Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wynken, Blynken and Nod
Teeger
Wynken
Daisy had three black kittens, two short-haired females and one long-haired male. We named them Wynken, Blynken and Nod. The two females, Wynken and Blyken were identical. In order to tell them apart, I clipped Wynken's tail fur, so that her tail had a blunt instead of pointed tip. All three were lap kitties and very much people cats.
We had dear friends, a married couple, who lived in Gonzales, Texas. She was confined to a wheelchair and home alone in the daytime while her husband worked. Their adult daughter decided that her mother needed a companion. Her father had always preferred dogs, but agreed a cat would probably be better. He contacted me about taking one of our kittens. Shortly before Christmas, Blynken went to live with our friends.
Blynken soon took over their home. During the day, she is the perfect lap cat for my friend in her wheelchair.
When her husband returns from work, he puts on gloves and engages Blynken who turns into a ferocious playmate. Blynken is the cat each of them needed.
Wynken and Nod stayed with my mother and me. Wynken loves attention, but no longer likes to be held. Nod is the lap cat. He jumps into my lap any chance he gets. He is particularly fond of being held when I am at the computer. This does not always work since he thinks the mouse is a plaything. he also assists with my typing. I can blame typos on him.
Nod is now called Teeger. My mother had a stroke a few years after Nod and his siblings were born. Her speech center was damaged. Her diction was perfect; she just lost her dictionary. She could not remember what words meant. Proper nouns were completely gone. If the cat had not resided with us for more than five years, she could not remember their names. Now, twenty years before, we had owned a long-haired, black cat named Teeger. Nod, who was identical to that cat, assumed his name. Mother called him Teeger. I realized that it would be easier for me to go along with my mother's choice, so Nod became Teeger. He adjusted without a problem. Wynken never got a new name. She was The Black Cat to my mother while I continued to call her Wynken. (Mother is gone, but Nod is still Teeger.)
I just checked on Wynken's and Teeger's age: both will be ten in October. How strange, it seems that it was only a couple of years ago when Daisy appeared.
We had dear friends, a married couple, who lived in Gonzales, Texas. She was confined to a wheelchair and home alone in the daytime while her husband worked. Their adult daughter decided that her mother needed a companion. Her father had always preferred dogs, but agreed a cat would probably be better. He contacted me about taking one of our kittens. Shortly before Christmas, Blynken went to live with our friends.
Blynken soon took over their home. During the day, she is the perfect lap cat for my friend in her wheelchair.
When her husband returns from work, he puts on gloves and engages Blynken who turns into a ferocious playmate. Blynken is the cat each of them needed.
Wynken and Nod stayed with my mother and me. Wynken loves attention, but no longer likes to be held. Nod is the lap cat. He jumps into my lap any chance he gets. He is particularly fond of being held when I am at the computer. This does not always work since he thinks the mouse is a plaything. he also assists with my typing. I can blame typos on him.
Nod is now called Teeger. My mother had a stroke a few years after Nod and his siblings were born. Her speech center was damaged. Her diction was perfect; she just lost her dictionary. She could not remember what words meant. Proper nouns were completely gone. If the cat had not resided with us for more than five years, she could not remember their names. Now, twenty years before, we had owned a long-haired, black cat named Teeger. Nod, who was identical to that cat, assumed his name. Mother called him Teeger. I realized that it would be easier for me to go along with my mother's choice, so Nod became Teeger. He adjusted without a problem. Wynken never got a new name. She was The Black Cat to my mother while I continued to call her Wynken. (Mother is gone, but Nod is still Teeger.)
I just checked on Wynken's and Teeger's age: both will be ten in October. How strange, it seems that it was only a couple of years ago when Daisy appeared.
Labels: Blynken, cat names, cats, kittens, Nod, stroke, Teeger, Wynken
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Miss Kitty
Miss Kitty came to live with me last year. She is a long-haired, orange tabby. Her owner asked me to care for her when he knew that he must serve a prison sentence. Miss Kitty had been his mother's cat. Her owner was in tears when I agreed to take her. (He and I had a history because his dog had helped kill my cat, Abner, the only cat I ever lost to dogs in my 50+ years of having cats.) I knew an older cat had little chance of adoption. Her owner told me she was sixteen, but I think she is not that old.
