One of Those Mysteries

Life with cats is full of mysteries, usually small and transient.

Tuesday, I came home from work and, as normal, Valkyrie greeted me and wanted to know what I had brought back. Imogen wandered by, nodded acknowledgement, and passed into the bathroom to await me there. The others rarely say ‘hello’ upon my return, but Moxy usually does. This afternoon, he did not.

After calling his name and cursorily searching for him, I grew worried. He isn’t one to try to sneak out, and I am careful about such things. Nonetheless, I couldn’t find him until I looked under the bed. There he was. He appeared nervous or frightened, and didn’t come out despite my urgings. It was not until the sweeping and scooping and other things that need doing upon my return were completed, and dinner was in the offing, that he emerged, coming up to me, rubbing against me and acting as if nothing had been untoward.

The Mixer had not done anything like that before. It was as if he had been scared or threatened. My first thought upon finding him - the likeliest event, in fact - was that he had come too close to Indigo, who would have reacted with hostility. Yet there was no sign of a physical altercation, no tufts of fur; out of the bedroom is where he would have fled, I would think, if such a thing had occurred, not under the bed. If there had been an intruder, I would have found more than just Moxy under the bed; other cats would have been hiding, if not there, then elsewhere.

But it ended without fuss and, apparently, without lasting harm. This will be one of those little mysteries that cat-owners find scattered through their lives, never explained and, hopefully, never repeated.

Sable and Her Friends

It is interesting to watch Sable’s progression. While still wary of any physical approach I make that is too close, she is accustomed to my presence, will walk into a room in which I am sitting or standing, and will allow me closer if I am bringing her food.

But now she plays with toys. I’m sure she learned to do so from watching the other cats, especially Valkyrie, who is very active and cares nothing for who may be near or observing. Sabe’s playfulness is still tentative: the pictures of her at the door to the bedroom tried to capture her pushing about a fuzzy mouse, but her actions were too sporadic and cautious for display. She was a bit more active Saturday, while knocking about a toy in the kitchen. I tried to put that on video but, after a slow, careful advance, all I could record was a black lump moving like a jiggly pudding under the dining table.

This morning brought an interesting development. I was downstairs in the library, sweeping up cat-litter prior to scooping the boxes, with Sable watching me from the couch. Valkyrie always follows me when I descend to the library, and often Moxy and Brazil follow her. Those three were trotting about the couch, and when Mox passed beneath where Sable was sitting, she started talking to him in her hooting yelp. When Valk walked the same path, though, Sabe was quiet. I’ve written before about a possible friendship between Sable and the Mixer; I think this is another aspect of it.

My former outsider-cat has, I think, reached the point at which I can call her semi-feral, rather than feral. With help from her new friends, she might some day drop the feral designation all together.

Some Cats are Rarely Still

It’s funny how some cats are lap-cats and some aren’t, even if they like attention. Imogen is now a lap-cat, and Moxy is; they will stay for a long time. Brazil will remain on my lap for a few minutes’ petting, if I place him there to begin with, and Indigo is similar, expressing an interest in being on my lap, enjoying it for a while, then jumping off. Neville will lean over my lap for chin-rubs.

Valkyrie has been on my lap, but prefers to lie beside me, if she is near me at all. To be honest, she is too active for that, needing to roll and twist when I am stroking her fur. Her paws are always going, and she will become carried away and try to nip me, though she stops when I insist that she does. She seems disappointed when she has to stop, though.

Some cats just don’t see the reason for being still.

The Heights of Felinity

Most cats seem to enjoy heights. When the rescue-group of which I am part adopts out cats, we always make sure, or at least recommend, that the new home will have a number of heights the cat or cats can scale, usually in the form of a cat-tree.

My crowd, for the most part, enjoys altitude. The top of the tallest cat-tree, a custom-made seven-footer, is a popular venue from which to watch the outside, the inside, or just to snooze. Valkyrie, Moxy, Brazil and even Neville have enjoyed its prospects, though Imogen likes the second-highest level; I believe the highest actually is a little restricted in what one can view from there, due to it being as high as the top edge of the front window. Then again, a cat doesn’t need a cat-tree to enjoy horizontal distance.

In the bedroom, meanwhile, Indigo is starting to discover the advantages of the cat-tree. I think she uses it mainly to put some space between her and her fellow felines.

But her use of height is a work in progress. Most of the time, she is the odd cat out.

Fitting In

Moxy sometimes likes lying under the soaker-pad in front of the cat-room litter-box. At first, I thought that finding the rumpled and displaced pad as often as I have was a sign of my cats playing around and under it. That still may be the case, but it also seems that the Mixer simply likes the feel of it against his body.

I wouldn’t mind it much, except that the pad is there not to catch an aim that has missed the box but to make removal of debris tossed from the box easier. As you can imagine, pushing and batting the pad about rather obviates its purpose.

Ironically, not only is Moxy a very clean cat, he himself throws about very little litter while using the box. Perhaps this is his way of showing that he can be like other cats.

Right, Brazil?

The Tired Lion

The trouble with a blog dedicated to one’s cats, especially if one has several of varying ages, is that the blog can be fun one day, and worrisome the next. This is the latter.

Neville seems to be having a problem urinating. I should add that it is not the terrible kind of problem, as if he were unable to wet, or if it were coming out in drips. It’s just that it now seems to be dampening the backs of his rear legs. Even a week ago, I would hear him in the litter-box and there would be a strong, steady stream hitting the back wall of the box. (Yes, it’s what cat-people do when their pets become old: we eavesdrop on their urination to make sure it sounds healthy…) If it were splashing back, it certainly hasn’t done so previously. Now, I am having to wash Nev’s legs more often than his bum, since they of course collect litter when they are wet.

This may be a temporary development, or it may depend on the venue: I haven’t been able to hear him in every box since this change. It may have to do with a weakening of his rear legs when standing still - unmanaged diabetes can lead to this. I do not believe that it is a change in the amount of urine, or its quality, since what he leaves behind remains satisfactory. I think it has to do with the strength of the stream. The cause of any alteration may be bad, or it may be simple age.

Nonetheless, it is something to watch; a visit to the veterinary may be in order. I suspect nothing will be found that can be improved upon. Possibly the old grey lion is just growing more tired.

The Usual Suspect

Last night, after I had a shower, I went downstairs to the library to make sure all was in order. I saw something on the floor. It was a bookmark; the one I was using for the book I am currently reading.

Someone - I won’t name whom I suspect - took it right out of the book where it reposed on the dining table and ran off to the basement with it.

I have a very good idea of who the culprit is, but I won’t say.

After all, there are a number of possibilities, so simply because one is the likeliest doesn’t mean that one is the guilty party.

I feel satisfied in not jumping to any conclusions.