No More Oven Mitts

Portia continues to explore the Cosy Apartment. I leave the library door open much of the time when I am home, except when it would be impossible for me to hear a cat-emergency - such as when I am in the shower or asleep - but I don’t foresee too many problems between my new foster-cat and the resident beasts. I still have the thick towel handy when supervising her free time, but don’t wear oven mitts.

A day or two ago, Neville did express an interest in the newcomer that manifested itself in a rather too swift advance on her, so I will watch that: I think it would result in the Nevsky’s painful rebuff more than anything else. Nonetheless, I hope to keep any unpleasantness to a minimum, while allowing the calico-girl to wander about where she will.

Her attitude toward me remains ambivalent. I am able to stroke her head for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, but she will decide suddenly and almost without warning to tell me off, with both her voice and her claws. I don’t know if this is a matter of incomplete trust in me, or a deeper issue. Whatever the answer, she and I will have time to discover the cause, and what will be best for her.

In the meantime, I think Portia will adjust to the perma-cats more easily than she will to me, which is preferable. She and I can take our leisure getting to know one another. Once she and her feline roommates reach a modus vivendi - whatever form that may take - she will have the freedom of their small world, and not see me following her everywhere when she is out of the library. My holidays are approaching, and that will permit me to give her more opportunity to grow used to her new foster-home.

In Conversation

I have known few cats in my life who have ‘meowed’. Tungsten did, and of those still with me, Tucker comes the closest. Renn whines, Neville mumbles and grumbles. Cammie growled and barked. Josie’s voice was like a rusty hinge on an old garage door. But Portia’s conversation is something to hear. She makes Josie sound like Sarah Brightman.

The longer she is with me, the more this calico girl talks, especially when she wants out of the library. She can throw a spate of verbiage at me, all of it sounding like giant granite boulders being pulled across rough, gravelly ground. I think this is a good sign, rather like a shy person becoming loquacious as she grows more comfortable with her surroundings, though Portia is very likely impatient with my periodic lack of comprehension.

But that’s all right. We’ll come to understand one another soon. And maybe she’ll start to moderate her speech, and use a language less harsh and strident, like Klingon.

I Haven't Felt Like This Since Suez

Thirty years ago, there was a British comedy tv series about the relationship between a long-widowed solicitor and a divorced schoolteacher. In the initial episode, there is a scene in which the former is about to ask out the latter, the first time he’s invited a woman on a date in thirty years or so. Full of anxiety, he mutters, “I haven’t felt like this since Suez…”, referring to the Suez Crisis when, probably, he was a very young and very frightened soldier. The way the actor delivered the line was both funny and revealing, and I use it to myself from time to time when confronted by a nerve-wracking situation.

Though not quite in the same category, I was nonetheless rather anxious as Portia took another walk about the apartment this evening. The perma-cats were in different spots and in various shades of rest. Our guest roamed into the bathroom, where she investigated the tub, into the sitting room, where she hissed at Neville, and into the bedroom. There she leaped up on the bed, to be confronted with a suddenly-wakened Renn. Portia hissed and dropped down to the floor again, leaving my big boy to wonder what had happened.

What did happen was nothing harmful or dangerous. Portia returned to the library soon after and had a nap.

Even so, I worried about her interaction with the beasts, and still worry about it. To be honest, I doubt that there will be a violent confrontation. There will likely be hisses, growls, maybe a few whaps, and retreats. But I worry nonetheless. When Portia explores, I am ready with a big, heavy towel (to separate battling felines) and wearing ‘Ove Glove’ oven mitts, very thick garments made from the same material as Superman’s cape. If they allow me to hold a baking sheet heated to 400°, they should withstand a cat’s claws. Maybe.

I think the newcomer will integrate well enough as I give her more opportunities. Her attitude toward me is ambivalent: purring will quickly switch to hissing and swatting, with rapiers extended. But I would rather she adjust to her own species before mine, as that would mean freedom from the library, companionship, new experiences and maybe playing and friendship. I can always wait.