Miss Kitty moved in and immediately made it clear that she did not like other cats. Her yellowish eyes would narrow as any cat approached, then she would yell in rage if they came closer. This tactic worked well with every cat, but Shackleton. Soon, Miss Kitty had her chair and eating area staked out. She settled into life with my crew.
I learned that Miss Kitty did not like to be handled. She whined the minute I picked her up. The whine became a wail if I did not release her immediately, but she did nothing else. I soon learned that her wail was her general comment on life. However, if I deposited her in my lap, so she was not being held, she relaxed.
Miss Kitty loves to be combed. Actually, she loves for her back, neck and sides to be combed. She thinks anything else is a hideous experience to be commented on with her loudest wails. Since she is long-haired, she must be combed all over. So, despite her protests, I comb her tummy, legs, tail and chest, too. She always stalks off with a swish of her tail when I finish.
I don't know when her owner will return. His sentence has turned out to be longer than he thought. I suspect that Miss Kitty is a permanent member of the family.
Labels: cats, Miss Kitty, orange tabby. long-hair, Shackleton, wails
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Disappearing Cats
I am always amazed by the ability of cats to disappear, even if confined to the house. My cleaning lady came today, and most of the cats simply vanished. (I really can't afford her, but my arthritis is so bad that some tasks are simply impossible for me. Wellington understands that I cannot bend; he always gets up on something so that I can pet him.) My cleaning lady loves cats and enjoys my friendly ones. Even some of the friendly ones disappear when the vacuum cleaner starts. Not until she has been gone for at least an hour, do any of the vanished reappear.
Cleopatra was the only cat I have known that liked the vacuum. I have a cannister style, and Cleo loved to sleep on top of the running machine. She was quite willing to ride around the house on the vacuum and resented being shooed off when I wanted to carry the cannister. I have never had a cat that would let me vacuum their fur although I know there are cats that like to be vacuumed.
Today, when I went into my bedroom, I discovered one hiding place. I looked at the drapes where sunlight was shining and saw the outline of four little feet. Napoleon was on the window sill with his feet pressed against the drapes. I peeked underneath. He rolled over and looked at me, but would not leave his hiding place. With his feet down, he could not be detected. At least now, I know where one of my gang hides.
Cleopatra was the only cat I have known that liked the vacuum. I have a cannister style, and Cleo loved to sleep on top of the running machine. She was quite willing to ride around the house on the vacuum and resented being shooed off when I wanted to carry the cannister. I have never had a cat that would let me vacuum their fur although I know there are cats that like to be vacuumed.
Today, when I went into my bedroom, I discovered one hiding place. I looked at the drapes where sunlight was shining and saw the outline of four little feet. Napoleon was on the window sill with his feet pressed against the drapes. I peeked underneath. He rolled over and looked at me, but would not leave his hiding place. With his feet down, he could not be detected. At least now, I know where one of my gang hides.
Labels: cats, Cleopatra, hiding, vacuum cleaner
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Ferals Adjust
Greenmist and Rosefire, two feral females, just recently released from the bathroom to the house, are adjusting well. Greenmist, the least trusting, is gray with white feet. Rosefire is a faded calico. I was describing her as a tortoiseshell, but now that I have seen her better, I have noticed a white belly. Both still bolt from the room if I appear without warning, but Rosefire has found a den chair that she likes to sleep on.
Both ferals now eat with the other den cats while I am in the room. Rosefire always appears first, eager for breakfast. Greenmist darts in from the front bedroom, but she does eat with all the others. I have managed to pet Rosefire, but not Greenmist. I did have a long conversation with her, but she remains so suspicious.
What is clear is that Rosefire is dominant. Greenmist seeks her for comfort and watches her behavior, then follows suit. Perhaps, if I can convince Rosefire that people aren't so bad, Greenmist will relax too.
You may help support Rosefire and Greenmist by donating to the Karnak Street Kats.
Both ferals now eat with the other den cats while I am in the room. Rosefire always appears first, eager for breakfast. Greenmist darts in from the front bedroom, but she does eat with all the others. I have managed to pet Rosefire, but not Greenmist. I did have a long conversation with her, but she remains so suspicious.
