birds and the cat sing
"Reveille" before it's light
they know it's morning
occasionally
cats do Teddy Bear Duty
when they see the need
from Haiku at 3 a. m.
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Friday, April 24, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Cats II--Rufus
Bella, Besame, and Zoe aren't the only cats we've had in our lives. For me, the most memorable was Rufus.
Rufus was a chartreuse, one of the oldest breeds in the world. He looked like a Russian Blue, with the same short, rumpled-looking gray coat, but, instead of being long and lean, he looked like a full potato sack on old man legs. He wasn't a "show" cat--his eyes weren't the proper gold/copper color, but the light green of the liqueur that was first made in the French Monastery of Chartreuse. Whoever had owned him previously had neutered him to make certain the "faulty" genes weren't passed on to the next generation.
Rufus appeared at our back door one day and immediately made himself at home. My then- husband said, "we have enough cats in this house" (we had two), took him off to the new housing development a couple of miles away and left him there, telling everyone that "He'll find a good home on his own. He found us, didn't he?"
Are you familiar with the children's song, "The Cat Came Back"? In each verse, a cranky old man tries to get rid of a cat by various ingenious means while the chorus counterpoints with "The cat came back the very next day." So did Rufus, once again walking in the back door as though he owned the place, talking all the while. I could almost hear him saying, "That was an interesting car ride, but I wouldn't want to take another one, thanks. And by the way, I'm starved. When's dinner?"
Well, "Any cat who can find his way back here deserves to stay," and stay he did.
Rufus is the only cat I've ever known who hugged you. Seriously. When someone picked him up, he'd reach as far as he could around that person's neck and purr like a motorcycle climbing a steep hill. Anyone could pick him up, even if he was in the middle of a meal or a nap. With a houseful of teenagers, our own and assorted "strays" (neighborhood kids, foster kids, the foster kids' siblings, etc.) he was the favorite.
He loved humans, but no other life form. Within a week, he was "top cat" and brooked no opposition from anything with more than two legs. He was a great hunter and I was often given "presents" of mice, birds and garter snakes. (Don't ask why I was so favored, I haven't the slightest idea.)
He lived with us for two years, but disappeared the week before we were to move away, as suddenly as he'd appeared. It was January, bitterly cold with an unusual fall of snow. The neighbors' dogs had formed a loose hunting pack and we think he ran afoul of them, or possibly a hungry raccoon. We never even found a tuft of gray fur on the snow or under the trees to tell us what happened.
Rufus was a chartreuse, one of the oldest breeds in the world. He looked like a Russian Blue, with the same short, rumpled-looking gray coat, but, instead of being long and lean, he looked like a full potato sack on old man legs. He wasn't a "show" cat--his eyes weren't the proper gold/copper color, but the light green of the liqueur that was first made in the French Monastery of Chartreuse. Whoever had owned him previously had neutered him to make certain the "faulty" genes weren't passed on to the next generation.
Rufus appeared at our back door one day and immediately made himself at home. My then- husband said, "we have enough cats in this house" (we had two), took him off to the new housing development a couple of miles away and left him there, telling everyone that "He'll find a good home on his own. He found us, didn't he?"
Are you familiar with the children's song, "The Cat Came Back"? In each verse, a cranky old man tries to get rid of a cat by various ingenious means while the chorus counterpoints with "The cat came back the very next day." So did Rufus, once again walking in the back door as though he owned the place, talking all the while. I could almost hear him saying, "That was an interesting car ride, but I wouldn't want to take another one, thanks. And by the way, I'm starved. When's dinner?"
Well, "Any cat who can find his way back here deserves to stay," and stay he did.
Rufus is the only cat I've ever known who hugged you. Seriously. When someone picked him up, he'd reach as far as he could around that person's neck and purr like a motorcycle climbing a steep hill. Anyone could pick him up, even if he was in the middle of a meal or a nap. With a houseful of teenagers, our own and assorted "strays" (neighborhood kids, foster kids, the foster kids' siblings, etc.) he was the favorite.
He loved humans, but no other life form. Within a week, he was "top cat" and brooked no opposition from anything with more than two legs. He was a great hunter and I was often given "presents" of mice, birds and garter snakes. (Don't ask why I was so favored, I haven't the slightest idea.)
