Karnak Street Kats

An acquaintance brought Wellington to me, a small kitten running wild in a restaurant parking lot. His gray tabby marks highlighted by a white muzzle, stomach and paws made him look like a model for a kitten calendar. I already had a Napoleon( white with a few black markings) and Josephine (long-haired, white with a mostly black back and black ears), so it seemed appropriate to name the kitten after the Duke that defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. I did not suspect how appropriate the name would be.

I always worry when a kitten is introduced to my horde of cats. While all are amazingly tolerant of each other, there are spats, outbreaks of jealousy, and general jockeying for rank and attention. Kittens are often intimidated by the activity. Not Wellington. He grew quickly and soon began working his way up the cat hierarchy.

Napoleon was one of his first conquests. While Napoleon was older, he was not a large cat, weighing less than nine pounds. Wellington, less than half-grown, weighed about seven pounds, but already possessed the will to dominant. Play fights between Wellington and Napoleon inevitably turned into real combat with Wellington the victor. After a few of those encounters, Napoleon surrendered. Any time Wellington entered a room, Napoleon exited.

Wellington continued to grow and continued to strive toward the goal of being top cat. Only a few of the older females seemed able to subdue him. He solved that problem by ignoring them and choosing other opponents. Finally, Wellington, full-grown, weighing in at nineteen pounds, emerged as ruler of the pride.

Wellington's daily routine consists of prowling through the house searching for opposition. If there is none, he will swat another cat just to reinforce his dominance.

Our oldest females, both eighteen, Cleopatra( a classic brown and tan tabby) and Dot (a black and brown tabby with generous splashes of white), remain the only cats he cannot dominate, although he tries occasionally. Both respond with swift swats and vibrant hisses that send him in retreat. This is remarkable because both are rather small females, but age and experience does make a difference. While Cleo and Dot could reign as the matriarchs of the household, their only desire is to be treated with the respect they deserve and left alone.

Napoleon and Josephine have become Wellington's most frequent targets. If Wellington has not satisfied his desire for dominance by cuffing the first subservient cat he encounters, he goes in search of Napoleon or Josephine. Wellington harasses his victim until he or she surrenders, just as if he is making sure history always repeats itself, and Wellington again defeats Napoleon at Waterloo.

I trapped Abby fourteen years ago. She was a three month old kitten then, the daughter of a feral cat. Sometimes, wild kittens tame and become fairly normal house cats. Abby chose to remain wild.

Now, understand, she lives in the house, never goes out, uses a litter box, comes to eat when dinner is served, and sleeps on the furniture, but she never comes closer than three feet to any human being or allows a person to enter her sphere of separation ( that magic three feet). She's not too fond other cats, either. Her favorite perch is on top of the tallest bookcase (about nine feet off the ground). There, she will listen to me cajoling her to come down to floor level and never acknowledge that I exist. She does know her name and responds to it (when not on the bookcase), either by staring at me with a look of total disdain or bolting from the room as if her life was threatened. She is untouchable.

So a month ago, when I noticed some sort of discharge from her ear, I knew I had a problem. Abby has been to the vet a few times, for her initial exam and shots, and to be spayed. Each time has been a circus with me performing most of the tricks.

The first problem was to isolate her from the other black cats that I own. (Too many times, I have pursued a black rear end, only to discover the front end was not the cat I wanted.) I closed off rooms, isolating the den and bedroom, Abby's favorite hang outs, then I shooed all the cats that I could find out of those two rooms. Then I grabbed a cat carrier and searched for Abby. She was in the bedroom, but immediately headed for the den. There, she scampered up the bookcase to her favorite perch. I stood on a chair, positioned the carrier in what I hoped would be her path, and used a broom to nudge her down. Abby jumped down, did a neat pirouette and cleared the carrier with no problem. She then headed for the top of the French door, positioning herself above the stereo.

I scrambled over to her, I'm arthritic and much less nimble than when she came to live with me, so it took a moment. She waited patiently on the narrow door, her eyes gleaming with the cunning of her wild ancestors. Once more, I climbed on a chair. Oh, I have vertigo too, so I'm less than steady. The carrier was in my left hand, door open. I intended to place it where I thought she would come down if I reached for her with my right hand. That did not happen. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I flailed my arms to keep from falling off the chair. I did not drop the carrier, instead I rotated it in a wide circle as I fought for balance. At that moment, Abby decided to leap from door to the stereo. As if I intended it, the carrier's mouth swung between Abby and the stereo as she jumped, and she landed inside the carrier with a thud, forcing the carrier down against the stereo . Somehow, I held on to the carrier and closed its door. She was trapped. Don't tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor.

Off to the vet we went.

I had assumed that she had an ear infection which could be treated with antibiotics. That turned out to be only part of the problem. She had tumors in her ear. She spent a week at the vet's then had surgery. She's home now, but there is more fun to come. She has to go back for a check up.