Shadow Cat

She's mysterious as moonlight but not as fickle.  She's a precious treasure.  I know this and she knows it, too. 

The connection between us is eerie.  We understand each other.  Sometimes, I'll look at her and get this strange feeling I'm looking into a spooky feline mirror.  Apparently she feels this, too.  She can be sound asleep but somehow she always knows when I step out a door.  She will find the right window to watch me from and howl in anguish until I come back.

When the other cats are off doing whatever it is cats do when they're not underfoot, Angie stays close by. She feels her incompetent human needs feline help to get things done properly. 

While I clean litter boxes, she scrambles around chasing her tail on a nearby perch.  I'm not exactly sure how this helps but it's awfully cute.

Angie's an expert at making beds.  Her bed making also involves a lot of scurrying around under blankets.  Although it takes twice as long to get the beds made, it's the thought that counts.  Angie thinks she's helping and that's what matters.  She's also a whiz at folding clean laundry.  As fast as I fold and pile the clean clothes, she knocks them over and burrows in them.  And then with flashing eyes and waving tail, she'll proudly stand on the mussed up laundry, waiting to be praised for her efforts. 

She may be the smallest member of the household, but her presence and voice are immense.  I don't know how I ever managed without my little shadow cat.             

 

The Gambler?

Maybe a sixteen- plus pounder doesn't seem so tough.  But note the fangs, claws, formidable appetite and cranky disposition before you write him off.

It wasn't an earthquake that shook the kitchen table.  It was Tommy jumping onto it.  He probably did this because he was feeling sociable, curious, or most likely, hungry.    

After jumping up, Tommy paused for a moment to scout the vicinity for edibles.  To his dismay, all that was available was a laptop and my solitaire game.  After sulking for a minute, Tommy took his disappointment in stride.  First he strode over to the laptop and nudged it closed.  Having put that evil device out of commission, Tommy turned his attention to me.

He then wandered over to the card game in progress and examined it.  It appeared to be safe so he sat on the cards.  I scratched his chin and then tried to remove him from the cards.  He refused to budge.  I tried to play the cards around the large striped obstacle but he kept slapping my hands.  A struggle ensued.  He flopped down across the cards and started rolling.  Cards flew everywhere.  He tried chewing the corner of the ace of spades.  I took the ace away from him and he snatched the three of diamonds.  This scuffle continued for about ten minutes.

I know when to quit.  Tommy won the game but if the truth be told, he doesn't play fair.  He's marked the deck.  There's a corner torn off the ace of spades and an assortment of bends and teeth marks in other cards.

Although Tommy won the card game by cheating, at least I learned the answer to a riddle. 
 How do you stop a cranky fat cat from rolling on your cards?
You don't.       

   



 

Battle of the bulge and other feline dietary quirks

Since Tommy's become an indoor cat, he's been fighting and losing a mighty battle.  The bulge is winning and Tommy's grown an impressive "beer belly".  There's an old saying, "He'll eat anything that doesn't bite back."  Whoever conjured up this saying obviously never met Tommy.  Tommy doesn't care if it bites.  He'll eat it anyway.

Folks claim cats are finicky.  If that's the case, Salem must be a goat.  I can't leave a piece of string, yarn or paper lying around the house or Salem will attempt to eat it.  I've even caught her chewing up books and gnawing on cardboard boxes. 

Some of my cats have eating disorders.  Their  biggest  eating disorder is Tommy.  If I don't watch him, he steals their food.

Three house cats are overweight and three are not.  Greed is definitely a feline fat factor.  Even if they've just eaten, the three fat cats, Salem, Tommy, and Miss B., want whatever the others cats have.  Sadly, I have to protect the other three or they'd probably starve.

 Tommy is a compulsive eater.  Salem does her best to give Tommy a run for his money in the eating department.  But when she runs, she jiggles.  Her  jiggling is cute.  Tommy's "beer belly" really isn't.  Miss B. makes more room for stealing food by gorging and purging, also not cute.

