I’ve had a lot of opportunity to observe Emily, our ex-feral domestic shorthair. In fact, I have almost an excess of this opportunity. Emily follows me around all day like the proverbial good companion dog. Further, Emily usually sleeps with me all night long. Thus, when it comes to this cat, I know whereof I speak. I’ve become an expert on Emily. Therefore, you can trust my judgment when I declare that she is not a domestic shorthair cat. The HCN adoption papers are wrong. Emily is a pure-bred kitchen-cat.

I don’t know how Emily’s mother could have borne her and successfully raised her feral, outdoors in a county park. How did Emily raise her own kittens? Heaven knows, where was their refrigerator? Where was their stove, their oven? Where were their countertops; where were their cabinets? However, I can attest that since returning home, since being rightly restored to her natural kitchen-cat habitat in our home, Emily has reacquainted herself with those primordial artifacts of her ancestral bloodlines. She patrols the countertops like some indefatigable sentry. (They’re granite; she won’t wear down a paw-path in her lifetime.) She has leapt into every cabinet from floor to ceiling, no doubt solely in the interest of a proper inventory. (Rosemarie and I periodically find carelessly out-of-date cereal boxes, etc.) She once actually tried to jump into the refrigerator. (I can’t decide whether her interest was technical because the refrigerator is a brand-new, so-called “French Door” model or whether this was another Emily inventory task, seeing that the new fridge contains a so-called “Deli Drawer” that I have stocked with cold cuts.) She has climbed into both ovens, albeit cold, the microwave one and the conventional wall-mounted one. (No doubt she had seen many cat-attractive things moving in and out of these dark openings and was curious as to any residual roasts remaining. After all, once she did come across a neglected if small pot roast cooling on the counters. She couldn’t resist her kitchen-cat genetics and, seizing it in its entirety, raced down the hall, the incredible prize held aloft in her capacious mouth.)

All this may seem tedious, even bothersome to some people. Odd. Not to me. Emily is great company, a wonderful companion. If she were to appear at a cat show under the “kitchen-cat” class, she would take first prize. (Or else.) She “helps” with everything. Quietly slicing juicy tomatoes. Pushing peelings down the growling disposal. Meowing. Putting dirty dishes clanking into the dishwasher. Taking squeaky clean ones out and stacking them in the proper cabinet. Drinking from the faucet. Supervising a slowly heating pasta pot. Don’t worry; I’ve carefully trained her about hot things in the kitchen and always keep her under a watchful eye. For the small price of an adoption and ongoing litter and cat food, I’ve acquired my fiercely loyal little buddy, Emily. Adult cats, even ex-feral ones, make good adoptions. I couldn’t be alone if I wanted.

Yes, next I also have to describe our Opal; she’s crying at my feet at this moment. “What about me?”

I admit it. I’m not ashamed of it. I employ insecticides in my home. I have two of them. Frankly, I don’t see that these particular two items cause any environmental harm at all. Except to insects. And then they are 100% effective. Plus, they leave no nasty chemical residue around to threaten pets or children. My grandson is about to visit us so this green aspect of my insecticides is essential. Yes, ladylike Emily and Opal primly leave their residue in a neat litter box downstairs. But what about those insecticides, you say? That’s it. Emily and Opal ARE my insecticides. The only ones I could need.

The other day a visitor mistakenly opened a seldom-used door off the kitchen. “Oh, my!” she said as small cloud of moths and winged whatnot used the opportunity to invade the house. Immediately she shut the door and turned to me in innocent surprise.

“I don’t know”, I responded. “Flying bugs just seem to collect inside the screen door there, so we usually use another way out.”

Our guest was chagrined. But, Emily and Opal, both loitering bored nearby, were absolutely delighted. They charged into the flying cloud and then happily scampered down the hall after the fleeing invaders. Their day had been made. I just laughed because I knew that the dozen or so pests would not last an hour under a determined and effective feline counterattack. And yes, cats eat them. Tasty snacks. If they don’t “taste just like chicken!” then they probably taste just like fresh shrimp. I had an idea. Pet stores could sell bags of moths for entertaining cats, the way bait shops sell minnows. My son is always after me to “start some kind of business”.

I don’t think most people know about this additional benefit offered by companion cats. Sure, everyone has heard that cats can help by catching mice. But, they don’t actually. They don’t have to; don’t have to lift a paw. We have no rodents at all. None in the attic; none in the basement or garage. Emily and Opal constantly patrol the entire place. Well, except for plentiful napping, especially by Opal. I’ve read about science studies that show the mere hint of a litter box in a building causes rodents, rats and mice of all stripes, to actually go into quivering paroxysms of fear. And when they pull themselves together, they plum vamoose. Skedaddle. So, there’s no catching involved. More the pity sniffs disappointed Emily.

But, as said, most people don’t know that an adult cat will not only keep your home rodent-free, but also pretty much bug-free. Even the occasional luckless ant scout is mercilessly investigated. Then eaten. Certainly nothing so obvious as a moth survives a day. So, Rosemarie and I have neither mice nor cruel traps or poisonous baits or whatever. And, we have neither clothes-eating moths nor toxic bug bait or carcinogenic mothballs or crystals or cedar boards, etc. But what we do have, every night, is a warm furry someone snuggled up against us. Purring us all to sleep. Doesn’t Mother Nature always know best.

I just read today in the magazine supplement of a sunday paper, "USA Weekend", a health report of much interest. After a 10-year study, following some 4500 people, Professor Adnan Qureshi, professor of neurosurgery and neurology at the University of Minnesota, concluded that those people who owned (sic) a cat were 40% less likely to die from heart attacks. And, nope, a dog did not have a similar positive result. The article claimed to know of no explanation.

However, I contend that there are reasonable explanations. Whenever I return home, I am subjected to a thorough sniffing, with particularly Emily carefully going over my shoes and trousers. I suspect that these cat scans are purposed to detect any problems. As to the failure of dogs? While Labrador Retrievers are immensely popular, most dogs are other than Labs. Thus most of the average canine's investigative sniffing cannot exactly, legally, be called lab work. It just doesn't seem to work as well.

In fact, my doctors have me on some expensive prescription medications which, when I look up their factual justifications, have data that only support, say, maybe a 20% reduction in this or that bad possibility. And, prescriptions come with unpleasant side effects. An adopted feline seems a better bet. More efficacious and the side effects are just a litter box or the like. Cat food is cheaper, too. And, when I drove home late last night, my faithful little pal Emily was up waiting, watching from the front window for my return. Match that loving concern, you medicos and big drug companies.

This blog entry has a guest author, Maria Alioto, member of the HCN Board, extraordinary trapper, etc. This is her own account of what she, and other HCN volunteers, are accomplishing with your continued support. It speaks eloquently for itself; here it is in its entirety. For the cats, for HCN's supporters and donors, 'Thank you, Maria!'

Happy story:  A new cat showed up at one of the SSF colonies at a hotel - an orange tabby.  That Saturday I set the trap and I checked the trap in between feeding and at the end of my feeding route.  Nothing – so I decided to just sit there and wait, watching the trap, as I didn’t have anything pressing to do.  After waiting a bit with no action, I was about to leave and then appeared the orange tabby.  I trapped him!  So I got him home and found that he wasn’t acting like the typical feral, he meowed a few times and didn’t seem aggressive when I put my hand near him.  He ate really well.

The next morning I took the chance and put my hand in the trap and sure enough he rubbed up against it and wanted more.  I then checked out his back side to make sure he wasn’t neutered, but didn’t see what I expected.  He was rolling around and then I saw ‘his’ belly, which looked swollen around the nipples.  I thought, oh no!  It looks like a nursing female.  I felt her belly to see if I could tell if she was currently nursing or was maybe drying up, but I wasn't really sure how to tell this.  It seemed like she could be nursing now.  So now what?  When I went on my feeding rounds on Sunday, I checked all around the bushes by the feeding station, but didn’t find or hear anything.  I came home and pondered some more.  I could bring her out there maybe on a leash and she’d lead me to them – wishful thinking.  Then I remembered about ‘Cat Lo-Cat-or.'  I had never used it though, so I wasn’t sure if it really would work.  But I had to try.  There might be small kittens out there in danger.

So I put the collar and leash on her and went back to the feeding site.  When I let her out of the carrier, the leash got caught on it, she freaked, and took off, dragging the carrier a few feet and then it released.  But she still had the leash and I was really worried it would get caught on something and harm her.  I couldn’t follow her escape route as she took off pretty fast.  So, after reading the Cat Lo-Cat-or instructions and hoping I was doing it correctly, I used the receiver and walked all around and in and out of the bushes, but didn't get much of a signal.  Then I got a signal in the parking lot at the back of the hotel building and followed it to a 'fire pump' room just to the left of the back door.  The signal was strong there.  There was a little space that she could get in, but I was skeptical that this tracking thing really worked.  I went back out to the bushes because I thought she surely must be there, but I couldn't deny where the signal was coming from - the back of the building and not the bushes.  So I went to the hotel front desk, the hotel folks were very nice and they opened up this room and sure enough she was in there and there was a cardboard box with 4 little orange tabby kittens!  The maintenance man said that the hotel maintenance super had found them a few days prior and luckily they just left them there.

Mom and kittens were reunited after more than a day apart.  Kittens were dehydrated, but once reunited with mom, it wasn't long that they were.  They quickly began to thrive and are doing great now.  All are eating voraciously, including mom.  Mom had found the perfect spot to have them:  warm, out of the elements, away from any other creatures, and in a place that was rarely entered by humans.  Smart girl!  And, we knew she had a bad left eye, and come to find out she is blind in that eye.  So she survived out there, had her kittens, and kept them safe, and just with one eye.  

They’re now being fostered by the perfect family.  Mom and dad (the humans) are long-time cat rescuers and feral cat caretakers and this is their first foster experience since they’ve started a family.  Their children are thrilled to foster mom cat (now named Emma) and kittens and the feline family benefits by being socialized with children.  These kittens will be awesome human companions, and Emma benefits as she will be adopted by her foster family.

Hmm. Sorry that I haven’t written in a while. I’ve been a little under the weather, you see. No, I’m not writing now to ask for money. At least not for myself; the HCN cats are always grateful, however. No, I just haven’t been myself; you might say that my nose has been hot and dry, but I’m getting better.

So, feeling better, I couldn’t resist passing along some stuff that I’ve run across today on the Internet. My son had just sent me a news item relating how a ship sunk many years ago in the Great Lakes had just been found by divers at the bottom of 300 feet of cold, fresh water. Due that cold, fresh water the ship, one could hardly call it a wreck, is in pristine condition. In fact, it and even its cargo are in such good shape that the investigators fear that all of the crew will be found, intact as if they fell asleep yesterday, so the divers must prepare to handle the remains respectfully and all. All of the lost crew is expected to be found, every man jack… including the two stout ship’s cats, Dewey and Watson.

Yes, ship’s cats. Being a veteran of the United States Navy, albeit years ago, I was able to inform my son that ship’s cats were a commonplace years ago. Although animals and such mascots have been banned from the Navy for now many, many years, long ago such were the pride of each and every man o war. For example, about the time of the dreadnaughts, Edwardian times, one US Navy cruiser and flagship was the envy of the entire fleet for having, secreted somewhere on board, unknown exactly to the wardroom and above, an adult live bear. Seems  the enlisted crew could even manage to sneak it out for liberty in each port of call, although it was notoriously difficult after days of carousing to bring back unseen by the quarterdeck when the ship prepared to sail. Another warship boasted of an orangutan as mascot. Bear in mind (no pun intended) that even then, such non-human crewmembers were forbidden.

However, in both the US Navy and her Majesty’s, cats were a different story altogether. Cats more than earned they keep as a ship’s rodent control party. The Royal Navy even provided each ship with a decent stipend for the cat’s maintenance. That is, it did until 1975 when all animals were banned from serving afloat. Today the US Navy has a similar ban in place. Pity; few government employees can match a ship’s cat for obvious worthiness.

So here attached are some enlightening and amusing sites on the topic of ship’s cat. Note the obvious great affection and esteem held for the navy cats by their fellow crewmembers. These men made little bunks, hammocks, blankets, uniforms, etc. for their companion Able Ship’s Cats.

The first site relates the role of ship’s cat in the Royal Navy and, to some extent, the US Navy. Note that this record only goes back at most to the Civil War. However,cats have served at sea since sailing began.

http://www.purr-n-fur.org.uk/featuring/war02.html

The next sites show some modern day nautical cats. Proud, working cats. Earning their livelihood in a sailor’s life. Who could do more than that?

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6TlT31whYc0&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpHsdx9ES80&NR=1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sF7GV6ileRE&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_c95yiZO-rY

Well, these are just a handful. If you ever get a chance to wander about any harbor and if you keep your eyes open, then you’ll catch sight of more. You’ll see, paraphrasing Moby Dick, cats that choose to go down to the sea.

