Feline field guide to waking up humans

On page twelve of  the "Field Guide to Waking Up Your Human",  rule #242 plainly states, "It is unwise to wake a human gently".   Unfortunately, this guide book doesn't explain why the hell humans must be terrorized into wakefulness.

Lately, my cats have been taking rule #242 to the extreme.  This morning, Leo sprang from a high place and landed on my abs of steel, carefully landing very firmly with all four feet.  Jolting awake, I probably shouted a few select cuss words.  They must have been bad ones because he clawed his way down my leg before fleeing.  Rule #276:  "Humans with potty mouth must be punished".  Needless to say, my day did not start auspiciously.

Still, the "ab pounce with leg claw" wasn't as bad as the time Salem scurried across my head.  I prefer to comb my own hair and really could have done without that.  I'm sure I violated rule #276 that morning but she never got the chance to apply punitive measures.  She was too busy running for her life.

Right about now, some wise-ass is saying, "Well, why don't you just close the door, Stupid?"  To this, I must shriek, "BECAUSE IT DOESN'T WORK, DAMMIT!"

Leo hates closed doors even worse than he detests me trying to sleep.  He'll work his paws under the offending closed door and start rattling it.  This sounds like a gang of thugs is trying to kick the door in.  If it wasn't for Angie cheering him on by howling, I'd probably be terrified and dial 911.   After a few of these sessions, the "ab pounce with leg claw" doesn't seem so bad.

Some people wake to the sounds of bird song.  I'm more apt to wake to the melodious music of Miss B. hacking up another of her endless supply of hair balls.  This is another great way to start a day.  Rule #113: "Keep the human busy.  If she's cleaning up a mess, she won't have time to wring your neck."

Proprietor of Salem's Hair Salon

Ginger, the flaky feral- an update

Since being bitten by some nasty predator, Ginger has been held captive on my porch.  For a few days, she was too scared to do much protesting, but now her patience is wearing thin.  Several times a day, she tells me she's had enough and asks to be released. 

Ginger is a real enigma.  She's either really sweet or really stupid.  Since she's survived for over five years as a feral before she finally got hurt, she can't be that stupid.  But the part of her that makes me wonder if she's a little dim is that she displays some very un-cat-like behavior.  For instance, if I put her somewhere, she stays.  Who ever heard of a trustworthy cat?  And she comes when I call her.  What cat does that?

 Except for me, she's terrified of people.  This kind of fear usually makes cats mean, nasty and unpredictable.  But even when Ginger's terrified, like at the vet's, she won't scratch or bite.  The only time she ever scratches me is when she mistakes my legs for scratching posts, something she does quite frequently.  She's also very affectionate in a pesky sort of way. 

A few days ago, I removed the old screens being used for a gate so that she could roam the whole length of the porch.  This also gave her the opportunity to slowly get acquainted with the cats that will probably be her future house mates.  Progress in this department has been slow. 

Tommy and Ginger already know each other.  They hung around together outdoors as ferals.  And in Tommy's hungry mind, another cat just means more food to steal.  

Although the other house cats also know Ginger and hung around with her as kittens, they don't like her.  Salem has major issues with her, but Salem has issues with most things.

Mornings while I'm doing chores, I leave the inside door to the porch open so the cats can freely roam from indoors to the porch and back.  Ginger has made several  tentative forays into the house.  Each time Salem chases her back out.
 
Over the weekend, I wanted to hose down the porch.  To do this without frightening Ginger, I tossed her into the house with the others.  Considering the territorial behavior of Salem, this was probably scarier than being hosed.  When I finished cleaning the porch and went back in, Ginger was right where I put her.  But after I opened the door, she bolted back out onto the porch.  She'd probably had more than enough of Salem.

Unfortunately, after cleaning the porch, I forgot to secure the screen door.  Either Ginger or her outside pals figured out how to open the door and she got out.  When I discovered the open door, I went out and called her.  Like a fool, she came running up to me.  She must have thought we were just going to socialize.  And for a minute I thought about letting her go.  But as I was patting her, her vulnerable wounded side caught my eye.  Fearing she would get hurt again, I reached down with my free hand and scooped her up.  Although she squirmed a bit, she allowed herself to be carried across the yard and deposited her back on the porch.

After the taste of  freedom, Ginger wasn't happy to be cooped back up.  For the rest of the day, she complained every time she saw me.  At the moment she seems resigned, but she's probably biding her time hoping she'll get out again soon.  I guess even being bitten is better than tangling with Salem..            

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.