Svelte little Angie seems to exist on air and a few treats now and then.  Offer her wet food and most of the time she'll bolt in horror.  Offer her a houseplant or pen and that's another story.

Frodo has trimmed down since Tommy moved in.  This is because Tommy monopolizes the dry food dispensers.  Although these dispensers are in different rooms, he manages to be at all of them simultaneously.  This could be why poor Frodo is so ravenous every morning.

Leo is the champion of finicky cats.  He must be spoon fed the same thing every morning, a certain brand of salmon.  Try and slip him something different and he'll throw a fit.  The spoon feeding is a morning thing I wish would last all day.  The rest of the day, he insists on being hand fed.  Whenever he feels peckish, he will torment me and keep leading me to the pantry.  If I don't catch on, he will begin slapping Tommy around.  This I understand.  It means, "Feed me, or I'll kill the fat boy."  Once I catch on, the battle still isn't over because then I must guess exactly what kind of food he wants.  If I don't select the right item, he will throw another snit and refuse it.  This means the fat cats will get another feeding they don't need and before long, Leo will be pestering me for another snack.  Hand feeding wet food is not my idea of fun but he seems to enjoy it and he's the boss.  Occasionally a rude person will make a comment about Leo being spoiled.  He's not spoiled.  I'm well trained.

As for the outdoor cats, some prefer dry food and some prefer wet.  One cat would eat chicken every day if given the chance.  Others won't touch it.  Ginger doesn't care for chicken but she does like frog legs.  Serving frog legs is where I draw the line, so she catches and prepares them herself. 

  

101 Cat-matians? Or not....

This is post # 101.  I supposed this is sort of an achievement for a chronic underachiever.  At first it was easy to come up with ideas to write about.  Lately, I seem to be running a little dry.  Of course, this isn't a big problem.  It doesn't take much to keep search engines amused. 

Some of these searches come from unexpected places like Africa and Ukraine.  Search engines from Germany and China are frequent visitors of this blog.  This world wide interest in the incoherent ravings of a feline fancier is quite puzzling.  Or maybe not.  I suppose it's possible the world hasn't completely gone to the dogs, yet.

The most unique visitor to this blog comes from a source labeled UNTRUSTED.  hmmmm... 

 Wow.  101 posts.  101 posts reminds me of  a really sick horror movie.  This creepy movie was about a pack of spotted dogs, their dim owners and a psychopath who wanted to make a coat out of them.  The coat was to be made from the dogs, not the owners.  At least I think that's how it went.  Whatever!  The whole thing was so far fetched.  For one thing, Dalmatians have such thin fur, all you could make from their coats is pantyhose.  And in the movie, these dogs were so cutesy-poo.  In real life, these spotted fleabags are reputed to be very bad tempered with a penchant for biting.  They're up near the top of the biting dog list.   Another problem I had with the movie was that the dogs spoke fluent English.  Actually, one rarely encounters this sort of thing unless under the influence of a mind altering substance.



Movie makers wouldn't get away with foisting such nonsense on today's sophisticated audiences.  If the film studios want to keep recycling the same old crap on us, the least they could do is upgrade the material.  They could start by starring a more intelligent animal than a dog.  So why not let cats star in the movie?  A 101 Cat-matians.  Now that title would be an attention getter, at least to search engines.

 In the old version of the movie, the dog stars all looked the same.  They were nearly impossible to tell apart, except that two were bigger.  This time they should aim for some diversity.  The way to achieve this diversity would be to use cats as the lead characters.  Cats come in a marvelous array of shades, hues and patterns.

The only problem with this feline upgrade is that most cats would not lower themselves to participate in a movie with such a preposterous plot.  I guess this is one silly old movie best left to the dogs.  Spotted dogs.

The dark side, finally!