It was in the news today. Another painting sold in New York (or London) for an incredible sum of money. And yes, it was by one of the usual small coterie of notorious artists who always seem to command these astronomical sums… Picasso. Early in his career, Picasso produced work not much different from his scores of European siblings. And, he made only about as much money as those scores of impoverished contemporaries. However, unlike them, Picasso evidently also had a great deal of business sense and quickly figured out what was better to paint. Unlike van Gogh. In his lifetime, Vincent sold but a single work. After his death, his oeuvre of hundreds of paintings is worth, in total, billions of dollars. Unlike van Gogh, Picasso was not going to let those who create and manipulate markets get his billions! Picasso wanted the cash in his own lifetime. So he cast about trying this and that style and pumping them until he came upon things like the below. Note that the cat does not even seem a part of the rest of the canvas; it’s not some cubist feline but simply a child’s inept crayon version. Oh well, the cat is so small you might not notice he’s a gingerbread cutout cookie. I didn’t; my wife had to point that out. I know what you’re going to say, just as one of my family usually says, “What do you know; if you’re so smart why aren’t you rich like Picasso!”

Picasso’s “Dora Maar with Cat”

http://www.overstockart.com/domawicat.html

So… contrast Picasso’s woman and cat with another of Cecelia Beaux’s paintings. Notice that Beaux was only, merely an outstanding painter, having none of Picasso’s marketing cunning. Still, I’d rather have “Sita and Sarita” on my wall. And I’ll bet that Beaux’s cat can and will purr. Further, in the culinary arts, I’d rather eat food cooked in Beaux’s way, rather than Picasso’s.  And listen to music composed in Beaux’s world, not Picasso’s. And finally, on a cold evening, with which little kitten would you like to snuggle up? (Purr Purr Purr)

Cecelia Beaux’s “Sita and Sarita”

http://www.corcoran.org/collection/highlights_main_results.asp?ID=139

The Tiger

 Tiger, tiger burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art

Could twist the sinews of they heart?

And, when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? What dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water’d heaven with their tears,

Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

-----William Blake

In this time and at my age, these lines form a North Star for me. The only one I can see from here.

Collectively at least, we humans behave in lunatic schizoid ways. On the one hand we eagerly study those astonishing images of deep space from the orbiting telescope, Hubble. They are astounding pictures painted by light that, although traveling at 186,000 miles per second (almost to the moon), left its source billions of years ago. Yet despite such incomprehensible distances, we encourage some of us to suit up, ostensibly to travel to “nearby” stars. Utter madness for fragile man who at best lives but four score years and is totally unsuited for the fierce radiations of space. Like pollywogs planning to cross the Sahara in a little empty mints tin. Hubris.

On the other hand, every corner of the planet has its local seer who, because he claims to know all via a personal and confiding relationship with…            , is carried about in a silken sedan chair by worshipful acolytes who fiercely chant death to all non-believers. “Death to all others!” It is always men and basically it is always about controlling females and everyone’s sexuality. Each of the many competing seers and his believers always carry on in a dark, dedicated special building, the better not to raise their downcast but reddened eyes to the disconcerting actual heavens. Hubris.

A wise man said there’s more to know about any heaven in a single blade of grass…  or was it in a mouse? So how overwhelming a tiger was to Blake. And should be to us today. Any common cat is a truly humbling, divine and inexplicable mystery. Sometimes I gaze at Emily in mute wonder. Raised feral, the adult Emily in turn successfully raised her own kittens in the wild. 24/7. What memories does she have in that head, behind those inscrutable eyes, unfathomable to me. Many and many times, in the dark of night she must have stalked. And killed. She had babies to feed. I cannot begin to understand her prior life. Nor can I comprehend her current thoughts. Enigma. The Egyptian Sphinx is depicted as a cat for good reason; cats do not possess the facial muscles required for expression. With extraordinary earthly powers, cats are expressionless arbiters of life and of death. All cloaked in impenetrable mystery.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXvxCvs9KHc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tsk2VCeyQ4M&feature=related

I’m very careful about what I feed our cats, Opal and Emily. I don’t just listen to “professionals” and blindly follow their recommendations. Just because there’s a stack of “Livermouse Morsels” in a corner of their waiting room, behind a life-size cardboard cut-out of a smiling man in thick glasses and a generic white smock, doesn’t mean that those morsels are particularly good nutrition or especially attractive to cats. It could just mean that a salesperson dropped the display and stuff off along with the well-known holiday bottle of Scotch and a Thanksgiving turkey. Or more. But, I digress.

Nope, I do ask for advice and listen to it too, but I also read the list of ingredients on the food container carefully. The first material listed is the most in the food, the second listed, the second-most, etc. Thus, despite all of the colorful printing on the bag showing happy cats leaping for joy in a meadow crowded with little birdies and helpless, small rodents, if the first ingredient is say, “second-pressing soybean husk residue-product”, then that is pretty much what you’ve bought for your poor cat. That and some miracle scent / taste chemistry from those food wizard laboratories along the Delaware River, the same ones who concoct more and more irresistible potato fries for us humans.

So, I’m happy with our current cat food and bring it home in a large bag. It’s good stuff. I like to think that Emily and Opal are impressed with my hunting skills. I should make growling noises and wrestle the bag to floor to complete their illusion. The bag lists “chicken” as the first ingredient and “chicken meal” as second. Okay, I’m not thrilled with “meal” but soothe myself with the thought that maybe that’s just like ground beef, or at least like sausage. I eat both of those I admit, albeit only after first spicing them up as must those flavor chemists of Delaware and New Jersey.

So, I’m not a food fanatic, you see, just a responsible cat companion.  In fact, as I was leaving the store with my cat food bag or “kill” for our two cat girls, I spied a steaming display of those broiled, take-home roasted chickens and bought one of those as well. “We’ll all enjoy chicken tonight!" I thought, innocently believing that the tasty-looking roaster too was mostly chicken, that chicken was surely first on some list of ingredients.

So later that day, after the bag of cat food was happily approved by the cats, Rosemarie and I sat down to a dinner of potatoes, green salad and roasted chicken. Now I shouldn’t admit this, but our dining table, as usual, was circled, patrolled underneath by the two cats. I know I’m supposed to say that both cats have been trained to ignore Rosemarie and me as we eat. Maybe that the cats have been taught to remove themselves for a while to the living room, maybe to watch Masterpiece Theater reruns on PBS. But no, the truth is they sit on the floor by our feet and watch us. And, most shocking of all, sometimes I offer them a tidbit there on top of a paper napkin purposely laid on the floor. I am so ashamed, but there it is.

That was the scene as supper began. As I set about cutting the chicken, the kill for the humans, I couldn’t help but notice how extremely oily it was. And on top of that, it was larded with extraordinary layers of slick yellow fat. It made for slow going and we couldn’t help but begin instead with the salad and some good, crunchy artisanal bread. However, sooner or later I had to address that roaster. Aha, I thought, I’ll share some first with the cats! But it still was devilishly tricky going. The whole mess was so fatty that, as I tried to place pieces on the cats’ little napkin places on the floor, stringy pieces of what really looked like chicken as well as glistening gobbets of suet shot about from my fingers as if I were squeezing wet watermelon seeds! Finally, I did manage to succeed in getting some stuff onto those cat napkins. Alas, after some tentative poking about, interrogatory sniffing and the merest exploratory sampling, the cats simply abandoned the trial. Both cats laid their ears back and slowly stalked disappointed from the table, Emily in the lead, Opal following. Perhaps to watch some PBS reruns.

Now the bulk of the carcass sits congealed in the refrigerator awaiting further decision. Sadly, we don’t even have a dog at the moment, a consumer of last resort. The lesson is… even the cats may not eat it. Further, although once in a while it won’t hurt them, cats should not be regularly fed human food. Unless you eat a lot of red-raw ground beef, your diet lacks an absolutely essential ingredient for cats. Maybe Emily and Opal had some sort of sixth sense about that chicken? I wonder what a proper list of ingredients could have told about that roaster?

Alright, I confess, sometimes in the heat of the moment, if the human food looks particularly tempting, Emily might jump up onto the table. Of course, we can’t have this, can we. I immediately pick her up off the table and, kissing her and telling her I love her, I place her right back on the floor in front of her own napkin spot. Yes, of course she is biting me the whole time but gently. She is not breaking the skin. This is her way of saying, “I love you too.” By the way, this store-bought roaster was NOT deemed worthy of an Emily jump-up. That should have tipped me off right then that something was very wrong.  Hmm. Wonder what their cat food tastes like? Emily and Opal prefer it.

Unexpectedly, two of my interests recently converged, reading the Wall Street Journal and using hitherto-unused grocery coupons to save money to donate to needy cats. As I’ve said in the past, via coupons coming with newspapers or with the US mail, every month I manage to save about twenty dollars, which I didn’t save before and which I can donate to HCN or the like. The beauty of the thing is that my tight household budget remains unchanged from before. It is like donating a twenty-dollar-bill you just found under a sofa cushion. So, the other day when the Journal ran a front-page article about extreme users of grocery coupons, my furry paws or maybe my pointy ears, perked right up. Extreme couponing?

You see, in this day and age, there are the farthest-out followers of just about any activity. You must have read of extreme sports. Like in boxing. When I was young, professional pugilists followed the Rules of the Marquis of Queensbury. For example, remember the following news? Biting your opponent’s ears brought down immediate general public disapproval. But nowadays, there are various “extreme combat” circles, even televised, in which grown men AND WOMEN, engage in anything-goes, semi-clothed scuffles including biting, kicking, etc. Worse than most feral cats, if you ask me. That’s sad of course, and a bad example for children and cats.

But, there are also some popular competitions that are not sociopathic, like “extreme mileage”. Its devotees buy tiny cars that, to begin with, are already exceptionally thrifty with gasoline. Then beyond that, the extreme milers fiercely compete to drive even farther on a tank of fuel. Not surprisingly, this is quite popular in Japan. Last time I checked, their reigning champion was a gal who was averaging more than 120 mpg with one of those funny-looking but remarkable hybrids we now see so many of over here. The big news that day was that her competitors were accusing her of frequently getting out and pushing. Well, all’s fair in love and war, especially in Japan I suspect. Besides, what’s the harm? Her driving is a little easier on the environment; good lord, to have any real effect on the mileage any such cheating must be an awful lot of pushing. And that in mountainous Japan. She surely must stay in great shape. I’m not poking fun at most of this; I too try to stretch my mileage. Following just a few of the guidelines of the extreme milers, I myself get about 40 mpg in an ordinary Civic with an automatic transmission. Sure, far short of 120 mpg, but I’m too old to push a lot and I stay in the slow lane. But, I digress…

The Journal article was about extreme couponing and was well-illustrated with case studies. One proud gal buys her family’s peanut butter, fifty 18-ounce jars at a time, but at only 37 cents each with great coupons. Probably limits the family’s dinner menus. Also, with peanut butter’s well-known effect on the palate, it must handicap dinner time conversations.

“Muh…snuff ob glub fooball.”

“Wha? Wha yu sade?”

You get the picture.

The newspaper mentioned several web sites that cater to extreme couponers. I’m going to check them out, although I’m very wary of going overboard on this thing. After all, I don’t want to make one woman’s mistake. Seems she was able to combine coupons from the store with even more from a manufacturer to get $5 bags of dog food for free. Wow, irresistible! So she brought home a six-month supply. Unfortunately, her dog refused to eat any, just didn’t like it for some reason. The cat wouldn’t eat it either. Not even the nocturnal yard visitors like the neighborhood deer. So, “She wound up donating it to the local animal shelter.”

Before I leave this topic, I must add several things. First, it is a bad, a fatal idea to feed a cat a diet manufactured for dogs. Dog food is missing an ingredient added to cat food that is absolutely essential for a cat’s very survival. Over weeks, a diet of just dog food can actually lead to a cat’s painful death. The same obviously goes for perhaps well-intended attempts to feed a cat a vegetarian or vegan diet. (It boggles my mind to think that someone would consider a cat, of all creatures, vegetarian.)

If the lady’s cat and even her dog refused to eat that brand of dog food, what were the poor inmates of the animal shelter supposed to do with it? And even the local wild deer population found it inedible. Can this be food? I’m reminded of a problem Rosemarie and I had raising our daughter when Susan was only two. There was a brief time in her young life when Susan decided that she was going to live on breakfast cereal alone. Not even with milk, Susan demanded her cereal straight up.

