Black and white separated not just the regions of Sock's fur; those were the shades of his heart. This is really the story of two cats in one: the best of toms, the worst of toms.

He tricked us into adopting him with his good side by crawling up our arms, and then hanging onto our shoulders and licking us senseless. Pumpkin, the little buff colored female, managed a ride home with us merely by being at the same veterinary clinic where we adopted Socks.

Right away Socks built a legacy. He beat Pumpkin up every chance he got and chewed every wire within reach. We had to cover electrical cords, coaxes, speaker cables and even computer interface cables with plastic conduit. Such a maze of plastic sprouted under one computer table that we had to block it underneath with baby gates. To protect Pumpkin from abuse, we usually kept her on the sofa or bed between us. Then Socks, jealous of any attention not directed toward him, dropped whatever manmade fiber he was eating and came to us to be subsidized with extra petting, hoping to displace Pumpkin in the process.

In the end, it was Johnnie and Delphine who were trained. Socks, incorrigible from day one, threatened with one insane act after another to dispose of himself if the humans in the house couldn't learn to work with him.

He fell off the banister of the back stairs twice. Neither of us saw him fall either time, but we heard. A loud dull thump and roll meant he had not landed with catlike agility. Agile he was not, and, even though he was stronger than Pumpkin - now called Pumpi - the female was definitely the more graceful of the two. After each falling incident, he hobbled around the house for a week or two until the pain eased enough for him to perform some new feat of soaring ineptitude.

Shoestrings began to disappear. If shoes rested even a few seconds on the bedroom floor, a mangling from the dervish was guaranteed. No belts were permitted to lie unmolested on the bed. Straps of cameras, pocketbooks or suitcases had better find a safe closet, or they would be chewed in half.

Once while doing laundry, Delphine found her bra lying on the floor with a metal fastener chewed off. She looked around in vain, assuming it was under the washer or dryer.

Socks, already scheduled for an appointment with the Vet for a nagging cough, received an xray the following week. The doctor told Delphine the cough was nothing and would go away. "But whats this?" he asked, pointing to a shiny object on the xray.

"My bra clip!" Delphine waited while a six hundred-dollar surgery made him good as new, with pristine intestines all ready for more metal or plastic.

He trained the humans to cover his sandbox for him by being too dumb to know what all the scratching was for. But how he loved to scratch! He must have thought his mother had scratched her sandbox to indicate she was done, because Socks always scratched things to show completion. He scratched after using the box, of course, but not in the box. He scratched the floor beside his box until we had to drive him away and clean up for him. He scratched the floor when he finished his food, and we finally learned to move his bowl to make him stop. He scratched any door that he thought had been closed long enough and needed opening.

Early on, we'd tried to keep the cats outside our bedroom at night. Socks thought otherwise and scratched when he felt the door had been closed too long. An experiment with a shocking mat proved short-lived, because Socks could not learn what was shocking him. He stood on the mat, crying from the little shocks zapping his hind feet, and continued to paw at the door with his front feet until we opened it. We learned.

Pumpi acclimated somewhat to the frequent car trips we took in preparation for our trip to Florida, but Socks didn't catch on. Driving down in my pickup, Delphine had her hands full. Pumpi accepted life in the motel rooms, but Socks hated it. Socks hated the new collar, too.

Finally one Sunday morning as we struggled to get our laundry out the door of the motel, Socks made his getaway. He'd never been an outdoor cat, but we both hoped he found a good home in Florida. He certainly didn't like being on the road with us.

Personally, we're trusting to luck. That little fudge-rippled monster had his share of it to make up for the skills he lacked. Maybe it was more than luck. He just made up his mind to have things and accepted no circumstances that didn't include him having what he wanted. We're inclined to believe that just maybe this kitty so lacking in know-how will prosper in management. We think he's no more hapless than a used car salesman dropped alone and penniless among a Sunday school class of doe-eye little old ladies.

Back to Home Page