I Have Three Cats

Bag Cats

2012-02-02T06:52:00.000-08:00

I bought some groceries the other day, and had them delivered. Some came in the usual, cheap plastic bags. You know, the sort that are so thin they’re practically two-dimensional. Some are claimed to be ‘biodegradable’; it’s true, because they seem to biodegrade before I get out of the parking lot. Besides, plastic is indeed biodegradable; it simply takes 50,000 years. I digress.

Josie likes settling for a snooze into a large plastic bag full of smaller plastic bags. I don’t let her do that unless she is under my direct supervision. If children can smother with a plastic bag, so can cats. But this time, the fruit I purchased was placed into paper bags; good, old-fashioned paper bags. Retailers hate them because they can’t make paper bags so thin that they cost a ten cents per billion to make, like plastic. My cats like them because they are enclosed like boxes, but crushable, and they make noise.

Tungsten staked a claim to them early on, but all four cats enjoyed them. Tucker made a run at one bag and hit it with a bang. It startled the others, but he liked it. It’s a good thing I have the new bags: most of their other toys have been lost, or eaten...

Uncomfy

2012-02-02T06:35:00.000-08:00

Tucker is an odd cat. He will sit in the armchair as much as lie in it, and he will even snooze sitting up, so it mustn't be too awkward. He will also lean against the little table beside the chair. You’d think that this attitude would give him a headache. This is him giving his corpse-like stare, and the table giving his fuzzy head a crease. Does this look like a comfortable position?

The New Cat-beds

2012-02-02T06:22:00.000-08:00

I bought a couple of cat-beds last week. At my house, there is no longer a great deal of floor space to be given over to more furniture, either for me or for the cats, but I purchased a heating pad for Tungsten a little while ago and felt that it needed a better base than a couple of old towels. Someone who had read about the heating pad on my blog suggested a cat-bed for it, so I looked for a suitable purchase.

Tungsten likes the heating pad very much. She was always on the towels being warmed by the pad. But I thought the towels didn’t provide much comfort on top of the pad. Tungsten didn’t seem to mind, but I thought that since I bought the pad to warm her on cold winter nights - she is very thin and getting old - I should provide her with some sides to keep away draughts. Besides cats loved enclosed spaces.

The cat-bed I found at Canadian Tire. It is a small one, and cost $16. The heating pad fits as if made for it, put into the bed under the removable cushion. The only problem is that I don’t know if enough warmth is getting through. The cushion is thicker than the towels I had been using, and Tungsten is such a light-weight animal, that I don’t know if she is compressing the cushion enough for the heat to get to her. It must go somewhere; that much I learned from my high school physics classes. But it could just be settling into the cushion and dissipating there. This is the bed before the cushion goes on top.

I have two cat-beds. I wanted to see how the cats favoured one before I bought a second. And, to be honest, my newest cat, Tucker, had a problem with cat-beds when he first came to stay with me as a foster-cat. He wet in them. I believe this is due to his previous home’s attempt to deal with his litter-box issues. He was feeling stress due to the arrival of a new baby. This could have been dealt with, but the attempts were, I believe, half-hearted. One was to buy what I recall as being termed ‘puppy-pads’. I assume these were for young dogs who hadn’t yet been house-trained. (Why they should feel compelled to go on pads when they weren't trained to ask to go outside yet, I don't know.) The cat-beds I provided Tucker were low, their sides being little more than rims. I think that, to him, they resembled the ‘puppy-pads’, where he was supposed to wet. So he did. He has not done anything he shouldn’t to the new cat-beds I’ve obtained. But he hasn’t sat in them, either.

One bed is heated, one is not. I can’t judge by the cats' reaction whether the warmth is being felt, really. Renn enjoyed curling up in the unheated bed. He can barely fit, but as I recall from when he was a foster-cat with me in the old apartment, he prefers the squeeze. Now, he's discovered the warm bed, and takes up much of the evening there, to the detriment of Tungsten. I may have to look for another heating pad.

Josie likes either bed. The only time I thought warmth played a factor in a cat deciding where to lie was when the orange one was occupying the unheated bed and my Chubs was in the warm one. The hard-food bowl came out and Josie ambled over for a bite. Tungsten swiftly took her place in the heated bed. This, however, could be due simply to the fact that Tungsten is used to lying in that bed, in that location. My Chubs, too, finds the beds snug.

I thought of replacing the heated bed’s cushion with towels. Even several folded towels would provide less volume than the cushion, and thus allow more heat to transfer. The cat-bed would still have its high, comforting sides. The disadvantage would be to the thickness of padding - which of course may be why the heat isn’t getting through the cushion. But in any case, Tungsten seems to enjoy the new furniture - and she fits it perfectly.

I dislike the idea of the heating pad serving no purpose, warming up the bottom of a cushion and giving nothing to the cats. However, the beasts appear to like the beds regardless of artificial heat, and all are using them - except Tucker, who prefers my armchair.

I Have Four Cats

2012-01-26T06:31:00.000-08:00

Tucker is no longer a foster-cat; he’s been adopted. I suspect that those who know me in person are not surprised to learn that I’m the one who has adopted him.

The roly poly one came to me in the last days of September, 2010. He had been returned to the Lethbridge PAW Society, the rescue group that had saved his life long before, because the family who had kept him for five years no longer wanted him. He had been wetting outside the litter-box. He came to stay with me instead. It was a temporary measure. I had every reason to believe that it would indeed be temporary, as previous foster-cats had been.

But except for my first foster-cat, Lincoln - who was adopted quickly - and Renn - more about him below - Tucker’s predecessors were not agreeable to my permanent cats. I wouldn’t expect any new cat to be loved by them, especially Tungsten, who resents new arrivals who challenge still further her place as my only cat. But for different reasons, Wixie and Mystery, and then Devon, did not fit well in the household. The former pair, specifically Wixie, wanted to oust Tungsten as top-cat, and my orange one, though she bluffs and postures, realises that she won't win a fight against an animal twice her size. So the situation was tense and unhappy. Even Josie got into a fur-tearing brawl with Wixie. Fortunately, Wixie and Mystery were adopted and things returned to normal. I liked that pair, and would have had no trouble keeping them if it were not for the effect on the perma-cats.

Next came Renn, or Ren, as he was spelled then. He was very timid and did not stand up for himself. Thus, though Tungsten did not care for his advent, she saw that he was no threat to the stability of the kingdom. That was a problem for me, because it removed a bar to keeping Renn. I eventually adopted him.

Then came Devon, who wanted to play with everyone. No one wanted to play with him. Devon, a cross-eyed little sausage, rarely takes hiss for an answer, and kept pressing. Things became unhappy again. But luck was with us - and Devon - and he was adopted relatively swiftly. He now resides with three other cats and is just as playful as ever - but his feline roommates, though tolerating and even liking him, are not shy about putting him in his place when playing is not wanted.

And finally Tucker. If you’ve read my articles, you may recall that he had a tremendous difficulty adjusting to being evicted by his previous family. He stopped eating and drinking and had to be force-fed. When he had dental surgery, it affected him so much that he nervously licked himself raw and had to endure a cone and medicinal rubs. He was very shy, a timorous fellow, and retains his timidity. The roly poly one would have been disconcerted and confused by another change in his settings. Every cat is, of course, but some take less time to come around, some are barely affected, to all appearances. That would not be Tucker.

I felt that it would be too hard on Tucker to go to a new home. He would adjust eventually, of course. Cats have great adaptability. But it would be a relatively long time for the little fellow, and I think he would be miserable during that interval. Certainly it’s any amount of hubris to claim that he wouldn’t find a home as wonderful as mine in which to live. There are plenty of wonderful people waiting to love a pet. But Tucker is used to the other cats, and they are used to him, even if there is no love amongst them. He’s accustomed to being with me; I think he likes his home and his human. His human certainly likes him.

So Tucker is home now, and has been for a while. He may have known it all along; it took me longer to realise it.

I won’t be changing the title of this blog as it may cause some puzzlement. I won’t be changing its electronic address, either. I’m not sure I would know how. In any case, just remember from now on to add one to the three in the title. I have four cats.

When the Fur Flies

2012-01-17T14:35:00.000-08:00

Attending to the needs of my cats isn't always easy. They have so many that one loses track of when one last attended to them. I try to groom them regularly now. I never used to, brushing them when I remembered to do so. Now, it's a weekly ritual, every Tuesday evening.

I don't actually brush them. I tried different brushes but some of the cats disliked them, and the ones who accepted the brushes, did so without enthusiasm. So I switched to the comb. For some reason, this appeals to them to a greater degree. They all like combing-time, but their behaviour may make one think otherwise.

Three of them will not stand stay put while I comb them. Tungsten tries to get away and seems not to want to be combed at all. Yet she purrs happily while I comb her. I have to be most careful with her; she feels like nothing but skin and bones under the comb's teeth, and so I am very gentle with her. She appears to like it but longs to leave at the same time. Then, when I move on to the other cats, she follows me, and clearly wants more. Frustrating creature. This is the result of a minute's combing of Tungsten.

Josie more evidently likes the feel of the comb. She will stay in one place for longer periods, lying on her side, twisting her head and brushing her face against the teeth of the instrument. Her purr will become loud and unabashed. Then she will stand, turn, walk away, push her fuzzy head against a chair leg, then wander back for further attention. This is not unusual behaviour for my Chubs, since she often does the same thing while I am petting her. Her fur becomes silky under the comb's movement, and I think she feels it to be a beauty treatment, as if she needed it. This is the result of a minute's combing of Josie.

Renn loves the comb and doesn't care who knows it. He's an emotional beast and, just as he grows excited at the prospect of a bath (mine, not his), so too does he wax exuberant under the comb's ministrations. His rough purr will begin. My big boy lies on his side, then on his back, ensuring that the comb will give him the chest-rub that he loves so much. Then he will get up and throw himself down again, rolling about, almost somersaulting in his enthusiasm. But not once will he move away, as the others do, and when his time is over, he will sit and watch wistfully while his roommates get their share. Renn's fur is long and tough, and I use more force in combing his than the others'; if I don't, he will barely feel the effects. This is the result of a minute's combing of Renn.

Finally, Tucker. The roly poly one's reticence falls somewhere between Tungsten's and Josie's. He obviously enjoys his combing, his medium-pitched rumbling starting quickly. He will lie on his flanks, but not patiently, and doesn't care for the comb going too far down his sides. But he doesn't want the grooming to cease, either. He moves away, but not enough to tell me he's done, just enough to make it difficult to do a decent job. I pull him back and he rolls over, purring. He has soft fur, with a thick undercoating, which comes off readily. It is very fine but almost bushy, and combs away in clouds. Though he grooms himself often, Tucker develops mats easily, so I tug as softly at them as I can. This is the result of a minute's combing of Tucker. As you can see, his fur likes the comb more than any other cats'.

Combing is good grooming, keeping the cats' fur soft and clean, and therefore healthy. Aside from this, the cats enjoy it - despite their superficial reactions - and brings a person and his pet closer together. At the very least, an animal knows that you are bringing him comfort and affection. It's something for them to look forward to, a weekly ritual of joy for them. That means it's one for me, too.

Of Those Who Purr

2012-01-06T06:49:00.000-08:00

Each cat’s purr is as distinctive as the cat itself, I’ve found. That is the case, at least, with my three (plus one). They even purr at different times and for different reasons, but that would be a whole new article.

Take Tungsten for example. She has a quiet purr much of the time. Sometimes, it’s a gargling type that one can feel in her throat but can’t hear. She is often on my lap on those instances, and I feel her contentment. Usually, however, it’s audible, and sounds like a hand slowly drawn over a level surface covered with smooth, round pebbles. Other times, when I come home after being out unexpectedly, her purring will be stronger, perhaps reflective of her feelings; she did not think I would go and was glad that I was back. After all, if I broke my routine and left her, how could be sure I would return? Her purr of relief is similar to the purr she emits after waking from a bad dream. There are times when her motor is so strong that her little thin body vibrates.

Josie used to purr inaudibly, just the gargle-like vibration in the throat I get from the orange one. Then she developed a stronger, louder purr, her two-tone purr. Now she starts her little motor going quite often. It’s not an attractive sound, really. It resembles the phlegmy, wet noise a person with a very bad cold might have. Yet I love to hear it. It took a long time for my Chubs to purr loudly and frequently. It’s rather an unattractive sound, objectively speaking, yet it's also serene and affectionate music.

Renn’s purr is rough and almost staccato. It isn’t continuous like the girl-cats’, but resembles the revving of a big truck’s engine. It’s the sort of sound that makes you want to clear your throat in sympathy. It can last a long time. When he is lying next to me, getting a chest-rub, either gentle or otherwise, the purr will go on and on. Eventually it subsides in volume, but not in feeling. Gradually, it will disappear, but you get the sense that it is like trying to reach zero by dividing a number by two: it diminishes eternally but never ends.

Finally, Tucker. The roly poly one has a very ready purr. He starts his motor as soon as you start petting him or stroking his head or neck. It’s a deep sound and steady, and is rather at odds with his habitually anxious or startled expression. It has endurance and will continue for as long as you are touching him. He also has a reserve purr, a low, gravelly one, deep in his throat, that he uses when you simply place a hand on him or talk to him kindly. It reminds me of someone who is embarrassed but pleased at the same time.

I like hearing my cats purr, as anyone who likes animals would. On Sunday mornings when I wake up later than usual, with the quartet of beasts on the bed with me, I’ve been able to get them all purring at once. It’s like keeping four tops spinning simultaneously. It’s a neat trick, but one we all enjoy. The sounds generated may be at odds with each other, but it has a harmony nonetheless.

A Good Time Had By All

2012-01-04T06:27:00.000-08:00

Christmas was enjoyable this year. I didn’t get the whole Twelve Days off, unfortunately. That would have been nice, though the relaxation gained would probably have been disturbed by the stress of not getting paid for that period of almost two weeks. So I went back to work.

The cats seemed to enjoy the holiday, too, as short as my time off was. There was no fighting and very little hissing. I had a fire going in the grate on Christmas Day, even though the temperature was ten degrees centigrade - about fifty above, Fahrenheit - with no snow on the ground at all. Southern Alberta was a dirt brown colour. But I thought I’d have a fire anyway. A good one was going when Tungsten decided that it generated a nicer warmth than her heating pad, and settled down with her bum toward the flames.

The orange one has once again started to join Renn on the bathmat when I have a bath Saturday nights. Showers are no big occasion for those two, but baths demand an audience, even if they sleep through it. This past weekend, Tungsten was sitting sedately waiting for the tub to fill, and Renn was, as usual, roaming about, butting into walls and doors, arching his back, purring, falling down, rolling over. He becomes most excited at bath-time. At one point, he flopped down and knocked Tungsten off her feet and into the side of the tub. There was no harm done, though, and my big boy was soon calm and snoozing with the orange one in the warm, comforting air.

Even though Tungsten wasn’t bothered by Renn’s exuberance, she may have had something to do with the second scratch on Tucker’s nose. Josie is another candidate for its infliction. The poor roly poly’s proboscis seems to attract claws, though this time it wasn’t as bad as the first. I’d heard the day before a fierce screaming session from the ground floor when I was in the basement. By the time I arrived on the scene, all was calm. I didn’t notice Tucker’s nose until later. He seems none the worse for it, though, and I’ll wager that he hasn’t learned his lesson, either.

Josie has taken to enjoying a new place to lie. When I decorated the house and tree for Christmas, I put to one side the empty box from which the various ornaments were taken. If a cat can’t get into a box, the next best thing is to be on a box. Josie thought this spot was nice. Then, I put a little ‘cat quilt’ on it. It’s a small, thin quilt that I bought through an on-line auction. I wouldn’t have thought that it would make much of a difference, but it’s become a spot to rival the top of the tallest cat-tree. Josie loves lying on the little quilt on top of the box; she even snoozes there. I’ll have to arrange something similar when the box is re-filled with Christmas decorations and packed away. The other cats have tried it, but my Chubs likes it the most.

So, though Christmas has not been overly exciting, it has had its events. We live a quiet existence at our household, and the cats prefer it that way. A bit of weekly excitement, such as bath-time, a tussle now and then, and a new place to sleep. As long as the food continues to come regularly, that seems to be all my cats need for a good holiday.

Merry Christmas To All

2011-12-22T06:30:00.000-08:00

And so we come to Christmas once more. This will be my last article before the big day, and I want to wish everyone a happy Yuletide.

Last year, we were just a month into the new house. This year, things are much more settled, and there’s a greater permanence about the place. Tucker, my foster-cat, was heading for a dental operation at this time in 2010, and I guessed correctly that it would hit him hard, psychologically. He licked himself into an injury with stress and had to wear a cone until he healed.

But he did heal and the roly poly one is happy and fat this holiday season. My perma-cats are doing equally well. They could stand to lose some weight - well, at least Josie - but all are in good health and seem to be enjoying their lives. Nothing pleases me more than to see all four of the beasts snoozing away on a cold, snowy afternoon, oblivious to the discomfort and danger outside, and knowing that they are safe and warm inside.

Tungsten continued to be top-cat in the household this year, though she grew more tolerant of Renn, and they have even groomed each other to a small extent. Josie became friendlier and friendlier. Tucker became heavier and heavier.

