Everything about Millie is small.
She is very light-weight, though she doesn’t seem under-weight. She has a little mouth that talks more than one would think - but in a tiny voice that can barely be heard; even her hisses are subdued. Her paws are minuscule, and it looks like she’s walking on little pins. She threw up a hairball the other day; it was the smallest hairball I’d ever seen: not more than half an inch long. Everything about Millie is small.
Except sometimes her eyes.
Relationships among cats are interesting to observe. I have commented recently about the friendship between Moxy and Sable, probably predicated upon their acquaintance previous to coming to live with me, which may be one of the reasons why Sabe hasn’t developed any significant comradeship with Brazil and Valkyrie, while Mox, priorly an insider/outside cat, has.
Something I have noticed about Sable and Moxy just recently is that Sable seems to have more invested in the friendship than does Moxy. While the latter will approach the former, brush up against her, sniff her, Sable is the one who usually initiates physical contact. I have watched her numerous times as she comes up to the Mixer and pushes her head against his, and even licks his face. She also ‘talks’ to him; giving her distinctive short yelp several times when she sees him.
Is this the natural progression of the comfort that came from a familiar face in a strange environment? Moxy, much more socialised than Sabe, was correspondingly comfortable with being in first the Cosy Apartment and then the Cosy Cabin, and less reticent to accept as friends other cats that he found there. Sable, on the other hand, has been chased a couple of times by Brazil, and seems to have interpreted Valk’s attempts to play with her as vague threats.
And so Moxy’s appeal to Sable is understandable, just as is Moxy’s less needy response to the other cat’s displays of friendship. I don’t expect Moxy to grow tired of Sable; he doesn’t appear to be the sort to shed relationships, but rather the sort to collect them. This dynamic, though, will give Sable the time required to explore the possibilities of growing closer to other felines, and to me, while giving her an anchor in her new world.
It is clear that those who claim that cats are naturally aloof and distant simply haven’t observed, or couldn’t be bothered to observe, how these fascinating animals interact with each other. Though there may be the loner among the species, cats, like humans, enjoy and thrive in friendships, and I am fortunate to experience them in the Cosy Cabin.
Happy Canada Day, everybody. Today is going to be hot here; the cats have already found their cool spots. I have the day off of work, of course, so will spend most of it with the beasts. They care little for nations and the affairs of mankind, so as long as they receive their rightful portions of food - which are rather less than they actually get, according to them - they will enjoy the holiday, as well.
I and a colleague at my work-place feed and water a small colony of feral cats. We conducted several operations over a few years aimed at spaying and neutering all the ferals we could catch - some may recall reading about those adventures - and we eventually got them all. Most of the kittens were put into homes. A number of the adults eventually disappeared, no doubt dying before their time, as is often the case with ferals; at least they did not reproduce before then. Those in the photographs below comprise the hard-core feral membership. In the first picture are Bijou (grey and white); Bauble (black and white facing the camera); Sonata (very dark tortoiseshell) and Fresca or Shasta (left side toward the camera; differentiating those two is very difficult); Shasta or Fresca is at the second dish, and Mirko is nearest the camera.
In the second photograph is Auvergne, who prefers to dine alone at his table for one. The third image is Auvergne when he was trapped, almost seven years ago. Perhaps tellingly, he was caught because he came to eat the bait before any of the others arrived. Even then, he was eating by himself.
All are male except for Sonata and Bauble, who, despite her slight size, produced the four last kittens I had to trap.
The ferals are doing well, considering their outsider lifestyle. Bijou has some matts but sheds the worst of them. They have suffered some visible infections but have recovered. They get along, though none seems to like Auvergne, and Mirko hisses at everyone. But at meal-times, I can pet them, and this morning, Mirko followed me after I set out the food, and asked for head-scratches. It’s the first time he’s done that. I think several of these, such as Mirk and Bijou, could be insider-cats, given a great deal of time and patience. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough foster-homes for the socialised cats who need them, never mind ferals.
But these ones are being fed, and given clean water. Where they go between meals, I cannot guess. I never see them except when food is in the offing, but I suspect they associate together in their free time. They’ve survived frigid, wet winters and dry, blazing summers, and have lasted longer than most outsiders. We’ll take care of them for as long as we can, and, if need be, and if we are able, we will see them off at the end, when their times have run out. I imagine, however, they will, one by one, simply stop showing up for meals. That will sadden me. But we all stop showing up for our meals sooner or later; it’s what we do until then that matters; whom we meet, how we behave, and whether we abandon some our disadvantageous behaviour along the way. Just like these ferals in the morning.
