“Loki”

I was the person my cat wanted me to be—congruent and unpretentious.

I loved my cat "Loki". He was both a source of amusement and consternation. His name is derived from the Norse god of ‘tricks and fun’. Neither good nor evil, but merely to create chaos.

He was predominantly black with some Tuxedo white on him. Long furred, double coated, polydactyl on all four feet and had a propensity for falling out of trees. Loki also had an endearing naive side to him that usually got him into trouble.

When he’d come in from outside I’d pick him up and bury my face in his thick fur. I could smell where he’d been and I’d receive pictures in my mind of his adventures.

I got him from a litter my cousin’s cat had a few months after my mom’s passing in 2002. As a goofy kitten he helped to get me out of my doldrums and start living life again. He was indoor/outdoor and would follow me on my rounds on the farm.

“LOOKIT THOSE FEET—ALL WHEEL DRIVE”

Since we live off the beaten path, he was safe from cars, but he had a curfew. Sundown to sunup he had to be in the house. There be danger out in them thar woods at dusk, dark-thirty and dawn. I taught him to come to my whistle. Or if he was being obstinate, I’d play one of my Native American flutes and he’d come padding across the lawn.

There were only two times in all the years Loki was with us where Neil thought I’d let him in for the night and I thought he’d let him in. When it was discovered he’d spent the night outside, he greeted us with a yawn and a stretch—both times—from atop the garden fence thirty feet from the back door.

“CLAW CAUGHT IN SCRATCHING POST. HOW HUMILIATING.”

Loki would often wait patiently by the back door for whoever got up first. He’d then give his signal--usually a plaintive meow--to let us know he'd like to go outside. Not that he really needs to "go" out, as we have a litter box in the house. He just wants to go and greet the day—you know—check the air temperature and see if the winter’s glaciers had receded back far enough for him to venture into the surrounding forest to perhaps engage any small critters who might want to 'play chase’. I never saw him catch a bird, chipmunk or mouse, nor bring me one as a “gift”. Instead he’d rather play with the woodchucks and spank them across the yard as they ambled away from him. Our chickens, guinea hens, wild turkeys, and gray squirrels feared him not. The dear and fawns that visited our apple trees, were not intimidated by him, and if anything were more curious about him as he’d just sit there.

“NOW DOES THIS LOOK LIKE THE FACE OF INTIMIDATION…”

“MAYBE THIS ONE?”

Toads were more Loki‘s speed. He’d catch and release, then spend some time later in the yard, vomiting whatever toxin they emitted from their skin. Sometime he’d be sick in the house and I always knew when he was going to ‘Yark’ up something. He had to position himself just so. His front paws pulled in tidy, and even with his hind feet on either side. That was my first cue. The sounds coming from the depths of his gut seemed to start in his tail and snake their way slowly upward. his back would arch and hump forward, face contort and his eyes appeared to want to pop from their sockets—sideways. It was quite entertaining actually. It gave me plenty of time to pick him up and reposition him out the back door in the grass, where he’d continue his undulations and grimaces for a few more moments before spewing forth the offending gut bomb.

“THE KITCHEN OFTEN HAD LUMPY RUGS—WATCH YOUR STEP”

One day, Neil got up first and let Loki out. I got up and went into my studio to start my day in quiet contemplation. Halfway into my meditations I heard Neil opening the back door to let Loki in. Loki is whining. Not his usual chortling sound thanking us for letting him in which usually means, "What took you so long!?"

But this was a painful yowl and Neil just kept asking him "What? What!? What!?!?”

It didn't take long for me to know “What", because as soon as I heard Neil ask him,

"...and why are you wet?"

I immediately could smell through the closed door and my quiet repose, the “what". I got a distinct picture from Loki of what had happened to him out in the dim light of the morning. He had been on the receiving end of the business end of a skunk.

Now Neil is panicked and carrying Loki toward my studio—

“Loki’s eyes won't open and he's wet, and…” about then I cut him off.

“Take him to the bath tub! He's been sprayed by ‘Pepe' Le Pew’!”

Neil, bless his pointed head, could not smell the skunk odor emanating from the poor squirming cat. Too many years as a chemistry graduate student working with chemicals had burned out his olfactory system.

Once we got Loki in the tub, I instructed Neil to fetch me something with tomato in it. He came back with ketchup. First application was just warm water to Loki's eyes to help him see again. He was crying, hissing and complaining the whole time I was soaking him with the washcloth but he knew my intention was to help him so he didn't struggle to get away from me save voicing his discomfort.

Fortunately the smell wasn't near what I thought it should be, and Loki was only sprayed on the left side of his head, neck and shoulder.

However, I know from times of passing by a dead skunk in the middle of the road how it would be "stinkin' to high, high, heaven!" as the song goes.

This smell, though strong enough, wasn’t that. It was almost tolerable and smelled to me like a fresh pot of brewed coffee, which, since I no longer drink coffee, will have that sort of skunk like odor to me. Weird, I know.

“OUTSIDE PATIO TABLE LOOKIN’ IN”

Once we got the cat neutralized with the ketchup, I then washed and toweled him off, but made him stay in the bathroom with a window open and the vent fan going while Neil and I changed out of our clothes and threw them directly in the washer. While he was adding the laundry soap, I lit up some white sage to clear the house saving the bathroom for last.

Neil and I made a pact to not ever let Loki out in the mornings until it was broad daylight and we could look to see if the coast was clear before opening the door for him--no matter how vociferous his complaints.

Once everything had quieted down save a lingering smell, I went back to my meditation room to start my day over.

Spirit came to me then laughing, saying that Loki had been gifted with a sacred name…

“Dances with Skunk".