He lived with us for two years, but disappeared the week before we were to move away, as suddenly as he'd appeared. It was January, bitterly cold with an unusual fall of snow. The neighbors' dogs had formed a loose hunting pack and we think he ran afoul of them, or possibly a hungry raccoon. We never even found a tuft of gray fur on the snow or under the trees to tell us what happened.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Cats I continued, Besame and Bella
After Amore died, it was clear to all the humans that Besame thought she'd be the "top cat"; she was the senior cat, not just in years, but she'd been "in residence" longer than the other two. But she'd been "beta" for so long, she had no idea how to be an "alpha."
She keeps trying, growling at the other two whenever they come near her, occasionally escalating to screaming and scratching when Bella got too close. Zoe simply ignores her--as I said, she's a one person cat and, as long as that person is within sight/sound/scent, the rest of the world can go hang itself.
But not Bella. Though she's about two thirds Besame's size, Bella is a reformed street cat and, if another cat is going to show signs of aggression, that cat had better be ready to stand behind the threat. Bella may lose the battle, but she won't back down or back off unless she's physically removed from the scene by someone bigger (me, usually).
It does not make for a peaceful household.
She keeps trying, growling at the other two whenever they come near her, occasionally escalating to screaming and scratching when Bella got too close. Zoe simply ignores her--as I said, she's a one person cat and, as long as that person is within sight/sound/scent, the rest of the world can go hang itself.
But not Bella. Though she's about two thirds Besame's size, Bella is a reformed street cat and, if another cat is going to show signs of aggression, that cat had better be ready to stand behind the threat. Bella may lose the battle, but she won't back down or back off unless she's physically removed from the scene by someone bigger (me, usually).
It does not make for a peaceful household.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Cats I, Besame and Amore
The "B" girls are Besame and Bella. Besame is older by a couple of years, so I'll let seniority rule.
M. J.--my other sister--was given Besame and her sister, Amore, as peace offerings from her former husband. "The girls" were calicoes with nearly identical markings, though very different in size and build: Amore was tiny, even by cat standards, while Besame is long and "rangy." Unless they were side by side, the only way to figure out which was which was which was that Amore had a black patch over her left eye and Besame over her right.
And, yes, their names are Italian: "Ah MORE ay" and "BEH some ay"--"Love" and "Kisses." Dad thought "Smith" and "Wesson" were more suitable, certainly for Amore; she was the "alpha" in more than just her name. Besame hid from friends and strangers alike; Amore greeted people at the door, demanding pets which were answered with bone-rattling purrs. If, as kittens, they got into mischief, Amore was the instigator. Amore leapt or climbed on everything; Besame preferred to keep all four feet on the ground. When they arrived at Mother's, Amore joined everyone the breakfast table (not ON the table--all cats in this house know that's a "no fly zone"--but in an empty chair) to chat about the news of the day.
Soon after "the girls" arrived here, the vet discovered a cancerous tumor inside Amore's sinuses. The cancer was extremely aggressive and the vet said, "If she were mine, I wouldn't subject her to any invasive surgery. Make her comfortable and she'll tell you when she's had enough." Amore spent the next three months curled up next to Mother, rarely moving except to use the litter box or to find a warmer spot in the sun. We even fed her on a pillow on the bed as leaning over her dish became more difficult. When she stopped eating and drinking, we knew it was time to let her go, and we did so. When the vet gave her the injection, she put her head down, gave a little sigh and just went to sleep.
We should all have so peaceful an end.
M. J.--my other sister--was given Besame and her sister, Amore, as peace offerings from her former husband. "The girls" were calicoes with nearly identical markings, though very different in size and build: Amore was tiny, even by cat standards, while Besame is long and "rangy." Unless they were side by side, the only way to figure out which was which was which was that Amore had a black patch over her left eye and Besame over her right.
And, yes, their names are Italian: "Ah MORE ay" and "BEH some ay"--"Love" and "Kisses." Dad thought "Smith" and "Wesson" were more suitable, certainly for Amore; she was the "alpha" in more than just her name. Besame hid from friends and strangers alike; Amore greeted people at the door, demanding pets which were answered with bone-rattling purrs. If, as kittens, they got into mischief, Amore was the instigator. Amore leapt or climbed on everything; Besame preferred to keep all four feet on the ground. When they arrived at Mother's, Amore joined everyone the breakfast table (not ON the table--all cats in this house know that's a "no fly zone"--but in an empty chair) to chat about the news of the day.
