The Old Campaigner

This is one of the feral cats I hope to capture. I’ve named him Raleigh.

He looks rough and battered. There is something amiss with his left eye, blood or pus leaked out near it or from it at some recent point. I think he is old and possibly deaf. He is polydactyl.

He doesn’t seem to be quite a part of the feral colony behind my work-place. The other cats brush by him without fear, but he appears at times when the other cats are elsewhere, probably sleeping. He shows up in the heat of an afternoon, and tonight, he was sitting in this chair when I arrived to check the traps I left out. The other cats came by later.

No one went into the traps, least of all Raleigh. I think he is an experienced fellow, perhaps once having belonged to a human, but now fallen on hard times. He wanted food but was wary of the cages. He was not so wary of me. Brandishing a dish of soft-food like the magic wand it is, I crept close to Raleigh, close enough to push the dish under his nose. I was twenty inches away, and he kept eating even while I spooned food into the dish.

I’ve not seen him eat together with the others, though he will come at feeding times, and sit on the verge of the group, hoping. He looks solid, but his fur is thick, and it may be that there isn’t much else to him. But he ate well tonight.

I have new tactics ready for my next evening of trapping. It will involve less time, perhaps as little as an hour each night, but it will be much closer to the time when their care-taker comes to feed them, so they will be congregating, hungry, and expecting food. I hope Raleigh isn’t too much of an old campaigner to be lured inside a cage. He may be sick, or he simply may be old and tired, one of life’s discards who deserves much better than he has received.

Even if I can’t trap him, I will watch out for him, and maybe make his old age a little easier.

Today's Lesson

I think we all know the old saying, ‘What doesn’t kill me makes me kick myself for being stupid’.

Tonight was what has come to be called a ‘learning experience’. When I was young, it was called a ‘failure’. Well, it wasn’t as bad as that. I did learn a lesson which will be applied tomorrow or in the next few days.

I set the two traps for the feral cats of the colony behind my work-place. As I had mentioned previously, I wanted to avoid capturing the skunks who also frequent the vicinity. I initially placed one trap near the far fence, and one near the building’s rear door. The former trap I thought might be liable to catch skunks. I watched as two skunks, indubitably the juvenile versions of the pups I had seen a couple of months ago, frolicked between the cats I wanted to catch, and the food that I wanted to lure them. The skunks eventually showed far too much interest in the food, so I set both traps by the rear door. The skunks have not been known to venture near there.

I came back about seven-thirty. I was pleased to see that I had caught two prisoners. I had been hoping to catch a big, rough-looking pale-orange boy, but I had trapped instead two of the many black-and-white cats who comprise the feral colony. Well, that was something, at least. Yes, it was something, but it was not cats. I had trapped two skunks.

I’m not sure if anyone reading this has squatted two feet away from a pair of terrified skunks, in mortal fear of their lives, cringing inside tiny cages. If anyone has, you may suspect that my fright was worse than the skunks’. Has anybody ever died from being sprayed by a skunk? I doubt it. Has anyone ever suffered dismemberment, disembowelment, head trauma? Unlikely. But as I pondered the situation, I wished that I were facing a couple of enraged dogs at that moment. Dogs I could defend myself against. Not effectively, of course, but in my mind, a canine assault was infinitely better than what I was facing.

One trap had a rear door. The second, I discovered with a little dismay, did not. But it didn’t matter: both skunks were pressed back against the rear doors of their respective cages, their tails up and, presumably, scent glands armed. I would have to let them out the front gates.

I considered using one of the blankets I had with me. They were ready to cover the traps when transporting captured cats. You know, after the inevitably successful operation of this evening. I put the blanket up in front of me as a shield. Then I saw that this heightened the poor skunks’ fear. Besides, I needed both hands to raise the rings that worked as latches on the gates.

