National Cat Day

Tomorrow is National Cat Day. To those of us who have cats, every day is a ‘cat day’; every day is filled with taking care of them, feeding them, cleaning their litter-boxes and cleaning the cats themselves, if need be. We play with them, talk to them, keep them safe, every day. So why is there a National Cat Day?

Firstly, I think simply calling the event ‘national’ limits its scope. The purpose of the day is to make people aware of the need to rescue homeless and abused cats, and to celebrate those felines who have families and friends, and the positive effect those cats have on us. If this is indeed the reason for the day, then restricting it to any one country is like trying to rid only one country in the world of poverty. We need not simply start here, or there. One person trying to make a difference must begin somewhere, but if an entire planet is involved in solving a problem, then a beginning may be made everywhere.

This internationalism of Cat Day emphasizes its purpose. We who have cats in our lives know their value. This day is similar to a recruitment drive by a social club: it’s not so much for those who already belong, but for those who don’t. Yet by telling others about our cats, and our lives with cats, we most effectively spread the word about these astonishing creatures.

Though I have four cats now, my feline family started with one. Her name was Tungsten. She was already seven when I adopted her; at least, that’s at what her age was estimated. For seven and a half years, she was my friend. She was much like myself: introverted and quiet, active to an extent but preferring a relaxing evening at home. Neither of us cared for politics and we were both terrible at tennis. So we were a good fit.

Tungsten, and those who came after her - Josie, Renn, Tucker, Cammie, and my foster-cats (Lincoln, Mystery, Wixie, Devon, Rachael, Bear-Bear, Kola, Noah) - were more than just companions. Cats are teachers; teachers of patience and calm, of logical thinking and of dealing with illogical beings. They force us to manage finances and to understand medicine; to plan and to improvise, and to resign ourselves to failure at times. They show us responsibility, for they are living creatures entirely dependent on our ability to care for them.

But even if they were none of these things, they would remain, at the very least, our friends. And that, certainly, is reason enough for them to have their own day.

Tungsten died on March 26th, 2015.

Asleep Amid the Raspberries

Sometimes, my entries don’t need many words to accompany the pictures. This is my princess, snoozing on a Sunday afternoon in a heated cat-bed. Needless to say, I let her stay like this as long as she liked.

Breakable Upon Use

Last night, I was cleaning out the litter-boxes, as I usually do before bed. Some people drink warm milk, some read, others listen to music. I scoop unmentionable crap from big plastic boxes filled with desiccated corn chips. I’d like to claim it as a long-standing family tradition, handed down through the generations. It’s not.

Anyway, some of the beasts will wet against the inside walls of the box, so I press the scoop against the wall to free the resultant clump. Usually, the worst that happens is that the clump breaks apart. This time, the scoop broke apart. It didn’t just break; it snap and sent a shower of used litter all over the storeroom. These things, like Tucker getting into the old house’s fireplace, or Josie throwing up, tend to occur just after I shower and just before I go to bed. Timing is everything.

The picture was taken once the crime-scene was cleaned up. After all, the bowl of the scoop was still operable. Unfortunately, it’s as close to using my hands as I’ve yet come, and closer than I wanted to. I determine to buy a new scoop the next day.

I was already planning to go to the local Dollarama, so I decided to buy a scoop there. The Dollarama is the twenty-first century’s version of the old Five-and-Dime Stores – for those of us who are old enough to recall them – or the old Woolworth’s – for those of us in Canada or Britain. The new scoop was cheap but serviceable. It was, in fact, almost identical, but for colour, to the old one.

It snapped in two the first time I used it. I recall a rake that did the same thing: the handle shattered within seconds of applying the tool to leaves. The difference is that leaves feel much less unhygienic to the touch than does the product one must scoop. This photograph I took immediately subsequent to the incident. I think I wanted proof that it had transpired yet again.

I was not fooling around this time. I went to the pet-supply shop where I buy cat-food and litter and bought a heavy-duty scoop. Steel bowl, titanium handle, with battery-powered solid-fuel thrusters for propulsion and gyroscopic stabilizers to maintain equilibrium, and micro-chip relays to satellites in geo-synchronous orbit for topographically accurate guidance. All right, it was thicker plastic than the previous two. And it stayed in one piece.

I will buy another, cheap scoop as a reserve, but I don’t anticipate the current one breaking any time soon. But if it does, no one gets to use the litter-boxes until I buy a replacement.

Explorations Farther Afield

This week’s theme seems to be sleep, or beds in which to do so. Continuing that notion, I would like to present Cammie, once more. Having re-discovered the cylinder-house cat-tree, she went on to break new ground all together.

Though she had experimented with the armchair in the library, I had never seen her try those in the sitting room. But during the weekend, there she was, curled up and stretched out. Perhaps the princess, having found so far exactly what is comfortable and what is not, is expanding her horizons, to make sure all of her domain is explored.

Certainly, she seemed to enjoy her test in this case, though she has not been back up on the armchairs since Saturday. But I am simply glad to provide her and her roommates with as many options for relaxation and ease as possible.

The Lonely Cat-bed

Sleep is important in our household. I never have enough. The cats seem to suffer a surfeit of it. ‘Suffer’ may be the wrong term, though, since they don’t appear to be in distress over receiving too much rest. There are many places to indulge their visits to Morpheus, from the bed, to couches and chairs, to cat-trees, as was shown in yesterday’s article.

There are also the cat-beds. They were resorted to less during the summer, but now that the cold is creeping back over the landscape, the heating pads are back under the beds’ cushions, and the beasts are curling up there in comfort. Well, they are curling up in one of the beds.

I have two. Last winter, when we were newly ensconced in the apartment, both beds were in frequent use. Cammie, in particular, liked the farther one. Though it was near the external wall, it was also against the heating pipes so that, with the electric pad underneath, she would receive warmth from two directions. I think she also found the isolation from her roommates to be pleasant.

This year, however, the farther cat-bed is abandoned. No one has considered using it at all. Cammie has chosen to curl up in the nearer bed, and risk the proximity of the other beasts; they have used it, as well. So far, the cat-bed by the cd-cabinet in the corner is forlorn.

If this apathy toward the farther cat-bed continues, I may have to move it to more congenial locations. That’s too bad, because it fills an otherwise empty spot, and I don’t have much available floor-space elsewhere. Putting it where it will be more readily noticed is, I think, a solution; once it is used, I can try moving it, gradually, back to its far corner. But first things first: I have to get a body into it.

It’s a shame it’s been abandoned, as it looks both comfortable and warm. I may end up using it myself.

Cast Out

It was a few days after Cammie’s re-discovery of the cylinder-house cat-tree that I found this melancholy scene in my apartment. I initially saw Renn sitting near the front door, staring. He does that quite a bit; staring, seemingly into space. Sometimes, he is studying something of great interest, evaluating it, learning what he can and storing it in the vast library of his knowledge. Sometimes, he is just staring into space.

But this time, there was a third option. He was staring, plaintively, at the princess, who had taken over the cylinder-house cat-tree for the evening.

Cammie, of course, did not care. She was asleep. If she was not, she was feigning sleep to show her apathy to her roommate’s feelings. Periodically, it’s tough having brothers and sisters. Sometimes, life is sad. Eh, Renn?

Tucker at My Table

Of my cats, only Tucker keeps me company when I eat. None of the others gives my dining a first thought, let alone a second. But the roly poly one likes to sit in a favourite spot, a dining table chair. For much of the meal, he watches me, hoping for a small share of what I am having. This is what I see while I eat.

Perhaps needless to write, he usually gets a little portion. Equally needless to write, it’s probably why Tucker is known as the roly poly one.