After getting bitten by some bad nasty thing, Ginger has been in semi-quarantine since Friday.  I say semi-quarantine because the way I've got her confined is hilarious.  No self respecting cat with an ounce of pride would be restrained by my flimsy barricade.  The barricade consists of a couple old window screens stretched across a third of the porch.  A kitten could easily jump the three feet needed to clear the screens.  A kitten could also easily knock the flimsy things over and waltz on out.  But, we're talking about Ginger here.

To be fair,  the house cats are also being reasonably respectful of the boundary dividing their play pen/ porch.  I know they can easily cross it.  Yesterday, I when I was compressing Ginger's wounds, Salem got jealous and followed me in.  She did this by jumping up and walking along the sill until she was crouched over my head.  I sent her back.  This morning, I caught Angie doing a little sill walking to get to the other side of the porch.   But most of the time, the cats seem to be operating on an honor system I didn't know they possessed.  I am so proud of my house cats.  Apparently they are waiting until the intruder, Ginger, heals before they start slapping her around.  Unfortunately, it is obvious that Salem is just biding her time.  She's been balefully eyeing the invading orange cat through  the screens.  Maybe Ginger stays behind the flimsy barrier because she knows Salem is gunning for her.  But the house cats only go on the porch occasionally.  They spend the majority of their time indoors.  So why doesn't Ginger breach the barrier when the other cats are away?

I suspect it is because Ginger is weird.  I've suspected this for a long time.  Until she came along, I had never encountered a docile obedient cat.  If I hadn't seen her with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed such a creature existed.  She's so well behaved, I've been fighting the urge to make her a house cat.  The last thing I  need is another house cat.

Occasionally, I suspect Ginger's feline halo is fake.  Maybe she is so gentle and well behaved because she's terrified.  I know she was scared out of her wits during her vet visit.  The doctor claimed Ginger did growl at her although  I've never heard Ginger growl.  The idea that Ginger actually growled was a relief to me.  Finally, a little sign she might be a normal cat.    I've been hoping that during her confinement, Ginger will drop her angelic mask.

It finally happened this morning.  The real Ginger put in an appearance.  I had finished grooming the other cats and thought, heck, why not try brushing Ginger.  So I stepped behind the flimsy barricade and lured Ginger out from under the chair she hides under.  For the first time in her life, Ginger got brushed.  The brushing finally pushed her over the edge.  At first she protested by demonstrating that the brush wasn't necessary and that she could groom herself just fine on the legs of my jeans.  It only took her a few seconds to fur coat the jeans.  Then she decided to see if the brush was edible.  It wasn't.  Even so, the brush had a strange catnip like effect on her.  Within a few brush strokes, Ginger was drunkenly rolling around while nipping at the brush.  She also did a bit of dancing on my sandal clad feet.  Although she enjoyed this, I found the tap dancing on my exposed skin a bit painful.  Poor Ginger.  I was finished brushing before she was ready.  Her wise little human face wore a disappointed expression when I fled to the other side of the barrier.

Ginger's dark side has begun to reveal it's self.  And what has been revealed, so far, is that the little orange cat is crazier than a loon.          

       

Ginger, semi-quarantined? Tommy, fat!

Is there such a thing as a semi-quarantine?  Well, there is now because I just invented it.  Last night, Ginger was following me around and I finally discovered what was bothering her.  There is a half dollar size patch of fur missing from her side.  Don't try this at home (Ginger is the gentlest cat I've ever encountered), but I grabbed her to examine the suspicious looking spot.  Sure enough, in the bald spot there were nasty looking puncture wounds.

Today, I grabbed her again, brought her up onto the screened porch and stuffed the frightened little cat into a carrier.  For the hell of it, I then grabbed Tommy and spent 10 minutes wrestling him into a carrier.  Yesterday I had noticed weird hard lump of fur sticking upon his back.  I was worried there might be something nasty causing it.  After both cats were caged, I hauled the yowling pair to Golddiggers' Animal Hospital.