I approached the pair as I would frightened cats. Speaking low, speaking slow, speaking confidently, I told them that everything was all right, and that they were in no danger. I imagine this had as much effect as trying to coax a ticking bomb into not detonating. Keeping both eyes on the first skunk’s direction – he faced me the whole time – I slowly managed to lift the front gate. I propped it open with the blanket enough to find a long metal pole to insert under the gate. This done, I withdrew both the blanket and myself to a safe distance. Off went the first skunk.

The process was repeated with the second. This one had, apparently, not eaten the bait before he found himself cornered. He was not about to leave without getting something for his troubles. He was still licking the bowl fifteen minutes later when I grew bored with his sense of justice and departed, leaving the cage door propped open. I intend to return after dark to close it, though I doubt that any cats will be in danger of being trapped at that time. Not finding any more food, they will have left, as well.

That was today’s adventure. All this time, numerous cats watched me. They were all around me, as if taunting me. I thought, “I’ll get you my pretties, and your little kittens, too!”

Tomorrow, I will call the veterinary hospital and find out when the next opening will be for feral cat surgeries. This evening’s procedure will be repeated, but I will place the traps on a table, which skunks cannot climb. I should have done that in the first place, but I didn’t think the little stinkers came this far from their stomping grounds. A lesson has been learned. I have, in the meantime, faced down the ferocious beasts and emerged triumphant. Actually, I grappled at awkward cage doors with shaking hands, begging an equally scared animal not to hurt me. Potayto potawto.

Operation Slim Pickens

This week, I have begun the operation to spay and neuter the cats in the feral colony behind my work-place. This was attempted once before by another person, and some cats were missed, which is easily done, but which of course largely negates the efforts expended. There is no reason to believe that I won’t miss some of the cats, leaving them to reproduce, nothing except that there are fewer cats to fix this time.

Initially, I tried to interest the city’s new animal welfare committee in helping me. Managing feral colonies is one of its purposes. Delays in its operational approval led me to look to another group for help. This organisation will pay for the spaying and neutering of several cats. Traps have been provided, and arrangements made with a local veterinary hospital for surgeries. One of my biggest worries was obviated when I was told that the hospital did not want the cat removed from the trap. I was anxious about how to transfer it from the cage-like trap to a carrier. It is, I gather, standard practice to anaesthetise the cat in the cage, then return him to it when the surgery is done. As far as the feline will know, he will have never left it.

Time for the surgeries is reserved for next Monday. I will set the traps Sunday. Ideally, I will catch two cats, take them to my place, where they will remain in the bathroom, covered with blankets, floored with soaker-pads, provided with water but no food for the twelve hours prior to their operations. I will then take a little time off from work Monday morning, go with them to the hospital, and collect them later in the day. They will then be returned to the colony.

There are several factors that could complicate the process. One is a mother-skunk who has been hanging about, eating the food put out for the cats. The latter seem not too troubled by this interloper. They may think she is simply a foreign cat; perhaps with a thick accent. I would prefer not to trap her, or any of her little skunklings. Secondly, there may be a few wasted trips, for, though some of the colony needs to be fixed, others have already been; I won't really have a way of knowing which is which. However, these are problems up with which I will have to put, if need be.

This flurry of activity to spay or neuter was occasioned by the birth of five kittens just as I was going on holiday at the beginning of June. I had been trying less enthusiastically than I should have to see something done at the colony previously, but when Beulah (as I have named her) produced kittens, I figured something needed to be accomplished. (Beulah is not, in case you were wondering, Adah’s mother; the timing is not right.) The little mama is very young herself - though an excellent parent - too young to keep going through this. A bonus, though, has been the reaction of a charity housed next door: the volunteers there want to adopt all of Beulah’s kittens. One has already been captured, taken to the veterinary and given a new home. The other four will have homes as soon as they are captured. The volunteers are working from their location on seizing the kittens when they can: half-socialised, the little ones come within reach, but, until I loaned them a cat-carrier, the volunteers had no way to imprison them. Now, they do.

As you can see, there are several groups and people allied in this effort. All depends on trapping the adults, of course. I call this operation ‘Slim Pickens’ because I want there to be slim pickin’s if choosing among the colony’s cats in the future, but I hope I am not riding the biggest bomb in my cat-rescue career.

