Kola Has a Ball

In case any prospective adopters are reading this, I’d like to point out something about one of my foster-cats, Kola. He enjoys playing.

He doesn’t do it all the time. He’s eleven years old and, though that means a certain stateliness begins to be seen in cats, there is plenty of activity left in the Floof King yet. He enjoys the string toy most of all. He will wrestle and roll about with it, trying to bite it. He knows he has no claws in his forepaws, so he uses his feet to pull the toy to his mouth, where he can teach it a lesson.

That is his favourite activity but recently, I’ve seen another. He is braving the sitting room more, even in the presence of Tucker, and likes a romp with some of the fuzzy mice there. There are several of these in the parlour, too; I can tell he picks on them because they keep disappearing. I find them when I clean the room and move the furniture.

But now Kola has found the fun of a ball. The simple globe, whether a rubbery yellow one or a smaller fuzzy one (with most of the fuzz chewed off), gives him some novel delight. Why a cat will roll a ball into a tight corner where a human must be called upon to rescue it, I don’t know. It’s probably instinctive, like throwing up on upholstered surfaces. Kola doesn’t chase the ball, as Cammie or Tucker will, but will fight with it when on his own, or wait for it to be propelled gently into his long fur, if a human is handy to help in this.

The floofy one is an excellent example of how a cat whom veterinarians call ‘senior’ can be just as active as a youngster. It’s true that he isn’t tearing up the floorboards with his speed all the time. But there is a vitality about him that has nothing to do with seniority. Kola often thinks like a youngster. I hope to take some pictures of him waiting impatiently to box with me, or excitedly hiding behind the nylon tunnel daring Josie to come and get him. For now, take my word - and these photographs - for it: this is one senior who is not ready for retirement.

Stick Around for the Second Show

Sometimes, life is like a slapstick comedy and my cats are Buster Keaton.

Tucker has always been timid. He will often come over to me and rub his fuzzy head against my leg, just to tell me he likes me. But if I move as he is approaching - I sometimes don’t see him coming - he will take fright and retreat. Noises startle most cats - except Tungsten - but they scare Tucker and send him seeking cover.

Because of Tucker’s physical condition, I check his nether regions now and then, to clean him so as to prevent infection. Naturally, he dislikes this. Last night, I took him into the bathroom to do the necessary chore. He was nervous enough to begin with.

Then, I knocked a plastic cup onto the floor. This made the roly poly one scramble for the door. I caught him between my shins, but as I did so, I elbowed a roll of toilet paper off the counter. It struck Tucker on the bum and made him squirm out of my hold. As I turned to grab him, my knee caught the toilet-seat lid, lifted it briefly and dropped it. The bang that resulted shot Tucker out of the bathroom and into the corridor beyond. I managed to seize him, inadvertently taking hold only of his tail. Fortunately, it’s a strong one but it nevertheless caused a squeal.

By this time, Cammie and Kola had come to see what the fuss was about. Cammie, who detests any sounds of struggle, was hissing at all and sundry, while Kola appeared to be enjoying the discomfort of his enemy. The others were hiding on the bed in anxiety - except for Tungsten, who was sleeping.

At last, I scooped up my tubular cat, eased him over on his back and cleaned him. He wasn’t very dirty, after all.

A few minutes later, the uproar was forgotten. The cats were settled peacefully again and the roly poly sausage looked like this. Take a bow, Tucker.

Catching Up to Her Reputation

I can’t remember why I decided that Josie might be a good choice for a second cat. I initially met her in neutral territory: she was brought to the house of a member of the rescue-group of which I am now a member, and I visited her there. I was impressed by her lively and friendly nature. She went from one person to another head-bumping, and purring tremendously. She struck me as a cat who demonstrated her feelings openly and readily.

The deceptive little cow.

In my home, she was much more subdued. That was not the effect of being introduced to a new environment. That was how she was. Josie has never been unfriendly; in fact, she has always been very amiable. She enjoys meeting new people and often acts as a greeter to my guests. She likes being petted and fussed over, but her purring was quiet, and I often had to feel her throat to determine if she was happy. She had misled me as to her exuberance. It was lucky for her that I already was too fond of her to return her for another model.

In the six and a half years that my Chubs has been with me, she has changed. She has always had an active purr but, as I mentioned, one had to search for it. The affection she may have had for me was demonstrated in a low key. I felt that she was content with her life. Now, things are quite different. 

Now, Josie will ask for attention as soon as I walk into a room. She will stand, amble about in a circle then flop over on her side. If one didn’t know her, one would conclude that this fat cat had just had a stroke. But no, this is the Great White asking for pets, especially a chin-rub. She previously did not care for chest-rubs, but now submits to them for short periods. She will waddle over to me periodically and rub against me, a relatively new development. And her purr starts quickly, when the top of her bristly head is scratched, and will build in strength and volume, becoming a strong, two-tone thrumming, a deep bass providing a background for a tenor.

Has it taken Josie this long to feel secure? Or is it merely a matter of a cat changing with age, mellowing, as a young adult human might as he advances into his middle years? Josie will be twelve this summer, which I think is a good age for a cat. She is confident of her place in the household, unafraid of the foster-cats, respectful of Tungsten’s top position, holding her own in disagreements with Renn over the nylon tunnel and even playful now and then with Tucker.