What is clear is that Rosefire is dominant. Greenmist seeks her for comfort and watches her behavior, then follows suit. Perhaps, if I can convince Rosefire that people aren't so bad, Greenmist will relax too.
You may help support Rosefire and Greenmist by donating to the Karnak Street Kats.
Labels: calico, Feral cat, gray cat, taming ferals
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Ferals in the House
Greenmist and Rosefire, two feral cats that are temporary residents, had been staying in one of my bathrooms. See Ferals in the Bathroom. Since last Thursday, they are loose in the rear portion of the house which consists of two bedrooms, two baths and a den. They have both become phantoms disappearing from view when I enter that part of the house.
Rosefire, a faded tortoiseshell, is the braver of the two. I actually see her several times a day. Not so with Greenmist, a gray cat with white feet, only in the morning when I am feeding canned food do I catch a glimpse of her. Usually, she pokes her head out of the unoccupied bedroom for a nanosecond, then vanishes. This morning, she must have been hungrier than usual because she actually stepped into the den with me for all of five seconds. Rosefire was eating, but keeping an eye on me. Neither cat really trusts me.
The good news: Greenmist and Rosefire are having no problems with the other cat residents of that part of the house including Irene who is not tolerant of other cats. Rosefire has made it into my bedroom at least once. I know because Irene, who sleeps on my bed, hissed at her and alerted me to her presence. As soon as she and I made eye contact, she bolted from the room.
My goal is to tame these two, so that I can find homes for them. Otherwise, they will return to the farm come spring. If I get some help with their upkeep, they can stay longer.
Rosefire, a faded tortoiseshell, is the braver of the two. I actually see her several times a day. Not so with Greenmist, a gray cat with white feet, only in the morning when I am feeding canned food do I catch a glimpse of her. Usually, she pokes her head out of the unoccupied bedroom for a nanosecond, then vanishes. This morning, she must have been hungrier than usual because she actually stepped into the den with me for all of five seconds. Rosefire was eating, but keeping an eye on me. Neither cat really trusts me.
The good news: Greenmist and Rosefire are having no problems with the other cat residents of that part of the house including Irene who is not tolerant of other cats. Rosefire has made it into my bedroom at least once. I know because Irene, who sleeps on my bed, hissed at her and alerted me to her presence. As soon as she and I made eye contact, she bolted from the room.
My goal is to tame these two, so that I can find homes for them. Otherwise, they will return to the farm come spring. If I get some help with their upkeep, they can stay longer.
Labels: Feral cat, Tortoiseshell
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Sylvester the Old
Sylvester, a long-haired, black and white male, is eighteen years old. He is the oldest cat in the house. I have had Sylvester since he was about four months old, but to this day he barely tolerates me. Sylvester is feral. I trapped him in my neighbor's backyard. My neighbor had seen the wild youngster and asked me to catch him.
I took him to the vet, got him neutered and vaccinated, and brought him home. Released into the house, he became a black and white phantom that appeared for food, then disappeared. Eventually, he became more visible, sleeping on the sofa or on a window sill. He remained untouchable.
Over a very long time, I was able to pet when he was eating his morning ration of canned food. Even then, he would shrink away from my first touch. Slowly, so very slowly, he became accustomed to my touch. I could not pick him up, but I could run my hand across his body with no problem. Sylvester no longer bolted out of the room when I came in.
Sylvester got an upper respiratory infection. His nose dripping, his eyes mattery, he was miserable. I planned my moves carefully. I had a carrier beside his food bowl before I put out the morning repast. When Sylvester arrived to eat, I scooted him into the carrier and closed the door. Sylvester was not happy. He told me so with a mournful wail that dissolved into a cough.
Sylvester spent over a week at the vet on injectable antibiotics. He came home in good physical health, but traumatized by his time away from home. Once more, I had a black and white phantom, but now, one that would not let me touch him even when he ate.
It has taken years, but Sylvester once more allows me to pet him when he is eating and tolerates my presence in the same room as he. My vet thinks that unless Sylvester has obvious signs of illness that he should be left alone. Afterall, Sylvester is an indoor only cat, that has never gone near a door to the outside.