Rosemarie and I did try to ameliorate this fixation by bring home different brands of cereals and of differing compositions, although obviously there was never going to be a green broccoli cereal or a lamb-chop cereal. In fact, Susan was fixated on one single brand, let’s just call it “King V…”. Susan was so focused on just this to the extent that she would use the many alternatives that Rosemarie and I desperately purchased solely to feed the geese and ducks. You see, poor grad students, we all lived in a tiny apartment on campus. To get some fresh air, Rosemarie would take the baby, Susan, on a walk to a nearby creek and pond where waterfowl would swim ashore and waddle noisely over to young children to cadge food. So Susan would feed them every breakfast cereal but her precious “King V… .” However, one sunny day it came down to that or nothing. Rosemarie and I were plumb out of the alternatives and Susan, in order to visit her feathered friends, reluctantly agreed to share even her “King V… .” with the ducks. What happened was eye-opening. Upon our arrival at the creek, the ducks waddled expectantly over. But when all that was tossed onto the lawn was “King V…”, the birds were thrown into confusion. They sniffed it, mouthed it and pushed it about with their beaks. But, like the deer in the coupon story, the ducks wouldn’t actually eat any. They just turned and still hungry, waddled back into their pond. So, if even the ducks won’t eat it… it ain’t food! Don’t buy it in the first place. Hmm. In a pinch, it might make it as emergency litter. 

I suspect that most people misunderstand the Wall Street Journal. They might believe that it is only a boring collection of page after page of indecipherable tables of tiny illegible numbers, intelligible only to those “Swiss Gnomes” who occasionally are accused of destroying our economy. Not so. I believe the Journal has a sly sense of humor, evident especially when reporting on topics not strictly financial. A recent example was their article last December covering your alternatives to a conventional litter box. Sorry, actually your cat’s litter box alternatives, not your own.

Another example is from the Journal’s large fraction of articles about legal matters that just conceivably might affect investors. A while ago, the Journal sporadically kept its readers abreast of developments in a long-running legal dispute between a dog and a cat. Not exactly between a dog and a cat, specifically the disagreement was between a dog owner and a public library, which employed a feline rodent control officer. Maybe the Journal’s justification for publishing was potential risks to derivative instruments related to troubled library fines bundled into down-rated debt.

An adult male plaintiff seemed to have a lot of free time, which he, together with his needed companion animal, the dog, would have liked to spend at the local library. By contrast, the cat was busy with a full-time job. Seven days a week, he faithfully spent his nights thoroughly patrolling the library premises, keeping them free of mice and even rats. I suppose these uninvited rodents were suspected capable of potential library offences such as eating the famous paste, chewing on book-bindings, mussing up those card files, etc. Or worse, soiling the break room where the staff ate and relaxed.

But the cat wasn’t through when the sun rose and humans again arrived. After a quick breakfast, the guard cat would rush to the front door and there station himself as library greeter, warmly welcoming the people entering through the automatic glass door. So thought most people. However, it just could be that he, with trained enforcement eyes, was also looking closely at each arrival, checking for any trouble types. When the plaintiff and what looked to be only a harmless companion dog would arrive, the cat’s suspicions were aroused.

Maybe, “Is that a real dog or is it an oversize rat looking to steal library paste?”

And, “What on earth would a normal dog honestly be doing in a library”, thought the cat further, “they don’t read. They don’t use restrooms; they shamelessly answer nature just anywhere! Dogs in my library, indeed!”

However, nobody said the cat was outright hostile, but he gave the pair, man and companion dog, a very close look.

An intimidating look, a hard stare, said the man, with presumably the dog’s concurrence. When man and companion stepped on the switch under the front doormat and the doors swung wide open, the dog just whined and sat back on its haunches, refused to enter the library on foot. Even carried in the man’s arms, the dog complained. With the cat just inside, the man himself, as he later testified in court deposition, really couldn’t easily bring himself to cross that threshold either. Thus, the man sued the library district on behalf of himself and his dog. In reaction, the library vigorously defended itself and its feline staffer. After all, the library had not forbidden the dog companion entrance. Forever remaining just outside the clear glass doors, the dog had simply caved under the cat’s hard, law-enforcement command glare. Hardly actionable thought the library and, presumably, also its cat. Incredibly, the case went on for two years, albeit without a scratch or a bite, before apparently even the Journal grew bored of the furry stalemate.

Next, I’ll describe the Journal’s latest article of interest to cat people.

She’s at it again. Rosemarie is. At the end of the day, we were reading in bed and she was going on and on about dogs and their amazing virtues. This time it was Balto, a wonder dog from the 1920’s. Seems this incredible sled dog ran hundreds of winter miles dragging some medical inoculation stuff to save an Alaskan village from certain death. Balto was the archetype, founding a whole genre of Hollywood hero dogs. Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, etc. followed. Of course, Balto was not some microcephalic skinny-boned movie fluff of a collie but 120 actual tough pounds of near wolf and built like a Mack truck, but never mind. Turning from Balto, Rosemarie then recounted reading a recent newspaper article reporting the latest ranking of dog breed intelligence. (An oxymoron?) Some kind of sheep herding dog was first, then another putative working herder. What do they herd, apparently hairdressers? Poodles were third smartest and so on. Well, how did they know this, did they hold some kind of chess tournament? Further, the commentary in a recent AKC show was patently ridiculous. “These Belgian Trout-herding Bowsers are wonderful with children.” Blah Blah Blah. This year at AKC there were some 160 plus “breeds”, each and every one looking like they’d be only a quick idiot snack for their putative ancestor, the wolf in the wild. Thankfully, cats have not yet been subject yet to the sort of sad neurotic cultivation of destructive gene sports leading to “breeds”, at least not nearly to the fatal extent that dogs have been.

Admittedly, cats vary in intelligence, too. Emily loves to look out the windows at potential prey. If she sees a squirrel out a back window, she follows its meanderings from window to window. From the back of the house, to the side, thence to the front, window to window. Opal, on the other hand seems not to grasp this basic spatial relations concept. Thoroughly confused, she merely follows Emily, whining plaintively, “Do you really think there might be another squirrel out the side window too!?” This tries Emily’s patience and often leads to disagreements. My dear departed Eddie, had the same problem. An indoor / outdoor cat with his own cat door, he’d stare for an hour out the little opening at the cold rain. Finally, he’d go upstairs and ask to be let out into the yard instead via the kitchen door. If we’d comply, he’d recoil in shock, surprised and disappointed that it was raining there as well. Sometimes, we’d have to go to each and every door before completely discouraged, Eddie would trudge upstairs back to a warm bed.

Nonetheless, Emily and Opal have one single, brilliant skill… they use litter boxes! I remind Rosemarie of this. Frequently.  All winter long, through our front window we witness neighbors bundled up, pushing through a driving rainstorm, hands clutching a bouquet of plastic grocery bags, leading their canine Einstein on a leash up to the local green park to soil the children’s play lawns. Oh sure, they often use those bags. But, does that really clean the grass, would you put your infant down there to roll about? I rest my case.

And, there’s more to think about. The last day of last year, the Wall Street Journal had a long article about how to move your cat even further in regards to its superior habits of hygiene. The article treated toilet training for felines. Yes, classes, devices, etc. As I recall, at least one involved a trick moving cat box, very obvious in its methodology. After acclimating your pussycat to this odd new litter box, one then stealthily moves it closer to the human plumbing. A critical moment is elevating it to the height of the customary human  seat. At that point it is slung under that seat, over the usual water. I suppose now it would be prudent to notify all the household and even guests in order to avoid surprises and unseemly accidents by real people. But like advances in other arts and sciences, this progress comes at a possible price. At least it wouldn’t feel cold! Then the training must get even dicier because, by plan, the suspended trick litter box is made more and more reduced in area, finally disappearing entirely like the fabled Cheshire Cat. Voila, at graduation your cat finds itself balanced on the usual seat and working only over a puddle of water.

Nonsense you say, what cat really would do this? Incredibly I have to say, about any cat and you don’t really need the special store-bought trick litter box. When I was a child, our Siamese Sydney, faithfully used the humans’ toilet. He had simply taught himself. Sydney believed he was vastly superior and seemed to think, if children can do it, surely he could do better. With three small boys running in and out of the bathroom, so hurriedly as to seldom bother shutting the door, Sydney apparently just watched and then imitated. Further, Sydney next taught Sam, our found black feral and Sam soon was using the human toilet as well. But now, with three little boys AND the two cats, the single downstairs toilet sometimes was not sufficient. I have personal memories of being a five-year-old, racing to this handy bathroom, as usual a few minutes past the last possible moment, only to find the door open but things “occupied”. By a cat.

Anatomically of course, the seat is not well suited for use by felines. However, Sydney and Sam made the best of it by standing at the very front, all four paws grouped tightly together. This resulted in a rather precarious posture, mechanically not stable. While I would wait impatiently, I’d notice that the cat’s position called for constant nervous corrections. That is, betimes the claws would make that awful fine screeching sound like fingernails on a blackboard as the entire feline body would start to rotate rigidly, majestically backwards into the dark cold bowl. Wild-eyed, the cat would frantically launch a blur of just-the-tips-of-the-paws rapid micro motions and slowly a tolerable upright position would be restored. All this was done with eyes averted as if to say, “My god, can’t a cat have some privacy here!” I never saw Sydney or Sam actually spin into the toilet, but it obviously seemed a real possibility to them. Finally, I’d like to say that I mumbled some apologies and quietly shut the door, but that door was almost never closed and instead I must have raced off to another bathroom.

As Rosemarie went on and on about this heroic Balto hound, I just closed my eyes and silently wondered, what if my cats could learn as Sydney and Sam did. Or, maybe at least Emily would pick it up. Then Emily could instruct Opal. (Although Emily hasn’t yet been able to teach Opal that every different window doesn’t have its own complete cast of squirrels.) After all, the cats are always trying to get into the bathroom with us, showing an amazing interest in our shaving, showers, teeth flossing, etc. Cats display this curiosity across the whole gamut of personal hygiene, a topic apparently incomprehensible to canines. So decisively, next day I began to put idea into action. Immediately there was the usual inquisitive scratching at the door, I opened it. Emily sauntered in and looked around, “So, this is what goes on at these moments.” This mild interest seemed harmless and hopefully instructive until Opal also put her head around the door. Immediately Emily grunted and rushed at Opal to prevent her too from enjoying this rare privilege, this “teaching moment”. Opal sensing this and not to be denied, exploded into the room arched back and ready for combat. Fierce scuffling followed with both cat students rolling around the floor, screaming, pushing the laundry basket about, etc.. Interrupted again, I arose and drove both misbehaving pupils back into to the hall. I could have reported them to Dean Rosemarie for classroom misbehavior, but thought better of it. Nowadays I’m just carefully rethinking my plans, despite the four regretful front paws intermittently pleading under the door for readmission to school. But, I’m not giving up this idea. I very much want to spring a great success on Rosemarie with her high and mighty Balto stories!

The Youtube address below leads to actual proof of feline superior habits. Just imagine how much better this is on any cold, rainy day this winter. Wouldn't you and your cat both feel superior? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1edDfzluXE

These days are especially tough for abandoned pets. That’s largely because times are difficult for those people who work to assist all abandoned companion animals. If a person is having a hard time just making the rent, then it is a stretch to come up with even some small change to contribute a little food for those dogs and cats, hungry and wet, who are shut outside in the cold. All this makes it doubly troubling to hear a story like I heard while buying groceries the other day.

All right, I admit I was in the pet supplies aisle solely to get some cat treats for Emily, but, by way of mitigation, I had a great coupon. (Remember from a couple of previous blogs, my using coupons notion to save money to help homeless cats.) Also, I always offer treats not just to Emily but to Opal too, although Opal invariably turns up her nose at all of them. Anyway… I was sharing the pet stuff grocery aisle with an attractive and well-dressed young woman who was trying to untangle a jammed nest of shallow aluminum cat litter pans. I couldn’t help but suggest she also consider the deeper, larger plastic ones as being perhaps better and even a better buy. Of course the store had put some types and brands out of reach on the highest shelf and others out of sight at the floor level where one had to literally get down on hands and knees. But I digress into marketing theories.

This pleasant-seeming young lady then did select a better litter pan on the floor level and subsequently felt comfortable enough to unburden herself, cat-wise, with me, safely only a stranger but a fellow amongst the cat items, anonymously in the huge store. Seems she was having domestic issues; her husband was being a problem. She went on to say that she had always liked cats and had had her current little female cat for about 13 years. However, she had married a “dog person”. Usually this raises no large alarms, but she elaborated that the husband had entered their marriage with his dog and both man and dog “did not like cats”. Further, the husband amused himself, and it seems his friends as well, by “playing little tricks” on the cat. A sort of last straw had just transpired. The husband deliberately had locked the cat out from her litter box while he, his friends and presumably the dog, enjoyed the joke from the living room. Well, the long-suffering cat had had enough. She marched into the living room among the dog and gathered male friends, jumped onto the couch and relieved herself onto the cushion exactly where the husband had been sitting. Of course a great uproar exploded immediately. The cat fled, the raging man tossed out all the cat things and litter box and swore murderous oaths against the cat, no doubt surrounded by consoling and like-minded friends. Perhaps the dog woofed sympathetically as well. Thus the woman was today in the store to buy a replacement litter pan.