At last, when I pet my Chubs, I see again that enthusiastic cat I met for the first time long ago. I’m happy that she has returned. But then, she had never really been away, had she?

Dreams in a Box

I’ve published pictures of Kola sitting in a box, but they don’t convey how comfortable he can become in his cardboard container. His latest piece of furniture is the lid from a mandarin orange box. This one, in keeping with the continual cheapening of everything provided to consumers, is as thin as it can be without being called paper. Therefore, it is relatively pliable. This quality may contribute to its popularity with the Floof King.

He will lie in his box in preference to the heated towels with which the comfy couch in the parlour is provided, though he may resort to them in the chill of a night. During the day, however, he enjoys his box, not minding at all that his face is resting on a nearly knife-like edge. I don’t know if he actually sleeps in this position, but he may, perhaps when left undisturbed while I am absent and the other cats excluded from the parlour. He certainly rests in it for extended periods, and clearly suffers no discomfort.

The other beasts will examine the box-lid, and Cammie periodically steps into it and sits, a little self-consciously. It is, however, to Kola that the box belongs, and he takes full advantage of it. I think if I were to provide it with soft sides and a downy bottom, he would abandon it. Sometimes a mancat just likes to rough it.

A Tale of a Tail

Cats are very expressive, as we all know, and have a thousand ways of telling us what they are feeling. Despite this, I, at least, am at a loss as to their desires half the time. But I am aware of the slowly whapping tail and what it means. Kola, for instance, loves being petted, having my fingers run firmly down his spine. But when he’s had enough, his floofy tail starts slapping the surface on which he is lying. It’s time for me to stop.

Yet this indication of annoyance is not universal. Cats are individuals and Josie is no exception. She enjoys being fussed over, and receiving chin rubs more than most other attention. She has an interesting tail; I call it a rat-tail because it is so wide at the base and is short, relative to her body. It’s thick and strong. And she whaps it when she is enjoying her attention.

At first I thought I was doing something wrong. But stopping led to unmistakeable protests, while resumption returned the tail to whapping. My Chubs will lie on my lap for quite a while, almost still, and bask in the good feelings of a chin-rub. All the time, her tail is slowly whapping.

Her complaints are more vocal than visual, and why she uses her tail the way she does, I don’t know. If I were less acquainted with her, it would be misleading. It simply goes to show that cats are indeed individuals and, though we can generalise about them, to be fully aware of each, we must learn about each. The same may be written about people.

As an addendum, another interesting thing about Josie’s tail is its pattern and colour. It is ringed, black and what I call ‘tabby grey’, with a black stripe down the length of its top. I recently saw a picture of another cat who had Josie’s body colouring (white with ‘tabby grey’ patches) and a very similar tail. This little beast lived two thousand miles away, so a family resemblance was most unlikely. I wonder if the pattern of tail accompanies the type of body colouring.

Even so, my Chubs is unique, from the tail up.

Warm to the Touch

I think I may have mentioned previously that Tungsten will warm herself over the heating vents. Her favourite spot for this has become the bathroom. This is due to an unusual reason. In order to keep her weight up, she is offered a hard-food that appeals to her more than the other hard-food I give her roommates. It’s tasty, and therefore appeals to the other beasts, as well, but I don’t want them eating as much of it as Tungsten should. So she is fed her meals, whenever she likes, in splendid isolation - in the bathroom.

While there, she discovered the heating vent, that, she undoubtedly reasoned, was similar to the one in the bedroom, which she frequented last winter. She now may be found in the bathroom enjoying the warm air, or waiting to enjoy it. She has her heated cat-bed, of course, and that’s for extended periods. It does its job admirably, and I am glad to have it.

But there is something extra pleasant about a draught of warm air. It’s like a breeze from summer in the cold winter. Naturally, Tungsten wants to experience it as much as possible. But there is something pathetic about an old cat lying on a vent, waiting patiently for warmth. I think she is trying to embarrass me into keeping the heat on all the time. If she shows up with a tiny shopping cart full of tinier tin cans and bottles in bags, I may have to give in...

A Last Look

Another year has begun, and that of course means another has ended. Today is the Twelfth Day of Christmas, and tomorrow is Epiphany. I took down my Christmas decorations yesterday.

This is always a bit of a melancholy moment for me, as the special time that is the Yuletide is now done. I remember when I was a boy, I used to sit and look at the Christmas tree with all of its light illuminated. Last evening, I noticed someone else doing that.

I tend to think of Tucker as the baby of my feline family. He’s not the youngest; Renn is. But his shape and his behaviour, and the sounds he makes, tend to give the impression of a tubular, furry infant. It was perhaps fitting then that I saw the roly poly one gazing at the Christmas tree, just before it came down. He was not looking at it as Renn had done. My big boy stared at it as if it were interesting, intriguing. Tucker looked at it with wonder. He was probably trying to decide if there was something on it he could eat. But he looked innocent and awestruck.

Good-bye Christmas for another year.