Poor Ginger got her side shaved, her wounds cleaned up, was injected with a rabies shot and then was injected with an antibiotic shot.  I got a weird deja vu-ish feeling as the vet prattled on about a six month quarantine.  Yes, technically, Ginger's rabies shot was a couple weeks overdue.  I also got that deja vu feeling as I signed the paper stating that to my knowledge Ginger hadn't bitten anyone.  Keeping Ginger in until her wounds healed was also batted around.  Hmmmm.  I already have six cats in the house.  That would be one hell of a quarantine.  Maybe I could get Ginger her own apartment or a hotel room? 

Ah, decisions, decisions.  After Tommy, ginger and I got home, I sprang Tommy from the carrier.  Then I  I brought her home, blocked off a section of the screened porch and put her in there.  Then I dosed the poor cat with Front-line to eliminate her passengers, some vile little deer ticks. 

This is the second time in a few months that Ginger has gotten herself into trouble.  I suspect that her "surviving outdoors as a feral luck" is running out.  I really don't like orange cats and definitely don't want any more cats in the house.  But Ginger is an exceptionally a nice cat.  She's so gentle, she makes the indoor cats, especially Tommy, seem like hooligans.  So I will have my head examined and then try to assimilate her into the indoor herd after her wounds heal.  

The vet also examined Tommy.  She figured the weird thing sticking up on his back was a mat and shaved it off to make sure there was nothing nasty underneath it.  I didn't know a short haired cat could get mats, but leave it to Tommy.  She said he has a really thick undercoat, so instead of brushing, I should try combing him. Gulp.  Last time I tried to comb Tommy, he ate the comb.  I guess I'll have to get a sturdier comb.  And since Tommy now tips the scale at over 16 pounds, the vet suggested cutting back on Tommy's food.  Right...  But since the staff at the animal hospital were calling him Fatboy, maybe he's having trouble grooming himself.

I wonder how many calories are in combs.

  

If cats could talk

For a feral, Ginger is pretty tame.  She's been hanging around for over five years and is as docile as many  house cats.  She's certainly easier to work with than a relatively recently moved indoors type of feline hood named Tommy.

The problem with Ginger is that she's usually underfoot.  Under my feet, to be precise.  Whenever I step outdoors alone, Ginger is there.  I can't do much outdoors without Ginger's help.  I can call her any time of day or night and she usually comes running. 

But she didn't come to breakfast the other morning and then missed three more meals.  I expect this sort of behavior from the others occasionally, but never from Ginger.  I was afraid something bad had happened to her.

Ginger finally came back last night but she's not the same.  She was afraid to come up on the porch.  I had to coax her up to feed her.  I checked her over as best I could from a distance.  She didn't appear to be injured.

It was raining really hard this morning.  Usually when it rains, the feral girls hang out on the porch to wait for breakfast.  Ginger wasn't waiting this morning.  Instead, she was crouched under a car.  The owner of the car wanted to use her car, so she set off the car alarm.  The car alarm usually clears the vicinity of felines, but this morning Ginger wouldn't budge.  I finally had to poke under the car with a broom to chase her out. 

This afternoon, I heard some thumping on the porch.  I looked out a window and saw them all, including Ginger, waiting to be fed.  I stepped out with food and my old buddy Ginger looked terrified.  She finally allowed me to pat her and check her more closely for wounds.  I couldn't find anything.  But she kept gazing reproachfully into my eyes.  I know what that means.  She was trying to tell me something telepathically.  As usual, this thick-skulled human couldn't understand her.   But I suspect she was telling me that a human or two had frightened her badly.  She probably wandered across the stone wall and the same butt-holes that had terrorized Salem threw rocks at her.

I can't always understand cat-speak and cats can't always understand me.  Or maybe cats can understand but they choose not to listen.  Because if they did listen, they would know to keep away from those Butt-holes.  Those Butt-holes are...well, they are butt-holes.