The year is ending on a note of contentment among the cats, and that makes me feel good. I hope everyone reading this feels equally glad with the year that has been, and if it’s not been a happy one, then I hope the next will be the best yet. Merry Christmas!

All's Well

2011-12-19T06:26:00.000-08:00

Two of the cats went to the veterinarian this past week. Actually, Tungsten and Tucker went to veterinarians, plural. The latter is still a PAW Society cat whom I am fostering, so he goes to the doctor that PAW uses. Tungsten goes to another clinic which is closer to me. (Don't worry, the other two cats, Josie and Renn, went for their annual check-ups in the summer.)

All went well with the pair, with some cautions. Tucker is too heavy. He’s gained three pounds in eleven months. All the cats have gained weight; I took the opportunity to conduct their quarterly measurements. Tungsten piled on an extra 100 grams, which now means that she is heftier than three and a half feathers. But it’s disappointing that Josie has gained more. I hope that my new tactic of making the hard-food bowl available only at certain times has simply not had the chance to take effect.

But otherwise the roly poly one is doing well. His teeth are in ‘excellent’ shape – probably because all the eating he does keeps them sharp and polished. He was nervously quiet during the trip to the doctor, and anxious once there. But the verterinarian who examined him was ingratiating, and Tucker was actually purring and curling his feet after a while. Nonetheless, I think he was glad to get back home.

This is Tucker resting. He’s lying on a cat-tree platform but with his forepaws on the back of an armchair. His eyes are closed and he seems to be enjoying this position. Perhaps it was a psychological exam that he needed, rather than a physical.

Tungsten also did well at her appointment. She dislikes the vet’s office – not an uncommon characteristic for a cat – and exhibits fear that she otherwise disdains. She spent much of the time on the examining table pressed against me, curving her little body around me to try to get maximum protection.

I have been a little worried about her. She has been visiting the litter-box to leave, shall I say, softer deposits than usual. These have alternated with the usual harder business. She also experiences slight head tremors from time to time, a kind of nervous twitch. The doctor told me that these could be signs of hyperthyroidism, but that there seems to be no other symptoms of the condition, such as an apathy toward grooming, a ravenous appetite and agression. Well, maybe there’s some of the last trait, but she’s always been strict in demanding obedience from the other cats. The doctor stated that the characteristics that she has may simply be those of advancing age, especially the condition of her waste, as suggested to me by a PAW Society member before the vet-visit. No, there isn’t too much to worry about right now, but I will be vigilant with the orange one. Just today, she spent what must have been twenty minutes grooming herself while on my lap; a good sign.

Yes, both Tungsten and Tucker are active animals, the older one being, I think, the most energetic of all four at times. She is, as I wrote in an earlier article, getting into her later years, and she is definitely enjoying the heating-pad that I bought her. It’s good to observe, though, that she still enjoys other comfortable resting spots, so artificial heat is not indispensible to her just yet.

The veterinary visits were expensive, as anyone who owns a cat or dog would have guessed. Ten minutes’ poking and prodding is certainly profitable to the vets' profession. But it brings me peace of mind. And though the day may come when it will bring not peace of mind but disturbing news, regular check-ups may also alert me in a timely manner to conditions that can be arrested or reversed. So I don’t begrudge the cost – not too much, anyway. Watching my furry friends snooze away on a chilly winter afternoon, I know that they’re worth it.

One of Those Days

2011-12-06T09:02:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I came home to an interesting scene: the food mat was pushed into the middle of the kitchen, the water had been spilled, the towel was off the new heating pad and Tucker had a deep scratch on his nose. Later, he and Josie threw up their soft-food dinners, which they haven’t done in a long time. A stressful day, perhaps?

I’m not sure what went on while I was gone, but it seems to have been quite a hectic time. Tucker must have crept too close to Tungsten, who doesn’t like him, or scuffled with Renn, who likes to bully him a bit. Either way, it was tough for my roly poly one. All the cats seemed extra glad to see me when I returned. Hmm…

The Way Things Look

2011-12-06T07:13:00.000-08:00

Lillian Jackson Braun, the late mystery writer, opined that ‘cats never strike a pose that isn’t photogenic’. I’m not sure about that. Take a look at this one.

I don’t think that it’s true even that all cats themselves are photogenic. After all, to be blunt, there are some odd-looking felines, to put it kindly. The four who live with me are beautiful, of course, so it’s difficult for me to judge peculiarity first-hand. What I believe, though, is that we, as pet-owners, see our animals as perfect. Except in my case, as I mentioned earlier: my cats are genuinely beautiful; it’s not my belief, it’s a simple fact. I can’t help it. There it is.

As wonderful as mine look, I admit that, physically, there are some irregularities about them. Tungsten has a damaged left eye. She’s had it for as long as I’ve known her. The pupil looks larger than the corresponding right one, but there is what seems to be a hole or tear in the iris, or perhaps some tissue lodged there. It has never bothered her. She has not pawed at that eye or blinked it so it appeared to be troubling her. She can see well, though I think certain qualities of vision such as close detail is sometimes difficult for her. And yet this imperfection does not detract from her attraction.

Josie is like a small iceberg. Does that mean she is less capable of affection? Not at all. She’ll drag her ponderous mass up to new visitors and welcome them as my official greeter. She is losing weight, quarter-ounce by quarter-ounce, but still looks like an ice cream cone walking point-end first. She also has a notch in her ear, perhaps from a fight very early in her life. And because of her shape, she sometimes needs help in, shall I say, cleanliness. Yet who wouldn’t want her company for a life-time?

Renn has a failing as delicate as Josie’s. His long hair once in a while picks up litter when he goes to the lavatory. I have to set my big boy down and perform some judicious trimming. I have to be careful because the hair disguises body parts which he still needs, however much the veterinarian has already cut back there. It’s a bothersome chore - more for him than me - which he endures better than he used to. For my part, I do it because it’s a small price to pay to keep him healthy and happy. But what would be too high a price?

Tucker has a bit of strabismus in one eye. His left one squints a bit, though the veterinary told me that there is nothing wrong with it. It makes him appear a bit shifty. But he is a sweet-natured sausage who wants only to have friends, play a bit and rest a lot. His horrific deformity - that little squishy eye - doesn’t make him less of a joy.

The truth is that we see our pets through rose coloured glasses. Or are we looking at them from an ivory tower? Either way, they don’t appear quite as they do to others. As well, we give them the compensation due to innocence. Cats, dogs, horses, hamsters, lizards, and every other animal that is loved as a pet, don’t care about looks. Perhaps they are snobs when it comes to smell, or something we can’t define. Perhaps they are as superficial as we are in their own way - though it doesn’t seem like it. We see that they will love a person based on how he behaves rather than how he looks. We take that into account. They love us regardless of our imperfections, and so we love them in the same way.

That’s the secret of their photogeniety. A cat could be as ugly as Medusa and as deformed as the Elephant Man, but he would be beautiful to us. Missing a leg, an eye, walking with a limp, deaf, needing help to use the litter-box; nothing seems to make them hideous to their owners. We see companions, friends, and in them is beauty, even though it may not look like it.

The Art Critic

2011-12-05T07:04:00.000-08:00

Renn became fascinated with a picture on the wall near the lower cat-tree in the sitting room. It may be that he sees his reflection in the glass. It may be that he likes the image in the frame. I’m not sure what his opinion of the print is, but he seems as much an art-lover as he is a scientist.

A Little About Josie

2011-12-05T06:40:00.000-08:00

I haven’t written much about Josie lately. She’s my chubby white cat. She maintains a low profile, and keeps a great deal to herself. That’s mainly through her own choice, though I get the feeling she would be a much more social animal if there were no other cats in the household.

She’s a people-cat. She’s not like Renn. My big boy is a people-cat, too. In fact, I think he would be miserable without people. But he gets along well with other cats, to an extent. He likes Tungsten, bullies Tucker a little and enjoys trading blows with Josie when one or the other is in the nylon tunnel. But Josie doesn’t care for other cats. It may be that she doesn’t dislike them; she simply has no use for them. When they get too close - Tungsten sometimes sniff at her tail in passing - Josie lets out a squeak and hurries away.

She’s my pacifist, is Josie. She prefers to avoid fights and altercations. That doesn’t mean she won’t stand up for herself. The cat-trees, especially the taller one in the sitting room, are her favoured domain, and she likes to have her choice of where to sit on them. She likes the top platforms (the top of the lower tree for watching out the window and the top of the higher for snoozing) but can be found on the middle platform of the taller tree when she wants to peer out the window from the right-hand side. It’s quite interesting how complicated a cat’s habits can become… Anyway, the point of this digression is that my Chubs doesn’t care for other cats taking her places on the cat-trees, or trying to take another position close to hers when she’s already there. Renn seems to be the main culprit in these situations, and punches may be exchanged under certain circumstances. But these are extraordinary events, and for the most part, Josie thinks one should live and let live.

Josie came to live with me three years ago, on Christmas Eve, 2008. If you’ve read any of the articles I’ve published here, you’ve probably heard me mention that Tungsten did not take kindly to this big white interloper in her little kingdom. But that’s past now. In fact, just last week, I woke on a Sunday morning to find all four cats on the bed (one of the reasons I like Sunday mornings); a while later, Tungsten, who doesn’t like Josie’s proximity any more than Josie likes hers, was grooming the white one. And the latter stayed put - for twenty seconds or so. But that’s quite an improvement on past behaviour.

There has been quite a change in my Chubs over the last three years. She’s lost a little weight, for one thing. But it’s her personality that has altered. She’s certainly not a different animal now, and I don’t think ‘friendlier’ is the correct word. She has become more open about showing her feelings, if you will. The time was when an ephemeral brush past against my leg was her principal sign of affection. She liked being petted, but not for long. And she didn’t like a person’s face close to hers.

Now, she ambles over relatively often for a rub on the head. She comes over for no other reason. It’s certainly not with the frequency with which Tucker comes to me for some attention; that’s thirty or forty times an hour, it seems. But Josie will see me in the kitchen and waddle up to me, say ‘hello’ and waddle away again. And she doesn’t even expect food out of it. She even comes to sit on a chair next to mine once in a while as I write at the table.

When I go to her, Josie usually rolls onto her side; when she’s on a cat-tree, she anchors herself with a paw, ready to receive some petting and stroking. She is eager to receive it and purrs audibly during it. Her purr used to be just a silent gurgle in her throat. She retains that, but now expresses herself more strongly. And once in a while, while I’m close to her, talking to her, she’ll sniff my face, which she never used to do.

She’s not a lap-cat, and never will be. But when I am on the couch, with Tungsten on my lap, Renn hard by on my right and Tucker on the couch’s arm to my left, I see Josie watching us. Is she envious? Some animals may be like some people, wanting to be close but not able to bring themselves to that point. I put her on my lap now and then. She purrs and kneads, but doesn’t stay long. She likes it, but it’s just not her thing. So I try to spend time with her on her own terms, which isn’t as easy as providing companionship to a cat who simply flops down beside you while you read a book.

Most nights will find her on the bed with the other cats. Her place is on the near side, against me. If I’m awake when she jumps up, she’ll normally stump up to me to say ‘good night’, have a two- or three-second head-rub, then settle down. She comes and goes during the night, not as settled as Tungsten and the boys.

Josie was about five years old when I adopted her. She’s now eight, probably eight and a half. She still likes to be alone sometimes, but rarely avoids attention when I find her, and comes to me for it more and more. She’ll always be inscrutable in some ways; I will always understand her less than the others, I think. But friendship doesn’t depend on understanding. It’s not born in the brain, or maintained by the mind. It’s an extension of the heart, and Josie’s keeps getting bigger.

Renn at Bath-time

2011-11-25T09:02:00.000-08:00

I like baths. I find them relaxing. I find filling up a tub to be just as relaxing as soaking in the water afterward. I think the running water - something many people find soothing - combined with the warmth of its temperature makes for a pleasant experience. And I know I’m not alone in my feelings.

Renn loves bath-time. One wouldn’t expect that of a cat. It’s true that, though he loves studying water, he doesn’t much care for its application direct upon his body. It’s not the actual bathing that he loves, it’s the process that surrounds it. When he hears the water running into the tub, he too runs, straight for the bathroom. Sometimes, I must disappoint him. When I wash the tub I of course run the water. He hurries in expecting bath-time, but is turned away, sorrowful.

What does he do when it’s bath-time? Usually, he knows it’s time even before I start preparing. Showers are the order of the day during the week, when, facing another work-day in the morning, there is little feeling of relaxing the night before. But Saturday night is bath-night, especially enjoyable now that the cold weather is upon us. So Saturday nights, as I start turning off lights, I find my big boy waiting expectantly by or in the bathroom.

Renn becomes very excited, moving about, his back arched - a sign of joy for him as much as is purring - bumping into walls and doors with his flanks, rubbing against all and sundry. He wags his body like a dog does its tail. He continues this while the water fills the tub. I sit with him and rub his chest and the top of his head. He likes that; I rub vigorously, as if I’m massaging liniment into his skin. But he’s too excited to lie still. he gets up, waggles about, bangs into me half a dozen times, then flops over like a heat-stroke victim to lie, purring, for another dose of rubbing.

He will sometimes stretch, curving like a bow, kneading the air - or the bathmat - at the same time. He’ll roll onto his back, his paws in mid-air, immodestly spread-eagled, purring. Then he’s up again.

This goes on for some time until, at last, the tub is filled and I can use it. Then Renn will settle down. He will either curl up and lie on the bathmat while I bathe, or he will watch for drops of water that may be splashed. The latter activity may succeed the former non-activity, depending on the situation. But he remains with me, even after I am finished with the bath.

It’s time for bed now, but Renn, happy in the warm air of the bathroom and the furry comfort of the bathmat, will stay, usually until I get into bed. Then I will hear the soft thumping of his big paws on the hardwood floor. Up Renn jumps to join Tungsten - not too near, mind you - who will probably already be on the bed. Josie comes in a little later, and Tucker likely soon after.

And so we’re all relaxed and ready for sleep, no one more so than my big boy, who will lie unmoving through the night, thankful for a hot bath - a dry one, in his case - and maybe dreaming already of next week’s.

The Coming Cold

2011-11-18T07:53:00.000-08:00

My cats appear to be in good health. I am, in fact, taking Tungsten and Tucker to their respective annual check-ups early in December, and I expect little to be wrong with them. But they are suffering from a disease, one from which we all suffer from the day of our birth. They are getting older.

This doesn’t bother the majority of cats. Aging is a slow process and the effects are gradual. Unlike humans, they aren’t aware of time passing; the future to them is an hour away when it’s at last dinner-time. There is, I think, a great benefit in such limitations to imagination. Nonetheless, our pets age.

Tungsten is doing very well. I don’t know how old she is, really. When I adopted her, she was estimated to be seven years old, which would make her eleven and a half now. That is long past being a senior, according to veterinarians, though many cats live to be twice Tungsten’s current age. However, she is an active animal, and can be more energetic than any of my other three. She doesn’t play often, and when she does, it is in bursts. But what bursts. Frenetic, crazed scrabbling and rolling for a string-toy, jumping and reaching and, periodically pushing Josie away when she gets too close to the fun.

But I think Tungsten is feeling the lack of warmth this season. The autumn turned chilly quite recently, and suddenly, as it does in these parts. My orange one is a thin cat; she always has been. There is no fat on her, as there is with Josie and Tucker, and youth is not on her side, as in Renn’s case. She has been sitting on a platform of the bedroom cat-tree that is nearest the heat vent, and also sitting on a platform of the taller cat-tree in the sitting room. I thought that odd, but then realized that it too is just over a heat vent. Finally, she has been lying on cushions that I’ve placed on the floor near a cold-air outtake vent, which, to Tungsten, probably looks and sounds like a heating vent.

This made me think that she has been noticing the cold lately. She has also been lying on my lap with almost every opportunity. She has always liked resting there, but she seems more insistent now, and the change from lying on my lap when the time was convenient for her to lying on it whenever she could made me deduce that it’s warmth, rather than company, that is her primary motivation.

So I decided to acquire a heated cat-bed, or a heating pad that can be put under cushions.

My search was not encouraging. Despite the near parity (and, depending on the week, sometimes the superiority) of the Canadian dollar compared to the American, prices of heated cat beds are much higher here than in the United States, sometimes a third to a half as much again. I considered ordering one from the U.S., but the shipping costs made the total price as much as one from Canada.

However, I did find one for an affordable price - though not a price I would consider reasonable, as it is still higher than elsewhere. But, another cat-fancier has a similar model of cat-heating pad, and it is still working after some years. I decided to buy this one.

I initially put it where Tungsten was lying these days, but I then decided that that would be confusing: confusing for my orange one, who would wonder why the pad kept moving, and confusing for me, because I wouldn’t know if she was sitting somewhere because of the warmth, or because of habit. I concluded that she should simply find the warmth of the pad herself, so I replaced the cushions I’d put on the floor for the cats. I laid the pad on an old towel, then put another old towel on top of it.

At first, Tungsten was reluctant to lie on the towels. The desire to lie next to what she believed was a heat vent was, however, probably too strong to ignore, so she lie down. The warmth coming through the towel seems to be negligible to me, but the instructions that came with the product mentioned that this may be the case; cats would feel the change in temperature.