Soon after "the girls" arrived here, the vet discovered a cancerous tumor inside Amore's sinuses. The cancer was extremely aggressive and the vet said, "If she were mine, I wouldn't subject her to any invasive surgery. Make her comfortable and she'll tell you when she's had enough." Amore spent the next three months curled up next to Mother, rarely moving except to use the litter box or to find a warmer spot in the sun. We even fed her on a pillow on the bed as leaning over her dish became more difficult. When she stopped eating and drinking, we knew it was time to let her go, and we did so. When the vet gave her the injection, she put her head down, gave a little sigh and just went to sleep.
We should all have so peaceful an end.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Cats I
My mother's condo is home to three cats: Zoe, Bella and Besame. Zoe and Bella came with one of my sisters, Besame with the other.
Mother used to say that the most polite child gets first pick of--whatever. That being the rule, Zoe's story comes first.
Zoe was about a year old when Linus first saw her at a private shelter called "Bide-A-Wee," just a mottled cream, gray and apricot backside under a sign that said, "Watch this one. She's not eating." The attendant opened the cage and lifted her out. Zoe didn't protest, but it was clear she wasn't interested in being sociable.
What Linus saw was a mostly blue point Siamese with some interesting calico shadings scattered through her coat. Her toes are white, her legs, tail and mask gray with an apricot "Harry Potteresque" blaze over one eye. While many Siamese are cross eyed, Zoe is slightly wall eyed. And somewhere back in her genes there stalks a lioness--her front feet toe out when she walks, like a lioness on the hunt.
Something happened when the attendant set Zoe down in the "get aquainted" area that no one--not Linus, not her friend, Kura, who was with her, not the attendant--can explain, though a breeder might:
Siamese cats were originally bred as guard animals and, as such, they tend to bond with one person. In Zoe's case, that person was Linus. Zoe is polite to me (I wield the can opener), comfortable with E. J. (our mother), tolerant of M. J. (our other sister) and the other cats, but Linus is her human and that is that. She'll put up with car trips, airport security, a 3,000 plane ride and a new home as long as that person is within range of her sight/hearing/scent.
Zoe is also a talker. She doesn't have the "fingernails on blackboard" squall of some Siamese, but she has an amazing range of vocalizations, some of which we can sort of translate, but most of which we can only guess at. One of these days, someone will invent a universal translater that will convert Feline into English. I, for one, can hardly wait.
Mother used to say that the most polite child gets first pick of--whatever. That being the rule, Zoe's story comes first.
Zoe was about a year old when Linus first saw her at a private shelter called "Bide-A-Wee," just a mottled cream, gray and apricot backside under a sign that said, "Watch this one. She's not eating." The attendant opened the cage and lifted her out. Zoe didn't protest, but it was clear she wasn't interested in being sociable.
What Linus saw was a mostly blue point Siamese with some interesting calico shadings scattered through her coat. Her toes are white, her legs, tail and mask gray with an apricot "Harry Potteresque" blaze over one eye. While many Siamese are cross eyed, Zoe is slightly wall eyed. And somewhere back in her genes there stalks a lioness--her front feet toe out when she walks, like a lioness on the hunt.
Something happened when the attendant set Zoe down in the "get aquainted" area that no one--not Linus, not her friend, Kura, who was with her, not the attendant--can explain, though a breeder might:
Siamese cats were originally bred as guard animals and, as such, they tend to bond with one person. In Zoe's case, that person was Linus. Zoe is polite to me (I wield the can opener), comfortable with E. J. (our mother), tolerant of M. J. (our other sister) and the other cats, but Linus is her human and that is that. She'll put up with car trips, airport security, a 3,000 plane ride and a new home as long as that person is within range of her sight/hearing/scent.
Zoe is also a talker. She doesn't have the "fingernails on blackboard" squall of some Siamese, but she has an amazing range of vocalizations, some of which we can sort of translate, but most of which we can only guess at. One of these days, someone will invent a universal translater that will convert Feline into English. I, for one, can hardly wait.
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