Since I applied the same policy to the cat-room as I had to the library - blocking off the one wall against which Millie was wetting - she has used the litter-box exclusively. I have started again allowing the other cats into the cat-room while Mills is there, but only permitting one or two at a time, if they are quiet and still. Millie is coming out more and more but still doesn’t care for the other cats, any more than they do for her. The only ones who do not hiss at her are, predictably, Moxy and Neville. However, integration can take as long as it wants; the important thing is that our soft and smooth newcomer uses the litter-boxes, instead of a wall. I hope she doesn’t realize there are three other walls in the room…
In a strange twist, I think Sable is wetting outside the litter-box, too. At first, I blamed it, unfairly I now believe, on Millie. It occurred in the library, after all, but not against a wall. It was in the middle of the floor - much less troublesome to clean up and sanitise, if no less troubling, period. I thought it had occurred when Millie sneaked downstairs during one of her excursions out of the cat-room. I closed the door to the basement thereafter when Mills was free. The second time it happened, I wondered if I had indeed closed off the downstairs. The following times, though, the puddle was under the hammock that Sable often used; indeed, the hammock was a little wet with urine. The latest time, Sabe was still in the hammock, with some fluid under it and, as I saw when she vacated the bed, some on the fabric. This had transpired despite my washing it.
This is quite recent. Whoever is doing it - and I suspect Sable now - just started. I have removed the hammock to the storeroom, and the misdeed has not been repeated. If Sable has been habitually wetting outside the box, I would have found some other examples by now; if under the bed, where she still sometimes lies, I would have smelled it. I think this is a very rare instance, and related somehow to the place (the library) and the item (the hammock). What the cause is, I cannot say. Like Millie’s problem, it will likely be forever cloaked in mystery. But I can live with unsolved puzzles if they don’t recur.
How well Sable is integrating, not just into the gang of beasts but into the house and indoor life, pleases me immensely. In these bad photographs (one takes them quickly when Sable presents the opportunity), one can see recent progress. In the first, Sable is lying just within the sitting room, which is a new spot for her; it’s more comfortable on the carpet than the hard linoleum under the dining table. She even came into the sitting room while I was in it, relaxing on the couch.
The next photo depicts Sable finishing up some left-overs while Moxy looks on. I was at the kitchen basin, just a couple of feet away.
Then there is the image of Sable and the Mixer walking together into the sitting room. A few minutes later, Moxy jumped up onto the carpeted top of the bookcase under the window. Sable didn’t follow him; she as yet lacks the confidence to do so. Mox wasn’t trying to get away from her; he just didn’t think about her not coming with him. Soon, though, I expect to see Sable jumping up to lie under the window, as the other cats do. It wasn’t long ago that she first learned to leap up onto the bed.
With the help of her friend, and the examples of the other cats, Sable continues her journey from the feral life.
Sable is growing less wary of me. She still doesn’t care for me to come near, but her definition of ‘near’ is lessening. I can walk within two feet of her, and she will hurry past me within the same distance while on her way elsewhere. If I am bringing food or water, she will remain sitting or lying close by. She has also taken to lying in the sitting room, albeit close to the entrance from the dining area.
So far, I’ve found only one disadvantage to this reduction of caution. I sometimes mistake her for Imogen, and therefore approach too casually, too suddenly, causing her to take fright. Even if I pause to determine who is the black cat before me, it isn’t always clear. Sabe has a silver-tipped right ear (due to frostbite) and a notched left ear, and her tail has a crook in it. And Sable's face has rather a sad expression much of the time. But in gloom, or when her head is turned at an angle, identity is not always certain.
Though the fact that I can confuse the pair even at close quarters indicates that I can reach close quarters, and thus is a positive development, it still makes for periodic excitement.
What determines friendship among cats? Similar characteristics to those in human friendships?
I’ve written before that Moxy and Sable may have known each other outside the old Cosy Apartment. If they had, then the Mixer’s presence undoubtedly made Sable’s transition to the inside easier. A familiar face, a familiar smell; if they were not friends previously, they are now.
I took this picture this afternoon.
Tomorrow I return to work. It has been an enjoyable time in Idylland; very busy, as my holidays always are. They are the only period during which I have enough time to do many of the things that require doing. I accomplished a lot, from re-roping some of the cat-trees to scrubbing the bathtub to starting on the rescue-group’s calendar. I was able to spend more time with the beasts, though never enough, as far as I am concerned. Nonetheless, I was glad of the holiday, and look forward to next year’s. The way life is passing, that should be in a couple of months…
Little Millie is still playing by the rules and using her litter-box. She’s a sweet creature; she talks more than is at first apparent, because her voice is so quiet. Her purr is like the tiny gurgle of soup you want to simmer but which ends up boiling softly in the background while you concentrate on something else. She enjoys playing, but only for brief moments. Nonetheless, for a ten year old, she is fit and active. She will roll over for side-rubs and chin-scritches, and will tell you when she’s had enough.