I took him to the vet, got him neutered and vaccinated, and brought him home. Released into the house, he became a black and white phantom that appeared for food, then disappeared. Eventually, he became more visible, sleeping on the sofa or on a window sill. He remained untouchable.
Over a very long time, I was able to pet when he was eating his morning ration of canned food. Even then, he would shrink away from my first touch. Slowly, so very slowly, he became accustomed to my touch. I could not pick him up, but I could run my hand across his body with no problem. Sylvester no longer bolted out of the room when I came in.
Sylvester got an upper respiratory infection. His nose dripping, his eyes mattery, he was miserable. I planned my moves carefully. I had a carrier beside his food bowl before I put out the morning repast. When Sylvester arrived to eat, I scooted him into the carrier and closed the door. Sylvester was not happy. He told me so with a mournful wail that dissolved into a cough.
Sylvester spent over a week at the vet on injectable antibiotics. He came home in good physical health, but traumatized by his time away from home. Once more, I had a black and white phantom, but now, one that would not let me touch him even when he ate.
It has taken years, but Sylvester once more allows me to pet him when he is eating and tolerates my presence in the same room as he. My vet thinks that unless Sylvester has obvious signs of illness that he should be left alone. Afterall, Sylvester is an indoor only cat, that has never gone near a door to the outside.
Labels: Feral cat
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Gamma the Bold
Gamma and his two brothers, Alpha and Beta, were dumped on my front porch as kittens with their mother, Irene. Gamma is a silver gray cat with a white bib, white feet, and a splash of white on top of his nose. He was about three months old when he arrived. As usual, I planned to make them indoor only cats.
Gamma was a climber. Nothing stopped him from reaching the top of the tallest bookcase, about nine feet off the floor. He scrambled into every nook and cranny in the house. After only a couple of days, he discovered the deck off the kitchen. The deck, enclosed by lattice including the roof, was accessible through a doggie door. Gamma adored climbing the wooden ladder I had set up there for the cats.
There was only one problem with Gamma's adventures. If he found himself unable to extricate himself from a place, he cried piteously. I then had to rescue him. In the house, there were few places this happened.
At three one morning, I heard those familiar wails. Gamma had got himself trapped somewhere. I got out of bed then realized that the cries were coming from directly above my bed. There was nothing but roof there. I listened more closely. Gamma was outside on the roof!
I hastened to the deck and called him. He must have squeezed through the lattice to get to the roof. Maybe I could squeeze him back through. I tried, Gamma tried, but we could not find a space big enough to get through. I gave up.
I put on some shorts. I slept in underwear and a T-shirt. At three-thirty, I headed outside. I retrieved the extension ladder from its place and put it up to the roof. Gamma was there immediately. I tried to convince him to come down the ladder, but that didn't work. So, with a deep breath (I'm afraid of heights), I climbed the ladder.
Gamma was waiting impatiently. He had had enough of the roof. I grabbed him with one hand and brought him to my chest. Using only one hand to hold on to the ladder, I inched down. Gamma was unperturbed. I think he enjoyed the descent immensely. My legs were weak by the time we reached the ground.
Once inside, I sealed the doggie door after making sure there were no cats on the deck. Of course there were none in sight. I knew where they were: in my bedroom, sitting on my bed where they had all enjoyed my struggles.
Gamma was a climber. Nothing stopped him from reaching the top of the tallest bookcase, about nine feet off the floor. He scrambled into every nook and cranny in the house. After only a couple of days, he discovered the deck off the kitchen. The deck, enclosed by lattice including the roof, was accessible through a doggie door. Gamma adored climbing the wooden ladder I had set up there for the cats.
There was only one problem with Gamma's adventures. If he found himself unable to extricate himself from a place, he cried piteously. I then had to rescue him. In the house, there were few places this happened.
At three one morning, I heard those familiar wails. Gamma had got himself trapped somewhere. I got out of bed then realized that the cries were coming from directly above my bed. There was nothing but roof there. I listened more closely. Gamma was outside on the roof!
I hastened to the deck and called him. He must have squeezed through the lattice to get to the roof. Maybe I could squeeze him back through. I tried, Gamma tried, but we could not find a space big enough to get through. I gave up.
