I Like the Mood I'm In

I’m sailing down the summer wind.
I’ve got whiskers on my chin,
And I like the mood I’m in.
As I while away
The time of day
In the lee of Christian Island.

          “Christian Island (Georgian Bay)”
          Written and sung by Gordon Lightfoot

I am on holiday. Astonishingly, though the days are moving more quickly than they do when I am at work, they contain more time for the important things in my life. These may not seem important, but they are. I read, I ride my bicycle (to nowhere in particular), I listen to music, I write, and spend time with the cats. This is a self-indulgent season of my year and, selfish fellow that I am, I make no apology for it.

Though I go nowhere, I nonetheless spend these weeks in the lee of my own Christian Island.

It's Holiday Time Again!

I start my holidays at noon today, and will be gone from my job for three weeks. I won’t be going anywhere - just not to work. That’s quite all right. The relaxation of being able to sleep more, setting my own schedules - when they aren’t set by the cats - and having time to do things that are important to me, rather than simply necessary - will be the real holiday. That and being able to spend whole days with the beasts.

I will be writing entries for my blog during this period. They may not be published as frequently as usual, nor will I be visiting other blogs as often, but I will be around. However, these roommates of mine will see rather more of me than is normal. And I think that will be time well spent.

The Breath of Life. Or Something.

Cats are always discovering new things. Perhaps it’s because they are not in control of their world, and we humans keep introducing things that, while they may be mundane to us, represent novelty to them. Or perhaps they simply find life more interesting than we do.

Whatever the reason, Cammie has hit upon a new routine. After dark, she may often be found in the bedroom on her old cat-tree, or at the window. It will nearly be time for bed, and I will have just brushed my teeth. The princess has found that after I attend to my oral hygiene, my breath smells intriguing. In truth, it smells slightly mint-like, due to the toothpaste. But it is a new discovery for Cammie.

Upon my entry to the bedroom, she will leap from the cat-tree on to the bed and want to smell me. I breathe in her face - not something I generally do, as I find it impolite and even offensive, but she seems to like it. Two and a half years ago, I wrote an entry for this blog called ‘Onion Loopy’. This described the strange effect the smell of onions has on Cammie. Having inhaled the not unpleasant odour of this vegetable, the princess threw herself on the floor, twisted and turned, rolled and spun. She does the same thing after smelling my breath. Yes, my breath has an effect on Cammie similar to that of onions.

Anyway, now, most evenings, Cammie will hurry up to me and want to smell my breath. I oblige, as it is a small thing, and she appears to enjoy it. And the fact that it reminds her of onions does its bit to keep me humble. Cats really know how to bring a person down to Earth. That, however, is hardly a discovery for me.

No Tipping, Please

The water-bowl is a necessity in most cat-households. In some cases, it is replaced by a fountain, and in others by a dripping tap. Sometimes, one will find a combination of these sources of essential sustenance. But in my apartment, there is the bowl - three, actually. And periodically, I will discover one of them has been emptied, and the little food mat on which it stands, damp.

In the old house, cats pursued by others, or simply feeling high spirits, would crash into a bowl now and then, spilling its contents. That hasn’t happened in the new apartment, as the bowls are more out of the way. Yet, I have found, albeit infrequently, one bowl in particular devoid of its hitherto copious contents. I have been wondering how this occurred. Now, I think I have my answer.

One evening recently, I caught Renn in the midst of one of his studies. Renn has, as readers may be aware, rather a scientific bent, and water seems to be a special interest. He watches how it ripples and shimmers, catching the light. He stirs it delicately with a paw, and observes the effects. He will peer at it from different angles. I think he has taken his experiments a step further, to determine what happens when water spills.

This series of photographs doesn’t show the moment when his paw rested on the rim of the bowl. It does depict what I think is a mildly guilty expression afterward, however.

I am not upset with my big boy. I may have to buy a sturdier bowl, one less easily tipped. But Renn’s experiments are not conducted often, and there is an absorbent mat under the bowl for when they are. I will await events. Renn is a well-behaved cat with good manners, but now and then his curiosity triumphs over his restraint. I don’t mind waiting on him, and serving another, re-filled bowl of water.

But please, no tipping.

A Kind of Treasure Hunt

As an addendum to the article I wrote about Josie’s sensitive stomach, which by the way, was rather timely, as it turned out, I would like to append this observation.

On my days off, I still rise at six to give Tucker his insulin injection. At the same time, I provide the beasts their soft-food breakfasts. I want to make sure the roly poly has something to eat with his medicine, so I feed them all. Then I go back to bed; most mornings, I again fall asleep. This morning, as I drifted off, I heard the unmistakeable sounds of wretching. A cat was throwing up.

It would have been far too late to leap from bed and try to do something about it. So I took note of the three regurgitations I heard (which indicated that it was Josie’s doing) and went to sleep. I would clean everything up later. Or so I thought.

 

Finding a deposit left by a cat is rather like a treasure hunt. A treasure hunt with one of the worst prizes available. But like a search for a pirate’s hidden hoard, it is not always successful. I sought Josie’s vomit high and low (only a pet owner would make such a boast) but could not find it.