As she slowly was leaving, the poor woman shared some of the man’s detailed imprecations against the cat, chief among them was his threat or plan to take the cat “up to the reservoir and toss it out of the car”. I could only offer that I thought it illegal and a horrible idea. I couldn’t suggest my real advice… get rid of that immature oafish loser of a husband. Drive HIM up to the reservoir etc... But, no, let’s be nice; maybe they can work things out. But short of long work with a tag team of psychiatrists, I doubt it. Realistically, the safest action long term is for the poor woman to do in regard to that selfish, childish man is to take her cat and leave. Or toss man and dog out the door. Life is short. With all of the unavoidable troubles we all have, why do we have to put up with men like this. What on earth is wrong with them?!

Last year, while writing about the grossly inadequate tiger enclosure at the San Francisco Zoo, I expressed great surprise at the initial design decision, made many years ago, that tigers could be effectively contained by an enclosure with walls a mere twelve and a half feet high. 12.5 feet, only about the height of a one-story suburban home. Or less. Knowing that all some 37 varieties of the cat are remarkably alike save for size, and that house cats, pumas, leopards, etc. can jump up about 5 to 7 times their length, then how could a sane person expect a 12.5 foot wall to thwart a Siberian tiger bent on escape?!

In those blog entries I mentioned that I had read reports of Siberian tigers roughly 10 feet long, approaching 900 pounds and said preying upon the giant northern brown bears akin to the Kodiaks of our Alaska. Well, now there’s a little film footage available. Watch, be impressed and I hope enjoy. These are magnificent creatures.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSJnppzwIIM&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UztB1gRCFn0&NR=1

A few weeks ago I promised I'd give a statement about my coupons-for-cats project. Recall that I noticed that I did not use coupons, like those in the sunday papers for groceries. So, if I did start using them, any resulting savings would be money that was not previously obtained and thus not budgeted. Savings would be "free" money that a person would not miss. And I noted that some stores were too haughty to accept grocery coupons. Thus I decided to buy my groceries, including cat food, from stores accepting coupons so I could help cats.

Well, the first month I saved $23.50, which I gave to the cats at HCN. The second month it was $20.00, which also went for HCN cat food, litter, etc. Not earthshaking, but every little bit helps in these trying times.

And no, no I did not have to buy plugin plastic / electric gizmos to smoke an oily, sooty scent into our rooms. I made no oddball buys just to justify this idea. No, I did not have to buy dog biscuits for a dog we may or may not adopt in the future. No spooky nature / forest sprites dinner plates or odd little "Baby Weeps" dolls. Just regular stuff. Including cat food!

  So there! Give it a try!

An issue of the Sunday newspaper supplement magazine, Parade, has a short article about adopting adult cats (November 1, 2009). “Should You Adopt a Hard-Luck Cat?” Well, the answer depends. Depends upon both you and the prospective cat. Obviously, if you are a bed-ridden nonagenarian, then you should pass up the said almost-reformed Bengali, man-killing leopard. If you are down to your last dime, then you probably can’t afford the poor cat who needs extensive and expensive surgery. If you live in a studio apartment, then you are pretty much already maxed out with your current mixed menagerie of 55 cats, gerbils and canaries. Probably.

Even when you have decided to open your heart and home to a deserving cat in need, often you still face a decision between a playful and reflexively accepting kitten versus a mature cat, a cat with maybe a certain amount of any balanced adult’s initial reserve. Yes, both need a home equally, but typically most people will opt for the easier kitten. Kittens are undeniably cute. And touchingly trusting. So kittens usually quickly find a family and home. However, in a short time, after you quickly get to know each other, an adult cat, just like a kitten, will also become a great friend and companion.

Today, we have our lively Emily, this minute at my feet. She was captured from the wild after a nasty scuffle with thoughtless humans over her kittens. (What were they thinking? Time and again there’s been proof that a mother cat will give up her life to protect her babies.) Then, for two years at the HCN socialization center, before coming to our house, Emily stayed more or less wild or at least unbowed, with her spirit unbroken. However, from her first night at our home, she jumped, happily purring, onto our bed. “I’m staying, I’m home!” Sure, she yells out the windows at crows in the yard. Sure, she gallops noisily thru the rooms with her exuberant abandon. Yes, she happily chases errant bugs foolish enough to invade our home. “I’m alive! Isn’t life wonderful!” But she always has been nonstop loving and affectionate towards Rosemarie and me, pushing a cold nose against my face. Emily just needed a fair chance at an accepting home. She and Opal have provided a life to our house as surely as if it might be heard breathing. We would not trade these adult cats for anything; they’re members of our family.

So, please consider a feline companion for your family and home and please give the adults an honest, good look. A kitten, or two, will generously return your affection with love and loyalty, but so will adults as well. I never have to  spend a cold, cloudy day alone. Amazingly, all I had to do was provide is an accepting home. Click on the Adoptable Cats / Kittens button to see Angel and other great cats waiting for a chance at a family.

The other day, late in the afternoon, while picking up her young son from his Montessori school in Illinois, my daughter saw something straight out of a Norman Rockwell Americana painting. Almost. Walking in the failing light across the small, wooded campus, she saw a teacher heading for a car, going home after another long day, laden as usual with books and papers. This is a scene enacted each day, a million times over in America. However, something wasn’t quite typical about this teacher, Ms Julie, the junior high teacher. As usual, for only her, she was leaving with her teacher’s aide, who happens also to be a housemate. Peanut. Perhaps C.C. Peanut to you, but Chocolate Covered Peanut to Ms Julie and to the rest of his family. Peanut is a Seal Point Siamese. And, as said, also a real working feline, an effective, much-appreciated classroom assistant.

Near as we can ascertain, Angel was brought into the neighborhood as a kitten. That in itself wasn’t so bad, considering the alternatives. And she loved her first human family I’m sure. I’m confident of this because she still likes people, still likes them despite all they’ve put her through. The first wrong done was that they didn’t get her fixed. Was that just thoughtlessness or was it some weird macho notion about reproduction? Of course, we’ll never know.

The inevitable then happened, of course, still almost a kitten, Angel becamed pregnant. And on top of that, her human family just picked up and moved away without her, leaving her now homeless and pregnant. Some people do that, leave family pets behind with less thought than turning off the newspaper. For a while, one of the neighbors would give her scraps to eat but that ended when her “condition” was noted. After  that, some in the neighborhood changed their minds entirely and  began to throw rocks at her. Yes, parents actually instructed their children to throw rocks at a pregnant kitten. Somewhere along the line, Angel’s left eye was damaged so badly that, although now physically quite healed, hard to notice, she can no longer see out of it. Angel didn’t do anything to deserve this treatment. Her fate was to be placed in man's trust. Angel was doing her part, but mankind betrayed her badly.

I ran across some more beautiful paintings with cats that I have to share. These are by an American artist who worked around the end of the 1800's and the early 1900's as did Cecilia Beaux, our last featured cat artist. And, Alexander painted in a similar style, perhaps a so-called American Impressionism style, much like that of John Singer Sargent. A style that is loose and "painterly" but still pays close attention to a realistic or at least believable realism.

I've always been aware of Alexander since admiring his gorgeous but spooky "Isabella and the Pot of Basil", depicting the essence of the story of one Isabella. Beautiful young Isabella was deeply in love with a man not of her brothers' choice. As I recall, they did him in and hid his heart (or his brain) around the house, specifically in a garden pot underneath a basil plant. To a poet's mind, this could not but subject poor bereft Isabella to some eerie and inexplicable, passionate obsession with that garden pot. Well, I guess the painting is better than the story, kinda like, "The movie's better than the book".

Picture at left: "Isabella and the Pot of Basil", by John White Alexander. Picture middle: JWA's "The Red Dress". Picture right: JWA's "The Green Dress". Hope that the black cat won't think of digging in that pot!

I don’t give enough. Chances are, you may not either. At least according to statistics. According to those numbers, the very wealthiest, say Bill Gates, give larger fractions of their worth to charity, than I do. Perhaps surprisingly, those at the bottom of the economic heap do also. Sure, one could deprecate that, “Ten percent of nothing is still nothing.” Or, “Maybe that foolish generosity is why they’re at the bottom, snicker, snicker.” But, it is a fact, those at the top and those at the bottom do give a higher percentage than we in the middle do.

Oh no! The snippy, sensible little voice in me says, “This is foolish! Just a childish game. You’ll never amount to anything. You’ll never get even one single billion dollars! Bill and Melinda probably swill kosher sea salt every night.” And, the voice is partly right. This coupons for cats thing is just a mind game. Self-delusion. Like the game of eating sensibly during the week, so that one can have fun Saturday eating all the wrong things at a dinner party. Or like working out and walking two miles three times a week, promising that, if one has lost ten pounds, one can buy that new suit. Childish, but so what. We’re not simply rational machines, otherwise where would love be? (Including affection for our little companion animals.) And just maybe Bill Gates tells himself things like, if this month he eats all his broccoli, then he’ll allow himself to donate another ten million dollars to eradicate malaria. If I use these coupons then I can donate the saved hitherto unrealized and unallocated money for a good purpose, helping rescue innocent yet abandoned cats. Whatever we each can contribute, however we come by it, it all adds up.

Pants, trousers, come from the North. On our continent, North America, the ancient northern peoples, the Aleut, the Inuit, etc. wore pants sewn from animal skins and furs. Toasty warm. In contrast, the natives of the temperate zones and still farther south wore, well, next to nothing. Except in winter. Today, women tell us that dresses and skirts sometimes can be quite cold. Scotsmen could tell too, although they won’t. I suppose that “next-to-nothing” could be colder still. Oddly, besides affording warmth, pants can project an aura of authority. Rightly or wrongly, throughout North America, the police typically do not wear dresses or even kilts, much less that equatorial “next-to-nothing”. Trousers seem to command  respect. Why?

Pants are relatively new to temperate Europe, particularly the South. The Romans of old seem to have wrapped themselves loosely in bed sheets when in civilian life. In the legions, they wore leather greaves, a sort of short, stout and many-gored skirt. One can learn such facts, from, for example, the history tomes of Will and Ariel Durant or from Mel Brooks’ authoritative film, History of the World, Part 1. Pants were introduced to the Roman Empire at sword point (and club point) by those habitual tourists from the North, the Teutoni, Alemmani  Tedeschi. Yes, Germanic tribes, again en route to sack Rome, first brought the fashion of trousers to Milan. Made sense; crossing the high Alpine passes and even just living north of the Danube (or Donau) called for warm pants. Yes, I admit that the Celts wore that “next-to-nothing”, even into battle, but both the Romans AND the Germans sooner or later beat the snot out of them. So overall the pants won out, everyone was wearing pants. At least in the West. In many other places, the baggy look is still supreme and aligns with the prevalent misogyny. No trousers for women! Much less companion animals.

All this came to mind as I contemplated the aftermath of the cats and pants affair, that day when our cats started wearing them, started wearing pants. Like most such events it started quite unremarkably enough. We were all in the front bedroom together, Rosemarie, myself, Emily and Opal. I had just changed clothes, carelessly tossing the old onto the bed as husbands are wont to do. Rosemarie was folding clean clothes or some such and the cats were doing whatever cats do when bored  and just hanging around. As Rosemarie and I casually conversed I gradually became aware that Emily was fussing with the jeans I had just discarded onto the bed. She was pulling and tugging this way and that. She was so absorbed with her efforts that she miscalculated some move and fell off, onto the rug, flat on her back. Undeterred and uninjured, she leapt back up and immediately resumed her mysterious work. At one point, she actually went from inside the waist, all the way down inside one leg to emerge on the floor. And again, she just jumped back to the bed and returned totally absorbed to her task. Fascinated now, for a few minutes Rosemarie and I just wordlessly watched Emily struggling with my jeans. Finally Emily seemed finished because she stopped and simply stepped into the middle of her construction. She had arranged my pants on the bed so that the two legs together went away from the waist band and draped down off the edge of the bed. The rest of the pants, I suppose one would call it the waist, was pulled a few inches upright in almost a cupped circle, to form a sort of nest. And, in the very middle of this nest sat Emily. Plain as day, Emily was wearing my pants.

Dumbfounded, Rosemarie asked, “What on earth is that fool cat up to?”
After the shortest pause, I blurted out, “She’s practicing leadership.” (By this time Opal, visibly envious as usual, was standing on the bed too, a few feet behind Emily.)
“What? Leadership? What do you mean by that?!”
Of course I had not the faintest understanding of why I had said that. So I calmly responded with only a confident, “You know, leadership.” Meanwhile, Opal aggressively had moved closer to Emily’s new Levis nest.
“That’s just absurd!”, snorted Rosemarie.
“No. You know. Like those two-day leadership workshops in big companies.” I was thinking of those sodden events wherein, instead of a small raise and decent coffee, your company condemns you and low-level others to an airless room with a middle-aged, defrocked schoolteacher and a box of cheap, company-logoed pencils and three-ring binders filled with notes on ‘Emailing For Success’ and the like.“Emily just wants to get ahead,” I said firmly.

