The private life of the cat who...: tales of Koko and Yum Yum from the journal of James Mackintosh Qwilleran

In Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, the author, T. S. Eliot, talks about a cat named Rum Tum Tugger: For he will do / As he do do / And there’s no doing anything about it!

I wish to go on record as saying that Kao K’o Kung is Rum Tum Tugger the Second.

I knew from the beginning that he had his own ideas, but it was not until the episode of the Pork Liver Cupcakes that I could definitely accuse him of Rum Tum Tuggerism.

A friend of ours, Hixie Rice—nice girl but a little wacky—knew a chef who wanted to develop a line of Frozen Foods for Fussy Felines. To promote it, Hixie envisioned a video in which Koko would endorse the product. At the time we were living in the old Klingenschoen mansion with its crystal chandeliers, grand staircase, and K monogram on everything monogrammable.

The synopsis was simple. With the camera grinding at the foot of the stairs, Koko would be shown at the top of the flight. Then he would run downstairs on cue and into the dining room, where a plate of pork liver cupcakes awaited on a K-monogrammed plate. (K for Koko. Get it?)

Hixie was at the bottom of the stairs with the camera; I was at the top with Koko, who was supposed to look alert and eager and hungry. Unfortunately he had just stuffed himself with diced prime rib with a side of Roquefort cheese, and he felt like taking a nap. In fact, he was lying on his side, looking blotto.

Hixie called from the foot of the stairs, “Stand him up on four legs!”

I said, “You come up and stand him on four legs, and I’ll take the pictures.”

With some changes in the scenario and a gentle shove to his rear end, he flew down the stairs and over the head of the photographer.

When I finally grabbed the struggling, kicking model, Hixie was willing to settle for a close-up of him gobbling the evil-looking smear of gray pork liver on a K plate. Koko took one look at it and bushed his tail, looking at the camera with ears back, nose wrinkled, and fangs bared in an expression of utter revulsion. End of publicity shoot.

 Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that Koko considers picture-taking an invasion of his privacy. He’s so handsome, though, that I can’t be blamed for wanting a portrait. Yet even John Bushland, a professional of the highest order, was unable to shoot Rum Tum Tugger.

Despite several attempts, using all the tricks of the trade, Bushy has still been unsuccessful. “I haven’t given up!” he said. “One of these days I’ll get that little devil!”

That’s what he thinks. Koko is a Rum Tum Tugger. Yum Yum, yes. Koko, no!

Bushy, as we all call him, said one day that he’d like to photograph Koko and Yum Yum for a cat calendar. He suggested that I take them to his studio in Lockmaster. I didn’t want to discourage him, so I agreed, and we drove down there on a Saturday morning.

The cats were on the backseat in their usual travel coop with a cushion and a door at one end. I could tell, by the way they both huddled at the back of the coop, that they knew some dire experience was in store for them. I talked reassuringly to them as I drove, but I could feel the bad vibes coming my way.

I had suggested to Bushy that we keep our voices low and leave them in their carrier while we had a cup of coffee and talked about the weather.

This we did. Then, making sure to close both exit doors, we casually opened the carrier door and had another cup of coffee. The cats remained on their cushion.

After a while I said, “You get your camera ready, and I’ll casually draw one out; the other will follow. The whole idea is to stay calm.”

They were both crammed together at the rear of the conveyance, but I reached in and got a handful of fur. It was Koko, bracing himself against the sides of the carrier. He had the strength of an iron vise. No way was that cat going to go through that small door.

“How’re you doing?” Bushy asked quietly.

“Batting zero,” I said under my breath. I and Koko were both very quiet and unruffled. He didn’t protest, just braced himself against the sides of the opening.

“He doesn’t wanna and he ain’t gonna,” I said.

“Leave him alone and leave the door open. We’ll have another cup of coffee,” Bushy said. “He’ll saunter out of his own accord.”

We drank a lot of the brew that morning and discussed every topic in the news, but Koko never sauntered out. He was doing his Rum Tum Tugger act, and as T. S. Eliot said: There’s no doing anything about it!

When Koko and Yum Yum came to live with me, I was a novice about cat care. No on had told me how to be personal valet, gourmet caterer, and wise parent to a pair of pampered Siamese. Perhaps “pampered” is the wrong word. What I mean to say . . . They had definite opinions of their own on every matter that came to the fore.