I put on some shorts. I slept in underwear and a T-shirt. At three-thirty, I headed outside. I retrieved the extension ladder from its place and put it up to the roof. Gamma was there immediately. I tried to convince him to come down the ladder, but that didn't work. So, with a deep breath (I'm afraid of heights), I climbed the ladder.
Gamma was waiting impatiently. He had had enough of the roof. I grabbed him with one hand and brought him to my chest. Using only one hand to hold on to the ladder, I inched down. Gamma was unperturbed. I think he enjoyed the descent immensely. My legs were weak by the time we reached the ground.
Once inside, I sealed the doggie door after making sure there were no cats on the deck. Of course there were none in sight. I knew where they were: in my bedroom, sitting on my bed where they had all enjoyed my struggles.
Gamma continues to go out, but he is inside every night. He would like to be top cat, but Wellington stands in his way.
Labels: kittens
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Irene the Business Cat
Irene and her three kittens were dumped on my front porch. The kittens were almost as big as she, but still nursing. I immediately separated the kittens from her, so she could dry up before being spayed. Irene seemed relieved. She is a petite, gray and white cat with beautiful yellow-green eyes. While she was in the house, I had no problem handling her, and soon enough, she was spayed. Again, she seemed to be adjusting to being a house cat.
One morning that changed. As I was letting the boys out, Irene went too. I followed her, but she climbed the nearest tree and would not come down. I returned to my morning chores sure that Irene had been with us long enough that she would not stray. I was only half right. She did cross the street to a neighboring business in an old, two story house where she climbed the outside steps to the second floor. I retrieved her later in the day. She did not enjoy being picked up; she batted my glasses off with a hiss. I held on and we came to an understanding. If I picked her up, she would let me take her home.
Soon, a daily ritual was established. Irene went to work in the morning at the business and allowed me to bring her home in the evening. One day, I headed out to retrieve her a little earlier than usual and encountered a worker at the business. He was astounded to see Irene in my arms.
"We all thought she was a stray with no home. We call her Gypsy."
I assured him that she was a pet that spent every night indoors and that her name was Irene. She simply liked their building better than her home during the day. ( I suspect my outdoor boys have something to do with that. ) He was overjoyed to know she had a home.
Since then, I have discovered that Irene has several friends at the business. Some even bring her treats. None can pick her up. Irene can be a bit of a handful.
Since it is winter, Irene spends less time outdoors. She comes home on her own, enters the house through my office ( I work out of my home), not the front door, and relaxes on my bed. She does seem to prefer to be associated with business wherever she is.
One morning that changed. As I was letting the boys out, Irene went too. I followed her, but she climbed the nearest tree and would not come down. I returned to my morning chores sure that Irene had been with us long enough that she would not stray. I was only half right. She did cross the street to a neighboring business in an old, two story house where she climbed the outside steps to the second floor. I retrieved her later in the day. She did not enjoy being picked up; she batted my glasses off with a hiss. I held on and we came to an understanding. If I picked her up, she would let me take her home.
Soon, a daily ritual was established. Irene went to work in the morning at the business and allowed me to bring her home in the evening. One day, I headed out to retrieve her a little earlier than usual and encountered a worker at the business. He was astounded to see Irene in my arms.
"We all thought she was a stray with no home. We call her Gypsy."
I assured him that she was a pet that spent every night indoors and that her name was Irene. She simply liked their building better than her home during the day. ( I suspect my outdoor boys have something to do with that. ) He was overjoyed to know she had a home.
Since then, I have discovered that Irene has several friends at the business. Some even bring her treats. None can pick her up. Irene can be a bit of a handful.
Since it is winter, Irene spends less time outdoors. She comes home on her own, enters the house through my office ( I work out of my home), not the front door, and relaxes on my bed. She does seem to prefer to be associated with business wherever she is.
For more about Irene, click here.
Labels: cats
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Shackleton the Bad
Shackleton is a young male cat I raised from the time he was ten days old. (You can learn about his arrival here.) He is a golden tabby with white feet and white face and eyes that match his lightest amber hue. While he is not large, he has a fierce spirit and insists on periodic forays outside. However, his favorite pastime is enjoyed indoors.