Oh dear. Emily and Opal have gotten wind of Homeless Cat Network’s Cool Cats event coming up this October 3^rd . And now they’re hiding under the bed like children going over a list of goodies to be had at Cool Cats, making notes about what they want to ask me to bid for, to get for them. Theyre behaving just like children making Santa Claus lists. Good heavens, who knew that cats would be excited about such things.

Oh oh. Here’s one that Emily spotted and marked. I know that she would want me to bid on this item because in our house, Emily loves to parade around the kitchen counters and watch me prepare meals. But Emily, I don't think Maggie Pond would let you help.
“Private Dinner for 8 prepared by Maggie Pond, award winning Executive Chef at César in Berkeley and Oakland plus a signed cookbook.  Menu to be customized to winning bidder's taste.  FMV $1,000”

Now here are some things that Emily and  Opal are puzzling over, acting indecisive. Clearly they’re curious. They’re thinking about asking me to bid on these, but as cats, they’re not sure about the boat ride. Tell you what, girls, I could bring you home something in a doggie bag. I mean kitty bag.
“Friday Night Dinner Dance Cruise for two on the Hornblower FMV $190”


 “Saturday or Sunday Champagne Brunch Cruise for two on the Hornblower FMV $120”

A few years ago, in Silicon Valley, I had the pleasure of working with Lindsey, an ardent cat person. His cat companion was Max and they had lived together for quite a few years. Their partnership started when Lindsey began his freshman year at a Midwestern university’s engineering school. Seems Lindsey’s girlfriend had started college at the same time, living in a women’s dorm while Lindsey stayed in the men’s. Lindsey was content but the girlfriend decided that she really needed a kitten for company, being away from home for the first time and all. Lindsey advised against it; many students attempted having pets, but it was against university regulations and dorm staff was unrelentingly on the lookout. But the girlfriend insisted and in due time was discovered and threatened with eviction and worse.

After long school, short marriage and quick divorce, Lindsey and Max had to move. They drove out west, seeking their fortune in the bubbling ferment of the Santa Clara Valley of the 1960s and 1970s. What a ride for two bright young engineers with shiny, new and advanced diplomas.Turned out Max had to stay at home, never could survive a face-to-face interview. Never really tried, a decision that he didn’t mind despite having gone thru even post-graduate studies in engineering. Despite how many hours  companionable Max had devoted to sitting tirelessly atop those thick thermodynamics textbooks piled on a dinette table amidst calculator, graph paper, lab book assignments, etc. But, as said, Max now stayed home. Oh sure, he helped out as he could. Contributed. I got reports. For example, Lindsey many times would tell me that Max, the night before, again had placed a dead mouse atop the flat of canned cat food they kept in a larder off the kitchen. Max worked long days outside in the kitchen garden, keeping the zucchini free from pests. Tomatoes too. Each year, after winter arrived, Max checked all the furnace outlets for proper functioning and all the south-facing windows for good sunshine. When you think about it, a cat can help out a lot around the house.

Of course we never did; I never even brought it up with Eddie. We were both too busy, I with work, Eddie with the many rats in the neighborhood backyards. Rosemarie was never onboard the idea either. Eddie really would not have enjoyed the  ocean. Too open. The booming surf and great rushing waves. Worst of all, the white squadrons, high overhead, of wheeling and shrieking gulls, each as big as a cat and formidable predators in their own right. Nope, better to let Eddie patrol his backyards where he loved his sunny days slaughtering rodents. Now my Eddie is gone as well, leaving a still painful hole in my life. Sure, I now have Emily sticking by me as I type this. This very second I am enjoying her raucous, murderous yelling out the kitchen window. And, thinking of deserving cats, I am going to buy some Cool Cats raffle tickets. If I win that week by the beach in Aptos, Rosemarie and I will go and enjoy ourselves. But, we would leave Emily and Opal at home. Some will disagree, but ocean beaches still just don’t seem right for city cats.

This past June, Rosemarie and I witnessed the Homeless Cat Network’s very effective mobile trap and neuter collaboration with the Peninsula Humane Society in action. It was the third  S/N event of the year, with three more to go. This time twenty-eight cats were taken to the van, two more had to be turned away because, even in a long, exhausting day, the small medical team (PHS veterinarian Dr. Roberts and her two technicians) can treat no more than a couple dozen cats. This wonderful PHS van program provides neutering / spaying as  well as FIV & FeL plus chip implanting free of charge.

Another purpose, very dear I know to Cookie and Delia’s hearts, is to provide more exposure, still another avenue of getting the HCN cats names and faces out there for adoption. Delia and the others have placed links and more for cats needing family. After all, there’s cats waiting and waiting months or more for their home and humans. Yet at the same time, there’s lonely people who need a cat companion, people whose lives would be warmed and greatly enlarged if shared with a loving little companion.

I feel very badly when I think that my Emily had to wait two long years for her family. And yet she is just a wonderful little fur pal. Where was I; what took me so long to find her? Nowadays I wake up every morning with that affectionate little face no more than a couple of feet from mine. She’s sitting right at my elbow as I type this. Where was I? How do we improve this situation? By many different ways, today including this Facebook account.
The Facebook address is below. Please check it out.
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Homeless-Cat-Network/54047121725?ref=ts

First photo: Where is it? Didn't you get the cat treats I asked you for? Nothing but a bunch of hot sauce! Do I have to go to the #$&% grocery myself!?

Second photo: Why aren't I in this picture? Don't you love me? When are you going to do a painting of me? Everyone else gets a painting! I feel like I was adopted or something.

Third photo: Yeah, I'm sitting on your manuscript. So what! Can't work? Ooooh, big deal. Maybe I'll mess things up real bad. You don't love me anyway. If you did, you'd have bought those cat treats!

The purpose of this blog entry is to, once again, point out that cats are not just another ordinary companion animal but are refined creatures with elevated tastes and, if given sufficient means and encouragement, with admirable accomplishments. Cats, for example, are much unlike that bleary-eyed and drooling, seething sack of fleas loafing under the front porch waking only to savagely bark at its own family, to bite the postman, to foul the front lawn, etc. No, cats are truly much finer things.
For example, there’s Nora, the piano-playing cat. Or better said, Nora the feline pianist. A mere piano player might pound away at simple-minded chords in a honky-tonk bar. In the first web address below, Nora is seen working diligently on her Bach.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZ860P4iTaM&feature=fvw

In the next web video, below, please enjoy Nora’s first orchestral accompaniment, almost a concerto. (Thank you Judy Hnilo for pointing this out to us.) Evidently, Nora has enlarged her repertoire from the Baroque to include some sophisticated modern works.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeoT66v4EHg

Nora is not the only cat pursuing a career in musical performance. Other cats as well are putting in the hours practicing at the keyboard. Note the absolutely amazing continuo in the video below, a piece for two paws AND tail.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56-ZZrIJJXQ&feature=related

Next, still another serious student of the keyboard.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GqvC62bDShs&feature=related

Unfortunately, there are always cases of deception. Here, one “Sugar” seems guilty of a fraudful air-piano performance.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VoO-YcqypU0&feature=related

For advanced felines, there’s not only interest in the keyboard, but also the fret. Here’s Rose’s first guitar lesson.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXu4Iz4ky18&NR=1

And Rufus is also studying his guitar.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKgb_aKHZMA&feature=related

All this is not to say that cats admire the humans’ music literature in its entirety. An hour ago, Opal was dozing in front of the stereo speakers when booming great avalanches of organ thunderclaps burst forth in the Toccata and Fugue in D minor, Bach’s celebration of the Creator’s Imperium. Opal leapt astonished to her feet, stared wildly about, then fled up to the bedrooms. This, despite my, shouted over the thunderous din, promise to vouch her being a completely good girl. Guilty conscience, Opal? And a minute ago, at the insistence of a friend (Marvin, my New Yorker loather of cats), I put on Charles Ive’s 2^nd Piano Concerto. Analogous to a “thumbs up”, Emily immediately gave it a definite “ears back” and stalked disgusted from the room. Well, Emily, with humans there’s also room for tuneless dissonance. We have intellects, we say. Technically, Emily, it is not psychotic stuff. Humans sometimes like to perversely abuse themselves, as in eating fermented fish and vegetables, assuming yogic positions, chewing tabacco, listening to Shostakovich, etc. To repeat the point, pleasant things like melody aren’t everything. Humans are extra smart and know that.

What is it about cats and nurseries? Rosemarie and I laughed when we read this recent Chronicle article (Reference below). Seems the man running this San Francisco native plant nursery couldn’t be interviewed without a cat in his arms? Well, don’t jump to conclusions; it’s quite likely that man and cat both feel that they are real partners in this garden endeavor. This picture should not be a surprise; I think every nursery in San Mateo employs at least one cat. Why?
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/object/article?f=/c/a/2009/07/15/DDO218HBK8.DTL&o=1

When the other day Opal and Emily escaped out an open door, they didn’t get farther than Rosemarie’s sunny, flower-filled backyard. Once there they forgot all their plans. They forgot about going over the fence at midnight, being met by a gangster in a stolen car, any kind of shoot-out and beginning new lives as running fugitives. Nope, seduced by the warmth, the scent of blooms, lulled by the buzz of bees, they fell just to sniffing about, poking around the plants, etc. Thus, they were easily rounded up and sent back inside. Why was that?

Our previous cat, tuxedo Eddie, was indoor / outdoor but never really got past the yard. He’d sunbath on a bench, then cool off slumped in an empty planter box. After that, he’d stretch languorously and move from plant to plant, inspecting.  At the first sign of a trowel or other gardener’s whatnot, Eddie was right there, helping with any light digging. Why was one little yard big enough for an otherwise adventuresome cat?

At this point I’m going to stick my neck out and say that, when they are offered a chance, cats like to help. Frankly, cats like to work. They like to work and they like to work around people. They’re sociable creatures. This is a controversial opinion. Many agencies, grill an applicant to ascertain there are no thoughts that an adopted cat might lend a hand. Or slightest paw. Nope, a cat has to be 100% useless; merely ornamental. I do agree that a placement as a ratter, ignored in a cold barn without human contacts, is an example of a very bad decision. But my little Eddie used to scour the neighborhood for rats as large as he which he would proudly present to his family. “Look at what I do for you!” he would beam. It would have been demoralizing for us to punish him for doing what he freely enjoyed. One neighbor was so silly as to complain, when she saw Eddie fleeing her vegetable garden with a giant rat in mouth, “Your Eddie, he’s spreading rats thru the neighborhood.” Silly. Eddie was helping the whole band, himself and us humans. And, he was so proud of this.

As I write, Emily is  at my shoulder helping prepare a roast. She seems to like the large French iron pot; she inspected it thoroughly. “Nice, but expensive.” Everything chopped was carefully shepherded into the pot, whether she personally thought it tasty or not. “Do you humans really like celery? Those carrots seem a little tired.” The diced potatoes  got an approving sniff, but the splash of red wine was rejected. “Was that necessary!?”
It’s not surprising that a cat would enjoy supervising a roast. And maybe it’s not a stretch that a cat would take to leisurely gardening. However, cat employment, if I may use that term, runs a wide gamut. Cats go to sea; rodent pests are endemic to vessels large and small. I suppose that I have yet to learn of a cat working crew in the airlines, but some day… A favorite book  of ours is a photo essay by Terry Gruber, Working Cats. Well, don’t despair that it’s out of print, Tuna-Breath, because one can find used copies on the Internet or just browse web sites such as…
http://www.shopcat.com/
a web site devoted to working felines, complete with short photo bios. Rosemarie and I spotted some familiar whiskers here. For instance, Squeak, the resident feline home construction consultant at Builders Bookstore in Berkeley. We’ve met Squeak! On this site, but much farther afield, is Cats Livin, an enterprise in Tokyo devoted to cats. Here the Japanese can find almost anything one might want for their cat. Or, if your living situation sadly is too crowded / small for a cat of your own, well, the store has dozens of cats that you can simply hang out with. Check it out.

Anyway, think  about it. A Meissen porcelain cat can just be beautiful and  merely looked at. However, real flesh and fur cats need more. That’s why they enjoy play, but work is what they like best. Play is only when real work is not available. Chasing my fur and catnip toy is but Emily’s substitute for patrolling the garage for real mice.