Indeed, she seems to have taken to it, on a tentative basis. I left the pad plugged in, and thus on, all day, while I was at work, and that evening, Tungsten lie on it more than she had at any other time. As she gets older, her tiny body will lose more heat, and I want her to sit and lie with comfort even in her old age. I have also started experimenting with covering her, at least partially, with a blanket at night, though that policy has met with limited success…

The other cats’ reactions to the heating pad have been interesting. Each seems to be aware of its properties, and have tried it out. Josie always liked lying on the cushions that the pad replaced and so relaxed on the towels, no doubt feeling the warmth beneath her. Renn sniffed at the towel (he’s a great smeller) and, probably feeling the heat on his sensitive nose, sat on the pad. Then he lie down, which he rarely does on anything that isn’t for humans, too. I even saw Tucker lying on the pad just last night.

But none of these three stay for long. They move on to their habitual haunts. Perhaps they simply don’t need the extra warmth, and therefore it feels uncomfortable to them. To be honest, I hope that’s the case, because it means that Tungsten will not have competition for the pad. She is, after all, the one I believe needs it. When the spring comes, followed by summer, I’ll put the pad away, and my orange one can enjoy the natural warmth of the sunny days. But in the dark months, when the temperature falls outside, she’ll be comfortable, battling so far victoriously against the disease that we all fight, in our own ways.

More Food!

2011-11-10T08:29:00.000-08:00

I seem to think, if not write, about feeding the cats a great deal. I am always concerned that they are eating too little or too much, or that the food they are consuming isn’t healthy enough for them, or that they simply don’t like it.

My cats don’t have a lot in the way of hobbies. Collecting stamps is too expensive, star-gazing requires them to be outside and, though I’m sure they would enjoy reading, not being able to turn pages leaves them with little more to read than the titles on the spines of my books. Looking out the window, playing, sleeping and eating constitute not only the great majority of their lives, but also their pastimes. Therefore, I think it is nice if the cats eat their meals because they enjoy them, as much as like them. Tungsten and Renn figure in this aspect, as they have seldom eaten all of their soft food rations, and eat the hard food simply as a staple.

However, this sometimes conflicts with my concern about their health. Josie and Tucker are tubular cats, rounded and heavy. Tucker is gaining weight, while Josie, though losing some pounds, retains the shape of tinned ham, and from the back, when seated, looks like a heavy, white eggplant.

Recently, I have begun a process which I like to call ‘starvation’. Well, no, it’s not as bad as that, though it made the cats look up when I mentioned it. Hehe. Anyway… I have decided to make the hard-food bowl available to the cats only during certain times of the day. Tucker, for one, nibbles from it quite often. It’s a nervous habit with him, I think. He goes to eat two or three kernels of hard food whenever I make a point of kneeling beside him to rub his head or pet him. He purrs and definitely likes the attention - then heads over to the bowl. He does this at other times, too. That adds up.

The bowl will now be on the food mat throughout the night; I figure that the cats sleep through that period and it limits their eating. It will also be available through the day when I am at work, though I reduce the amount of food therein so that they run out during the day, hopefully. This will make them hungry for the soft food, which they need for moisture. (You see the cunningness of my plan…)

On days that I am home, I allow them to eat from the bowl for half an hour after I rise. The fact that the cats all seem to eat then confirms that they consumed little during the night. I put the bowl down again in the early afternoon, and again about six-thirty. Each time, I let each cat visit the bowl and have his or her fill, but only once. Then the bowl is hidden again. By dinner- and snack-times, with their portions of soft-food, the animals are ravenous. Well, peckish, at least.

At the same time, I have discovered a new flavour of Fancy Feast that all the cats seem to like. As with many cat-owners, I have tried numerous brands, varieties and flavours to find something that the cats looks forward to eating. Fancy Feast, though not the best of nutrition, is adequate. Recently, as I have written before, I have found that the chicken pate is favoured to a certain extent by all four of my furry roommates. I sometimes garnish it with trout flavour. I don’t use just trout because half the cats don’t eat it all; they lick the gravy off of it and leave the actual ‘meat’. As much as I like my cats, I can’t spend 50 to 74 cents (depending on where and when I buy it) a tin, just to give them a taste of gravy.

By accident, I purchased the cumbrously titled cod, sole and shrimp flavour, due to interpreting its shade of green label as that of the trout. Having opened the tin, I decided to give it to the animals as a test. To my surprise, all four liked it. Tungsten ate almost all her portion and Renn cleaned his plate, even eating a small second helping. A better test came when I served the refrigerated leftovers (warmed up) for snack-time. Again, the fussy two did very well, eating more than normal. Josie, who has been leaving some of her chicken, finished all of her fish ration, while Tucker… Well, Tucker would eat Velcro if it tasted good.

This may be the thrill of novelty. I will have to test the new flavour further. As well, cats do become bored with their routine meals after a time, so I will continue to have the chicken pate and trout handy, and once in a while will experiment with other flavours and brands, though this can become expensive if the results are negative.

I dislike seeing my cats waiting for the hard-food bowl. I want them always to enjoy themselves, and that includes eating. But sometimes a foot must be put down, for their own good. If my new plan works, perhaps I won’t have to write about the animals’ food habits again, at least for another month or two.

The Corpse

2011-11-10T07:49:00.000-08:00

No, he’s not dead, but he does a good imitation of it, doesn’t he? This is Tucker lying on the floor, waiting to be petted. Or photographed by the scene-of-crime specialist.

Not Enough Toys

2011-11-07T09:11:00.000-08:00

There are plenty of cat-toys in the house. My three (plus one) have their choices of fuzzy mice, spongy balls, furry balls (rather disgusting now with the fuzz and fur pulled and torn and covered with dried cat spit), mice on a string (which used to be mice hanging from a string but Renn discovered that he could get the mice by chewing through the string and letting it drop; unfortunately, it wasn’t as much fun after that) and little plastic coils that everyone says their cats love but mine largely ignore.

Tucker likes playing with these toys, and Renn does as well, though not to the extent that the roly poly one does. Josie and Tungsten (when the latter plays at all) prefer to wait until I bring out the human-operated feather-sticks and string-toys.

Even so, I think you can see that there are toys aplenty with which the cats may amuse themselves. But some are more enterprising, and find their own sources of amusement. These are simple, cheap alternatives, rather along the lines of a child playing with the box in which a toy comes, rather than the contents themselves.

Tucker likes to play with his food. He will take a kernel of the hard food, scooping it out of the bowl, and knock it about on the floor, chasing it. The little kibble certainly does fly about, gliding over the smooth surface of hardwood and tumbling about the linoleum.

This is harmless fun, for the most part. Often, when Tucker has had his fill of play, he will have his fill of food, and eat his toy. But this isn’t always the case. I’ve found numerous intact kernels lying about the floor, even more frequently lying under furniture. And I’ve stepped on others. I tell the cats not to leave their toys lying about - I can no longer count the number of times I’ve stepped on a fuzzy mouse and been afraid I’ve come down on a paw or a tail - but it’s fruitless. And so, once in a while, I feel something small and hard giving way under my heel, and hear a crunch.

One day, a couple of weeks ago, I came home and found that the cats had discovered a new diversion. This one may have been devised by Tucker, since he is most likely to play with small, rubbery items. But I think Renn had a hand in it. The roly poly one rarely goes into the bathroom except to rub up against me. My big boy enjoys going into the bathroom to watch the water evaporate in the basin or, if he’s lucky and I haven’t fully turned off the tap, to watch the water drip. It’s more probable that it was he who found the new toy on the rim of the bath-tub. If it hadn’t been lying in the middle of the kitchen’s floor, easily seen, I may have had to forego bathing.

Yes, that’s the bath-tub stopper.

Of Courage

2011-10-26T11:05:00.000-07:00

Cats come in all shades, physically, mentally and emotionally. Some are born with a certain character, some with another; some are urged by their surroundings in one direction, some in a second.

My big boy Renn was a very frightened cat when he came to stay with me as a foster. I think he may have always had a timid streak in him. He hid from any loud, sustained noise, hurrying away to his safe spot with a low, long groan, the sort emitted by a person who is expecting trouble. In my old apartment, he fled to a box I’d fixed to the top of the kitchen counters. In the new house, he usually retreats under the bed.

He has been getting better, stronger, braver. He quickly grows used to people and comes out to see them after not so very long in hiding. He may crouch low and his eyes may grow large with apprehension when someone new offers to pet him; he will probably not allow any physical contact right away. But when a familiar visitor arrives, he will absent himself only briefly now, if at all. Then he comes out, ready to meet the person; he’ll be quick to dart away at sudden movements, but he overcomes his fears as best he can, because he enjoys people, he wants to be near them, and he likes to be liked.

But a test of his nerves was coming. I purchased new blinds for my windows and, being largely incompetent in regards to matters of repair and installation, I hired someone to put them in. I figured that they may as well be done properly, rather than by me. But I worried about my cats’ reactions. Tungsten wouldn’t care about the intruder, even with all the attendant noises an installation would entail. Josie would be wary but would find a spot to be alone and wait out the episode.

My two boys would be concerned, though, and frightened. Tucker would hide somewhere distant from the fuss, while Renn would be unnerved and seek shelter under the bed or in a far corner of the downstairs library, where he has hidden before.

After the handyman started his work, Tucker indeed hurried to the bedroom where he jumped on the bed and laid low, literally. Renn retreated beneath the bed. I coaxed him out briefly, but then he returned. I thought it best to leave him for the time being. I worked about the house as well as I could with the interruption of my routine.

It was while I was sitting at the computer in the back parlour that I noticed Renn creeping out of the bedroom. Looking warily into the kitchen, from which a commotion of work was coming, he made his way slowly along the corridor to where I was sitting. He sat in the parlour with me for a while, then lie down and, though his eyes were watchful, he tried to relax - or at least pretended.

But that was the beginning. Over the next few hours, Renn’s fear battled his scientific spirit, and the latter won, just barely. He emerged from the parlour and examined the workman from a distance. When the man moved out of the kitchen, Renn cautiously sniffed the toolboxes and implements. He avoided the visitor but didn’t again run under the bed. He stayed with me, or climbed a cat-tree, but wouldn’t hide.

Tucker came out, too. He scampered away from any sudden noise more than did Renn, but I think he was following my big boy’s example. Throughout the majority of the handyman’s time in the house, all the cats were out and about - avoiding the intruder, but definitely not hiding.

Renn has come along way since the days when he would quake under the bed at the noise of a car pulling into the driveway. He knows that visitors do not always mean bad things are going to happen; in fact, they often give wonderful chest rubs. Life improves every day for someone who finds the courage to explore it. And that’s my big boy.

Watching the World

2011-10-07T14:41:00.000-07:00

I feel sorry for my cats sometimes. People tell me I do a good job of seeing to their food and water, their shelter and comfort. I try to spend time with them, though it’s never enough, and make them feel loved and wanted. But I feel sorry for their restricted little world. It’s limited to the two floors of my house, and what they can see from the windows.

My three cats (plus one) must know every inch of the house by now, at least every inch they can get to, and what they observe beyond the glass panes or, in the summer, wire screens of the windows must seem very exciting and stimulating.

I could never let my cats outdoors. Some people do, and they don’t worry about their pets less than I, but I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace with them outside. Tungsten is too little, Josie too fat, Tucker too passive and Renn too timid. I’m sure something bad would happen to them. So I keep them indoors.

But what adventures they see outside. Tungsten is not overly impressed with the exterior world. She is definitely an indoor cat, if only because she is above worldly concerns such as, well, the world. The other three observe the passing parade of life whenever they can. Sometimes, it’s a conscious decision. One will sit down and watch. Automobiles driving by, people walking, animals, especially animals, stimulate their interest. But on those days, the cat will lie on a cat-tree platform and simply watch. What do they think about? Do they wish for freedom? Are they glad they are inside? Do these thoughts even come to mind?

Other times, a cat will be lying about, relaxing. His gaze is on nothing in particular. A car goes by; it’s nothing important. A dog on a leash is just another dog on a leash. Then, a bird, or perhaps another cat, or even a falling leaf: this will become the most exciting thing he has ever seen.

Then there are the days when a predator’s instinct, deep down, even in the depths of chubbiness that is Josie, will be woken by a bluejay or a finch, hopping across the lawn. The cat will chatter, whimper or whine, depending on the personality. The expressions seem to declare, “Oh, if only I were out there, what short work I would make of you.” Then the scene closes, the bird flies off. The cat’s eyes wander away to see what else he can intimidate.

Other cats crossing my pets’ property come in for special attention. Renn once saw a neighbour’s cat cross the back lawn. The stranger saw Renn. They stared at each other. My big boy didn’t move, didn’t try to get out, but if he had, there may have been words exchanged, perhaps blows. The first week Tungsten was with me, she heard someone in the corridor outside the apartment where we then lived. She quickly started rubbing her face against every corner she could find. This was her home now. Interlopers stay away. It’s not so very different now, when this cat or that is observed on our land.

But when the outdoors comes inside, when a stranger calls at the house, a repairman, a deliveryman, then I see what might happen in another situation. Renn used to run and hide, so did Tucker. How would they behave in the ‘wild’? There, a stranger isn’t just a benign visitor; he may be a danger. The boys wouldn’t want to face it, Josie - my unofficial greeter - would be too trusting, and Tungsten would be apathetic.

No, my cats will stay inside, where it’s dull but safe. They will watch the outdoors, see the passing years and miss out on a great deal. How is that different than our lives? We watch so much in which we can’t participate. There will always be something we can’t have or won’t do. But we enjoy what we can. We take pleasure in what is in our grasp, in what can be.

So it is with my cats. They see what is outside, but they don’t linger on the impossible. Anyway, perhaps it’s dinner-time, or a treat is in the offing. A friend has come in to the room and will scratch that spot just behind the ears that feels so good. It’s cold out, and a soft couch is just over there. A few minutes of getting into just the right position and they’re asleep. If they dream of running free outdoors, that doesn’t stop them from purring when they wake again indoors.

Standing Guard at the Gates of Health

2011-10-07T11:17:00.000-07:00

I worry a great deal about my cats. I worry about the food they eat, about them not eating, about not playing enough with them, about them drinking enough water, about them getting out of the house, about them aging… The list is endless.

I take the cats to the veterinary every year for a check-up. Josie and Renn went in the summer. Tungsten and Tucker will go in December. (That should be fun: those two in the back of a car together; even in separate carriers, the orange one will not be pleased about the roly poly’s proximity.) The examination always seems cursory, a prod here, a poke there, up with the gums to see the teeth, staring into the eyes as if trying to hypnotize the animal. But, like most pet-owners, I trust that the doctor knows her business.

I always note through the year anything that causes me special concern. With Tungsten, it is three items. Her mouth seems to be drooping a little on one side. The last time I noticed it was four years ago and it was a sign of a small infection. But that was accompanied by extreme bad breath, which she doesn’t have at this time, so I wonder if the droopy lip is just something I hadn’t noticed before. There seems nothing amiss when I examine her myself. But then, I don’t know what precisely I should be seeking. I do notice more little dark brown spots - which in a human may be a danger sign, of course. But orange cats get these as they age, I’m told (by vets), like liver spots. It’s a danger sign of sorts, but this danger none of us can avoid.

I have also noticed a sort of skin tag on the bag of Tungsten’s neck, under her fur. I don’t think it is anything serious but again, it’s something to inquire about. The third item is very new. Tungsten seems to be eating hard food more often. She was at the bowl several times last night alone, which is unusual for her. Her appetite for soft food has improved only a little recently, and that is probably due to the more favourable flavour of Fancy Feast.

Otherwise, her behaviour is unchanged. She’s my oldest cat and the most active. After a visit to the litter-box following dinner, she will sometimes shoot across the ground floor of the house, launch herself from a cat-tree and come to rest on top of the fireplace mantel. I’m afraid more of broken bones in her little body than I am of anything else, really.

Josie, who passed her last examination with commendations, doesn’t worry me. Her weight is decreasing, though she is a relatively small cat, so she could lose some more. She is eating slightly less, leaving a little bit of her soft food most evenings. But she looks forward to its arrival and eats heartily, so I think she may just be losing a fraction of her appetite along with the fraction of her weight. She has trouble cleaning her bum after visiting the litter-box, but when I clean it, she is not giving me the difficulty that she used to. Josie is friendlier and healthier than ever.

Renn also did well during his exam. I worry a bit about his diet. He doesn’t eat enough soft food. He’s my fussiest. He does drink water sufficiently, I think, and though he’s lost a little weight, he remains active and strong. All in all, he is fine.

Tucker’s weight needs to be reduced. He is no longer the sleek torpedo he once may have been, cutting through the water with speed and agility. He’s become a tubby depth charge that has to be pushed off the ship and sinks with a gurgling sound. Well, he’s not as bad as that. He is too chubby, though. However, his coat is smooth and full, his teeth are good, his eyes are bright and he is energetic. But I felt what appears to be a skin-tag similar to Tungsten’s, and in the same place. That’s odd, and I will ask about it.

But I think the cats in my care are doing well. It’s important to keep an eye on everything about them. They can’t tell me with words what is wrong, if anything is, so I must interpret the clues when I find them. Anything out of the ordinary, especially with behaviour, may be a hint of something significant. Having anything alive under one’s care means constant vigilance. It’s tiring but worth it.