A Visit from Adah

Adah came by for a visit yesterday. She had been to the veterinary hospital for a check-up, and her foster-guardian asked if I would like to see her. Of course, I did; so I was able to hold the kitten I first held when she was less than a day old.

Adah is now aged about fourteen weeks. She is active and curious - you may be astonished at how difficult it is to photograph a kitten who is in a new environment, meeting new people. Or you may not be. But it is. Out of the fifty-one pictures I took, four were good enough to publish. One of them looks like Adah is being strangled, but she is in fact receiving a chin-rub, which she enjoys.

As you can see, her ringworm is almost completely gone; the hair on the last portion of her long tail is re-growing, as is that on her ears. Numerous people held and petted and fussed over the little one, though, to be honest, I think all she wanted was to explore.

This little gem is ready for adoption. She, and four other kittens, are on the Lethbridge PAW Society web-site (http://www.pawsociety.com/Kittens2018.html). If you live in or near Lethbridge, Alberta, and have been thinking of adopting a kitten - or two - take a look at these wonderful little cats. I am told by her foster-guardian that Adah is not a loner, loves attention and human company. She would also do well with a feline friend, perhaps an older pal from whom to learn, or another kitten, with whom she can play. She is chums with Tucker (not my Tucker; another, much younger Tucker), who is also available for adoption.

Adah is one of the explosion of kittens we’ve had this year in the city. Rescue groups all over are dealing with more this year, I think, than in previous years. If you have a cat, please neuter or spay it, and if you are thinking of adopting, think of adopting two. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying goes - and kittens don’t even weigh a pound. At first.

Three-dimensional Snoozing

It’s funny how some cats interact. Parker has taken to snoozing on the dining table. He started doing it to remind me to take him for his walk in the evenings, lying in front of me while I write. He evidently liked the location, for whatever reason, and has taken to spending a great deal of time there.

Tucker, on the other hand, continues to favour the outer-most chair at the same table, with its soft cushion. The strange thing about these two is that, while the roly poly dislikes the orange-boy, and will swat at him if he passes beneath the chair, there is no concern or agitation if Parker snoozes on the table-top above Tucker.

This pair - Tucker wanting Parker gone from the cosy apartment and Parker wishing to avoid any contact with Tucker - will lie within inches of each other, as long as they are on different levels. When they are on the same surface, there is friction and, possibly, trouble. It is like a game of three-dimensional chess, of which only these two know the rules.

I am content, therefore, to leave them as they are. Perhaps some day they will extend their truce to other planes. Until then, they have played to a draw on this one.

Neglected Treasures

I have cat-toys all over the apartment, littering the floors, where I step on them at least seven times a day, especially the milk-jug rings. I suspect them of actually moving at the last second to a spot under my feet. For the most part, these toys are ignored. I should pack them up and put them away.

But every now and then, one which has been neglected is re-used. I can never determine which it will be, or when it will happen. Yesterday, after months of ignorance, the last remaining “tackle-fish” enjoyed a brief renaissance. Tucker rubbed his face against it for a couple of minutes, and then snoozed with it.

How can I pack it away? How can I throw out any toy, or give any away, when it may be used at any moment, after an age of disregard? So the toys will continue to litter my apartment floor, causing me to mis-step every couple of paces, walking like Walter Brennan in To Have and Have Not. They are like that shirt that was too horrendous to wear even in the 1970s, that may be needed for a costume party, or the textbook on Esperanto that you won’t throw out because one day, in a burst of internationalism, you may actually want to learn that language. I sometimes wonder if hoarders don’t have a pathological compulsion to retain things, they just have cats.

Morning Glory

For a moment, on the last day of July, this year, this was the sunrise over the town in which I live. However the day turned out, it started with this beauty.

I thought I would publish this picture to show that while my life is mostly about cats, it’s not all about cats. Mostly, but not all. Mostly, though.