People familiar with Opal and Emily, adopted from HCN’s socialization center, know of their interest in plumbing. Emily is fascinated with water, where it comes from and where it goes. Raising her kittens in the wild, knowledge of a supply of clean water meant life itself. At the center Emily was notable for hanging out in the water closet drinking from the tap, helping wash, etc. In previous blogs you’ve seen Emily and Opal helping with household maintenance, like changing faucet washers. And there was their concern about that sudden dark hole in the floor until I reset the toilet on a new wax seal. See, already we’re conversing with easy fluency in the plumbing vocabulary. Emily knows it all and more. Sink wrench, plumber's putty, o-ring, etc. She and I can handle most jobs. However, when a complicated shower faucet failed and proved too difficult for an amateur, I had to call a professional. But, it had to be a professional who understood cats. That would be Nick from Calico Plumbing.

No doubt, at this rate, the maladjusted appliance would never remove all of the offending odor. Fascinated by Nick’s furious and ineffectual activity, the Abysissian just continued to observe from nearby. After several attempts with exactly the same null result, Nick enlisted the owner to see just how few seconds the 44 floating sheets of tissue took to speedily flush down. This time, when Nick dashed back into the house from the shutoff valve, he found the  owner laughing. A second after Nick disappeared, the cat had jumped to the bowl, quickly lifted out all 44 sheets and deposited them in a far corner. Every time apparently. The cat had no malicious intent; it simply knew that a gentleman should not leave a bathroom in such a indecorous state.

This is an another iteration in my attempt to help people communicate with their feline household companions, especially people new to the experience. Here I wish to list some very common expressions which, albeit perhaps well justified, I’ve found to have little to no effect upon cats. These may work with a roommate or possibly even with a wife or husband, but are useless with the felid family. Read the list carefully because I’m sure that you, like me, have used most if not all of these.

Don’t make a mess.
That’s not yours, you know.
If you break it, you’ll have to pay for it.
I’m telling. Just wait until Rosemarie gets home.
Do you mind.
This is my chair.
You don’t belong in here.
You’ll fall and break your neck.
He. Hey. That’s not for cats.
See what you’ve done now.
You shouldn’t be drinking out of that.
I’ve just about had it with you.
We’re having company and I want you to behave.
What are you doing, Rosemarie worked all day on that.
Is that all you do is sleep.
Can’t you ever stop; don’t you ever sleep.
Of course I love you.

Much of what you read describing the Homeless Cat Network’s efforts makes for upbeat reading. There are stories about cute feline youngsters being adopted by wholesome teenagers. There’s news of sweet adult cats getting a second chance when their original human passes away. Even successes with truly feral cats like our Emily, who was trapped with her kittens, those kittens adopted into good homes and eventually Emily herself socialized into my amazing companion cat. These accounts are true and proof enough that all HCN’s efforts are well worthwhile.

More about HCN spay and neuter in a following entry.

The Homeless Cat Network is trying very hard to respond to your calls for openness. After all, it is you who volunteer your time and effort, you who donate the funds. A good question from you might be, "Just what goes on behind the scenes?" For example, many people  are curious about how we socialize cats. So, herewith is an Internet reference to a short film on the web that depicts a typical socialization center for feral and abandoned cats. Sure, it's not our own facility exactly but honestly very much like it.

http://www.babelgum.com/html/clip.php?clipId=3003028&gclid=CIiv7eyli5sCFRlcagodaWmLqA

I’ve always enjoyed art and I’ve always liked cats. Good representational, Edwardian-era art. By Anders Zorn, John Sargent, Joaquin Sorolla, and others. And I enjoy any kind of cat, from house cat to tiger. Thus, naturally I respond even more to the winning combination of both, an excellent painting depicting a good cat, i.e. well done cat paintings.

One of my favorite images, by an artist I greatly admire, is Portrait of Henry Drinker or Man with a Cat by Cecilia Beaux. (Please see the first web site below.) Here, in Beaux’s unsurpassed loose and painterly style, is her brother-in-law. Note the brilliant color work; the mauves and magentas, together with their complements, those subtle greens. Enjoy the outstanding effect Beaux accomplished with the white fabrics, those sculpted folds and shadows. But mostly… look at that great cat! That majestic orange tabby cat, looking on the tip top of its world. A portrait of a proud cat with a human inserted underneath for merely compositional reasons. What a painting! Wow, this could be our Taffy at the Homeless Cat Network center. All Taffy needs for the pose is a lap to sit on. (See our Adoptable Cats / Kittens page.)

Beaux of course painted many other works, although this is among her best. She was an American artist working around the turn of the last century. In my opinion unequalled except for a very few, such as William Merritt Chase and John Singer Sargent. The site below has more information.

I think this blog needs more fur art in the future.  

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cecilia_Beaux

The San Francisco Zoo’s tiger affair is all settled now, with clear winners and losers. Walking alone along the trail while feeding feral cats, I got to musing over the tiger settlement just announced. Of course the lawyer won and the public lost. As usual.

The story about the San Francisco Zoo’s tiger jumping out of its twelve-foot-high plus enclosure to attack a trio of visitors has been in the news again. (This time the news is the legal settlement.) You might think this leap to escape a prodigious feat for any cat, perhaps particularly so for a heavy one. But it’s not unheard of. Several years ago a report from Southern California described something similar. In one of those rapidly proliferating new housing developments pushing into the heretofore wild desert, an elderly couple reported a dog stolen. It seemed like burglars were intent on breaching the home's considerable security system. The wealthy homeowners, formerly city dwellers, had surrounded their new, several-acre mini ranchette with an impressive concrete and stucco wall more than eight feet high. Additionally, inside this almost fortification they had  two trained Doberman Pinschers constantly patrolling.

However, the next morning revealed a much different story. A police K-9 team quickly discovered not pickup tire tracks and maybe the whiff of methamphetamines, but large paw prints and the faint scent of mountain lion. Trackers followed the lead into the further wilderness and quickly caught the criminal who was immediately dispatched. A Fish and  Game veterinarian examined the deceased and reported that she was an elderly female puma, at least eleven years old, only about seventy pounds (normally roughly one hundred or more) and terminally ill with advanced cancer. Thus, according to the vet, under these cruel circumstances, the poor cat was reduced to taking Doberman Pinschers, even if it required leaping eight-foot walls with its catch. Reduced to this, mind you. Is this believable?

But, how about jumping UP? A consensus can be estimated from the next three web sites. Note that one report is from 1875! In sum, probably a healthy and motivated housecat can jump at least six feet straight up; probably no more than about eight feet. (If your cat is young, yet such a leap looks impossible to you, then maybe you should rethink that open food bowl and the boring existance of your feline.) That is, ordinary housecats, like my twelve-pound Emily, should be  able to make such an effort. Emily’s body length is about a foot and a half. That’s relevant because some theorists suggest that cats can jump up about five times their body length.  For Emily, that comes in about exactly right; one and a half times five equals seven and a half.
http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20070219172627AAzrdCW
http://www.catster.com/answers/question/how_high_can_a_cat_jump-4662
http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?_r=1&res=9F0CE3D9123BEF34BC4D51DFB166838E669FDE

Are these housecat results consistent with those reported for mountain lions, consistent with jumping high walls with a Doberman in the mouth? Well, adult pumas range from five to nine feet in length. If half this is body length, then maybe three feet is a reasonable assumption. The theory would then imply a potential leap 15 feet high. This compares well with an 18 foot jump reported in the literature and with the jumps of that no doubt extremely motivated Doberman thief. As an aside, for mountain lions, standing start horizontal leaps of up to 40 feet are given as well as sprint bursts of speed of 45 mph! Thus, fleeing from one is not the best option for the surprised hiker. see next web site below.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cougar

Photo left: Opal at our cats’ front window observation post. From that spot, Emily likes to jump straight up to the tip top of the entertainment center, almost six feet above her launching pad. Photos middle and right. Emily’s biggest athletic triumph to date. From the staircase landing floor at the right, clear over the railing and up into the indoor “Romeo and Juliet” window, three feet to the left of the railing and six feet higher than the landing. Additionally, no doubt adding to Emily’s reckless thrill, that indoor window sill is also fifteen feet above the hard first floor hallway floor. Once there, Emily would turn about to gloat, displaying her superiority over Opal. We immediately put a stop to this smarty-pants feline exhibitionism; we keep that window shut now, Juliet nonsense or not. Even cats sometimes make a terribly wrong decision. That’s why they’re best kept indoors.

Yesterday there was a lot of fire  department activity in my neighborhood. Many sirens, helicopters circling overhead, etc. No idea what had happened but I got to thinking about  personal disasters. And about ensuring the safety of my loved ones. Like my little grandson, Alexander, who has been enrolled in preschool since he was two years old. In Chicago, one can’t avoid thinking of the safety of children in schools. That city recently marked the anniversary of their terrible grade school fire of 1958. Scores of children perished in the blaze apparently because some of their teachers thought it was better to simply stay in place and to pray for divine intervention rather than to take real action in this actual world and carefully lower their charges gently out the lower windows of the building. Thus, the first thing I did there when visiting Alex’s school was to look for preparations for the worst. To look for fire escapes,  smoke alarms, etc.

Coincidently, Alex was there only a short time before his new school scheduled a visit from a local fire department inspector. Part of the visit was a general, all-campus meeting. Staff, tinies, older grades all in one assembly. Later Alex’s teacher proudly recounted to my daughter what had happened. “What should we do if there’s a fire?” the fireman asked the assembly, eyes sweeping the room. This resulted only in a long silence, confusion and downcast looks. Alex, about the youngest present, looked around, fidgeted, then finally blurted out, “Get out!” Well, just how do we do that, probed the fire inspector further? Another painful pause before Alex shouted, “Crawl!”, while making swimming motions across the floor towards the door. “Okay then, where are your smoke alarms?” Again silence until Alex pointed to the devices mounted on the ceiling, “Up there!” The fireman stared for a long minute before responding, “Just how old are you?” This time only complete silence. “He’s only two” said his teacher finally, “Sometimes he forgets.”

Left: Early morning fire last year on the street behind my house. This happens. Middle: Alexander in favorite fireman's pajamas. Right: Alexander suited up at a Chicago area public services expo.

I know, “Don’t play with your food!” And, “There’s no fool like an old fool!” Further, you’re going to be just plain disgusted if you read any more of this. But, I'll bet you can’t resist. And, I'll bet you’ll try some of this yourself. Rosemarie and I have a three-year-old grandson who doesn’t like to eat anything but French fries. Maybe with catsup. So when he is left in our care, what do we do to feed him? Well, sometimes we make a game of it. We play with our food. Below are two examples.
First, toot toot! Here comes the dinner train. With dining cars and all. It’s a baguette, sliced in half with rectangular wells pulled out of the bottoms. Into these wells one puts such items as (horrors) healthy vegetables. All is toasted under the broiler and the tops returned to cover the “cars” enabling a surprise when one-by- one removed and eaten. “Ooooh, this car is carrying peas.”
Second, and here’s the cat angle, how do you make a child-palatable "animal" sandwich? Well, with our little Alexander, one answer would be a cold and greasy French fry sandwich called "dead worms". But there’s another way, a better way for animal sandwiches. For a single sandwich lay a piece of brown-colored whole wheat (yes, even whole wheat!) on top of a slice of white sandwich loaf. After carefully aligning both slices, cut a cat outline thru the stacked two as exactly as possible. If you've done your job well enough, the holes and the cats are identically shaped in both wheat and white. Thus, you can simply exchange them. Voila’ , a cat or whatever you desire. Two of them. Mirror images. Pickle slices, olives, whatever make eyes, nose, etc. I suppose with sprouts one could even press beards into the bread to make sombre religious patriarchs, etc. But I shan’t pursue this into dangerous waters. Wow! I just remembered I have an Italian Panini press. And, with marbled rye bread, I could make even torty cats. A world of cat-themed sandwiches is opening up. Next time I’m going to take this to a whole new level. I may not wait for little Alexander.

Left: viewing the (wholesome) food train. Middle: "Wow! Actual food inside!" Right: two cat sandwiches.

