In watching the Dog Whisperer show the other day (Larry likes it), it occurred to me yet again that there is no such thing as a cat whisperer. If I tried to command Frankie to stay somewhere, she'd give me her standard "piss off" look and trot away, entirely unperturbed. There just is no way to intimidate my cat -- with or without "calm, assertive energy".

Frankie absolutely refuses to let us get another cat. After our beloved old lady Samantha had to be put to sleep, Frank drew the line -- no more pets for us. Cheyenne she tolerated because she likes big dogs (I'll get to that in a moment), but small dogs are just weird-looking cats. Even the neighbor's Chihuahua is given no slack. When he dared traipse into her territory, she chased him out of our yard, under the fence and cornered him on his own veranda.

But she's wonderful to people. Except for her cattitude, of course. That's just part of the package. But mind you, she isn't a cat -- she's the world's oldest kitten.

She's mainly an inside kitten at that. She only gets out when she slips under my feet at the door, when she must open up a can of whoopass on a passing alien cat (weird-looking or otherwise). She has to be kept in because her size simply isn't in sync with her cattitude. She came to us as a stray (actually, I forcibly confiscated her, if the truth be told). I had gone to visit my sister-in-law when this tiny kitten (I thought) started curling around my ankle. I leaned down to pet her and found she was just amazingly affectionate. When I did the usual "oh, what a sweet kitty", my sister-in-law informed me that Frankie was not a kitten but was a year old cat -- "and a wimpy one at that" that "won't catch mice". I told her about my wonderful vet, thinking the cat was stunted for some health reason, but my sister-in-law informed me that she'd been starving her to force her to become said "mouser". In fact, the only reason Frankie survived at all was due to the family's big, old loving Newfie that had taken her under his "wing" by letting her eat some of his food. Frankie also had had to contend with chickens attacking her and other livestock. All of that and the early lack of nutrition had stunted her growth.

I informed my SIL she was going to have to find herself another "mouser" (a grown one she would also feed or I'd turn her in) because I was taking Frankie home with me.

Our new kitty's first act was to intimidate Samantha (Sammy was a very Zen cat who just got out of her way). This bestowed upon Frankie her name -- she reminded me of Wiseguy's Frank McPike, the spunky, wiry fellow everyone thought of as the "little guy" (mainly because he was standing next to Ken Wahl). Since she was female, she became Frankie.

She loved all dogs, though, because of the Newfie. Our dogs through the years (Teddy and Cheyenne) became her fast friend.

When we took Frank in for her first vet check, he told us she would never get any larger. No one, however, had told Frankie of this. In the early days, she would crawl into a bag of Meow Mix and was rarely seen for an hour at a time. Soon she sprouted up to the size of a six month old kitten which is where she is today.

Yesterday was the 15th anniversary of our bringing her home. She's still the world's oldest kitten at 16 -- from her kitten claws to her boundless energy. She just came back from her yearly physical with a report of tiring kidneys but our Sammy lasted four years with hers (and they were diagnosed farther along). The vet says there are better therapies now. She'll do well for awhile yet.

So since I've written about Cheyenne (and awhile ago, about our lost fur babies Ted and Sammy), I thought today would be good to blog about Frank. Forgive the grammar problems -- I'm writing this with the world's oldest kitten on my lap. And she insists upon one hand being on her fur at all times.