Moving Pictures: Tungsten

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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.