Walking has been called a meditation. Walking the miles long, wide open Bay Trail while feeding feral cats certainly affords much opportunity to think about things. For example, why, of all the possible kinds of cats as seen in cat fancier publications, do those abandoned cats seem to be almost entirely of just two kinds, one a sort of grey and cinnamon tabby and the other a black and white tuxedo? There’s very, very few orange tabbies; and even less of anything else. “Why?” one puzzles.
The walking mind moves along mysterious paths, as my next thought is a remembrance of an obituary. A local newspaper described a recently deceased older local woman as a duchess. A duchess of Great Britain. Here, where we thought there were only maybe the Dukes of Hazzard. The woman’s  photographic profile was complete with modest tiara,  certainly an attention grabber in our more egalitarian society. What would her Walmart greeter think? So…what’s with this? The answer is genealogy. Genealogy is not just that annoying clutter in an Internet search; you know all that gibberish in Google like, “Alfred Paul Williams (1798-1843) married Alice Louise Crumpert (1804-1851), begat Arthur George Williams (1820-1862)…”, ad nauseam. I wouldn’t mind if the Internet had a special place for this great crowd of genealogists so I could search in peace for a Williams hardware store, an Alfred Williams published paper on thermodynamics. Whatever. Just not this mob of sterile and vacuous begat begat begat stuff.
but, I digress. Turns out that many ancestry searchers are hoping for important and esteemed ancestry. Here in the USA, it often leads to Charles the Second of Great Britain, who was a very active man indeed. He had many mistresses and uncountable progeny, often bestowing rather empty duchies upon them as a sort of hush. Subsequently, so many of these really impoverished semi-royals immigrated to the United States that the hollers of Appalachia are virtually stuffed with banjo-picking, moonshining descendents. In sum, if you’re a Scots-Irish American, you’re likely of King Charles’ blood. Like all your many cousins. This is one of the rules of genealogy; not everyone back then is  equally represented now. A few prodigious reproducers, Charles the Second and a couple of virile local tomcats, obviously a grey tabby and a tuxedo, gave today an outsize number of heirs. However, there’s more extreme cases. I’ve read that, from analysis of genetic RNA, every single one of us today is descended from just one female who lived about 175,000 years ago in Africa. Imagine how that knowledge would have discouraged her sisters. And today might dismay many tiara wearers.
While we’re on the subject, there’s yet another important, yet usually overlooked, part of genealogy, pedigree collapse. We all can picture in our minds, the inverted binomial tree of our ancestry. For each of us there’s Mom and Dad. That’s two. And Mom had her own mom and dad as did Dad also. That makes four grandparents. And so on with each generation going back potentially doubling in size. Two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, one hundred twenty-eight… Wow, just seven generations ago and it’s only a 1/128 contribution from each ancestor, no matter how esteemed. And also our inverted mental tree of ancestors now looks very wide. By the time you get back to Charles the Second, he’s less than a drop in the bucket and your tiara starts to slip. Doing the math, going back less than 35 generations, maybe  less than seven centuries, the width of your tree of ancestors could become more than the current world-wide population of billions. And yet contrariwise, seven centuries ago, there were far, far less people than today. What happened is that your tree did NOT in fact just keep widening out to accommodate more moms and dads. Very quickly, individuals must have played more than one role in your ancestry as there just wasn’t enough people to go around all the parts to play. A guy might be great, great granddad to more than one of your predecessors. Especially in smaller, narrower communities. Like Appalachia. Or a feral cat colony. Your tree began to narrow again; your pedigree collapsed. That one single African mom an extreme example. More practically this means that many of us share common ancestry. Statistically minded geneticists inform us that, if you are of Western European background, there is about a 50% chance that you are a direct, blood descendent of Mohammed, the Prophet of roughly seventy generations ago. Only statistically of course, only on average. More likely if you’re Italian than if you're Finnish. And not just of Mohammed, of any specific Middle Eastern gentleman from that time.
Food for thought along the trail. Someone told me that all tuxedos have Siamese genes. I’d like to know more about that. Just one Siamese cat? My mind turns to a comparison of Opal’s tall, slim figure and Emily’s short-legged and compactly muscular shape. Does quiet Opal’s gracile body suggest athleticism? Actually, the sweet thing is rather clumsy. But beautiful like an elegant clothes model. Do Emily’s short legs condemn her to just clumsy peg-leg stumping about the floor? No, she is not only powerful but an amazing jumper, just generally athletic. So, so much for the obvious  prejudices. Each of us, human and cat can make what we will of our inheritance.
That inheritance for so-called house cats stems from the Middle East of maybe ten thousand years ago. Does Opal exhibit more the characteristics of the long-legged African cats, cats who used to chase down prey before taking up security work for ancient Egyptian granaries? Is Emily more a reflection of a leopard-like cat? Short-legged but exceptionally powerful for pursuing prey in tight places like rockfalls or congested  jungles? I’ll never be certain, but it is a fascinating subject to mull on the Trail.
The first video shows terrain wherein the advantage goes to a cat with a long powerful body founded on short legs. Like Emily. Emily prefers a life above people and things, on heights. At this moment she is above Opal and pushing coins off a tall dresser in order to pursue them on the way down.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUY9U4Y4SP4&feature=related

Think about it. Meanwhile, here's yet another snow leopard video. Irresistable; with its craggy and expressionless sphinx face.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPHxlqjNQhY&feature=related

It just occured to me. Most people have not spent an entire life with cats. Thus when such a newbie person prepares to live with a cat or two for the first time, there might be some intimidating anxieties.

"I just bought a litter box, but where do I place it?"

"I know what the cat will put in it, but what do I put in it?"

And, "I've never spoken to a cat before; I won't know what to say!"

It's really not as hard as one might think, because you really can't say much to a cat. They don't listen for one thing. So herewith is a small phrase book to help the newcomer.

Get down from there before you break your neck!
Yes, I want to go potty, but BY MYSELF!
Drop that before you choke!
Get off the table!
That’s mine, if you don’t mind.
Where’s your sister?
No! Stop that!
That will make you sick, you know.
Can’t you two get along?
Yes, I  love you too.
Thank you. That’s a wonderful “snake”. Thank you.
Move over, it’s my bed too.
Use the d**n scratching post!
Do you mind, I just cleaned that litter box.
This food is NOT for cats.
What are you running for?
No fighting!
Where do you think you’re going with that?
Do you have to make so much noise?
NO BITE!
Get out of the dishwasher, please.

You’re a good girl!

So...there you have it, some expressions to try with your new fur companion. I personally make much use of most of these every single day. Good luck with your cat!

Lately people have inquired about Emily. How is she doing, they ask? Well, for one thing, she continues her door and window studies, but with limited progress. While still at the HCN center she mastered opening the lever style of door handle but struggles still with the round rotary models. Not for lack of exercise; every trip a human takes to the bathroom is an occasion for furious attempts to open the door and intrude. Her most recent triumph, door CLOSING, took place early this morning and I was a witness. Emily was, as usual, curled up against me on the covers when became evident that Opal was at the barely open door cautiously hesitating before entering. Immediately Emily leapt to the floor and ran to block Opal. After a short and silent confrontation, Emily stood on her hind legs and pushed the door shut in Opal’s face, then sat down to enjoy the result, Opal’s whining. However, Emily didn’t object to my rising and opening the door for Opal; she had made her point. Me? I’m tired of the drama.
Emily is dominant, the senior cat. In bed she has to sleep up close to the humans’ heads; Opal is only allowed a narrow junior perch by our feet. When Opal usurps Emily’s superior place, she is promptly chased off, back down to the foot of the bed. This is not to say that the two cats don’t get along. In the absence of the humans, the two cats sleep curled in one ball and even groom each other. Much of the waking day is spent in games of ambush and chase with Opal playing the role of aggressor as often as Emily does. But, the head of the bed, the human laps, etc. are Emily’s.
Emily continues to be almost obsessed by the culinary arts. It’s been mentioned before that this extends even to such things as the detailed workings of the bread machine. A mark of the true aficionado, Emily seems more interested in food prep than in the ultimate consumption. She’s underfoot, actually on the counters, during the making of the meal but never begs from the table. Perhaps it’s beneath her dignity. Thus my surprise the other day, while Rosemarie and I were beginning with salad, I saw the evening’s pot roast jump from the kitchen counter to the floor and flee down the hall in Emily’s strong jaws. I laughed myself sick. Naturally, given the nature of the event, I don’t have a photo. Emily has a large and powerful mouth. She actually carries tennis balls around in her teeth!
What did we do with the roast? We ate it, of course. After I cut it up into hunks and made a winter soup. Emily’s “punishment” was not getting a share of that excellent soup. Maybe I was too severe. Despite her fierce reputation, she relinquished the roast without even a nip. It could have been bad. In their later years, my parents used to adopt rescued Great Danes, often having several problematic adults at once. Sometimes they could be quite difficult as in the case of Lola, an enormous and disagreeable liver-colored German import. One March day many years ago, I had the misfortune of seeing Lola simply extend her neck over the dining room table to snatch a large corned beef off a platter. In a rush of anger (I love corned beef) I grabbed Lola’s collar in one hand and the corned beef in the other. Lola simply clamped down harder, keeping the meat as well as cracking several bones in my hand. What did I get from feral rescue Emily? Not so much as a growl. What a great girl! I think she mostly enjoyed the excitement.
If you have cats or dogs, these incidents are not so rare. Carol G reports that she had a cat, Casper, who, also no doubt for the sheer thrill of stealing, would make off thru the house with a whole loaf of bread. The high point of his career was a holiday turkey. Carol had left the bird to “rest” after roasting in the oven. Carol, you must have overcooked it, because Casper was able to wrench off a drumstick-thigh and flee the kitchen. Carol says she returned the leg to the bird, refastened it with toothpicks and covered any trace with a discrete camouflage of parsley sprigs, proof of a real cat person. I have one of those “EVERYTHING TASTES BETTER WITH CAT HAIR IN IT!” coffee cups. Don’t you?
Emily also still works hard at improving her aerialist skills. Opal is a ground cat, rarely leaping up onto anything more athletically ambitious than a bed, specifically her humble foot of the bed. Instead, from the floor, Opal only bends her view upwards to admire the keen high flying work of Emily. Emily leaps up to anything and everything and would still be hanging out each open second story window, were we not so vigilant after some first scary open window incidents. No pictures there either; Rosemarie and I were just thankful that nothing happened and that our hearts started up again. A photo below shows Emily seven plus feet off the floor doing an Olympics gymnastic routine on a ledge two inches wide.
Finally, Emily is trying to become computer literate. She will obtain use or control of the computer by watching the mouse action with her tail in your face. When you surrender then she settles down into a nap on the warm keyboard. She also, like many cats, attempts to improve the speed of the printer by pulling the paper thru with claw and teeth but, owing to a fear that she will  break things, rather than run for the camera, instead I remove her from the room. Which she allows; carried in my arms like a sack of potatoes, she only purrs. She cries when she can’t be mere inches away, helping you at whatever task of the moment. She waits at the window for you to return home.  She makes no mess and never complains about her cat food. She sleeps purring pressed against you. As you pass her on the stairs, her swats are only playful with the claws fully retracted. “Ha ha ha, you didn’t see me, did you!” Her nips are only bloodless pinches, “Hey! Move your big fat arm and let me sleep here too!” What a wonderful companion this little wild cat has become. The Homeless Cat Network saved a cat’s life and provided us with a priceless little companion.

Photo left: Emily is not fond of Vista, prefers Windows XP. Middle: Emily looks for dust in out-of-the-way places. Right: Emily helps wash windows.

It’s true; sadly we’re not what we used to be. Nowadays there’s more golfers, fewer farriers. People just aren’t as tough as before. Neither are our  cats. Nowadays most cats of the companion ilk just lie about on satin cushions awaiting a tinkling of sterling spoon against crystal goblet announcing the imminent delivery of certain premium foods. Or so the television ads would have you believe. Half a century ago, if you said “indoor cat” you would have gotten a blank look. Even in San Francisco, “indoor cat” made as much sense as “indoor child”. Our enormous feral, Sam, found as a tiny kitten by we three little boys while fishing at Lake Merced, could lick any dog in the neighborhood and, in fact, frequently did so. He had to, had to rescue our other cat, Sydney, who constantly was out picking fights he couldn’t finish. You see, in those days, even an eight-pound pedigreed Siamese like Sydney was outdoors battling his way incessantly up and down the street. Much of the year, the nights in tony St. Francis Woods were filled with hours of cat concerts, feline troubadours caterwauling over their social relationships, the analog of today’s relatively insipid dating scene. Fortunately for the other cats and even local dogs for that matter, a vet modified young Sam as he neared an impressive twenty pounds. He must have been fathered by a leopard down there at Lake Merced. So it might not be that much of a surprise that we all, cats, dogs and humans, used to go tent camping two weeks at a stretch in Lassen National Park.

Photo left: Camping cats held by two boys. Siamese Sydney on the left, Sam on the right. Middle: Author's mother holding most loved Sydney while camping near Mt. Lassen. Right: Author and mother. Short sojourn at small lake 1500 feet higher. Mother's backpacking kit included cast iron frying pan. Stove was resin-filled pine cones between two flat rocks. No sissy, stretch and breathable fancy-phony outfits here!

You never know when you’ll have your best ideas. Or where they’ll come from. I just had a good one this morning. Very early morning, maybe 4AM? I was fast asleep, dead  tired, but gradually became aware of a persistent pestering of my hand, which was  hanging off the edge of the bed. Someone was purring loudly while running her face and cool damp nose repeatedly over my fingers. Emily! Yes, the usual pat explanation would be that she was rubbing glands in her cheeks against me, to claim my hand as her personal property. But why such possessiveness so early in the day?
No, this time she wasn’t demanding petting. Satisfied that I had been made responsive, she jumped up onto the edge of the bed and with much revolving in tiny circles, more aggressive purring and still more pushing with her head, she was demanding  a sleeping spot atop the bed next to my stomach. Of course I acquiesced, turning more on my side  and moving inboard enough to accommodate her settled round shape. Half asleep, half awake, at that hour crazy thoughts go thru your head. “She looks exactly like a round loaf of French bread. Only furry and purring.” Once in place, she continued to purr, in fact, purred loudly for another hour or so, affording me, now only a quarter asleep, three quarters awake, ample opportunity to reflect upon her purring and the phenomenon of purring in general. What is it, this purring?

