The Amazing Life of Cats (5 page)
Gifts
Humans don’t think they are animals, so they don’t understand gifts. Don’t bother. Keep the mouse for yourself.
Expressing affection—i.e. ‘love’
The deal is we get a free place to live that is dry and warm, and adequate food, in exchange for once in a while recognising the human exists and letting it touch us. Humans like to hear us purr, because they think that is our way of saying we’re happy. They have no idea. Don’t get too standoffish as the human will not understand, and will become anxious. A calm human is a reliable human when it comes to dinner.
Names
Humans immediately give us stupid little names. If you don’t like the name, act deaf. Only respond once they pick a name you like. If the human is really nice to you, and understands our language, then tell them your true name.
Conclusion
Humans are much easier to train than, for example, their stupid dogs.
From ‘Rescuing Animals in Need’, Anonymous
A cat has absolute emotional honesty:
human beings, for one reason or another,
may hide their feelings, but a cat
does not.
Ernest Hemingway
T
wo sisters, non-identical twins; one black with deep green eyes, one white with sky-blue eyes. Little bundles of fluff with very different characters from the start: Motchka, the white one, was always gentle and loving; Trouble, the black one, more lively and playful. One was more likely to be found curled up on a child’s lap, the other chasing shiny tinfoil balls and killing shadows.
The intention was always to have them desexed when they were one, however, as the time approached it became evident that they were both pregnant. We had an old baby bath and when the kittens were due we filled it with towels and introduced the sisters to it. Motchka loved to lie in it, while Trouble would jump out disdainfully.
Trouble was the first to have her kittens, six in all. An hour after giving birth she left the baby bath, went outside and stayed there for an age. The kittens mewed piteously and Motchka, whose distress was obvious, climbed in and out of the bath, came and found me, then returned to the kittens, unsure what to do. Eventually Trouble returned, made a cursory attempt at feeding them and went out again. That night we locked her in, and after a number of failed attempts to get her to sleep with the kittens I decided to sleep on the sofa. I was woken in the night by loud kitten cries and saw Trouble carrying one by the scruff of its neck to the far side of the sitting room. She lay down with it and, leaving the others strewn about the room, went to sleep. For three days and nights I spent my time collecting her kittens from the random places she left them and bringing them back to her.
Motchka was deeply distressed but did not instinctively know what to do during this time. The next day, she gave birth to seven little kittens herself; minutes later she went and collected Trouble’s kittens, knowing now how to pick them up correctly. From that moment on she was mum to thirteen kittens, all of whom grew to be huge and happy cats.
The following year I had my first child; after a long and difficult labour I was exhausted and soon showed signs of an ever-deepening postnatal depression. Trouble took up residence on the edge of my bed, from which position she could look into the Moses basket that held my precious daughter. Despite all the advice to the contrary, I knew that I could trust her. If I needed a bath, or went to make myself some food, she would sit and stare into the basket, and if the baby woke up she would come and find me, informing me at the top of her voice that I was needed.
Back then I never doubted that Trouble was doing for me what I had done for her; even now, twenty-four years later, I well up at the thought of the support that little black loveliness gave me at that difficult time.
Ellie Baker
After scolding one’s cat one looks
into its face and is seized by the ugly
suspicion that it understood every word.
And has filed it for reference.
Charlotte Gray
I
f you listen carefully when animal stories are being shared—and let’s face it, most of us can’t resist talking about our animals—you might be misled into believing that people fall into one of two camps: either they love dogs and dislike cats, or adore cats and are rarely— if ever—impressed by dogs. You may also glean the impression that dogs and cats are beaten only by Montagues and Capulets when it comes to being sworn enemies. But this is by no means the whole story. Many cats and dogs live comfortably side by side—some even form private mutual adoration societies.
The first dog I remember was Prince, our family pet, a beautiful, gentle rough collie. Mum and Dad called him a ‘Lassie’ collie as he resembled the dogs in those gorgeous mushy old movies many of us pretend to disdain. I only ever saw Prince angry once and that was when we children were under threat from a marauding neighbourhood boxer dog. Prince was a sitting target for neighbouring cats and often came in with his nose scratched, but this did not prevent him adopting Timmy, the kitten we acquired from Grandma when both Prince and I were about seven years old. Timmy was a tiny black and white scrap of a thing, lonely and bewildered in this big new world after leaving his mum and the rest of the litter. Prince befriended him, watched over him and shared food from the same bowl. There was no growling or snarling, no spitting or scratching, just simple, endearing trust. Whether Timmy actually defended Prince once he grew into a small but handsome tomcat I cannot say, but certainly there were fewer scratches on the collie’s nose.
