabrics and white fur on dark colored material.

She delicately smoothed her hands across the new roll of silk then pinched a clump of fur from a scrap of calico material. “I haven’t tried it yet,” Mother mimicked.

The only redirection Aggie would get was when she stretched her upper body and front paws to the top bolt of fabric stacked in a roller case. Mother would tap Aggie’s tail with a yard stick before the fabric spun onto the floor.

When Aggie sat, her hips splayed out like bustles under a woman’s long dress and swooped into a fashionable fuzzy boa of a tail. She had mats of fur underneath her arms and occasionally on her cheeks where she lay her heavy head on paws with tufts streaming from the pads.

“Why did we keep this cat?” I asked, remembering the three little kittens born in the laundry room 17 years earlier.

“She was the most beautiful,” Mother admired from afar. “I knew her markings would be stunning and her coat soft and smooth.”

“But you can’t touch her!” I exposed my scared hands and arms again.

“True,” she said, then tilted her head again to imitate Aggie. “But I look so elegant under the pink azalea bush.”

Mother was right. Aggie was the most beautiful. Likewise, she knew the most expensive fabric to repose for the most stunning effect.

“Besides, pink always accentuates my rich fur coat and sweet little milk paws. I’ll recline on the dust ruffles in a while.” Mother continued to mock as she lowered her voice into a threat, “Keep the path clear.’’

“There’s nothing little about those milk paws,” I stammered. “And she sure isn’t sweet. She’ll bite friend or foe, as well as the hand the feeds her. Dang, Mother, everyone is terrified of her.”

Mother propped her hand on her hips and made swishing noises while swirling a feral string of cording in front of Aggie. “Snakes and snails and snappers.”

Aggie grabbed at string, catching it with one claw.

“She likes “s” sounds like swishil, swishil, swishhh.”

Aggie’s pupils dilated into big black marbles as the second paw dragged the cord to her mouth.

“Swishil, swishil, swishhh, spril, spril,” Mother continued, adding a loud swish swish when Aggie rolled over and clutched the string into her belly while kicking it with her husky back paws.

“Look,” I raised my voice an octave. “That’s what she does to my arm and feet when I groom her. She’s vicious.”

Mother reached over and scrubbed Aggie’s ear and swooped it away just as a paw  swatted at her hand. “You did it wrong!” She mimicked Aggie and laughed at herself.

I rolled my eyes. “Is beauty the number one criteria for cat adoption? Aggie’s little white sister or black striped brother might have been happy to be brushed, cradled, or petted, none of which Aggie allows.”

“Well, Aggie thinks beauty is best.” Mother lifted her chin and mimicked Aggie’s snobbish glare.

Pillow shams, cornice boards, bolt after bolt of silk, cotton of fabric, Aggie claimed them all.

* * *

Many decades later as a married adult, a 5-week-old Persian kitten suited in tuxedo fur was dropped off at our door. Ironically, Oreo grew into a massive milk-pawed cat with lots of attitude who liked to sit on the down duvet between our two bed pillows.

Looking at Oreo’s menacing stare, Mother’s voice rang in my head, “Don’t you dare touch me!” 

 

Laura Cadenhead is the author of Hollyhood Critters, available in print or e-book at BookShop and other retailers.

Read more about Laura’s process to publication.