But each time she comes out to explore, I am nervous. It may not be 1956 Suez, but I’m prepared for warfare, just in case.

Portia Explores...A Little

Today, Portia ventured out of the library. I was ready with extra-thick oven mitts for grabbing fighting cats, a thick and heavy towel to drop between them or over one of them, and I was a bit anxious of the reaction. In the event, it was all rather anti-climactic.

Portia came out and wandered very timidly about the corridor for a few minutes. She saw the perma-cats, and they saw her. She hissed at Tucker, who showed no sign of advancing on her. Then she went back to the library.

I plan on having the library door open when the beasts are quiet or snoozing (not at a time such as dinner) and I am available to watch events; allowing my new guest to come out when she sees fit. So far, she has evinced no desire to explore her new home further, preferring the security of the library. We are in no hurry here, so she is free to set her own schedule.

As may be seen by the photographs, the perma-cats stopped by the open doorway of the library to stare discourteously at the newcomer. Tucker went so far as to use her litter-box. But I don’t want any of them disturbing Portia too much in the library. She clearly sees that room as her safety-zone, and I want to keep it that way. She needs a place to which to retreat, where stress – and strange cats – can’t follow. I don’t think her integration will be particularly difficult, though it may be long. But time is on her side, and so am I.

Sitting One's Ground

Neville is usually unbothered by the vacuum cleaner. Yesterday, though, he insisted on remaining in the sitting room while I cleaned it. To be precise, he insisted on lying in the path of the vacuum cleaner while I used it on the rugs. For a minute, the Nevsky stood (or, rather, lie on) his ground. He even whapped at the machine a couple of times. But I’m afraid the strain of battle was too much for him, and he fled. My Nev is, after all, not a fighter.

A few minutes later, he was at the top of the tall cat-tree, looking out the window. He wasn’t watching anything in particular, so the amazement of his encounter with the vacuum cleaner may still have been occupying his mind.

A Little Off the Top...and Back...and Bottom...

Neville can suffer from some terrible mats. His fur is long and, despite combining in locks, is individually fine. He dislikes being brushed or combed, so I fall behind on taking care of the mats. I tried picking them out with the tines of a comb, and I tried using a seam-ripper on them. Both methods tugged and pulled the Nevsky this way and that, causing him some discomfort and even more annoyance.

Then, I saw on Tim’s Tomcat Commentary that Rumpy, who is also prone to matting, is periodically given a trim in certain places by his dad. I don’t think Rumpy likes it much, but it is over quickly and effectively. I have electric trimmers myself, so I thought I would use them on Nev.

This plan worked well. Neville didn’t care for having to lie still through it, but it was much less of a bother than other methods of dealing with his mats, and he wasn’t startled or frightened by the clippers. I was able to rid his fur of the worst clogs, and will be dealing with the smaller ones, as well.

Neville doesn’t look pretty after a bit of trimming (and yes, he has a bit of dandruff, due to his diabetes), but it worries him less than any other way, and doesn’t cost anything, unlike taking him to a groomer or a vet. And I think if he had to choose, he would plump for treatment at home. After all, that comes with a few treats as a reward. Thanks, Timmy and Rumpy.

My Other Guest

While my new foster-cat, Portia, occupies much attention, both in my home and on my blog, I have another visitor to the apartment. Actually, he comes just to Café Cosy. His hours are usually late, and he misses even dinner-time, preferring a nocturnal supper. I call him Orlac, because of his hands…

The food-bowl is in its little shelter, and it’s awkward for Orlac to put his head in there to eat directly from the bowl. Instead, he reaches in and grabs a handful of kernels and drops them on the ground, to eat them from there. Earlier, I had wondered why there were so many pieces of hard-food on the ground in front of the bowl. He reminds me of me, eating popcorn on movie night.

I once had three young raccoons and their mother visiting. I worry about what happened to them, and hope they simply moved and that they suffered nothing bad. Orlac may be one of the youngsters. If so, he may be a lone survivor of the family.

But he is always welcome at Café Cosy. Here, his visit is benevolently observed by Neville, who was working the late shift as maître d’ this night.