Whiskers!

2011-10-07T10:30:00.000-07:00

Most cats have whiskers. I think the hairless breeds may be without them, or have fewer. But my cats have the regulation number, about two dozen on either side of the mouth and nose, with some on the cheeks, above the eyes and even one or two on the wrists.

It’s funny that dogs, as a species, can come in so many shapes and sizes that some of them look like members of different genera. Looking at a Great Dane and a Yorkshire Terrier, one wouldn’t believe, on visual evidence alone, that they are the same sort of animal. I suppose it’s because dogs have been bred for varying, practical purposes through the centuries. Cats, who refuse to work, have been bred for looks and companionship. They all turn out roughly the same, except a few types. Or do they?

Each cat is visually recognizable as distinct from another. One must look closely sometimes. So it is with each cat’s whiskers. They are as individual as the cat itself. The length, the number, the placement, the texture; all seem quite similar. But they are not.

Tungsten’s, for instance, are small and fine, as befits the small and fine cat to whom they belong. Short and curved, even curly, they sometimes appear translucent, and disappear into the vibrant colour of her fur. But they are sensitive, nonetheless, and can, for all their thinness, be felt. I know this, as there are few things as ticklish as Tungsten’s whiskers when she’s smelling my face preparatory to lying down for the night on the bed.

Josie’s whiskers are straight and strong-looking. They resemble the slenderest of metal rods when seen from most angles, though there are curves to some of them, especially near their ends. The whiskers that grow from above her eyes are almost negligible compared to those on either side of her face, and seem to disappear, or grow insignificant at times.

Tucker has a wonderful set of whiskers, Fu Manchu-style, for the most part. Yet it is in my roly poly one that the whiskers above the eyes show most prominently. Two in particular sprout straight up and resemble antennae, a la Ray Walston, from “My Favourite Martian”. Perhaps this sausage of a cat is reporting home on all he sees…

I’ve saved the most glorious for last. Renn has a great explosion of whiskers, in every direction, curving and straight, long and strong. They are pointed like steel rapiers, graceful like the blades of sabres. Cats use their whiskers for sensing their way, for coordination; with such appendages, I’m surprised that my big boy can’t fly. When the wind blows especially strong through the town, I borrow a whisker from Renn to tie down the roof of the house, so it won’t be torn off. If the others are jealous of his whiskers, they don’t show it. But then, Renn is a modest fellow.

Whiskers are usually thought of as insubstantial, as characterized in phrases such as ‘missed it by a whisker’. The reference obviously couldn’t be to a cat’s whisker, since no matter what the size or strength, it is something important and significant to its wearer.

Sleepy Heads

2011-10-07T07:04:00.000-07:00

Cats love to sleep. Perhaps they need it. Perhaps they are lazy. But they certainly seem to enjoy it. I wish I could sleep as often and as easily as they. They can sleep almost anywhere and in almost any position, like human babies. If I tried sleeping the way I see my cats sleep, I’d wake with permanent disability.

I like watching the cats sleep. It’s peaceful, again, rather like watching a baby. Neither have anything weighing on their consciences to keep them awake, as do many people, so they rest content - except when one has a bad dream, as my Tungsten does from time to time. But usually they're serene, with perhaps a little twitch of a paw here, a little whimper there.

The cats I have each possess certain ways of sleeping, habits as to how they rest. Tungsten curls up. There’s hardly anything to her anyway, so she can bend her little body right around in a circle. When she’s lying on my lap, she will often curl around my hand. She may like the warmth of it, though since cats’ body temperatures are higher than humans’, I wonder if I feel cool to her. Sometimes, she will lie straight, looking as though she’s sleeping where she dropped. And at night, in bed, she’s up by my head, almost in my face. She likes to rest her rear legs in the palm of my hand. Lately, he’s taken to holding my hand in place with one of her forepaws, and even twisting about so that her rear legs and her head are in my hand. She must like her head resting in the curve of my palm, since she will do that once in a while when she’s on my lap. Periodically, Tungsten will cover her eyes with a front leg; she likes to be able to adjust her amount of light.

Josie can’t curl much. She’s too round as it is. But she likes to form a semi-circle. Her favourite places to nap now are on an armchair downstairs in the library and of course on the top of the sitting room cat-trees, the taller one for preference. Now and then, she can be found on the cat-tree in the bedroom, but that’s where she will go to be alone and rest her eyes in the dark; she rarely is asleep there. Unlike the other three, Josie can look half-asleep sometimes, dozy, as though she is on the verge of the dreamless. At night, when she decides to join the rest of us on the bed, she will lie on my near side, against my ribs. I like to feel her solidity there; it’s comforting.

Renn is a versatile sleeper, even for a cat. He can sleep curled up or straightened out, on his side, on his back or on his stomach. He doesn’t seem to have a favourite position, though for deep sleeps, or at least long ones, the circular formation seems the best. He will throw himself onto his back and slumber with legs apart, the closest a cat can come to being spread-eagled. That position is especially good for when he’s on the couch, though sometimes he will appear reclusive and curl up in a corner of it. But when I’m sitting there, he will frequently lie on his side next to me, and enjoy having my hand on his chest. That’s comfortably warm - for me - on cold winter evenings. He uniquely lets out a long sigh once in a while. I don’t know if he’s content or wistful. At night, he is at the foot of the bed, on the far side, just a short jump from the windows and the cat-trees there. He will wake and leap over to make sure our little kingdom is safe, then come back to bed.

My foster-cat, Tucker, sleeps in the weirdest positions. He will snooze sitting up in the armchair, with one or both of his forelegs on the cushioned arm, as if he fell asleep watching television. He will lean his head against the edge of a side-table. He will fall asleep on a cat-tree, with his face pushed against the lip of the platform. He likes to rest, if not sleep, on the arm of the couch while I sit next to him, his increasingly barrel-like girth along its length, his relatively short legs astride. His favourite location for slumber are on the cat-trees, especially the lower one in the sitting room. But of all the cats who live with me, he sleeps the least. He will rest, relax, lie down, but he follows me about more than he sleeps. At night, still unloved by the other cats, he chooses the other corner at the foot of the bed. I always try to encourage him to lie somewhere on the bed, and he's chosen that as his spot, and I pet him, to make sure he knows he is welcome.

The cats know when it’s bed-time. They can see me preparing, and first Renn, then Tucker, come to the bedroom. I collect Tungsten from where she’s sleeping, usually by then on a cushion on a dining room chair. I’d let her be, but I have trouble sleeping unless she’s on the bed. She complains, then looks out the window, gets something to eat, and comes to bed. Josie may or may not join us later. When I wake, the cats do, ready for another day - of sleeping.

Tucker R. Poly

2011-09-16T13:24:00.000-07:00

It’s coming up on a year that Tucker has been with me. He is a foster-cat; I’m taking care of him on behalf of the Lethbridge PAW Society. He arrived just a few hours after my previous foster-cat, Devon, was picked up by his new people and taken to his permanent home. Devon, by the way, is doing fine. He has been accepted (at last) by the two cats already in the household and has since been joined by a fourth cat, who has become his best friend.

Tucker was declared unwanted by his family after he wet out of the litter-box several times. The household was going through a bit of an upheaval - a happy one, mind, you: a new baby had arrived - and Tucker’s nerves were on edge. So he was ‘returned’ to the PAW Society and I volunteered to give him a place to live until he was adopted by some lucky person or persons. So far, he has not been chosen. That surprises me; he is an adorable, sausage-shaped cat with a wonderful personality. But his prolonged stay doesn’t bother me, as I find him a delightful companion, however temporary.

Tucker remains a timid animal. He is forever coming over to me and rubbing against my leg, showing me that he likes me. That’s appreciated (after all, how often do people, even close friends, do that?) but just as often, he comes toward me, then changes his mind, due to movement on my part or a sound or something only he can perceive. It’s as if he thinks, “I like you; I’ll show you. Not right now? All right, I’ll come back. I don’t mean to inconvenience you…”

His timidity reached a peak a few weeks ago when he became frightened of my bedspread. Yes, that’s right. One day, he jumped up on the bed, stared at the cover under his feet, sniffed it, tapped it, then retreated to the folded duvet at the foot of the bed. After that, he refused even to sit on the duvet. I regretted that, as he stopped sleeping there at night, as well. Then, more recently, he recovered himself, braving the duvet at first, then even venturing on the dreaded bedspread. He has returned to sleeping on the bed at nights, in his spot on the near lower corner. He never seems to move from there during the night, and comes up to the top of the bed to greet me when I wake.

He had initially established a position of strength over Renn, who is two years younger. That has reversed itself now. The cats’ relative positions, not their ages. Now, Renn periodically smacks Tucker about. It’s never physically harmful, and much of the time, they will pass each other without a sign. But then Renn will need to demonstrate who’s in charge. I wonder if Tucker experiences some Schadenfreude when Tungsten puts Renn in his place.

Tucker’s noises are a wonder. He sounds like a monkey, a porpoise, a human baby - anything but a cat. Well, except when he purrs, which he does a great deal. I believe that he’s an animal who is easily pleased. A little attention carries him a long way. His appetite is strong: he will eat, or try to eat almost anything, though fish comes far down on his list, and I think it upsets his stomach, anyway. The only time he becomes assertive is when there may be food in the offing.

Like the others, Tucker has his favourite spots: the second platform on the lower cat-tree in the sitting room; the arm of the couch when I’m sitting there; the floor of the dining area, where he can stretch out.

He’s made himself at home with me and his feline roommates. Some day, he will be adopted, and have to accustom himself to new surroundings once more. That will be difficult for him, but he’ll find his place there, too, for he’s adaptable - as well as adoptable. But a little piece of him will stay with me.

Weighty Matters

2011-09-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

In this day and age, it’s not surprising that pets have weight problems, just as their owners do. Much of the food produced for cats and dogs is unhealthy in the long run, and domesticated animals don’t get the exercise that they should. For my part, I do try to feed my cats nutritious food. The hard food, which constitutes most of their diet, is California Natural, which is a good brand, but the soft food is Fancy Feast which, though decent, is not exactly a ‘health’ food. But then, when cats won’t eat other items, the merely adequate will have to do.

Exercise is another problem. I try to play with my cats but how strenuous that is depends upon them. Tungsten rarely plays, but her weight is not a problem - unless the problem is that she is too light. Tucker is quite active while playing, though Renn’s favourite activity is to lie in a nylon tunnel and ambush a string-toy as it flies by a hole. Josie, my Chubs, flops on the floor and grabs at the toys when they near her; she doesn’t chase them.

I keep an eye on the cats’ weight. I put them on an accurate set of scales quarterly, and see if anything changes. I decided to do this after Tungsten's last visit to the veterinarian. I was told that my tiny cat had lost a pound. When an animal has only seven of them to begin with, the loss of that amount is worrisome. But the next time she was weighed, the amount was back to the previous, normal weight. I suspect there was an error in the scales, as the orange one’s numbers have remained relatively constant thereafter.

I am currently a bit anxious about Tungsten, though. Her stools have been very liquidy recently, though these have alternated with more solid waste. (It’s rather sad that I can differentiate between the crap the various cats leave in the litter-box; but then, I meet it every day, more than I do my friends…) Otherwise, she is fine, eating as well as always, drinking her usual amount and being as active and/or inert as she always has been. It’s why weighing my animals is important: it may be the first sign of a serious defect in their health. In some cases, loss (or gain) in poundage may be the only warning an owner gets before the situation becomes critical.

Josie is my surprise. She’s lost more than a quarter of a kilogram in the past six months. (That’s about half a pound in real measurements.) I think the stairs in my new house have helped with that: the food dish is on the main level while the litter-boxes are in the basement. As well, she does play chase with Renn and Tucker once in a while. And I think she is eating less hard food; her appetite has always been comprehensive rather than large, so she doesn’t fill up on soft food then repair to the hard food to eat to excess. She is my second lightest cat. I should stop calling her Chubs, really. But her frame is small, if you look at her; larger than Tungsten’s but not as big as the boys’, so what fat there is, is prominently displayed. I’m glad that Josie is losing some of her pounds, but she’ll always be my Chubs.

Renn has gained 0.17 kilograms (a third of a pound) but I’m not worried about him. He’s active and healthy, so far as I can determine. He’s a big cat. He has the biggest body of the four cats in my house, and when I pet him, I can feel his leanness. His weight is due to his natural size, and he could probably add more heft to his bones without causing himself trouble.

My anxiety rests with Tucker. That roly poly sausage has gained almost three quarters of a kilogram (more than one and a half pounds). I’m not sure where he’s getting all this from. He eats no more than Josie (admittedly, those two are my greatest eaters) but is fairly active, and is the most energetic at play-time. I have noticed that after most small bits of attention from me, a scratch behind the ears, a stroke on the side of the face, he will wander over to the food bowl and eat one or two kernels. It’s never much, and I’m not sure if it’s a nervous reaction to attention. Certainly, he asks for chin-scratches and head-rubs all the time, so I don’t do anything he doesn’t want, yet he often follows this with a bite or two.

I may have to replace the food in the bowl at strategic times - perhaps during the night - with a special recipe, a ‘diet’ formula. I don’t want to do this, as all the cats love their food and their history with healthy comestibles hasn’t been flavoured with enjoyment. I will give the roly poly one another three months and decide after Christmas. After all, who wants to go on a diet during the Yuletide?

And yet, really, can anyone tell me where his neck went?

Fitting In

2011-08-22T06:32:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of ‘fitting in’. One is physical, the other is communal. The former is easier to illustrate, so I’ve included pictures of that aspect in this article. The text, however, concerns the latter definition.

Many people think of cats as loners. It’s a reason so many are allowed to wander outside and unhindered, eventually becoming lost and uncared for. It’s thought that they are naturally independent and do well alone. In the wild, some species of cats (such as lions) band together, while others associate in family groups (eg. tigers) and some travel by themselves (eg. leopards).

I don’t believe domesticated cats are naturally loners. They are social animals. It’s true, as I’ve written in these articles, that some prefer not to accompany other cats. Josie is a good example. But that doesn’t mean that she isn’t social; she likes humans more than she does cats. Any visitor to my house can testify to that.

But when one or more cats live together, they form a society, whether they want to or not, just as humans in a town are a community; some may prefer not to be part of it, but they are nonetheless, simply by virtue of living where they do. So it is with cats. And with the formation of that society comes the problem of fitting in.

Tungsten had no trouble fitting in. She was my first cat, so all other cats had to conform to her demands. Tungsten taught me that social animals don’t necessarily follow the strongest. The orange one commands through force of personality. This was clear when the one cat who would not bend to her personality tried to usurp her authority. Wixie, a foster cat, wanted to be the queen of our little kingdom, but instead was adopted with her friend, Mystery (who had been content to live by Tungsten’s rules.) That episode ended gladly for all concerned, but demonstrated that Tungsten, tiny and relatively weak, does not reign through physical power.

I wondered then if all social animals were like that: wolves in their packs, horses in their herds, lions in their prides. Advanced intelligence must surely bring recognition of the benefits of that advancement. A whale that can physically defeat all comers is good; better yet is a whale that can show the others in the pod where food is plentiful. Bodily strength and moral courage are important, but sheer character seems to mean a lot, too.

The other cats in the house acknowledge the orange one’s strong will and dominant spirit, despite being bigger than she. Josie, who came second to our group, did not take Tungsten’s initial dislike of her sitting down. As I’ve mentioned before, there were fights, there was bloodletting. As with Wixie later on, I think Tungsten received the worse of the punishment. And yet, Tungsten emerged the top-cat. Josie, my easy-going pacifist, my gentle Chubs, was pleased to have a nice home, uncrowded and comfortable. That was enough for her. Let someone else be the queen. Except at the food-bowl. Even Tungsten bows to Josie’s wishes there. But that’s another story.

Renn was afraid of everything when he first came to live with me as a foster-cat. It’s no surprise, then, that he willingly acknowledged Tungsten’s supremacy. The orange one didn’t like my big boy’s arrival, but she accepted it quite quickly because he didn’t resist her tremendous will. Now, the two of them are as close to being friends as any of my cats are.

Finally, Tucker. The roly poly one is having a tough time fitting in. It’s not that he is troublesome or rebellious. He doesn’t challenge Tungsten, nor does he fight. He is a timid sausage of a cat who just wants to be liked. When he first came, as passive as he is, he at first asserted himself with Renn. My big boy gave in and took fourth place in the hierarchy. The interesting thing is that this situation did not last.

Renn has since re-taken third place and whereas Tucker used to hiss and swipe at the big boy, now Renn does that. Tucker still tries to grab and pounce from time to time, but these are nothing more than desperate attempts at play. Watching the two boys on neighbouring perches by the bedroom window is a lesson in cat dynamics. The rare times that they are there together, Tucker is as far as he can be from Renn without falling off the platform, looking away, like a peasant confronted by his angry lord. Renn, for his part, whines and growls at Tucker. Just this weekend, however, I noticed that my big boy had allowed Tucker to sit and peer out the window with him. It was a unique event.

I feel sorry for the roly poly one. He wants to be friends, he wants a chum to play with. He asks for attention from me quite often and I feel bad if I don’t give him some, because he is unliked by the other cats. He and Josie do chase each other - playfully - from time to time, but that’s infrequent.

