Her Name Was Tungsten

It was a silly name, really. But years ago, before I had a pet, I determined that ‘Tungsten’ would be a good name for either a cat or a dog, whether male or female. And so this little orange animal became Tungsten.

It’s been more than a month since she died. I had her ashes back after a week or so, but I was looking for the right picture frame for her memorial. I wanted something simple and straightforward. Tungsten was simple and straightforward, too; there was not much guile to her. She was the household’s top-cat from the moment she arrived. Well, when she arrived, there was just her and myself. With the growth of my feline family, however, Tungsten remained its head. None of the perma-cats disputed her authority. She grew to be friends with Renn, but kept even him in line.

With me, Tungsten was insistent and bossy, soft and vulnerable. There were a few times when she would wake from a nap and cry out; perhaps her dreams were unsettling, and she was afraid. I would come and pet her and talk to her. She would purr and purr, and rub her fuzzy face against my hand. Other times, when I would be having a snack, she would walk over to me with her deliberate pace, as if she were going to receive nothing more than her due. I would have toast and tea before bed, and she would jump up onto my lap - latterly, I would have to lift her. There she would wait for her tribute - a little piece of buttered toast - after which she would get down and return to her cat-bed. It was a token, a symbol of what the tiny terror deserved as top-cat.

Tungsten was smart. She quickly learned routines. When I started giving her different hard-food from the others, in order to put some weight on her, I would provide it in the bathroom. I think I started that so I could isolate her from others who wanted her food. I would feed the orange one whenever she wanted, so she would sit on the threshold of the bathroom when she was feeling peckish.

Most nights, she would curl up in my hand while I lie in bed, and complain if I wasn’t lying in the right position to allow that. Some nights, she would stay in her cat-bed, which was heated, to keep that tiny, thin body of hers warm. That cat-bed was her favourite spot. She loved snoozing on my lap, and I spent extra time reading or listening to music because I didn’t want to disturb her when she was there.

So many memories, so many things of which I want people to know… But I know her. She will always be a part of me, a part of my life. Her name was Tungsten. I will remember her.

Renn's Way

Renn is a big, strong, handsome mancat. He is admired by all who see him for his fine form, full fur and majestic whiskers. He is, however, a modest fellow, shy and diffident, the proverbial gentle giant. That is Renn’s way.

There is, in the way he walks and sits, an inherent dignity. Not for him the swaggering manner of many cats, or the indifference to humans practised by some of his feline brethren. To be quiet and stately, to reflect well upon his species and his home. That is Renn’s way.

One may see the nobility of this creature in his profile, a striking image that reminds one of lions in coats-of-arms, or the magnificent statues that guard a king’s palace. Nonetheless, he is rarely one to initiate conflict, preferring conciliation and friendship. That is Renn’s way.

And then there’s this.

And this.

This is Renn’s way, too. The silly animal.

Too Warm for Heat

The heated cat-beds have been de-heated. The spring has warmed the air enough so that, though some days and nights are still cool, the beasts can do without the extra comfort of the heating pads in the beds.

The heated towels in the parlour are a different matter. I left the heating pad under them for a few reasons. One is that that pad doesn’t grow as warm as the others, so it is less uncomfortable in higher temperatures. Secondly, the towels are under a window that will be left open more frequently now, even at night. The third reason is that the Siamese princess and the big boy like the heated towels very much.

The last couple of days have, however, been unseasonably warm. The thermometer has registered 28° Celsius (82.4° Fahrenheit), and though this number will be reduced considerably by the weekend, the signs are clear - and I write of both meteorological and feline signs.

Still meaning to enjoy the comfort of the parlour couch, both Cammie and Renn chose the unwarmed side this day. After seeing cats in fur coats lying in the sunshine on hot summer days, it was somehow good to see that there is a limit to such lunacy. Though the princess snoozed on the towels at night, the spring is growing warmer and the summer will soon be here. It has become too warm for heat.

Josie's Tribe

I have often thought Josie’s tail to be of an interesting pattern. Several people have told me that they’ve not seen the like elsewhere. It is rare, I believe, but not unique. You will notice that it is grey (the only grey portion on her body) with black rings, and a thick black line the length of it, on top.

What I have found fascinating is that there is a cat in Ontario with an identical tail. This is Finnick, a neighbour of Kim, who owns a couple of blogs. These pictures come from “Musings on a Small Life” (which may be accessed from my side-bar.) She kindly allowed me to reproduced these photographs to show how Finnick’s tail resembles Josie's. What is especially interesting, I think, is that this mancat has similar colour to Josie’s, as well. I can’t make it out in the image, but I suspect that the patch on his head is a dark tabby mark, and not straight black. The rest of him is white, like Josie. Incidentally, Finnick, too, has goopy eyes.

