My Big Boy's Feeling Small

I was going to limit this article simply to showing how Renn, like Tucker, is another heavy cat who enjoys his lap-time. Unlike the roly poly, my big boy (two pounds heavier than Tucker), likes to sit or lie more or less facing me. This allows him to knead my stomach whenever he wants. In the house, he used to knead my kidneys; now, it’s my stomach.

But last night, Renn threw up. He almost never vomits food but did so twice, once about 10.30 and then again four hours later, this time mainly liquid. He sometimes throws up a hairball, but I can’t remember the last time he was sick. He did not lie on the bed last night as usual, and was not in the hall this morning, waiting for his soft-food breakfast. He wasn't interested in food, and lie on the couch in the library.

It may be a passing thing. I fed Renn some Fancy Feast ‘seafood feast’, which I don’t give to the girls, because I think it causes Cammie’s ‘head-rash’ and may make Josie throw up (though in her case, it is almost immediately afterward). The boys have always enjoyed it and not suffered for it. Perhaps that has changed. I won’t be giving my big boy that variety again, just to be sure. Hopefully, he will be feeling better when I return home tonight.

Hissing, as I Hear It

My cats don’t hiss a great deal, except for Cammie. That’s probably to the household’s credit, as hissing denotes some form of disapproval, though its degree depends on the cat. But each animal also hisses in a different way.

Cammie is the obvious example among my beasts. She has always used hissing for a number of reasons. She will use it if threatened - or thinks she is threatened. This comes with the hideous grimace, the flattened ears, the narrowed eyes. She uses this only against other cats, though once upon a time, she used it against people, too, including me. The princess reminds me of Tungsten, the way she hisses in extremis. I used to tell the orange one that hissing made her look quite unattractive. I think that miffed her.

But Cammie also hisses to show that she is displeased. She doesn’t really care for being picked up, but will tolerate it, if I pet her while she's in my arms, or show her a view out the window that she doesn’t usually see. When I put her down, however, she throws a hiss over her shoulder at me as she walks away. It is not unfriendliness; I’m just being told off. These expressions of annoyance are rarely accompanied by facial distortion.

Renn’s hiss is interesting. When he is angry or annoyed, such as when I am trying to cut his claws, he expresses it with a whining groan that start high and drops until it is almost a growl. He does hiss, however. It is merely an opening of the mouth to allow sound to issue. There is no evil look on his face, no violence conveyed by image. Imagine a large man standing apathetically still and simply stating, “I will hurt you,” in a plain monotone, and that’s how my big boy’s hiss comes across.

Tucker is rather unfortunate in his hissing, as his best seems to be a kind of throaty, saliva-spotted hawking sound, similar to that made by a young child trying to speak German with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. It is not intimidating. It's a baby ewok attempting to curse his nannie. Fortunately, the roly poly one does not become upset enough to unleash his rage too often; I have heard it vented only against the odd intruder cat, from behind the safety of a window.

I’ve left Josie to the last because I cannot recall ever hearing my Chubs hiss. She is quite an easy-going cat, and though she does become upset, she vocalises her complaints as whiney inarticulation, like an old woman shaking her fist at smart-alecky young ’uns. It is quite unfeline. But then, whatever a cat does is feline, by definition. Josie’s felinic anger is just a bit different.

So even in its fury, irritation, fear and exasperation, each cat shows that it is unique. It is those examples of uniqueness that make my life interesting. Even if I get told off now and then.

A Brush with Eccentricity

I like brushing the cats. Most of them enjoy it, and it leaves them feeling smooth and clean, ridding their coats of the loose hairs that cover them as they shed, which they do every second of every day. They look great afterward, for a minute or two. I think they feel good, as well. But each of my four react to brushing in different ways.

My Tungsten used to purr during a brushing session, but was always on the move, as if trying to get away from it. I had to be gentle with her, as it was always as though I were trying to brush a furry bag of bones, she was so thin.

Cammie detests being brushed, though a little less than formerly. I thought it may have been the smell of other cats on the brush, but she has her own, and still reacts the same. I can usually manage a few strokes before the princess begins hissing and growling. Her permission lasts too short a time to obtain a photograph of it.

Josie takes after Tungsten to a certain extent. She will initially lie down, purring, ready for some attention but then, when I start brushing, my Chubs stands and attempts to leave, only to collapse a few feet away, expecting to be brushed some more. This can go on for some time.

The boys love their brushing. Tucker will throw himself on the floor in anticipation, and start purring before the tines of the brush touch him. He enjoys a firm hand and his fur shimmers afterward. When I am done, he will squeak for more. The strange thing is that the roly poly one vigorously licks one of his forelegs the whole time that I am brushing. He sometimes even nibbles it. I make sure that he does no damage - the brushing doesn’t go on for so long as that - but I find it odd. It may be an uncontrollable reaction, like the kicking of a rear leg when a certain part of the tummy is rubbed.