One day about two or three years after Timmy came to live with us, Prince barked his last. Faithful to the end, he was found lying beside the garden gate where he had been waiting for Dad to come home from work.
There are those who believe animals do not grieve; based on all I have witnessed I cannot agree. We already know they suffer separation anxiety, resist change, respond to strong emotions or aggression and generally think for themselves. Timmy grieved. He was devastated— lost and lonely, sad and listless—until a few weeks after Prince left us when one of the aforementioned
Lassie
films was showing on television. At the sound of the familiar collie bark, Timmy perked up and trotted towards the screen. But there was no Prince; just a sound and an ambiguous image. His response was unforgettable. He turned around, wandered back to what we called ‘Timmy’s corner’ by the hearth, curled up and cried.
Later that year when we adopted Kim, a German shepherd puppy. Timmy was furious; he sulked, refused food and did not deign to re-enter the house for six weeks. I suspect it was only the autumn chill that finally drove him back indoors. He and Kim were never close; you might say a truce was signed but a friendship never grew. At least there were no open hostilities.
I cannot tell you the end of Timmy’s story since it remains one of life’s eternal question marks. We spent two summers in the late 1960s close to the English Lake District—all rolling hills, green fields, babbling brooks and a river for summer swimming. Timmy loved it but did not remain with us for long. Whether he joined the nearby farm cats, fell prey to a fox or was a victim of rumoured local cat-poisonings we shall never know. He simply disappeared. If Kim knew where he went she never told.
If I may digress briefly from the cats and dogs theme, there was a Timmy-coloured sequel to this saga of which I knew nothing until I began trawling the family archives. Almost twenty years after the start of Timmy’s story, my parents were running a milkbar in Koowee-rup in Victoria’s southeast Gippsland where they gave shelter to a Timmy look-alike. She lived outdoors except in the winter months. Being a real eighties cat, she also developed a passion for dim sims. One night Dad informed her that there would be no more such treats unless she paid her way by dealing with the burgeoning mouse population. The next morning and every day thereafter there were two ex-mice on the doorstep—not unlike the Mouse Police in Kerry Greenwood’s Corinna Chapman novels, although their diet is much more impressive.
Returning to my original theme, then, cats and dogs can form firm friendships. On the other paw, there are both cats and dogs with attitude. I have heard of dogs—even guide dogs—crossing roads to avoid cats, and although my guide dog Dori never quite went that far she was not at all impressed by things feline. It is the custom in many guide-dog-training establishments to employ a resident kennel cat in order to encourage a little cross-species tolerance. It doesn’t always work. Shortly before I finished training with Dori, the kennel cat was returned home after surgery, wearing an Elizabethan collar— the ones that look like upside-down lampshades and are favoured by vets to deter animals from aggravating their wounds by licking them. All Dori saw was a cat minus its head; she was seriously displeased and said so.
Years later she was forced by circumstances to gain a practical understanding of the concept of compromise. Dori loved heaters; she usually managed an annual dose of conjunctivitis by lying too close to them in winter. On the day in question she was staying with friends on the New South Wales south coast while I was overseas. There she lay, guarding their heater and enjoying a well-earned slumber after a hearty beach run, when she became aware that something, or someone, was lying on her head. Opening her eyes carefully she spied our friends’ cat.
What to do?
If she moved she would dislodge the cat; however, moving would also entail losing pride of place in front of the heater. No prizes for guessing who won. Let’s just say they both spent a warm evening, though if either of them actually enjoyed it they kept the information to themselves.
If you are both a cat and dog person, and you have both these animals in your life, I hope they get on together. If there is room for improvement, take heart. Animals can resolve conflicts peaceably, even if self-interest is the initial inspiration.
Elaine Harris
Cats are a mysterious kind of folk. There
is more passing in their minds than we
are aware of.
Sir Walter Scott