Shackleton loves to make the females cry or scream or hiss or wail. One of his favorite targets is Daisy, an older black and white female. He waits until Daisy is sleeping peacefully, then attacks. He does no real damage, only startling her, which elicits ear-shattering screams from Daisy. You can almost see the smile on Shackleton's face.
His other target is Miss Kitty, an older orange tabby. Her owner is in jail, so she is living with me for the interim. Shackleton makes sure that Miss Kitty knows that he is stalking her. She begins to wail as soon as she sees him. Her wails increase as he edges nearer. The sound reaches a crescendo as he darts toward her only to retreat. This may go on for several minutes until Shackleton grows weary of the game.
Shackleton does have an uncanny ability to choose to play his game when I am on the phone. With cat screams bouncing off the walls, it is difficult to carry on a conversation. Besides, I usually have to explain that no cat is being murdered, that Shackleton is just annoying one of his housemates.
Yes, I do scold him, put him in another room, etc. He can be detered for the moment, but all too soon he will have a victim in sight. He will once more be engaged in his favorite recreational activity.
Shackleton loves to make the females cry or scream or hiss or wail. One of his favorite targets is Daisy, an older black and white female. He waits until Daisy is sleeping peacefully, then attacks. He does no real damage, only startling her, which elicits ear-shattering screams from Daisy. You can almost see the smile on Shackleton's face.
His other target is Miss Kitty, an older orange tabby. Her owner is in jail, so she is living with me for the interim. Shackleton makes sure that Miss Kitty knows that he is stalking her. She begins to wail as soon as she sees him. Her wails increase as he edges nearer. The sound reaches a crescendo as he darts toward her only to retreat. This may go on for several minutes until Shackleton grows weary of the game.
Shackleton does have an uncanny ability to choose to play his game when I am on the phone. With cat screams bouncing off the walls, it is difficult to carry on a conversation. Besides, I usually have to explain that no cat is being murdered, that Shackleton is just annoying one of his housemates.
Yes, I do scold him, put him in another room, etc. He can be detered for the moment, but all too soon he will have a victim in sight. He will once more be engaged in his favorite recreational activity.
Labels: Cat games, Daisy, Miss Kitty, Shackelton
Friday, January 04, 2008
Ferals in the Bathroom
There are two feral cats in one of my bathrooms. Both cats are female and now have been spayed thanks to my cousin. Her husband took them to a local organization that provides low cost spay and neuter services after my aunt managed to lure them into carriers. These two were born on my aunt's farm, but never tamed. Because I was home for the holidays and my cousin was not, I kept the cats until time to spay. Now, they are with me until they are healed and the weather is better.
One is gray with white markings, the other is a faded tortoise shell like her mother. I have decided to call the gray one Greenmist and the tortie Rosefire. Greenmist was the first to arrive and spent several days alone in the bathroom. She was not happy. She literally climbed the walls even managing to turn on the bathroom heater by tripping its wall switch. After Rosefire arrived Greenmist relaxed a great deal. However, one of them managed to turn on the hot water in the sink one night.
I had no problem getting Greenmist into the carrier to go for spaying. Rosefire was a different matter. I spent a half hour trying to get her into the other carrier. I finally used an old wool blanket to throw over her so I could pick her up. I did get her in the carrier but included a soap dish, too. I had only a couple of bad scratches and one small nip. All bled freely and are healing without incident. I have been badly bitten by cats so am very aware of the danger. Interestingly, all the bad bites came from pets, not feral cats.
Both cats are recovering well and seem to have forgiven me for putting them in carriers. Both were in season when spayed, even though they are only seven months old. If my finances improve, I might keep them as house cats. If not, they will return to the farm. Ferals make very good house cats, but lousy pets. Most never become comfortable with human touch. Rarely do they become lap cats. If you would like to support Greenmist and Rosefire, please use the donate button.
One is gray with white markings, the other is a faded tortoise shell like her mother. I have decided to call the gray one Greenmist and the tortie Rosefire. Greenmist was the first to arrive and spent several days alone in the bathroom. She was not happy. She literally climbed the walls even managing to turn on the bathroom heater by tripping its wall switch. After Rosefire arrived Greenmist relaxed a great deal. However, one of them managed to turn on the hot water in the sink one night.