My question relates to the possibility that the unusual tail markings may go with the colouring on the rest of the body. Do cats of creamy-white fur (in some light rather like the ivory hue of a polar bear) with tabby patches have a genetic predisposition to that particular tail? Accompanying this question is a second: are they all chubby?

The Last of Kola

I talked at relative length with Kola’s new person last week. This was an interview for the newsletter of the Lethbridge PAW Society, which took in the Floof King when no one else would, gave him foster-care and found him a new and permanent home.

Kola is fitting in admirably. He became acquainted with the family dog on the car-trip to his new residence. Neither was upset or overly disturbed by the encounter. The dog may have reason to regret his welcome, though, since Kola has taken over the canine bed and, according to my information, appears to develop a fancy for anything his new roommate likes. But those are cats and dogs for you.

My former foster-cat is eating well, and has his choice of spots in which to sleep at night; he alternates between three - depending on the evening, I suppose. I am sure he is enjoying being able to roam about while the house is asleep, instead of being confined to one room, as he was in my home. Kola is receiving plenty of attention, and it’s clear that he is already loved in his new family.

This will be my last update on the Floof King. He has his own life now, a happy life, with his own people. I suspect I won’t hear about him myself any more, but that’s the nature of fostering. He spent nine months under my care, and a small part of him will stay with me forever.

When the World is Fresh and Green

Spring has arrived, with temperatures rising on some days as high as 23° Celsius (73.5° Fahrenheit), though it’s more often a few degrees cooler. Even so, afternoons are becoming quite pleasant, and the nights are nearing the time when windows may be left open wide. That means one thing around my household: the storm windows come off and the screens go on.

The cats of course enjoy this time of year, as do I. The days are enjoyable without being unbearable, and fragrances are in the air. Blooming trees and bushes are floating their scents about without regard for where they may end up. Little noses are atwitter at what they can smell, and big noses are glad of the more vibrant aromas they detect.

There are more ways to enjoy the fresh air than just smelling it. It carries with it the noises of outdoor activities, and even those which carried on through the winter now provide a soundtrack to go with their sights. The silent films have become talkies.

Some of my cats want to enjoy as much of the outdoors as possible, without actually going outside. Cammie would probably have the best chance of survival in the wild (ie. the alleys and rubbish bins of the neighbourhood) of any of my beasts, but she isn’t about to risk the dangers by clawing through the tough mesh. She’s happy to fill as much of it as possible, while remaining close to her comfortable couches and chairs.

And this spring, I have put the screen back on the bathroom window. I had ceased doing so, because it was a favourite haunt of Tungsten, who would, in her healthier times, leap up onto the sill. When she could no longer make such a jump, I kept the bathroom window shut all year, to avoid giving her temptation. Now, the orange one is gone, and the window is open again.

And so the seasons roll by, year after year. We come and go, human and cat. Some day, we will all follow Tungsten, as she followed those before her. But for now, spring is here once more, the windows are open and the world is fresh and green.

The Missing Star

I find that there are different aspects to missing Tungsten. First and foremost, there is the great sorrow that this neat little cat is no longer alive, no longer enjoying her heated cat-bed, no longer purring after we play our game, no longer leaning into the head-rubs I give her. I know that she did not find enough good in life at the end to stay. But there was a time when she was healthy, or just healthy enough to stand the indignities and inconveniences of treatments. I miss her company.

Beyond that, though, I miss her mere presence in the house. I wrote to a friend of an analogy which I find appropriate. It’s been many years since I have watched television, but it still lends itself to this comparison.

Tungsten’s absence in my feline family is like a television series that has lost its principal actor; she probably left to concentrate on movies. The series continues but without its main character, who is not replaced. The others in the series are excellent actors, portraying beloved characters, and no viewer wants the series to end. But there is a large element missing, a centre around which plots revolve, and everyone is waiting for the main character to return, or for a voice-over to announce that “the role of so-and-so will now be played by…” But there is no new actor, and the character is gone.

Each cat of my household, each life in existence, is its own story, its own novel, its own television series. Some are comedies, some are tragedies, some are mixtures. Many are badly written, some have no plot at all, while others are popular, hits or bestsellers. Each of my cats is a character - in several meanings of the word - and I want to enjoy them season after season. But the star of the show is gone.