And Renn needs to sniff the brush. My big boy is a prodigious smeller, with that large nose of his, but he feels compelled continually to smell the brush as it is being used. As may be imagined, this causes some inconvenience, as I cannot brush him properly without risking a punch to his proboscis. Yet he loves being brushed. He especially enjoys a rough grooming of his chest. That is when he at last stops trying to sniff, and relaxes. But he gives his throaty purr wherever the the brush strikes him.

Even when being groomed, my lot are an entertaining bunch. Strange and eccentric, they are individual in every way. They are, after all, cats.

Closer Yet and Closer

Cammie continues to progress in her relations with me and the other beasts. I’m sure they all progress, but Cammie has had farther to go. She still hisses at her roommates when they come too near, or when she thinks they may. On the weekend, she trotted around a corner and all three of them were lying in the hall (I think they were anticipating dinner). Watching Cammie negotiate that passage was like seeing a soldier walk through a minefield.

But the princess also tolerates her siblings more often than she used, and, though wary of them, permits them to get closer than was the case previously. Having her sit with one other, or more, at the bedroom window says a great deal about how far Cammie has come.

And she is growing closer to me. This Saturday, I returned to bed to have another couple of hours’ sleep after waking at six to give Tucker his insulin injection. Cammie frequently chooses that time to lie on my chest and purr. This takes up another ten or fifteen minutes. Sometimes, she will find me on my stomach, in which case she will walk this way and that over my back. This day, she lie on my neck and groomed the back of my head. Of my other cats, only Tungsten has groomed me, and she too liked to lick my head while I tried to sleep. Those who aren’t cat-people may find this an unhygienic prospect. But to me, it is immensely gratifying.

But it didn’t exactly lull me to sleep…

Knowing Me, Knowing You, Uh-huh

Firstly, I want to thank readers for the suggestions they made regarding my ant problem. I have already implemented a couple of the solutions. It may be difficult to determine if they are working, as the ants were never present every day, and may invade only for the release of the colonists, and then retreat again. But whatever keeps the invaders out of my home is a success.

Today’s musings are related to yesterday’s, regarding communication between man and cat. Angel Abbygrace, in her response, observed that cats and their owners may develop their own language, a means of communicating that only the two of them comprehend. I can believe that. The point corresponds to what I had already been thinking about, after an incident on the weekend.

Tucker likes to sit at the dining table with me while I write. He snoozes and I scribble away. He also likes to sit there while I eat a meal, but that may have to do with another set of factors. Anyway, recently, he was lying on a cushioned chair, gathering some rest, when he dropped to the floor. I immediately realised something was amiss.

How did I know? It may have been that he remained where he landed for a few seconds, though I was aware of something wrong right away. I also suspected that it was not serious. I watched as the roly poly one trundled into the sitting room. The way he hunched himself was a second clue. I guessed what was coming.

I stood behind Tucker and, as I anticipated, he started to heave. I was able to get him off the rugs and onto linoleum before he vomited. It was not a serious episode, just the usual product of a sensitive stomach. Tucker sometimes does this after eating - though he doesn’t do it often, thank goodness - but once in a while it occurs for no discernible reason. Less than a minute later, the sausage-shaped cat was back on his chair, ready to resume his interrupted snooze.

We come to know our pets so well that even a small behaviour, if it is abnormal, can register with us, and alert us to something that is different. The action need not be a bad one: Josie will slap her rat-tail in the manner of a cat who is annoyed - others have pointed out when they thought she was angry - and yet this does not mean the same in my Chubs as in other felines. She will flick her tail while she is purring and clearly enjoying a chin-rub.

It’s all part of living with something vital to your life, the way a farmer can read a sky for weather, or a general a battlefield. Cat-fanciers’ expertise is in knowing their own cats. And I am certain my own cats know me in a similar fashion. It is intimate knowledge, that which comes with constant interaction, attention, careful consideration…and maybe a little affection. It is part of living with friends.

Our Uncommon Language

Years ago, I had an interesting experience in a grocery store. I heard a toddler yelling. This is not rare but what was not so rare was his purpose in yelling. He was shouting at another toddler, ensconced in a shopping cart, as was the first child. Neither was old enough to speak, but they were talking, in their own fashion. One would yell, and the other would answer. The communication was incoherent babble, probably meaningless - in terms of words - to the children themselves, but as far as they were concerned, they were speaking. They had no idea that adults used sentences; so far as the toddlers knew, adults used gibberish, just as they were. One spoke, the other answered. It was an astonishing example of a rudimentary attempt at communication which was, to the participants, quite successful.