There were three possible reasons for this: my Chubs had not actually allowed anything to escape but had caught it in mid-flight, as it were; she or another cat had cleaned it for me, an unpleasant scenario and one that would even so have probably left behind some residue; it was in a secret spot that I would find later, hopefully not much later.

This happens from time to time. Though I like to keep a hygienic home, there are instances when I must admit defeat and give up the search. Having abandoned a house in which this occurred several times over five years, and not having located any refuse lying in obscure corners, I am not really worried about my record of cleanliness.

Still, there are examples of finding the mother lode, or at least a rich vein, at another time, a discovery that, like the solution of a mystery, brings a satisfactory if, in this case, rather disgusting, conclusion to the adventure. There are all kinds of treasure to be found in the world, but that anxiously sought, and often found, by cat-fanciers is, I think, unique.

 

The Good Manners of a Sensitive Stomach

Josie has a sensitive stomach. She always has had, and though most of the time it affects her not at all, now and then it results in her regurgitating her food, usually very soon after she eats it. I don’t feed her too much all at once for that reason, as too much too fast tends to encourage dietary movement in the wrong direction. I have consulted veterinarians about this in the past, and the verdict was, simply, that my Chubs has a sensitive stomach.

Though it is not a daily occurrence, nor even weekly, this periodic gastric disclaiming of nutrition is the reason I laid cheaper rugs over the carpets in my new apartment. In the old house, hardwood and linoleum flooring predominated. There was still plenty of fabric on which a cat might throw up: a rug in the sitting room, the bedspread, couches and chairs, and cat-trees. Herein lies the tale.

Josie developed the habit of hurrying to the nearest bare floor when she felt the need to discharge from the wrong end. It seems unlikely, but for years, when I could catch her in time, I had been depositing an explosive cat on hardwood or linoleum. After the event, I would console the beast to the best of my ability. The outcome, I imagine, was that Josie, in particular, came to believe that throwing up on hard floors was much preferred to doing so on beds or armchairs.

In numerous instances, I would hear the tell-tale heaving of a disgruntled belly and be in time to see my Chubs trundling quickly down the steps at the end of the bed, or attempting to reach the edge of the sitting room rug, all before she upped her chuck.

Now, we move forward chronologically to the new apartment. There is carpet in the majority of the new home, save the kitchen, dining area, bathroom and store-room. These spaces are small compared to those that are carpeted. So I laid down rugs over them. The trouble is, I believe, that Josie has conceived the notion that it is not so much throwing up on bare floor that is acceptable, but not throwing up on the first layer of floor-covering. In other words, if she can make it off the cheap rugs, she will find favour with the human. But the cheap rugs do not mask the entirety of the fitted carpets. So the Great White, following her habit in the house, seeks the edge of what she thinks is the no-go area, and then opens the valves.

Several times, she – or Tucker – has voided the gullet on to the rugs; they are serving their purpose. But almost as often, Josie appears to exert herself to leave the rugs and reach the carpet.

I have no idea if my theory is correct. I think it is. I of course cannot become angry at Josie, or any other cat, when she regurgitates, no matter where it is. But I am doubly reluctant to show annoyance when the beast performs what she thinks is the satisfactory drill in the case. My plan now is gently to seize the appropriately vomitous animal when I hear the wretching call and try to plant their wobbly feet on bare floor. They may eventually learn the intended lesson.

Until then, I must simply smile and know that with cats, as with people, good manners are sometimes a matter of trying, rather than achieving.

The Joker

Tucker is fully recovered from his surgery. He’s a little pickier about his soft-food now but other than that, he is well. How do I know? He’s been playing practical jokes on his siblings.

I have noticed two examples of this behaviour, one before the surgery and one after. It is a simple prank. The litter-boxes are located in a store-room, the door to which is always kept ajar. On two occasions, when a cat has gone into the store-room for the necessary event, Tucker has stationed himself behind the door. When the cat emerges, the roly poly one startles him or her, then runs off.

I first saw it done with Cammie. The princess doesn’t have a deep sense of humour. She knows how to enjoy herself but if she were human, laughter would not be her predominant activity. When she came out of the store-room, Tucker leaped at her, and though no contact was made, it caused Cammie to jerk back, flatten her ears and hiss violently. She thinks herself under attack even in the most benign circumstances, and this was not those. The prank nearly gave her a seizure. Tucker, however, gamboled off to the sitting room, well satisfied with his joke.

After his dental operation, Tucker recovered reasonably swiftly, and later that week, I observed Renn go to the litter-boxes. Tucker took up his place behind the door. My big boy’s reaction was not as jarring as Cammie’s, though he did jump a bit. This did not appear to appease the joker, for he lunged at Renn again a second or two later, effecting a verbal complaint from the big boy. This was good enough for Tucker, who then trotted away again, to chuckle over his misdeed.

I initially thought of remonstrating with the roly poly sausage over his conduct. But I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Besides, I am gone at least nine hours out of every workday. What I had witnessed surely had transpired during one of my absences. Yet I have not come home to blood and bodies. So the beasts are surviving Tucker’s antics. And I’ve seen both his victims get back at him in one form or another, so the universe retains its equilibrium. And I get a chuckle out of the joker.