I had no problem getting Greenmist into the carrier to go for spaying. Rosefire was a different matter. I spent a half hour trying to get her into the other carrier. I finally used an old wool blanket to throw over her so I could pick her up. I did get her in the carrier but included a soap dish, too. I had only a couple of bad scratches and one small nip. All bled freely and are healing without incident. I have been badly bitten by cats so am very aware of the danger. Interestingly, all the bad bites came from pets, not feral cats.
Both cats are recovering well and seem to have forgiven me for putting them in carriers. Both were in season when spayed, even though they are only seven months old. If my finances improve, I might keep them as house cats. If not, they will return to the farm. Ferals make very good house cats, but lousy pets. Most never become comfortable with human touch. Rarely do they become lap cats. If you would like to support Greenmist and Rosefire, please use the donate button.
Labels: Feral cat
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Camping with a Cat
Velvet was my childhood pet. A black cat with an odd personality. She liked people, but did not like to be held. We had one elderly dachshund that she tolerated. (The dog liked her.) She preferred a perch on a tall bookcase where she could observe the world.
We(my paternal grandmother, mother and I) liked to camp and fish. For a number of years, we rented a cabin at a local fishing camp, then we acquired a few lots in a subdivision with lake access. A new tent was purchased, and we began camping on our own land. Velvet had always gone with us when we rented a cabin and stayed inside. Now, we decided that she could learn to camp.
There was no way to keep her in the tent, besides, it was way too hot in the daytime. This was central Texas afterall. I had a few qualms about her in the wild, but my grandmother and mother had no doubts. They were correct. Velvet loved camping. She explored the area around the tent and found a new perch in an oak tree to keep an eye on the world.
As darkness came, she became a creature of the night. One evening as dusk fell, she found something to play with. We were sitting outside the tent on stools enjoying the departure of the day's oppressive heat. Velvet batted something toward us. Whatever it was, did not cooperate. Velvet kept retreating, then herding it back to us. We lost interest, and even the dog stopped paying attention.
Velvet did not give up. Just as I got up to turn on the lantern, she pawed a gigantic tarantula from under Mother's stool. Mother was still sitting, but only for a heartbeat. She jumped up and back. The tarantula was barely visible, but I could see it well enough to know that this was one angry arachnid. It had its front legs raised and its fangs bared. Velvet circled the spider, the gave it a whack that sent it toward the tent. That was enough. I grabbed the shovel, scooped up the spider and tossed it across the creek. Velvet was quite disappointed.
Velvet lived to be an old cat. She always loved camping, but never brought another tarantula to us, a toad or two, but no spiders.
(I have added a donate button, if you would like to help support my continued efforts to care for feral cats.)
We(my paternal grandmother, mother and I) liked to camp and fish. For a number of years, we rented a cabin at a local fishing camp, then we acquired a few lots in a subdivision with lake access. A new tent was purchased, and we began camping on our own land. Velvet had always gone with us when we rented a cabin and stayed inside. Now, we decided that she could learn to camp.
There was no way to keep her in the tent, besides, it was way too hot in the daytime. This was central Texas afterall. I had a few qualms about her in the wild, but my grandmother and mother had no doubts. They were correct. Velvet loved camping. She explored the area around the tent and found a new perch in an oak tree to keep an eye on the world.
As darkness came, she became a creature of the night. One evening as dusk fell, she found something to play with. We were sitting outside the tent on stools enjoying the departure of the day's oppressive heat. Velvet batted something toward us. Whatever it was, did not cooperate. Velvet kept retreating, then herding it back to us. We lost interest, and even the dog stopped paying attention.
Velvet did not give up. Just as I got up to turn on the lantern, she pawed a gigantic tarantula from under Mother's stool. Mother was still sitting, but only for a heartbeat. She jumped up and back. The tarantula was barely visible, but I could see it well enough to know that this was one angry arachnid. It had its front legs raised and its fangs bared. Velvet circled the spider, the gave it a whack that sent it toward the tent. That was enough. I grabbed the shovel, scooped up the spider and tossed it across the creek. Velvet was quite disappointed.
Velvet lived to be an old cat. She always loved camping, but never brought another tarantula to us, a toad or two, but no spiders.
(I have added a donate button, if you would like to help support my continued efforts to care for feral cats.)