I relate this incident because I was reminded of it during an argument with Cammie. I made the mistake at some point of holding her up to the kitchen window. This is not a window to which the beasts can get to on their own. Well, it is, but they must walk across the kitchen counters to achieve it, and they are forbidden from doing this. Cammie was engrossed by what she saw and smelled through the window, and then, perhaps predictably, wanted to continue viewing the wide world from this unusual vantage point. She tried to do so on her own, and was told more than once to get off the counters. This is, I accept, my fault.

One time recently, I caught her on the kitchen table. This is, as the border reivers used to say, ‘debatable land’. The cats can go up there, but cannot spend much time there. All right, they can, but they must be fastidiously clean about it. All right, I wash the table afterward. Anyway, the princess was on her way to the counters. I knew that, she knew that, she was caught and I told her to get down. There ensued an argument.

I repeated my command, several times, and she retorted with what sounded like different responses each time. None of the responses sounded polite. I eventually had enough of her backtalk and told her to go to her room, or the equivalent. She jumped down, gave me a rude reply and hissed as she walked away.

The point is that Cammie was communicating with me in a rudimentary fashion, just as the children were. She was not imitating adults; she is an adult cat, and so was telling me off in a precise manner - the manner in which a cat will talk. I’m sure each response had meaning, and likely a different meaning than the one before, though they all probably corresponded to some insult regarding my parentage. The princess was, in an elementary way, countering my statements. We knew what each other meant, we knew what we were trying to tell one another. We were trying to get our views across. That is the essence of communication.

Too much should not be read into this exchange, of course. Yet animals do send messages to each other verbally. A pair of wild beasts, meeting by chance in the forest, will issue, and respond to, challenges. This is, I believe, accepted as fact by most people. Cammie and I were not fighting, but the pattern of our exchange was similar: a short remark on my part, followed by her peevish reply. So I don’t think it’s unreasonable to claim that we were communicating, having a conversation, albeit primitive.

Being limited in what they can say cats will signify intent and meaning in action, as well as sound. And we humans, not always able to convey our purpose to animals, will do the same. Now and then, though, we find common ground for speech, and grunt and squeal and yell like cave-dwellers who haven’t yet devised language. There is often understanding, nonetheless, just as in the case of the cave-dwellers.

But all this doesn’t mean Cammie wasn’t up on the table, the counter and at the window after I’d gone to sleep.

The Trespassers

I am suffering through a minor pestilence. My apartment has ants. Living on the ground floor of a building, and in an apartment that is half-subterranean, I expect the odd ant, and since I moved in, I have found a few such trespassers. That bothers me little. But it is colonising season, that exciting time in a young ant’s life when he or she takes wing (literally) and flies off to strange and wondrous lands to start a new community. This annoys me somewhat more, as an older colony is apparently just outside one of my external walls and is using a very small portion of my home as a staging area.

The affected spot is indeed small, against a wall and behind a bookcase. But from there, the flying ants try to exit through my screen door to the outside world. They do not have Cammie’s experience of screens and thus cannot simply force their way through. Consequently, I have been vacuuming the unfortunate emigrants up as they appear.

This is not a satisfactory solution, and I have purchased ant-traps. These work along the lines of providing tasty but poisonous food for the insects that the unsuspecting workers carry home for the whole colony to enjoy in a heady bacchanal that becomes their last meal. That is the theory. Not having used this variety before, I was surprised and amused to read this printed warning on the hockey puck shaped tin: “Warning: contains the allergen peanut butter.” The device must contain some deadly insecticide as well and yet the warning is of the a spread found in every grocery store. I wonder if I can get ant-traps containing jam or mayonnaise… I assume that the manufacturer is not counting on the ants being allergic to this confection, but instead uses it as a lure, along the lines of the ants’ rural cousins being attracted to treats at a picnic.

Then again, considering the effect of the traps, the peanut butter may be the sole ingredient meant to destroy the insects, because the traps are dealing no kind of death among the intruders. The ants seem to come and go; I really only see them during the heady moments when a new wave of explorers is ready to be sent off. But at those times, they appear quite immune to the poison in the ant-traps. They aren’t even made the least bit woozy by the peanut butter.

I am sure the ants’ activity will subside in a couple of weeks, once all the young ’uns are despatched to their brave new worlds. Even so, I was hoping to rid myself of their old world in the meantime. If anyone reading this knows of an effective means of destroying ants, preferably by the colony rather than individually, without endangering cats - or humans - I would appreciate any information.

In the meantime, I will leave you with a picture of Renn, immediately after I explained to him that we have ants. His bravery carries him only so far.