Why hasn’t Tucker been able to fit in? What is it about him that the others don’t like? Is he too eager? Too shy? Too tubular? Too flat of face? Sometimes in a group there will be outsiders who want in, but who can’t find a door. I will keep encouraging the others to give Tucker a chance, and in the meanwhile make sure he knows he’s fitting in with me. After all, if someone wants a friend, he should have one, even if he’s from a different species.

World Cat Day

2011-08-08T07:46:00.000-07:00

Today is World Cat Day. Apparently, this is the third one - the third annual World Cat Day, not the third one this year. I’m not sure what one is supposed to do during this day or its purpose. When one has cats, every day seems to be Cat Day; one doesn’t expect children to be ignored except during the International Year of the Child. However, it is probably meant to heighten awareness of cats and their care, including neutering and spaying - always a good idea. And it gives me a chance to put up more pictures of my cats, and that's a good thing, too. (You may notice that most of the photographs depict my cats sleeping or resting. I think that their reluctance, nay, refusal, to contribute to the household revenues sometimes borders on impudence.)

Tucker tired out from snoozing.

Josie sleeping off a long night's rest.

Renn trying to get comfortable while Tucker sleeps some more.

Getting in some shut-eye before bed.

Josie tolerating Renn's presence. Or not aware of it.

Tucker being Tucker.

My Orange Heart

2011-08-05T10:59:00.000-07:00

It was four years ago this month that Tungsten came to live with me. She’s been my constant companion since then. We’ve seen each other every day and she’s slept at least a part of every night on my bed - summers tend to have her seek cooler resorts. How does one calculate the effect an animal under those conditions has on a person?

To be honest, it seems hard to believe that I ever lived without her. I know I did, but those days are farther away than four years. Imagine walking about the house, not worrying about where I stepped; fixing myself a sandwich without seeing an orange shape sitting, waiting for a piece of food; going to bed without feeling fur in my face or up my nose. I have a good imagination, but even it barely extends so far as to encompass such fantastic scenes.

Tungsten’s arrival was the first time that I had another living being depend on me full-time and regularly for its subsistence. Common decency demanded that I provide more than mere sustenance: comfort, even luxury, was intimated - at least by Tungsten. I was hoping for a little companion who, as the term suggests, would keep me company. What I ended up with is a friend.

It seems rather silly that an animal can be a human’s friend. But she fulfills all the qualifications. We talk to each other; it’s true that I can’t have very deep philosophical conversations with her, but how many times do human friends have them? She tells me her troubles and I tell her mine. In truth, Tungsten knows when I am feeling discouraged and reacts; she will purr and jump on my shoulders - where she feels most connected with me - and meow. When she is feeling frightened after a nightmare or anxious because she’s woken and seems to be alone, I let her know that she’s safe and secure.

Early on in our association, I began arranging my life to suit my cat. I didn’t move to a different province or get a new job, but I would worry about being home at a certain time, or not being home at all for an evening. When I returned from being out, Tungsten would meet me at the door, glad that I was home. It made me feel guilty for being away at all, but pleased that someone was there to miss me. Now, she’s more complacent.

She is not a cat to follow a person about all the time. I have Renn for that when I’m downstairs and Tucker when I’m upstairs. Tungsten knows I’m not going to leave permanently (at least not of my own volition) and is aware of my routine. When I leave for work, she is usually curled up for a snooze and often barely acknowledges my departure. Sometimes, she’ll deign to raise her head, though it’s usually because I am rubbing it, and that feels good. She has her worries, but my abandoning her is not one of them.

We are used to each other, we know each other. We know each other’s moods and schedules. I am aware that when she drinks water from the tap but doesn’t get off the bathroom counter, she’s not done. She will eat more soft-food the second time I put the bowl in front of her than the first, and more the fourth time than the third. She realizes that I will no longer get up at five o’clock in the morning to run water for her. (Yes, there are concessions I will not make for her, few though they may be.) Now, she waits until I get up, though there is also now a shallow bowl of water in the bathroom basin for her to drink out of - surreptitiously, for she doesn’t like me knowing she does that sort of thing.

I know her meows and cries, each one different, each one telling me something. She knows my tones of voice. She knows when she can keep asking and when the answer is definitely ‘no’.

I thought that I’d damaged her world when I first brought Josie to live with us. Those two fought and, though the orange one eventually came out as top-cat, I think my Chubs had the better of the combat. Tungsten had lived with other cats before and had been near the bottom of the hierarchy. She probably had bad memories, not of where she lived, but of the situation. But I’ve been lucky in that all the permanent cats in the house have deferred to her seniority. She may not like Tucker, for instance, but she tolerates his presence, because he knows she is in charge.

My world has changed fundamentally in the last four years, but so has Tungsten’s. We’ve gone from living solitary lives - mine alone in my apartment, hers among many strange cats - to having lives that depend on us, and on whom we depend. It’s rather a startling alteration, one of the biggest for either of us in our adulthoods. Who would have thought so much could come from such a tiny cat?

Let Us Speak of Scary Things

2011-08-02T06:28:00.000-07:00

Nature can be beautiful. Many humans fantasize about ‘going back to nature’ and living a simpler life close to the environment. But though most of these daydreams picture living in woods or on a mountain or by a lake, they usually include a warm and dry house of some sort; if food is taken from nature, then modern and manufactured tools are used to hunt, gather or grow it; illumination is supplied by generators or, more simply, lamps or candles which are nonetheless man-made. In other words, even if a person wants to go back to nature, he usually takes some items of civilization with him.

This is because along with being beautiful, nature can also be brutal, vicious and ruthless. Animals know this. The lives of those in the wilderness are spent either trying to find food or trying not to become food. Even when an abundant source of nutrition is found, it’s consumed while looking up every few seconds, wondering what that sound is, where that smell is coming from and what caused that movement in the bushes across the meadow. I’m surprised most animals don’t die of heart attacks or ulcers.

Cats strike me as leading lives punctuated by fear and worry. That’s not to say that my three cats (plus one) live in panic-rooms with doors barred, claws at the ready and a suitcase full of Fancy Feast ready for a fast escape. For the most part, they are relaxed and calm, snoozing or purring, gazing out the window at the scenery through half-closed eyes or playing with a toy with child-like enjoyment.

Yet each experiences a type of fear, or at least concern, even if it's not often.

Renn is perhaps the best example - though he is also an example of how a cat can grow to understand that he is safe. When he came to live with me, my big boy (he was a foster-cat then) was afraid of everything. A visitor would send him running under the bed. A loud noise from a car outside would have him hurtling to the top of the kitchen cabinets. And he was terrified of the roofers who were repairing the building across the walkway from my old apartment.

He began making progress even before we moved to the house, but since there, he has done very well. I’ve noticed that he is almost unaffected by noise now, being more interested than unnerved by it. When friends come by, he hurries to the bedroom when the door opens but emerges within a minute or two to enjoy attention, and even when strangers come by, he is out and investigating very soon after they depart.

Despite his increasing bravery, Renn still notices almost every sound (and in my house, there are many unexplained noises, all the time), changing his demeanour from relaxed to alert. This is fear, which can be combatted; my big boy is conquering his fears bit by bit and will live better for it.

Josie is a study in another kind of reaction. When engaged in even the most enjoyable activities, she will start, and look in the direction of a sound. With her nose in a pile of soft-food, she will stop and stare, alert, to see what she heard. She will quickly return to the matter at hand, but she is always ready to react. I have been petting her, stroking the back of her neck, which she loves, and, though she doesn’t stop purring, she will peer wide-eyed toward something that has caught her notice. I don’t know that my Chubs would do well trying to survive in the back alleys of the city or in the wilderness, but she probably wouldn’t be caught by surprise. This is wariness, rather than fear, and therefore is probably a part of her character that will never change.

Tucker, my roly poly foster-cat, is timidity itself. Any noise or sudden movement will send him scurrying away. He rarely hides, as Renn used to, but, if lying down, he will throw himself to his feet and stand ready to flee. His is a reaction that prepares him to run. Unlike Josie, Tucker won’t bother waiting to see what he’s running from. Renn’s fear was more conscious: he decided to run and hide; Tucker will take flight first and worry about whether he should have afterward. Once he understands that there is no danger, he returns, squeaking and trilling. I almost feel guilty, as if he’s thanking me for scaring away the peril, when in fact there was none.

Finally, Tungsten. My orange one’s position as top-cat in the household is based more on seniority and tenure than strength and domination - though her personality is nothing to trifle with. I’ve no idea what she had to endure before she was taken in by the Lethbridge PAW Society. She had been in good physical condition and though she seemed sad and lonely, she did not give the impression of being frightened. Yet she is the only one of my cats whom I’ve seen experience what I think are nightmares.

Tungsten was sleeping on my lap once and woke herself by crying out. Another time, she woke me at night by whimpering, then kicking with her rear legs. She was asleep, dreaming. Even her less violent dreams are anxious for her. She has woken at times and, not seeing me, called out. When I come to see what the fuss is about, she will flop down happily and purr. This is an occurrence which, thankfully, is less common than previous, and the nightmares are rare. But they happen.

She is not often frightened while awake. She rarely deigns to take notice of any event outside the house, watching through windows with condescension. The orange one knows her place is secure and that she needn’t fuss about noises, cats intruding on her lawn or visitors. Yet when she sleeps, something sometimes disturbs her, scares her. What is it? I’ll never know.

No pet-owner likes to see his animals experiencing fear or worry. Fortunately, its incidence is infrequent. When it’s a part of their characters, it’s simply a matter of showing them through routine action and words that they are safe and secure. My fear is that they won’t feel that way. But when all four are in their favourite spots, snoozing, resting or watching nothing in particular through sleepy eyes, I know that fright and worry are far away.

Thought for Food

2011-07-26T06:24:00.000-07:00

My cats’ diet is a continuing source of worry for me. Perhaps I should say that it’s a ‘continuous’ source, since I never stop thinking about it. Cats aren’t so fussy that they will starve themselves to death. Tungsten, for one, cares little for the rest of the world, so the idea of her conducting a hunger strike over social conditions is a fantasy.

I had to force-feed Tucker when he first came to live with me because he was too despondent to eat. Starvation was unlikely but if cats don’t eat for several days, their internal organs will suffer, perhaps irreparably. But honestly, I’m not concerned about my three (plus one) having problems like that. I worry that they are not getting the proper nutrients, I worry that they are not consuming enough water (cats never drink as much as they should) and I worry that they simply aren’t enjoying their food.

All the animals eat California Natural brand hard-food, chicken and brown rice formula. I don’t know whether they like it or eat it because there is no other hard-food offered. They seem to know that hard-food forms the bulk of their diet and the soft-food is given as a treat, since they feel they are able to be choosy about the latter.

I feed Fancy Feast as the soft-food in my house; I’d rather serve better quality brands but Fancy Feast is what most like most, if you know what I mean.

Tucker and Josie are easy to please, Josie more so. My Chubs likes almost anything that I give her in the way of cat food. There are a few varieties of extra-healthy tinned food for which she doesn’t care, but they are few and far between. Tucker comes a close second, though he doesn’t care much for fish flavours. He’ll eat them, but he prefers others. He is also picky about what, on a dish, he consumes. When I gave him a portion of Spot’s Stew brand food, I discovered afterward that he had eaten everything but two peas; they lie squashed and abandoned.

Tungsten eats very little even at the best of times. Putting the food-dish in front of her four or five times will get her to eat more than she would really like, but it’s never much, and I don’t want to force any cat to eat anything unless it’s a matter of survival. I can count on one hand the times that the orange one has eaten everything in her bowl.

Renn is my major worry. My big boy should have one of the strongest appetites, considering his size. He’s not fat, like Josie, or on his way to being fat, like Tucker, but he’s a long, lean creature as heavy as my Chubs. He eats from the hard-food bowl, which is always available, but he doesn’t resort to it often. It doesn’t seem necessary for him. Yet he’s not suffering from a loss of appetite, as he looks forward to a bowl of soft-food at dinner- and snack-times. And that’s when I feel bad.

Renn doesn’t seem to like much in the way of cat food. I’ve tried about twenty flavours of Fancy Feast, ten different varieties of Blue and associated brands, California Natural soft-food and others. There is nothing that he loves, or even is inordinately fond of. Some days he will barely sniff at his food before walking away. And he whines when I try to push food on him. It’s true that he seems to like the taste of fish (the opposite of Tucker’s views on the subject), but just the taste: he will lick a bowl-full of fish bits, but not eat any, leaving dried pieces that the other cats won’t finish up for him.

Fancy Feast chicken flavour pate (everything sounds tastier in French: “Pass the hen-paste” just doesn’t have that je ne sais quoi when rendered in English) is what he likes the most. I have been giving all the cats that, and Renn has eaten most of his portions when they comprise that flavour. I hope this isn’t a passing phase.

Though I would spend significant amounts of money if I could find something my big boy loved (something they all loved would be better) and was good for him, I can’t keep experimenting, watching him nibble a little then have to throw the balance out. The worst is when I bring him his soft-food bowl. He sits up with his eyes wide and his face expectant - usually to be disappointed. At least he hasn’t refused to eat some of the new flavour; he actually appears to enjoy it - so far.

I will give my animals human food once in a while as a treat, but their reactions to it are mixed. Tungsten and Tucker love chicken, whereas Josie (surprisingly) does not. There is actually something my big white won’t eat. Renn won’t touch human food, either. Tucker would live on our diet, if it were available. He likes even fruit, something I discovered when, in order to discourage him from leering at me while I ate, I offered him some. I assumed he would sniff, perhaps lick, then turn away. He not only licked it, but chewed it up and wanted more. I did not renew the offer, fearing the consequences on his insides. But I think the roly poly one would and could eat anything.

That fact in itself sometimes worries me. I worry when they don’t eat enough, when they eat too much, when they don’t like food, when they don’t eat in their usual manner. It makes me wonder why I have cats, the anxiety I experience. It’s enough to put me off my food.

Mercury Rising

2011-07-20T06:09:00.000-07:00

Southern Alberta is usually hot in the summer. It can be very hot. I prefer temperatures no warmer than 20 degrees Celsius, and it’s been in the high 20s and even into the 30s for a few days now. The spring was wet and cool, even chilly. Then, as has happened the last few years, we pass a point at which that weather vanishes and is replaced by heat and aridity.

Cats feel the heat, just as humans do. I am never sure, however, how much they feel it or how badly it affects them. After all, these are animals covered in fur - in many cases, a great deal of fur - and who nonetheless lie in the sun. Surely, the high temperatures are doing them no good, perhaps even harm.

Activity is reduced. Play is more desultory than dedicated, and the cats lie about more than usual, which is a great deal to begin with.

Fortunately, the basement of my house is permanently cooler than the ground floor. It can feel somewhat close and airless, but from the heat it is a refuge that I’ve used recently myself. Josie and Renn seemed to like the basement from the beginning. It’s where my Chubs usually heads when she wants to throw up. After all, it has carpeting. But since I’ve installed a couple of comfortable armchairs there, those two seem to curl up in them more frequently than anywhere else. That’s fine by me, especially if it keeps them cool. I have a large bowl of water in the downstairs washroom for their convenience. It’s Josie’s preferred source of water; Renn likes to stare at the contents.

I worry more about Tungsten and Tucker. They rarely go to the basement, though they have been there and know it’s cooler than the rest of the house. The orange one will come down when she’s missing me, and consent to lie on my lap, if I’m at the computer, which isn’t often. Tucker is an upstairs cat. Thus, the two of them probably feel the heat more than their housemates.

I can tell that Tungsten is warm when she would rather lie on the floor than on my lap. She also stretches her forelegs in front of her when she’s feeling the heat. She likes lying on top of the refrigerator these days, as she can, I think, feel any air moving in through the open window by the dining table.

Tucker likes being horizontal on the linoleum or hardwood. He will lie with his stubby front legs stretched before him, his head in between, as if he’s giving obeisance to some invisible cat deity. He also reclines on the window sill of the back parlour, though all the cats like lying on the sill of an open window.

Their behaviour at night, too, changes with the temperature. They no longer sleep on the bed with me, though Tungsten starts out there, and most of them wind up there on weekend mornings when I sleep late and the morning is the coolest part of the day. My orange one finds it all most suspicious as I can’t bear even the flimsiest sheet on such warm nights, and Tungsten thinks there is something amiss when a blanket is not covering me. She approaches the situation cautiously, and lies down in her usual spot warily. And I can’t have her rear paws in my hand, as I usually do at night, since she stretches her legs out to disperse the heat.

There is water by the food bowl upstairs and I leave a shallow bowl in the basin of the upstairs bathroom. I do that because Tungsten will go to that basin and wait for water to be run from the tap. She disdains sitting water - as long as I am present to run some for her - but I’ve seen her, when impatient, lick drops from the bottom of the basin. So I decided to put a larger amount there. For the first few days that this was done, I was certain she had been drinking from it, as she did not immediately go to the basin for me to run water for her upon my return from work every day. She has recommenced that, though I think she still sneaks water from the shallow bowl. However she gets the fluid, I’m happy, as long as she is drinking.

I’ll be happier when I again need a blanket or two at night.

Sadie

2011-07-10T14:02:00.000-07:00

Sadie died a few weeks ago.

