Josie Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Fur

First, I need to report that Tucker is fully recovered from the problem he was having with his skin just under his tail. He had licked that area hairless and part of it developed an infection. He is now cured and the cone that he was forced to wear has been discarded. The troublesome area is now growing back its hair and he has not bothered it for some time.

And that leads me into this article’s subject: cats’ fur. Every cat seems to have its own kind of fur: colour, of course, length, texture, pattern. My three (plus one) are a good study of the contrasts that can occur.

Let me start with my first and oldest cat, Tungsten. She’s orange and white. The orange seems to be darker now than when I first got her. It may be my imagination, but I recall thinking that she could not have been termed a ‘ginger’ cat because I figured ginger was a brownish-orange, and she was a brighter hue. That was when I initially got her. Now I look at her and she does seem a browner orange. Is it just the light? Am I simply more familiar with my cat and cats in general? In any case, I suppose she is a ginger cat, a fuzzy Creamsicle, orange and white. She has a large white patch on her throat and chest that I’ve always thought of as a bunch of lace.

An interesting feature are the large outlines of circles, one on each flank. I don’t know where these target-like designs have come from, but I keep her away from windows during hunting season... She has the ‘M’ pattern on the top of her head that gives many orange cats a worried or contemplative expression, though in her case, it may actually reflect her thoughts sometimes.

Her fur is very soft, and though it would be classed officially as ‘short’, it seems medium when she sheds it. The individual hairs themselves change hue along their lengths, and along the back of her neck and spine, the hair grows in rows that are easily seen when she bends. This continues on her tail, which is ringed, the rings representing not just different shades but segments in growth.

Josie’s fur was coarse when I met her the first time, and it remains the coarsest of my cats’. It’s a short coat that keeps close to her skin - though that doesn’t mean it isn’t ready to jump off in every direction when it sheds. It’s longer underneath her, but that may be due to her belly being bigger than it should. The fur seems to have smoothed a bit over the time she’s been with me. She came from a temporary home that had a large population of cats and, though she was well-cared for, she may have been nervous and anxious with so many living there, and that may have led to a reaction in her fur. Unlike Tungsten, my Chubs’ hair comes off easily when she’s petted.

Her colouring is mostly white, though it varies from a pure white to a beige or ivory, similar to a polar bear’s almost pale-yellow coat. She has oval-shaped patches not of black but of tabby colouring, flecks of brown among the black, and a tail that’s more obviously ringed than Tungsten’s, though only on its top. And under her tail, light brown. But she doesn’t like people looking at that part...

Renn’s fur is, as I’ve mentioned in another article, long. It’s soft and spreads out on his body. It’s long everywhere, even growing out in tufts between his toes. It straggles quite a bit in places, like the hair of an old man who never combs or brushes. But Renn takes care of his coat, grooming himself conscientiously. Surprisingly, he has never had a problem with hairballs and, in fact, I think he’s the only one of the cats who hasn’t thrown up during his time with me. (I'm surprised at that because I would have thought with that hair, he’d be leaving little gifts all over the house. And who knows, today my luck may run out.)

He is a black and white fellow, with broad patches of each colour, the black hair straighter and less clumpy than the white. Yet among his black hair are individual white strands that grow longer (faster?) than the surrounding black. Unlike Tungsten and Josie, my big boy’s hair doesn’t always come out in my hand, but I can always tell where he takes to sitting or lying. Fine black hair, enough to weave a curtain for a high school auditorium, is left behind. And look at the length of those whiskers!

Finally, my foster-cat, Tucker, may look black and white, but he’s really black and white and dark tabby. His fur is short but softer than Josie’s, with a slightly different texture for the dark-hued than the white. The tabby nature of the colouring expresses itself principally on his sides, where stripes of flecked hair march vertically along his ribs.

He, like Josie, has a medium-brown patch under his tail. Is this a common trait for tabbies, or for cats with an element of tabbiness in their genes? He is white underneath, and his whiteness is purer than Josie’s, with none of her beige. He, like Renn, has single strands of white hair that grow longer than the surrounding black.

You may wonder at how much time it took to notice all these characteristics of my cats, and how much time I spend watching them. But sometimes, when I am sitting on the couch, with one cat on my lap, another on his back against my right side, a third on the arm of the couch to my left and the fourth staring at me from the top of a cat-tree, it’s difficult to do anything else but watch them.