It’s always fun coming to know a cat.
It occurred to me suddenly. Millie stopped wetting where she shouldn’t downstairs in part, I think, I because of the covered litter-boxes. But it was something else. She had been wetting against a wall. I blocked off the wall, with boxes and a freezer. She stopped wetting there. She did not seem to consider wetting against the obstacles, which constituted the ‘new wall’, as it were.
I decided to do the same in the cat-room. So far, in response, she has used the litter-boxes three times in two days, counting this morning, and has not wet anywhere else. This, despite there are still being unobscured walls elsewhere. There appears to be a mild obsession about certain locations; once they are denied her, Millie sees no alternative to the litter-box.
I have no idea how this will be explained to someone interested in adopting her. However, readers may note that one of the obstacles, seen in the photograph, is a cat-tree, with perfectly good access to the wall behind it. She has not wet there. This suggests that the real obstacle is anything that presents even a notional barrier to her preferred location for wetting. If this is the case, then I can gradually reduce the obstacles to something insubstantial, before removing them all together.
First things first, however. We will see if this policy, borrowed from her time in the library, will keep Millie focussed on the litter-boxes. I will then allow her to roam the rest of the house, when she wishes it, while keeping the other cats out of her safe-room. As with every controlled experiment, one factor needs to be confirmed first, before moving on to the next.
Let’s hope the subject doesn’t catch on to what I am doing.
Millie did not adjust to moving upstairs to the cat-room as well as I had hoped. She started wetting outside the litter-boxes again.
I think - or, perhaps, just hope - that the problem is that the other beasts were able to enter the cat-room too easily and too often. That was never the case when her safe-room was the library. I have changed the rules. Now, Mills can come out when things are quiet, for instance in the afternoon, or following a meal when the beasts are typically at rest, and no other cat can go into the cat-room. I want to re-establish that as her safe-spot. She dislikes the other cats right now, and having them in the cat-room when she needs that as her own was too much of a step forward.
After all, seeing these two ready to disturb your day might be too much for anyone.
I was seated at my computer during the weekend, and I heard a ‘whap’ from behind and above me. I turned and saw this.
Valkyrie has discovered the ceiling fan in the bedroom, and gave it an exploratory hit. Well, I’m sure she won’t bother doing anything to it. She was just curious.
Right?
“Mr Nibble! Mr Nibble!”
Neville raised his head wearily from where it had been resting on the warm green grass. The sun this morning was bright and unobscured, and had risen the temperature of the lawns outside the residences at the Cosy Cabin Feline Sanitarium to a very comfortable degree. Neville, the oldest cat currently at the sanitarium, was taking advantage of the day’s sunshine. The urgent but happy cries of Valkyrie, the youngest cat currently at the sanitarium, had disturbed that advantage.
“Neville. My name is Neville…”
Valk bounded over to the recently prone Neville with all the energy of her age and stopped abruptly in front of him.
“Do you know what today is?”
“Sunday.”
“No! It’s Fathers’ Day”
“It should be Fathers’ Day, since it belongs to all fathers, not just one.”
“What?”
“So what if it’s Father’s Day?”
“Dr Bellen says it is, and I think we should celebrate. Are you a father?”
“Am I…? No, no, I’m not. I don’t think so. It was a long time ago that I could think of such things.”
“Why? What happened?”
Neville peered wearily at the youngster, and was a about to explain, but merely sighed, and settled back down again.
“I don’t ‘member my dad. I don’t think I had one.”
“We all have fathers. It’s a biological necessity.”
“A what?”
“You had a father; I had a father; we all have them.”
“Then where are they?”
Neville opened his eyes, which he had hopefully closed. He realized that there was going to be no rest for him for the time being. Though other cats were lounging on the warm green grass, none was near by. The birds sang in the trees, and some of the younger cats gambolled after the sparrows and robins who landed on the ground, but they were not serious about catching them.
“Cats’ fathers are different than cats’ mothers,” explained Neville. “They don’t always stay with the children.”
“Why not?”
Neville sighed. Then frowned. To be honest to himself, he didn’t know why cat dads didn’t stay with their families. It seemed to him that this was the case with many animals.
“I’m going to ask around,” squawked Valkyrie. “Maybe other cats know their dads.”