Not many people knew Sadie. I was acquainted with her only by name and, in a manner of speaking, reputation. She was a black cat rescued in Taber, Alberta, by the PAW Society of Lethbridge, in the spring of 2010. She was living a precarious life in back yards and alleys, and bolting an occasional meal on the property of someone who left food out for a feral colony. Sadie was new to the colony and was trapped in order to be spayed. Once captured, it was clear that she was tame, and homeless. She was taken in to the PAW Society so a permanent home could be found for her.

At first, she was withdrawn and sad, but this seemed to have been caused by a severe infection in her mouth. Unfortunately, this necessitated the removal of her teeth. However, afterward, once she had recovered physically, she was a more out-going and active cat.

What sort of cat was Sadie? She was tentatively friendly, suggesting that she had had a home at some time in her past. Was she lost? Had she been looked for? Forgotten? Had she been abandoned? No one will ever know, just as no one will ever know about the majority of rescued cats. Sadie liked people but distrusted them initially, the result of months or more living alone and from day to day on what she could forage.

But now, slowly, she learned that she was safe, even if her current home was only temporary. She liked to sleep on the bed in her new place. Cats enjoy feeling close to the people who treat them well, and I think sleeping in the same spot and at the same time as a human friend gives them a sense of security and comfort. Sadie had no teeth remaining but eating was still a favourite pastime of hers. She was ready for a permanent home.

Sometimes things don’t work out as we would like. Sadie started eating less, which is usually a sign of something amiss. She lost weight. This was gradual, but the end came quickly. She died in the afternoon on her foster-guardian’s bed, with friends near by, and surrounded by familiar and comforting smells. Sadie’s guardian had looked forward to her learning how to play, how to enjoy the sunshine - how to be a cat again after her time surviving outside. The little daughter of the house thought of Sadie in the same way others might think of a baby, and still doesn’t understand that Sadie is gone.

No one knows what caused her death. No one knows her actual age. No one knows how she ended up alone amidst a group of feral cats. She was one of millions of homeless cats, one who was lucky enough to be taken in, but unlucky enough to have been homeless and unloved for too long. I wanted to write about Sadie because I think every life should be acknowledged, whether its affect on the world is good, bad or indifferent. Sadie’s influence on those around her was, I know, beneficial; everyone smiled when they met her. Would the world have been so greatly improved had she lived? Maybe not greatly, but it would have been better. It would have been better because everyone smiled when they met Sadie.

Noses

2011-06-30T06:25:00.000-07:00

Cats looks as different from each other as do people. It’s hard to believe sometimes. Two dogs can look so different from each other that one can barely credit that they belong to the same species. That probably has to do with the fact that dogs have been bred through the ages for certain purposes. Imagining the results of similar practical breeding in cats could boggle the mind. But cats are enjoyed principally for their company, though many do work hard on farms catching mice - but they don’t need special breeding to do that.

My cats look quite different from each other. I’m not writing simply about their colouring or size. I suppose Tungsten looks the most ‘ordinary’ of the three (plus one). Nothing about her face is flat, large, protruding, recessed or anything that would contribute to a ‘distinguishing’ mark. She does have a slightly damaged left eye (something to do with the pupil) which doesn’t cause her any problems. But I’m writing about shape and natural characteristics, not scars or injuries picked up along the way. (And, unfortunately, rescued cats usually have a few of those). Tungsten looks average; all of her uniqueness is found inside.

Josie has an ‘alien’ type of cat-face. Imagine falling unconscious and waking up, strapped to a table, with that expression looking down at you. It’s enough to see it looking up at me…

Her nose is quite different. It starts off at the bridge the same white colour as the rest of her face, then becomes pinker as it progresses. At the front, it becomes the colour of the old Eberhard Faber pencil erasers, and is outlined in black, something I’ve seen in a number of cats.

Renn is my big boy. His face is big, his features are big. He has a big nose. His brothers (of whom there were four, I think; Charlie is still available for adoption through the PAW web-site) all have similarly big features. It’s a family resemblance. Even his whiskers are big, and plentiful. He has an interesting tuft of grey hair behind each ear. These don’t count just as coloration differences, since the hair there is of a distinct texture from his black and white fur. From what I can see in pictures of Charlie, this may be a family trait, too.

My foster-cat, Tucker, is like a teddy bear or a furry baby, though he’s five years old. A round head, a flat face, big cheeks and no neck. And a tiny nose for his size. It’s a little curved thing that is perfectly pink at its flat end. It could definitely be described as ‘button’ - though he threatens to nip me if I try pushing it.

No matter what my cats look like, they are wonderful to see when I come through the door.

Back From Holidays

2011-06-27T10:11:00.000-07:00

We’re back. I haven’t published much in the last three weeks because I’ve been on holiday. That should mean that I had more time for writing articles, but it didn’t work out that way.

The cats are all doing nicely. Josie and Renn went for their yearly examinations and both were pronounced well. Josie is overweight. I knew that. I knew it last year when I was informed that she was overweight. But she was commended on her teeth. They were in excellent shape ‘for a cat her age’. She’s supposedly a senior. She’s seven years old. In human terms that would make her thirty-five, not even middle-aged, and if a cat lives to be about sixteen or eighteen years, then she hasn’t even passed the half-way mark in her life. Senior, indeed.

The white one continues to be friendlier and friendlier, wanting attention whenever I give it. She even visited me in the bathroom one evening; that’s a dubious improvement in her character, but even so, it’s something the other cats do, especially Renn, and something my Chubs has not done before.

Renn was very scared during the trip to the veterinary. He’s still quite nervous of unknown things. But with people he knows, he is bolder than he used to be, and eager to receive attention.

According to my own attempts at weighing the cats, all have lost weight - yes, even Josie, a little bit - except for Tucker. The roly poly one is getting both rolier and polier. He has started to imitate Renn’s method for starting play in the nylon tunnel, and thrusting himself into one of the holes in the top. Unfortunately, he can’t fit as well as Renn - and my big boy barely fits at all. Tucker has not played in the tunnel until recently, and I think it is an example of one cat learning from another. But he’s a fun, friendly fellow, though his squeaks and trills are the least cat-like sounds imaginable.

And Tungsten remains the same. She hasn’t grown to like Tucker any more, still tolerates Josie and is the barest of friends with Renn. She continues to be the top-cat of the household and Tucker seems not to try any longer to get close to her. (He appears to have shifted more emphasis to becoming friends/annoying Josie.) The orange one is active when she wants to be, rushing about the house by herself, jumping at the string toy when she feels like it and snoozing much of the time. She is not a cat who interests herself in the outside world too much. Her life is inside: food in the bowl, water from the tap, a lap to lie on and a cushion to sleep on. She’s happy.

We're Still Here

2011-06-22T20:23:00.000-07:00

We’re still here, though it’s been a while since I’ve published anything on behalf of the three cats (and one). The fact is that I’m on holiday, and have been as lazy as some of my furry friends here. I’ve tried to put up other videos, but they haven’t worked, so I’ll stick to still pictures. They were successful for sixty or seventy years before movies came along, so I figure I’m good for a bit yet.

I should mention that though I’m not qualified to give advice on anything - except maybe on how not to cut a cat’s claws when she doesn’t want you to - I received a comment recently from ‘Anonymous’ about a troublesome cat. The only thing I can suggest is to speak with the neighbour whose cat it is. I’m sure that’s been tried, but it’s the best start.

Moving Pictures: Tungsten

2011-06-15T23:08:00.000-07:00

Though there hasn’t been much to report about the three cats I have (plus a fourth), I thought I would try something new. This video briefly shows Tungsten playing. She plays when and how she wants, but when she does, she can put all her energy into it. I’ll publish other videos of the cats when I have them - and if this one works. Until then, enjoy this view of my senior cat - bear in mind that she’s eleven - having fun.

Rest for the Weary

2011-06-03T06:19:00.000-07:00

Cats sleep a great deal. It’s something that I’ve noticed over time, but only because I’ve been a particularly keen observer of the feline animal.

I envy cats their ability to sleep. More precisely, I envy cats their opportunities to sleep. I suppose one can sleep as much as the average house-cat if one doesn’t need a job, doesn’t have many hobbies and whose principal interest in life, aside from food, is sleeping.

Cats seem to be able to sleep, or at least rest, anywhere and at any time. They will sleep in the sun - in the middle of summer, with their bodies covered in fur and their temperatures higher than humans - or sleep in the shade. They can sleep on soft cushions or hardwood floors. They can sleep in the quiet of a country Sunday morning or the back of a car at rush-hour.

My cats enjoy resting. After waking from a long night’s sleep, there’s nothing they like more than recovering with a lengthy nap. Yet each has his or her unique way of lying, and preferred places for sleeping.

Tungsten is my only true lap-cat. She likes lying on my lap, and will let me know when she thinks it’s time for me to quit whatever silliness I am doing (if it doesn’t involve her, it’s silly) and sit, thus providing a lap upon which she may recline. At times, she will lie more or less straight, with her head upon my knee. At others, she will curl in a ball, periodically covering her eyes with her paws. She enjoys curling her little orange form around my hand, and dozing with my fingers on her side or stomach. It must make her feel secure; perhaps she likes the warmth of my hand.

When away from my lap, Tungsten likes the cushion of the dining chair nearer the wall. There is apparently a noticeable difference in comfort or texture between the chairs’ cushions, because she will choose one over the other. This is her favourite spot; she rarely resorts to the cat-trees, as does Josie, almost never snoozes on the floor, as will Tucker, and doesn’t care for drifting off beside me like Renn. There are other places in, on or at which she sleeps, but they are rarities.

Josie loves her cat-tree. The top platform is the best for her, and though she will lie on lower levels to peer out the window, only the highest is right for sleeping. These platforms are covered with carpet-like material, fibrous, made of plastic and no doubt highly toxic if ever set ablaze, but this does not worry my Chubs. She will flop down on the platform, sometimes resting her head on the parapet that runs around three sides of the highest level of the highest cat-tree, and drift off to dream of...whatever her unconscious conjures up.

But her places of relaxation are more varied than Tungsten’s. She will sometimes choose the other dining chair cushion - the one Tungsten does not prefer - on which to lie, though she rarely sleeps there. The duvet, when folded at the end of my bed, provides my Chubs with ease, and she may be found there frequently. But there has come into the house new furniture - armchairs downstairs in the library and a loveseat and ottoman in the back parlour - which she has decided are good enough for her. I was thinking of obtaining more cat-beds for the house, particularly downstairs, but since the armchairs’ arrival, the cats don’t seem to need anywhere else to curl up. And the back parlour is the sunniest room in the house; Josie, though not much of a sun-cat, has found sunshine more to her taste when it falls on the softness of padded upholstery.

Renn can sleep almost anywhere. His favourite place is near me, though I say so myself. When I sit on the couch to read or listen to music, he will usually jump down from the lower sitting room cat-tree, where he has been resting and keeping an eye on the neighbourhood, and come over to curl up in the corner of the couch half a foot from me. First he will raise his paw at me, letting me know he needs some attention, and then turn in circles. Sometimes, he will prefer to lie right against me, in which case he likes to have his chest rubbed ad infinitum, and will sometimes drift off like that. As with Tungsten, he enjoys the feel of my hand on his chest and will look up, wondering if there is a problem, when I try to take it away.

But Renn is flexible. He will lie on the bedroom cat-tree and watch the birds; he will rest on the duvet on the bed; he will snooze on the new ottoman in the back parlour; he will form himself into a ball on an armchair downstairs. My big boy is undemanding when it comes to his leisure.

Finally, we come to Tucker, who sometimes likes what appears to be the least comfortable situations. He’s still not accepted by the others, and so usually sits apart from them. When I’m on the couch, his place is on the arm to my left. Despite being of a completely different build than Renn, who can straddle the arm of the couch easily, the roly poly one manages to maintain a position despite seeming ready to slip off at any moment.

He also likes the armchair opposite, where he snoozes leaning against the little table next to it. Again, it seems rather an awkward position, but he likes it. Once, he managed to lie there next to Renn.

He too enjoys the firmness of the downstairs armchairs and I’ve seen him indulging in the relative expansiveness of the new loveseat in the parlour. Occasionally, he burrows under the covers of the bed.

But he is a cat who doesn’t appear to mind unusual positions or hard surfaces. Oftimes, he will simply spread himself on hardwood or linoleum, his legs stretched out behind him, his ‘bathing beauty pose’, ready for his photography shoot on a beach.

Each cat finds his or her own place for much needed relaxation. Each has his or her own tastes, preferences and sense of comfort. It’s not where or how one rests after all, but whether indeed one does rest. And a cat will always achieve that if given a chance.

Introducing Marilyn

2011-05-25T09:01:00.000-07:00

I would not normally use this space for ‘advertising’, as it were, but it’s in a good cause. All the cats I have came from the Lethbridge PAW Society, a cat rescue organisation here in Lethbridge, Alberta. They have a large number of cats available for adoption but their most pressing need right now is for foster-homes. All PAW cats are lodged temporarily in volunteers’ homes. That’s an advantage of the PAW Society: with cats living twenty-four hours a day with people, those volunteers can describe each of the cats to prospective adopters.

However, this little beauty needs a new home - even a temporary foster-home. This is Marilyn. She’s black and white, with short hair, and is the softest, quietest, most undemanding cat you’ll meet. That is the problem in her foster-home. The other cats are a bit too much for her. They aren’t bullies, and they don’t attack her, but she is cowed by them, and must keep to herself. That’s not good for any cat.

It’s certainly not Marilyn’s fault. Anyone with two or more cats will know just what I’m writing about: sometimes two animals just don’t get along. My Tungsten and Josie fought when they first met - no one’s fault? Well, maybe Tungsten’s in that case... Tungsten wouldn’t tolerate Josie for months. Marilyn is too shy to stick up for herself, and so can’t enjoy herself in what is otherwise an excellent environment.

So if anyone in the Lethbridge area is interested in fostering Marilyn - or better yet, adopting her - please contact the PAW Society at 403-328-6700. Visit PAW’s website at www.pawsociety.com to learn more about Marilyn, and all the other wonderful animals available for life-long companionship.

The Lure of the Scented Outdoors

2011-05-25T06:43:00.000-07:00

Spring is here. Though the weather varies daily from cloudy to sunny, wet to dry, chilly to warm, the grass is green, the trees have come out in leaf and birds are everywhere. In my house, which retains its original windows from the 1950s, that means it’s time for the storm windows to come off and the fitted screens to replace them.

This resulted in a revolution in my cats’ world. No longer were they confined to the open front door if they wanted to sniff the fresh air. No more were they condmned to being piled up like a feline high-rise on their cat-tree. And no further need I to drag that awkward, carpet-covered plaything half-way across the room whenever the animals wanted to view the great outdoors.

I have to lubricate the grooves up and down which the window frames theoretically slide, but for now, the sashes move up far enough to give the cats an enjoyment they’ve not had in the new house. Renn was the first to discover the open window. He often watches me when I am in the back garden, no doubt wondering what I am doing (eg. mowing the grass because it’s too long, then watering it to make it grow; that’s a good question, Renn: what am I doing?). The spare room is slowly being transformed into a ‘back parlour’, with a loveseat pushed up against the wall under the window. Its back is perfect for the cats to sit on and watch the outside.

Josie found the open window in the bedroom next. She was so delighted or perhaps just surprised by it that she let out a cry when I greeted her through it from the lawn. It wasn’t long before the other two found the new venue of metaphorical escape. The house may be bigger than our old apartment, but it’s still a rather restrictive world. Now, a wider existence, previously only observed through sealed glass has smells and sounds, as well as sights. The movies they viewed of birds flying and hopping are now talkies.

Because of the interaction and hierarchy in the household, some cats don’t like being up at the windows next to others, so at times there were line-ups. Tucker lie on the bed, forlornly waiting for a space; later, Josie objected to Renn being too near, so she complained and jumped down. It’s a good thing there are two sets of windows that will be open for them.

I worry they will see something that will make them try to get out through the window. The screens, because they are old - and original - are of the strong metal mesh, not the softer kind that became prevalent later on. That alone will deter an attempt to break out, I think, and the screens’ frames are securely in place. This past weekend was a practice run for the summer, though the real test will come, I’m sure, when the weather grows warmer, and the windows are open wider.

So far, the cats are behaving themselves. Tungsten is tiny enough to slip in between the screen and the pane of glass. She looks like a display at a museum. If there were more room, or if a larger cat were to do that, the whole frame of the screen may burst out, even locked in place by the storm window toggles. My fear is that Josie or Renn will see something that excites them and in an attempt to get closer, she or he will use her or his size to push the screen out. I suspect anything of the sort would be inadvertent - but nonetheless worrisome.

But I will watch and weigh the cats’ reactions. They never tried to get through the softer screens at the apartment, which is encouraging, though Tungsten once leaped past me through the open door of the balcony. It’s the only time I’ve ever dragged a cat by its tail. She left claw marks in the snow, but I wasn’t about to let go until I could grab her around her tiny body. I can only hope that a closed screen is a closed door to their conniving minds.

As a post script, I would like to thank all those who have been reading my articles here and have commented so nicely and welcomingly on them. I want to mention that there are a few blogs on which I cannot leave comments myself. Something about the delivery system of commenting doesn’t agree with my computer, and every time I try to leave a response, nothing is posted. It involves the same system in each case, and other methods used on other blogs are successful. So if you were kind enough to write to me, and I didn’t get back to thank you, that’s why.

Play-time!

2011-05-11T06:46:00.000-07:00

I may have written before about how my cats play, but it, like so much else about them, evolves, so I thought I’d put down how each likes to play now. That way I can compare it to later, when each has become jaded with his or her means of having fun, and moved on to new methods.

Most cats like to play. Even Tungsten enjoys a session now and then. She becomes a different cat when she plays. She’s like Jekyll and Hyde (though, in fact, I don’t think Stevenson’s characters actually played with fuzzy mice - though it’s been a while since I've read the book). Much of the time, I will drag a string toy past Tungsten and she will not react. Then a skinny little leg will shoot out, stopping the toy. She may jump on it, wrestle with it. Sometimes, she will leap into the air after it. Once she jumped what must have been two and a half feet, maybe three, straight up; another time she leaped and bounced off the couch to try to get the toy. Her favourite seems to be what is called a mouse but looks rather like a six inch fuzzy brown worm. I'm not sure if cats can see in colour, but they must be able to distinguish hues because once in a while, in her frenetic spasms, Tungsten will mistake a little furry brown mouse for the toy - never any other colour of plaything. Another time, she grabbed at her own dark orange tail, thinking it was her quarry. She prefers to play on the new sitting room rug or around the vertical scratching post in the bedroom, though sometimes she will race after the retreating string toy. (My orange one has only a single picture because it's so unpredictable as to when she will actually choose to play.)

Tucker used to leap and wrestle with string toys. Since his dental surgery and subsequent problem with licking his skin raw, he jumps much less. I’m sure his rear end, where he licked the fur off from under his tail, was sore and that prevented him from leaping. I’m also sure that it no longer bothers him, but he’s gotten out of the habit of jumping while playing. Now he likes to hurry behind a cat tree as soon as he hears the string toy being pulled out. He hides behind the central post while I gently whip the string around one side, then around the other. He’s never sure where it’s coming from. Now and then, he’ll run after the toy as I’m dragging it away, and sometimes roll over on his back and bat at it as it flicks and flies above him. When he plays by himself, he will frequently stamp repeatedly on a fuzzy mouse or ball with a hind foot, perhaps an instinct left over from nature: stamping on prey to kill it.

Renn’s routine once was to rush to the bed when it was play-time. He would lie on it and roll and flop in attempts to catch the string-toy. Now he prefers the nylon tunnel. He likes to lie inside and try to snag the toy as it pops past one of the holes. His method of entering the tunnel is interesting. Instead of slipping easily into one of the open ends, he shoves himself through one of the two holes in the top of the tunnel, though it is usually on its side at the time. He can barely fit through the hole, so as he struggles to get in, the tunnel twists and bends like a hospital straw. At last, he is inside. Then I usually see only a muscular foreleg or a snout as he tries to catch the toy. It’s behaviour such as this that demonstrates how higher animals understand the concept of games: in nature, cats and dogs would use every dirty trick they know in order to survive. Domesticated, they willingly handicap themselves in order to create a fun setting.

While my big boy provides the most amusing manner of play, it’s Josie who makes me smile the most. My Chubs will sometimes roll about on the floor, like Tucker, grabbing at the string toy as it floats and bobs about her. But more than that, she likes being on top of her beloved cat-tree, where she will lie down and wait for me to toss the businss-end of the string toy in her direction. She flings her front legs wide and opens her mouth; I know she’s trying to claw and bite the toy, but it looks very much as if she’s laughing and spreading her arms in merriment. And if I take too long with one of the other cats before coming back to her, I’ll hear about it. She’ll squeak and groan and, as a last resort, come down to see what’s taking me so long.

I wish I could give my cats more time at play, but to compensate for an ending that comes all too soon, I conclude play-time with some food. ‘Dinner’ or ‘snack’ signals the last of games for the moment. And when she hears one of those words, Josie comes down from her cat-tree even faster than if she’s looking for fun. Taking too long over preparing a meal gives her another reason to complain...

Happy Birthday to Tungsten

2011-04-27T06:36:00.000-07:00

Tungsten turns eleven the first week of May. At least, that’s her estimated age. She was a foundling, so there’s no way to determine with accuracy the number of years she’s seen. She may be twelve or ten or a limber fifteen, but probably eleven. Even her birth-date is obscure; I’ve arbitrarily chosen 2nd May.

I’ve told before the story of how Tungsten came to live with me. She was one of the cats available for adoption from the Lethbridge PAW Society (which still has many cats of different personalities available, in case a reader is interested). I met several other cats, but as soon as I met her, I decided the she was the best one for me. A week later, I’d decided that she was the only one for me.

She had come to the PAW Society the same way many cats have done, and how many come to animal rescue groups all over the world: she was abandoned. She was found in a carrying-kennel on the doorstep of the PAW Compassion Centre, a shelter for cats the Society operated a few years ago. Tungsten had no name then, and no information was given with her. She was alone in her carrier.

The people who found her considered that she was very sad and despondent. Since nothing was known of her, everything about her past is conjecture, but she must have had a good home. When she came to care about things again, she was very friendly, and takes liberties, such as climbing on my shoulders (her favourite place), which she wouldn’t do unless she had been accutsomed to taking them previously. She was a clean cat when found, with spotless paws, indicating that, at least in her recent past, she had been an indoor-only animal. It’s theorised that Tungsten was the pet of an elderly person who died (that would account for her being loved) and that the owner’s heirs took care of the now orphaned cat but didn’t give her any time or attention (that would account for her good physical condition but discouraged demeanour).

The picture below shows Tungsten as she was when she first entered the PAW Society’s care. To me, she looks sad and old. She looks younger now four years later than she does in the photograph taken just after her arrival at the Compassion Centre. I may be biased.

At least those who dropped her off had the sense to place her where she would be found and found by those who would take care of her. Tungsten’s fate could have been far worse. Many cats and dogs are simply left behind when people move, sometimes the animals are left tied up in yards, or dropped off on a country road. A little cat such as Tungsten, as strong as her spirit is, would not have survived in such a situation. There are no whole species who are ‘natural survivors’. Some animals survive, some don’t, and cats and dogs in the wild (whether a rural wilderness or an urban one) never die of old age or ‘natural causes’. A cat that can’t fend for itself in the wilds of the countryside or a town always dies a cruel death, sometimes brutally, usually terrified.

But Tungsten was fortunate. She was abandoned to the right people.

After a year in a foster-home, the orange one was found by me, and I adopted her. I knew little about cats then - and not much more now, it seems sometimes.

Tungsten is a neat little animal. She and I have developed our little routines. Once I get into bed at night, she always comes up to my face and sniffs it; I find it hard to believe that she isn’t sure it’s me. Once in a while, she jabs her wet nose against my cheek, or licks me; she does it on purpose. When another cat is lying near by, she will push herself as close as possible against my face. I have to adjust her so I can breath. She wakes me up in the middle of the night for a drink of water from the tap; I could ignore her, but I know she will lie by the basin in the bathroom for hours. Lying there. Waiting. Doing nothing but preying on my mind... She doesn’t do this on weekends.

She is jealous of her prerogatives as top-cat in the house. She likes my lap to be free of other cats, in case she wants to lie there at any time. Renn’s newly found desire to sit there while I’m on the computer confounds Tungsten, and she sulks if she comes in to the room and finds him there.

She will sit and wait while I cut up chicken or beef for sandwiches, not necessarily watching me, but creeping closer all the while. She likes her little bit of chicken once in a while.

Eleven years is supposed to be middle-aged in a cat; in human years, she’s older than I am now. I get the feeling that she was ‘born forty years old’, as someone says of James Stewart’s character in “It’s a Wonderful Life”. She has a dignity that she won’t often give up. But when she plays - and when she doesn’t it has to do with her mood, not her sprightliness - it’s with the frenetic energy of a sped-up silent film. She jumps and runs like an adolescent, but in bursts; if you aren’t looking at her, you’ll miss the moment. Then the stolid courtliness returns, and she will lick her paw with disdain for other cats who play the fool.

And when Tungsten wants attention, when it’s time for me to sit down so she can lie on my lap, this tiny cat, six and a half pounds and no more, will give out a meow that can hurt the ears. And she will keep doing it until I comply. Yet there is a moment beyond which she grows tired of waiting. If I am ready to relax with her after that, it’ll be too late. She’ll be done with me, and will go off and curl up by herself. But later, she may decide I deserve a second chance to coddle her. She’s so kind to me.

Tungsten has taught me about cats. I can tell what she is thinking most of the time, what she is feeling, by her expressions, her sounds, her posture. We’ve grown to know each other well since that August day in 2007 when she was brought to my home, and we learn more every day. It’s frequently from our friends that we learn the most.

Tungsten Versus Tucker

2011-04-25T06:26:00.000-07:00

Tungsten doesn’t like Tucker.

The roly-poly one has been with us for six months now. There is something about Tucker that rubs Tungsten the wrong way. I’ve been trying to recall how long it took for my top-cat to learn to tolerate Renn. I’m sure it was less than six months. Renn, by the way, will have lived with me a year next month. He and Tungsten are probably the closest of any combination of cats at my house. They have even groomed each other to a small extent.

But Tucker remains a thorn in the orange one’s side.

One of the problems, at least in this regard, is that Tucker is more playful than Renn, despite being older. Tucker will follow the other cats about, sometimes chasing them. This has led to exchanges of words with Josie, and even a few swats with Renn. Tungsten, who is not a ‘playing’ cat is the least receptive to such overtures, and treats them with hostility.

For the most part, their interaction is neutral: neither bothers the other. But sometimes, inevitably, Tucker will find himself too close to Tungsten’s for the latter’s comfort. This usually results in hisses or growls. Once in a while, the orange one will refrain from protest and allow Tucker to retreat quietly. Tucker will do so, as he knows a fight may ensue otherwise.

Tucker can be mischievous, though, and will pursue Tungsten, following her, despite warnings. I think the smaller cat is reluctant to submit their dispute to the arbitriment of the claw, as it were, as her size would tell against her in any battle lasting more than a few seconds. I think she is aware of this. That was the disadvantage under which she laboured with respect to Wixie, a former foster-cat at my apartment who, despite her otherwise wonderful character, was, I’m sure, determined to usurp Tungsten’s position as top-cat. In that case, Tungsten’s growls and hisses were not minded; Wixie continued to press her challenge, and Tungsten refrained from fighting. It was a relief for us when Wixie was adopted, especially as she is happy at her new home.

This is not to say that there haven’t been scraps between Tungsten and Tucker. They got into a screaming melee last week, though all that resulted was a great lot of tufts of hair flying about. And a few nights ago, Tucker jumped onto the bed, not knowing Tungsten was at his landing spot. Cats flew in every direction a second later, let me tell you.

But Tucker is, as I wrote, mischievous, not ambitious. When he deliberately causes a problem, it’s not meant maliciously. He wants to have fun, and wants to have that fun with others. He reminds me in a small way of a former foster-cat of mine, Devon. He was very rambunctious. (He continued that behaviour in his new home, though it gradually has lessened, and with the addition of a big brother for him to play with and idolise, he is much more manageable and less trouble to the other cats there.) Tucker is not nearly as rowdy as Devon, but the desire for fun and companionship is there. Renn is more of a fit for Tucker’s games, but the roly-poly one doesn’t see why everyone can’t join in.

The fault is certainly not all on Tucker’s side. Tungsten can be a grumpy old woman sometimes, and she is stubborn.

An example occurred last Saturday. I was having a bath and, as usual, Tungsten wandered in when she heard the bath-water running. She likes to lie on the bath-math while I’m in the tub. Tucker likes to sit in the room with us. This time, after a while, Tucker left and lie down outside the door, so that if Tungsten wished to leave, she had to pass the roly-poly pudding spread out on the threshold. Renn would have walked past; Josie would have hurried by. Not Tungsten. She growled. She whined. She looked out through the half-open doorway and hissed. She got up on the counter, next the basin, and peered through the doorway some more, perhaps hoping the different angle would change things. It hadn’t. She cast about the bathroom, looking at the ceiling, the wall, the window. I told her, yes, the window was a way out but she wasn’t going to use it. She sat and pouted. It wasn’t until I left the bathroom and Tucker moved that Tungsten felt she could leave, too. She would have stayed there all night if necessary. The irony is that it wouldn't have been necessary; Tungsten would have made it so.

But she lies next to Renn, and has washed him, briefly, and been washed by him, equally briefly. If that can happen, anything can. One day, I’ll come home and see Tungsten and Tucker snuggled against each. I’ll turn around, go out again and buy a ticket for the biggest lottery prize I can find.

Josie Alone

2011-04-19T06:23:00.000-07:00

I worry about Josie sometimes.

Tungsten is a lap-cat. The orange one is my original cat and the top-cat of the household. She knows she can get my attention whenever she likes. Renn is shy about many things, but not when he wants up on my lap, or a chest-rub. He comes up to me, arching his back, and holding out a paw. Tucker, too, is timid, but he knows I like him and will rub up against me twenty or thirty times a day and, if he feels very neglected, which means I haven’t petted him in the preceding nineteen and a half seconds, will lie on the floor and twist about, trilling.

Josie is different. She does ask for attention, waddling along until she abruptly tips onto her side, as if struck with a sudden heart attack. That means she wants some petting. She will also jump up on the table and lie across my papers. There is no mistaking the intent in that action.

But my Chubs usually doesn’t consent to sit still for long, even for a good feeling. She will sprawl for a minute or two, enjoy the stroking of her face, then sit up and walk away. Sometimes, she will repeat the procedure. I am never sure if I’m doing it right in her eyes, or if she feels uncomfortable in one place for too long. When she does lie still, it is usually on top of a cat-tree which is an inconvenient spot at which to pet her.

Perhaps she feels safer on top of the cat-trees. She doesn’t care for other cats getting physically close to her, though it’s less of a problem at night; it’s been suggested to me that a bed is a kind of ‘neutral zone’ for cats. Rarely, she will tolerate another snoozing cat near by. However that may be, while I am petting her, she is often watching out for movement and noise, maybe too preoccupied to enjoy herself.

She also likes the tunnel. She used to lie in it when we lived in the apartment, but it was on carpet then. Now that it is on a hardwood floor, she still lies in it, even sleeping. Cats love enclosed spaces, and a tunnel is as enclosed as it gets; it even conforms to her curves. And, once in a while, if a drawer is open and Tungsten isn’t already there, Josie will jump in.

In any case, I think Josie gets ignored compared to the other cats. She will let me know that she is present, and that she likes me, but otherwise, she is unobtrusive. When the other three are on the couch with me, Tungsten on my lap, Renn on my right side and Tucker on the arm of the couch to my left, Josie is snoozing at the top of a cat-tree. When she meanders past from having a drink or nibbling a snack, I will call to her, try to get her to come over, but she passes by, thinking her own thoughts, and climbs up the inevitable cat-tree to peer out the window. She’s a loner, as I’ve mentioned before.

I can’t help thinking that she’s not getting her share of attention. Yet I suppose she asks for it when she wants it. Tucker needs constant reminding that he’s safe and liked, Tungsten will enjoy a head-rub at any time, but Josie is her own cat. She’ll consent to a petting when you want to give her one, but only so much and no more. When she is watching me stroke Renn’s head, she probably isn’t envious, probably isn’t wondering why him and not her. She has her beloved top platform on her cat-tree, her view out the window, her food for snacking, and a human to rub her fuzzy face when she wants him to.

And, once in a while, she lets me know I’m doing the right thing. Saturday mornings, I wake up late - never as late as I’d like these days - and all four cats are in their places on the bed. Last Saturday, I petted Josie for what must have been a quarter-hour; she rarely sits still for that long. She purred her two-tone purr and then she licked my face. I can count on two fingers the times she’s done that; she’s not a face-cat. But that morning she was, for a couple of seconds.

I worry about Josie, but maybe she’s happy anyway.

My Big Boy

2011-04-08T06:31:00.000-07:00

Right now, of all my cats, the one who has changed the most is Renn. Aside from the fact that his name used to be spelled with only one ‘n’ (I’ve no idea why I changed that), he has become friendlier, more confident and has shown his personality more than ever before.

He’s my big boy, Renfrew Foster, as he once was; I adopted him some time ago. He provides me with a smile every time I see him. He tried something different last week. Tungsten was sitting on the floor at the end of the bed. Renn was on the floor beside the bed, around the corner as it were from the orange one, and obscured by the long skirt of the bedspread. Peeking under it, the big boy saw Tungsten, and decided to sneak up on her. As far as I know, he’s never attempted this; it was a new game for him. He crawled beneath the box-spring, just hidden by the bedspread which brushed the floor at the bed’s foot. Unfortunately, perhaps because stalking another cat was a novelty to Renn, his large form was easily traced as it bulged the bedspread out. This big, long lump crept slowly up on Tungsten, who was watching Renn’s progress with the most bored expression. At one point, Renn’s long fur even stuck out into view. Eventually, he stopped, inches from the orange one but on the other side of the bedspread. He didn’t move. He didn’t know what to do next. This torpor continued for a couple of minutes until Tungsten grew tired of it and left. Renn crawled out, a little abashed, half a minute later, perhaps regretting his missed chance. There will be others.