The youngster turned and bolted from the lawn, running into one of the residences, where her thumping feet could be heard echoing down corridors and staircases. Neville was left alone. He pushed himself to his feet, and, turning, ambled absently. Without meaning to, he headed in the direction of the administration buildings.
Dr Bellen was in his office, even on this Sunday morning. There always seemed to be work to do, something left over from the week that had been. But on Sundays, it could be done relatively slowly; a cup of tea would last longer, there were more biscuits at his elbow, and music relaxed the pace. He also had plenty of time for any visitors who may stroll in to see him.
“Neville, what are you doing?”
The old grey cat raised his head and looked about. He had wobbled his way across the lawns and was passing directly under Dr Bellen’s window. The human had seen him approach, and opening the window, leaned on the sill to speak.
“Oh, sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to bother you. I wasn’t coming to see you, really…”
“You look pre-occupied.”
“I am thinking.”
Indeed, Nev did look very thoughtful. Dr Bellen waited for him to speak further; he didn’t want to inquire into something that wasn’t his business.
“Do you remember your father, Dr Bellen?”
It was a question that caught the human by surprise, though it shouldn’t have been as unexpected as it was, considering the day.
“Yes, I do.”
“People-fathers stay to help raise their children, don’t they?” The cat was still thinking, even as he spoke.
“Most do, yes.”
“Cats’ fathers don’t.”
“Every species has its own ways of parenting,” stated the doctor. “It usually works out well.”
“But if human fathers help their children become good humans, shouldn’t cat fathers do the same with their children? Make them good cats, I mean.”
“Cats are different than humans. Kittens learn from their mothers, but also from other, unrelated cats.” Dr Bellen put his head on one side, thinking. “I’ve known of quite a few cats who were uncles or grandpas to young cats; substitute dads, in a way. There’s Moxy, for instance—“
“The tabby with the annoying voice?” If Neville had had eyebrows and could have raised just one, he would have.
Dr Bellen chuckled, and answered, noncommittally, “Moxy helped instruct little Xandria in being a cat, so did Brazil.”
“Brazil! Really?”
“Indeed. Cats switch fathers, if you will,” explained Dr Bellen. “One may have kittens whom he won’t help raise, but he will help raise other kittens. Some humans have step-fathers, who take care of their own children, but then become fathers to other children, as well. They are every bit as good parents to the step-children as to their biological ones.”
“Raising other kittens than their own…” Neville nodded. “I hadn’t thought about that.” Then he shook his lion-maned head. “But I’ve never raised any kittens.” His voice couldn’t decide if it wanted to be sad or relieved.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” murmured Dr Bellen, as he saw Valkyrie rocket across the lawns toward them.
“Mr Nibble! Mr Nibble!”
“That’s Nev— Never mind…”
Braking to an abrupt halt under the open window, Valkyrie didn’t see Dr Bellen just within his office. Her attention was on Neville.
“I bin talking to a lot of cats about their dads. They don’t ‘member them at all. But they ‘member other cats, who were like their dads,” the youngster declared breathlessly, excited at her discovery.
“Oh?” If Neville could have, he would arched the other eyebrow now.
“Yes! And you know what I d’cided? I d’cided you are like my dad!”
“Me!?” The single-word question was not quite one of horror. “We don’t do anything together.”
“But I watch you. I’ve seen you climb places I didn’t go, and show me it was safe. I watch you stay put when new humans come to the sagitarium, and show me they’re not scary.” Valkyrie’s sentences came out in a rush. “An’ you know what else? Others think the same. It’s like you are the dad of the whole saxifrassium!”
“The whole—?”
“Yes, ‘cause you’re so old and grumpy and know everything about living!”
“Well, I—”
“I’m gonna run and tell everyone about you being our dad!”
Valkyrie shot away, to be as good as her word, leaving Neville protesting that he did not want any responsibility for any of the other cats. But then Valk halted a hundred feet away, and yelled out, in her surprisingly loud wail:
“Happy Father’s Day, Mr Nibble!”
Once the youngster had vanished, Neville sunk down on to the grass, which was as warm and lush under Dr Bellen’s window as it was elsewhere. The human drew further back into his room, and returned to his work, with a smile on his face. Outside, Neville drifted off to sleep, through which he was pursued and jumped on by dozens of kittens, of all shapes, sizes, ages and colours. They observed him and asked him questions, and as he tried to answer them, they asked more, and demanded to play games. Dream-Neville grew exasperated, yet he started to purr, despite himself, for, even as he watched, the kittens grew to adulthood and rushed away to live their lives, and each one looked - just a little bit, maybe around the whiskers, or next the eyes - like him.
Neville dreamed all afternoon, until he was woken in time for dinner.