As I think I’ve mentioned, Renn is developing into a lap-cat. He doesn’t have the nerve to jump onto my lap, but I can tell when he wants up. His back arches for attention and his body seems to wag, almost as much as a dog wags his tail. I will hoist him up, after which he will purr in his rough way as I stroke and pet him. Then he will grow quiet and just lie on me for twenty or thirty minutes. This leads to some chagrin on Tungsten’s part, as the orange one sees my lap as her prerogative. One evening, after Renn jumped down, he landed near Tungsten, who had been waiting, a little impatiently, for a vacancy. Usually, Tungsten and Renn get along well. This time, the tiny terror, annoyed at her big roommate, started slapping him, driving him into a corner. Renn blinked and cowered under the onslaught, but didn’t fight back; he knows who the top-cat is. He had no recourse but to back away, literally.

Renn is not a fighter, though he will reach a breaking point. I can tell he becomes annoyed when I must cut his claws. He dislikes the operation, and I must talk to him and calm him when he groans and whines. Tucker is his superior in the hierarchy of cats at my house, and will boss him around sometimes. Once, evidently, was too much, as the pair got into a real whirling, smacking, wrestling match. It lasted only a few seconds, as they broke apart when I yelled at them, but there were tufts of hair all over the floor. They were Renn’s; I think the roly-poly one had the better of him. Renn’s not a fighter.

He is timid, and hides when visitors come, or when he hears someone just outside the house. But he’s getting better, hiding less and coming out sooner, even when there are strangers about. After meeting these strangers, he probably wonders what he was so apprehensive about.

My big boy enjoys playing. He likes a string toy or a stick, something he can grab. Often, when the string toy is flying about, he will, too. He will leap into the air, a foot, even two, off the floor, in order to catch the object. He comes down rather heavily - cats need a certain distance in which to twist in order to land on their feet, I’ve learned - so I usually entice him to jump only when we play the game on the bed (with a more claw-resistent duvet covering the fragile bedspread). He will also chase and be chased by Tucker and, to a lesser extent, Josie. Sometimes, he will play by himself, knocking about a ball or a fuzzy mouse; he will run about, just for fun. A few days ago, he raced about the house and stopped only when he collided with the water-bowl and sent its contents splashing.

Ah, water. The abiding mystery in Renn’s life. He will watch its flow, its ebb, its stillness; the way it ripples, the way it drops. There is something endlessly fascinating about water for my big boy. He will stare at the bowl from which the cats drink. He will climb up onto the counter next the basin in the bathroom and stare at a tap that hasn’t even dripped, because he knows it may. He will tap water’s surface, to test its texture. Falling water has the allure of a living animal for Renn: his ears turn straight ahead, his eyes grow large, his movements become jerky and attentive. What is this attraction? He drinks water, so he knows what it is, yet its qualities are to him what the stars were to a Renaissance astronomer. Renn, my scientist.

And now, with the coming of spring, a new excitement is arriving. Birds were rarely seen near the apartment where we previously lived. All that could be viewed from it was concrete and brick, stone and asphalt. There were trees by the building, but birds didn’t seem to frequent them, nor were they attracted by a feeder with seed that I had hung up in an attempt to provide a show for the cats. But the back lawn of the house has trees and bushes, grass and power-lines, and still more trees and cables are beyond it; birds congregate and fly within eyesight. Renn has observed them. He’s watched people and dogs out the front windows of the house, and still more birds. Further mysteries to ponder.

Renn is a cat of many parts. He is gentle and shy, but can be roused to anger by prolonged annoyance. He learns and adapts to challenges, but can continue to be perplexed by the simplest of riddles. He is large but eats sparingly. He is active but enjoys most a quiet evening of chest-rubbing or even silence and stillness. He’s my big boy.

Everyone Loves a Fireplace

2011-04-07T06:30:00.000-07:00

Tucker causes me more problems than all the other cats put together.

That statement should be placed into the proper perspective, however, as none of the cats living with me are a great deal of trouble. I am most fortunate in that respect. But of them all, Tucker is the trouble-maker.

He doesn’t do it consciously. He’s not mischievous. For instance, he has a sensitive stomach, something he shares with Josie. (The sensitivity, not the stomach; they each have one.) Those two account for 95 per cent of the throwing up that goes on in the house. Tungsten has produced two hairballs over the last year or two, while Renn, who, with his long, abundant fur, should logically cough up plenty, has never thrown up during his time with me.

But of course, though troublesome, vomiting is hardly something a cat can control. I’m sure they would if they could. It can’t be any more pleasant to do it than it is to clean it up. Most of the headaches Tucker causes can’t seem like mischief to the roly-poly one. He likes to play with the other cats, to chase them, and, to be fair to Tucker, they like it, too - except for Tungsten - and, after seeing Tucker pursue Josie through the library downstairs, I will see the roles reversed half a minute later. Renn and Tucker chase each other all over the house. But Tucker usually wants to play more than the others, and for longer. When they’ve stopped, he keeps pressing them, and that results in growls and hisses. He will also try to involve Tungsten in play. The orange one used to chase Josie, which she doesn’t anymore - too much competition, I imagine, which is one of the very few things I regret about having the number of cats I do - and doesn’t care for the foster-cat following her. This too will result in growls and hisses.

Tucker will boss Renn about - though my big boy is larger - and they have had at least one fur-flying scrap that I know about. Most of the time they are friendly acquintances, though not quite friends.

And then there is Tucker’s explorations. This curiosity has landed him in the worst trouble since coming to stay with me - or, rather, the most trouble - for me. A few days ago, late at night, I had finished what needed to be done for the day, showered, and was tired. I came upstairs to get ready for bed and saw Renn lying in front of the fireplace, looking up into the chimney. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had a fire in there, and I had cleaned it out. I thought perhaps a mouse had found its way up the flue, or perhaps a family of birds had built its nest there. Then I saw Tucker - in the fireplace. He had forced his way between the metal screens that are always closed in front of the fireplace and was actually sitting on the grate.

As you may guess, a wood-burning fireplace is clean only once in its existence, and that’s before it is intially used. As soon as I saw Tucker, I knew that he was going to be filthy. I walked toward him, trying not to scare him into bolting. Renn moved quickly out of the way. I think he had been lying in front of the hearth telling the roly-poly one how much trouble he was going to be in for sitting where he was. And he was in trouble, and knew it. He tried to run for it, but I caught him on the tiled hearth and took him directly to the bath-tub.

What to do then... How does one clean wood-soot off a cat’s fur? Any rubbing would just grind it into the strands. I called one of the ladies of the PAW Society - who was forgiving that I telephoned her at that time of the evening - and she suggested dish-soap. I tried that and it worked. It was certainly not like a cleaning product’s commercial, in which a simple drop applied and then wiped with a cloth will make everything sparkle. It was nearly an hour and a half before Tucker acceptably clean. During that time, he kept trying to jump out of the tub, naturally, frightened of the running water and vastly uncomfortable at being soaked and soaped. He kept squeaking and squealing like a piglet. I did learn that he isn’t as wide as he appears: much of his girth is fur. His eyes, however, can become enormous.

Eventually, I finished and rubbed him down with a towel - which he didn’t mind - and put him in the spare room for the night, with food, water, a litter-box and cushions to sleep on. He was damp and I’m sure I missed a great deal of soot; he is, after all, as black as he is white, and it’s hard to make certain black fur has been cleaned.

I still had a tub and bath-room to deal with, but that would wait for the next day. I checked the internet for information about washing a sooty cat and found that it recommended exactly what was suggested to me. It stated that bathing a cat is a two-person job. Not at eleven o’clock at night, it isn’t, in a one-man household. True, I had to hold Tucker in the tub while aiming the shower hose or soaping him down with the other, but he was remarkably easy to handle, relatively speaking. He could have made the ordeal hellish with claws and teeth everywhere, but Tucker is not like that. He’s a gentle fellow who will nibble if you rub his chest (quite different than Renn) but won’t purposely hurt anyone. Even his exile in the spare room for the night was taken quietly; he did cry from time to time, but he evidently settled down for a night of grooming.

The next day, he looked fine, though he was covered with loose, fine hair - the result of a night of self-cleaning, no doubt. His face still looked like Dick Van Dyck’s from “Mary Poppins”, but I had been afraid to get soap too close to his eyes. He’d have to take care of that part.

The bath-tub was difficult to wipe even with bleach, but Mr Clean’s Magic Eraser, which I’ve used to rid my walls of marks, is an excellent household tool, and did the job - though even with that, tough scrubbing was necessary. And the whole house was filled with Tucker’s loose ends: tufts of fur floating about from his grooming.

Tucker’s true character showed itself after he was released from his incarceration. Despite all the bother to which he had been subjected - manhandled, soaked with water, lathered with soap, washed off, locked in a nearly bare room for a night - the first thing he did after his release was bump his fuzzy head against me, repeatedly showing that he liked me and wondering if I still liked him. His purring is as ready as ever; it’s almost instantaneous.

I wish the episode hadn’t happened, but if it had to, then Tucker was the right cat to be involved. A little roly-poly gentleman, he is always sorry for what he’s done - and doubtless ready to cause more. But not on purpose, of course.

The New Rug

2011-04-06T06:19:00.000-07:00

Whenever anything changes in the house, it’s interesting to note the cats’ reactions. For the most part, they have been favourable. I try, after all, to limit changes to good things - and not just for the sake of my pets.

I received a rug as a gift. It’s not new but it is in good condition, and the cats are enjoying it. When I rolled it out in the sitting room, the cats came over to see what this new object was and, of course, to smell what may have been smelled.

Renn thought it was acceptable abut otherwise ignored it except for a few stretches on it. Tucker was initially afraid of it and scurried away for shelter, but quickly came out to sniff at it. He decided he liked it and has been lying on it often. He still hastens away when I pull up a corner to sweep around it; he may think that it’s a big, flat creature which, as long as it’s asleep, is harmless.

Josie was downstairs when the rug was laid out and came over when she saw it as if wondering how I could have introduced something new into the house without her first inspecting it. She seemed to like it, though, as she has used it frequently for stretching. Someone has already thrown up on it - either my Chubs or Tucker (both have sensitive stomachs) - dry food, thank goodness - so I guess that the rug is now officially part of the decor.

Tungsten’s reaction was unusual. The orange one does not play much. She normally watches with detached disdain while the other three frolic and roll and chase. But she does like one of the toys that the cats received at Christmas, a string toy that she enjoys grabbing and biting as it wriggles past her. But even in this, she is unique: she will play frantically for several seconds, perhaps even as long as half a minute. She throws herself about like a victim of strychnine poisoning, then abruptly stops and will not be tempted again by the toy for some time, sitting demurely, ignoring all blandishments, as if taken aback at her unseemly earlier behaviour.

The new rug, however, has made her play more often. She will reach out and grab a passing furry creature on a string - it’s funny when she mistakes her own similarly coloured tail for the toy; she will roll about with it in her paws, or trap it under her skinny arms. She’ll leap into the air after it and bite it ferociously. Perhaps it’s the texture of the rug's material; certainly, she plays a bit more frequently when sitting on the mat just inside the front door than she does on uncovered hardwood. In any case, it’s good to see. I sometimes think that she feels left out as she sits and watches the others, like a man who ponders the absurdity of his fellows’ actions - until invited to join.

The simplest thing can change a cat’s life, though I don't suppose that aspect is much different than a human's life.

Cats in Spring

2011-03-21T11:43:00.000-07:00

Spring is here - at least chronologically - and the weather has been, intermittently, quite vernal. Saturday morning was very nice, so I opened the front door to the screen and let the cats sniff the smells of the season. No one minded being next to someone else with such distractions, not even Josie, though Tungsten, who was most ardent about being able to sniff, walked away all three times I brought the camera out to take her picture. Poor Tucker: the first thing I grabbed to give the cats more height was a cat-carrier. My roly-poly foster-cat hastened to hide beneath the bed as soon as he saw it. I’ll use a chair the next time.

Tucker did do something new on his own this past weekend. I had the duvet on my bed pulled up to the pillows. All the cats love lying on the bed, but the boys more than the girls. I couldn’t find Tucker at one point, but noticed a longish lump on the bed.

I lifted the covers and, sure enough, there he was, quite content underneath - at least until I disturbed him. He disappeared under there again later in the day, just to prove to me that it wasn’t entirely the novelty of it the first time. I suppose this is the natural conclusion of a cat’s love of enclosed spaces.

Renn continues to evolve into a lap-cat. When I am on the computer, the big boy waggles back and forth, his back arched, wanting to get up but not yet ready to make the jump. So I haul him up. A few days ago, after lying, relaxed, for about half an hour, Renn sat up and glanced at the computer screened. He became transfixed by something he saw there. It wasn’t until I noticed his head moving back and forth that I realised he was watching the words I typed. As they moved across the screen from left to right, his head moved and, when the words started a new line, his head snapped back to the left, like a typewriter carriage. Dark images on a light background may have been little living creatures to him. He has also started imitating Josie, and getting up onto the mantelpiece in the sitting room, though he never seems as comfortable there as my Chubs.

Tungsten likes playing with one of the new string toys the cats were given over Christmas, but she prefers to ambush it. She will sometimes hide under the bed when I bring the toy out; unlike Tucker and the cat-carrier, it’s not fear that prompts her, but anticipation. She will wait under the bed until I flick the toy beneath the box-spring. Then, she’ll attack. Her enthusiasm at this point may carry her out from under the bed to grapple with her prey.

Every day, it seems, these cats find new ways of entertaining themselves and me. Sometimes, it is a new game, or a new attitude to each other. Other times, it’s simply a new desire for my company, rolling over to let me rub a fuzzy tummy.

More Changes of Habit

2011-03-10T06:28:00.000-08:00

The interests that cats have change from time to time; their interests evolve. It’s the same with dogs, and any other of the more advanced animals. It’s usually in the little things, though sometimes diet may be affected, as a cat decides it no longer likes a certain food or, as a human might say, he gets tired of the same old thing.

For instance, when we lived in the apartment, Tungsten used to enjoy lying on the armchair. That was one of her favourite spots. Now, she almost never resorts to it, perhaps because Renn or, less frequently, Tucker, occupies the spot. The orange one’s favourite place to snooze now is one of the dining chairs, the seats of which are softened with thick cushions. I often see her lying there - and just as often not, as her orange colour blends with the shadows especially in the evenings.

Renn has also found a new place to sit: on me. He is not a lap cat. I think his size originally mitigated against it, but it may simply have been that in his previous homes, it was discouraged, perhaps, again, because he is a hefty fellow. One evening, while I was working on the computer, he came to see me, as he usually does when I’m downstairs. He was moving around my legs, his back arched, asking for attention. Since he didn’t want to jump up on my lap - in retrospect, that was probably a good thing for me - I hoisted him up. He wasn’t too sure that was a wise decision; he can’t balance on the same area as Tungsten can - though he has fit into small areas before.

I started stroking the top of his head. After a minute, he stopped trying to get off my lap. After a second minute, he lie down, a little precariously, but eventually with some comfort. There he stayed for the next half hour, purring the whole time. Now, whenever he sees me at the computer, he wants up. I can’t do it every time, because though I can find items on the internet or read a letter like that, typing or anything that requires concentration - or two hands - requires my lap to be Rennless. But I attempt to give him some time each day. He seems to like it as much as an hour-long chest-rub.

Tucker has an interesting game. I’m not sure how long he’s been playing it. He scoops a kernel of hard food out of the bowl and hunts it. He will use his paw to toss a kernel onto the floor, which was mostly carpetted in the apartment, so he probably didn’t play this game there. He will then knock the piece of food about and chase it. He will run after it; he will creep up on it, stalking it; he will stand still, then pounce on it. It’s fascinating to watch, and demonstrates that some animals (the higher orders) have imagination. (I discovered this one day years ago when I watched Tungsten get off the bed by leaping into the air with all four feet poised as if she were jumping on prey. She landed normally enough, however, and simply walked away.) Tucker’s new game is, I think, an improvement over chasing a fuzzy mouse or a ball, since he gets to eat his toy at the end of it. (Though not always completely; I wondered why bits of hard food could be found so far from the food bowl - usually discovered when I crushed them unseen underfoot.)

Josie’s new thing isn’t something habitual - at least not yet, though I hope it will be. My Chubs used to be quite a reticent cat. She didn’t show her happiness a great deal; there were days when I worried whether she was indeed happy. But now she seeks me out more, purrs more. These instances I've mentioned previously. On Sunday, I woke up with, as usual, four cats on the bed with me, each in its special place. Josie’s is between me and the edge, with her big bum against me and her head pointing away. I started talking to her and she began purring, without me petting or stroking her. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her contented enough to do that.

I’ve already mentioned Tungsten, but I will mention the fact that she fell the other day, trying to jump from the dining table to the top of the micro-wave oven. It’s a distance she’s covered easily many times before - and since - but in this case, she didn’t make it. She fell onto her side. She wasn’t permanently or even badly hurt, but I think it must have smarted. I don’t know whether it was just a case of misjudgement or if it’s because she’s getting old (she’ll be eleven in a couple of months). Whatever the cause, it startled me - and probably her, as well. Cats change their behaviour and interests; I can live with that. But I don’t like them getting old.