Everyone knows that cats purr. A few more know that the 37 or so kinds of cats fall into just two categories  depending upon whether they can purr only on the out-breath (lions, tigers, other “great cats”) or can purr both while breathing in and breathing out (housecats and  other so-called “lesser cats”, including our mountain lion). I’d guess that still fewer people know that cats purr not only under pleasant, happy circumstances but under the contrary ones, when in great pain, anxiety or discomfort. Lastly, other animals purr as well, raccoons for instance. Well, shoot, if even raccoons can purr, why not we humans!?  There in bed, before dawn, with happy little Emily up against me, I know that I felt like purring too. Hmm, maybe I can, maybe I do. Maybe I just did purr! That “hmmm” I just did. We don’t seem to have a word for it, not in English anyway. Hmmming? Humans hmmms when in sort of a quizzical mood. Can cats quizze?

So, herewith  I’m presenting Peter’s General Theory of Purring. (In my published paper, I’ll grant some small credit to Emily, much as a graduate student might get.) We humans do in fact purr, just like cats. But only on the out-breath. I tried the lesser in / out purring thing and failed. I don’t seem to have the right mechanics in my throat. Also, we just don’t seem to have a proper word for human purring, at least in English. (Maybe in some other language. I’ve read that Eskimos have scores of different words for the various subtleties within the constant snow in their world.) And, if we don’t have a word for it, it’s almost impossible to think about it. Maybe a neuroscientist might have an explanation to relate vocabulary with thought. Like Oliver Sacks, the Awakenings guy. Or Noam Chomsky, a sort of World Know-it-all. Chomsky even has a website devoted to his many opinions about just everything, but a quick perusal turned up nothing about purring or even cats. Hmmm, we still need someone who knows what he’s talking about, someone in manly control of their speculations. I myself have no such mastery; now I’m thinking about the inchoate happy ejaculation, “heh heh heh”. A short staccato burst of human purrs? Laughing is purring? My latest crazy thought. What’s with that, Dr. Sacks? Dr. Chomsky?

I’m pleased and honored to report that the students of Notre Dame de Namur University (Belmont, California) are stepping in to take care of the feral cats that society has abandoned on their beautiful campus. The students contacted the Homeless Cat Network asking for experienced advice and assistance. They’ve formed an official student club or group complete with the approval of the administration, officers and faculty advisor. They’ve taken the name, Purrfect Catch. Already they’re brainstorming ideas to pay the way. Ideas for soliciting donations, raising money, looking for grants, etc. They’re working hard, moving fast, because there’s no time to lose.

I’m not a literature kind of guy. And not a poetry person either. Certainly the feral cats aren’t literati, aren’t aesthetes. Are they? I remember from childhood my mother’s Siamese with attitude, Sydney, stepping slowly thru the garden, smelling each and every bloom. We all used to scoff. Phony little pretender, we jeered. A cat; there was your aesthete!

For reasons I can’t explain, it occurred to me to try and solve the feed station waterer problem. These waterers are devices that provide water 24/7 for the client cats. A waterer is really nothing more than an upturned jug placed in a bowl deep enough to cover a small orifice in the neck or bottom of that jug. Essentially. The physics of the thing is that the weight of the atmosphere pressing on the water in the bowl balances the weight of the column of water remaining inside the jug, under the empty void above the water. But these things are expensive at a store, at least compared with their life cycle. They become quite nasty with algae, bacteria, etc. in our feeding stations on the trail, so stubbornly so that after months it seems better to just toss the waterer. But, again, they cost too much to discard simply because they’ve become filthy and germy.

In “ACATemy Awards”,  a section of the latest Cat Tales, there’s a dozen very brief stories, each of them quite interesting but condensed to just a handful of words. One in particular, about two Project Bay Cat cats, “The General“ and “Twinkle Toes””, is so moving that I can’t help but expand and pass it along.¹  On his part of the bayside trail, The General is quite unique. It’s not just that he is the only orange tabby for a mile or more. No it’s his bearing, his ramrod dignity. The way he carries himself, the way he comports himself. Like a general. Walking along the trail, feeding feral cats along the way, a volunteer is met by successive squads of cats rushing out of the rocks and bushes to great you, platoons to meow in happy anticipation of the food you bring. The cats are affectionate and polite, pushing their heads against your shins in eager gratitude.

Funny. I mean odd. Odd that it always is so easy to see the fallacy, the foolishness in the enterprises of others. In a history lesson at the high school up the street, one can readily imagine the incredulous reaction, followed by the knowing, superior amusement when the students learn for the first time of the Dutch tulip mania. At one time, centuries ago, every Dutchman had to have a heavy investment in tulips, tulip bulbs. There was a huge tulip bulb market. What insanity; tulip bulbs being as transient as a potato, and not even edible. At the inevitable, logical end, the loony tulip market collapsed, heady fortunes evaporated and the Dutch economy just imploded.

But before we laugh too loudly, wonder again what future students might think of us 400 years hence. For example, what of today’s students, being delivered each morning in an SUV to the school up the steet, sparing them a five block walk. A 140-pound parent driving a 120-pound son or daughter in a clumsy and homely 6,000 pound truck, albeit that oafish vehicle outfitted with lavish chrome / bling, electric windows, leather seats and that essential badge of a luxury brand, its very raison de’ etre.

"Well, sure it looks and handles like a cement mixer but it’s badged as a pricey 'Alviso X10 EX', surely proving that we’re a very successful family!"

The gods of advertising must make themselves sick with laughter. We can be such vain fools.

When the thermometer falls, the wind rises and raindrops begin to beat down, we call the weather bad. In bad weather the Bay Trail is almost deserted. There are no impatient walkers in sweat outfits angrily tugging back on leashed dogs who rage at the freedom of the cats. There are no sunny-day feeders strewing cat kibble willy-nilly along the trail. No swirling trail-wide pods of rude grim-faced men in wedge-shaped hats and sherbet-colored stretch tights speeding thru on expensive bicycles. On these bad weather days one might feel alone. But then one senses that this is not really true. No, it’s more as William Wendt, a California painter, felt a hundred years ago. And as he wrote and painted.

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To understand it, one has to go far back in time. Not so far as when we were all just a slimy mat of bacteria sunning on the Canadian Shield. Not even so far as the great dinosaur wipeout, but still back tens of millions of years. Cats, humans and dogs, our ancestors anyway, were still just little mammals trying to make it in a hostile world. A dog-eat-dog world, everybody clawing their way up the food chain or at least trying not to slip too far down.  For humans and canines, the contest got too tough and we never advanced beyond a certain point, a point when the prey became too big, too fast or too strong and we weren’t able to meet the challenge. We had to step aside and survive on nuts and grass, berries and roots. Whatever. But, not the felines; they never missed a step on their way to the very top. For eons, they’ve always managed to catch enough raw meat.

And how would the German Shepherd do pound-for-pound against a comparable ninety-pound cat? The answer is available. A few years back, a mountain lion ruined an elaborate university study of canine society. In the mountains of Idaho, a school project had set up a many-acre, high-fenced pen for studying wolves, complete with base camp, research grants, real wolf pack, and graduate students to do any actual work. Unfortunately, in two days a young male lion busted up the whole shebang. One night, obviously after assessing the situation, the cougar jumped over the fence, quickly slew the alpha male wolf and hopped back to safety. Well, you might say, “The coward didn’t stay and take on the whole pack!” Well, of course not, do you think he was stupid? The next night, before the academics could recover and think more or less straight, the cat leapt the fence again and this time killed the alpha female mate before again skipping out over the same fence. That did it; the entire project had to be planned anew for another season. The cat enjoyed a whole year without what he presumably considered excessive predator competition. Who bested whom in that encounter?

So cats need their own, whole food. Taurine is so delicate a molecule that it is destroyed by cooking and other processing. So canned cat food and dry food must have taurine added or the cat will not survive. An obligate carnivore can eat other foods as well, but it must have, if not real fresh meat, at least something mimicking it with added taurine. So, if you think that you are spoiling your cat by feeding it exclusively your own cooked chicken or salmon or whatnot, think again. Yes, some of its diet can be your chicken parmesan, but some must be fresh meat or commercial food expressly made with taurine for cats. Without cat food, Emily and Opal could have some of my cheeseburger, ice cream and berries, but also must have some of the hamburger before it is cooked. Better to play safe and buy cat food. And, in closing, it goes without saying that a vegetarian diet for your cat is just plain cruel nuts.

Just to refresh your memory, Our Emily was a feral adult cat. She had been reported first seen outdoors as a homeless kitten and later as a feral young mother with a litter of her own. As much as can be said in these cases, she was making it with her little family, albeit at least partly by cadging handouts from well-meaning people.  Unfortunately, due some intense if brief disagreement with society, she was remanded to the care of the Homeless Cat Network’s socialization center. Her growing kittens were quickly adopted into good homes, of course. In contrast, Emily’s stay at the center was lengthy and sometimes rocky. She was quite a handful and at times had to be housed by herself, sometimes for her own good, more often for the good of others, both human and feline. However, despite such outward appearances, the two years of affectionate and loving care by the patient volunteers finally paid off. At about three years of age, Emily got a chance at her own forever home. She won our hearts and since then has continued to make great progress.

As the holidays segue from Christmas into January and beyond, I continue to keep the house filled with holiday music. This is just a little personal religious tradition of mine, much like your neighbor’s, the guy with the moldering plastic icicles and holiday lights strung under the eaves to wanly sputter on well into July. A few days ago, while Rosemarie was at the store, I put on Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. Played it yet again. Beautiful stuff; it has one of the loveliest lullabies ever, warm and soft, a limpid masterpiece celebrating motherhood.

Opal must have thought so as well. She’s usually so skittish Rosemarie and I still cannot even pick her up. But for Bach… she walked into the room, leapt up onto the couch and then, surprise, she gingerly sidled over next to me. Fixing me in the eye and trembling ready to bolt, she cautiously extended her neck to carefully slide her chin onto my leg. When my only response was to slowly reach down and gently scratch between her ears, she moved still closer, finally pushed firmly against me, closed her eyes and purred. For the next twenty minutes, until Bach’s oratorio was over, Opal moved not a muscle. Imagine that, I thought, Opal and Johann Sebastian Bach!

I had warned Rosemarie several times before, but it happened anyway. She was eating her bowl of cereal in the breakfast nook with her back to the kitchen. Careless, if you ask me. She wasn't watching her cup. Emily probably had heard that Starbucks was pretty good but had to judge for herself. She’s a modern, independent gal.

Afterwards, Emily didn't have anything to say about sugar or cream, but obviously those new, larger cups can lead to wet ears.

It’s been said before, amusingly if not well. For example, defiantly by the wife of Richard Nixon’s embattled Attorney General, beset by a blizzard of indictments. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going!” Then there’s the character in Clint Eastwood’s brilliant film, “The Outlaw Josey Wales”. In Washington DC, in a feeble attempt to add any substance to the presentation of worthless gimcrack government medals awarded to several elderly native American Indians upon the occasion of further thefts of their land, a minor government functionary adlibs the hortatory, “Endeavour to persevere!” To paraphrase a character in Mel Brook’s sixth-grade epic, “Blazing Saddles”, these are two examples of authentic leadership gibberish.

But seriously, these post-holiday weeks and months pose trials for all of us. Pose moral challenges. The distractions have faded and we must face the next cold and wet months, in bleak economic conditions to boot. Emily can no longer mercilessly ravage the several crèche scenes about the house, no longer cruelly abuse the helpless figures of the Magi. She’s back to carrying about a less exciting prey of filched rubber bands. The three-year-old grandson, whom always could be productively shadowed as he raced about dribbling interesting snacks onto the rugs, sadly has returned home with his parents. The artificial Christmas tree is being put away, Emily and Opal’s only climbing tree in the house. Uncle Tom and Uncle Steve will no longer return the model train to its tracks after Emily has charged from behind a chair to cuff it about. There’s no longer trays of finger food unguarded for the two cats to surreptitiously sample. For example, Emily found the little chicken sausages too spicy, although Opal adored licking the brie. Guests in the know eschewed eating anything. We needed tougher more persevering friends, I suppose.

Weather scientists have a name for the specific kind of storm event that trail feeders experienced this recent Christmas morning, Wet microburst. In fact, the volunteers were treated to a succession of microbursts borne in from the frozen northern Pacific via a huge mother storm. At times that morning there would be large patches of blue sky riding above relatively calm if cool weather. But then, every half hour or so, a large  black cloud a few miles in diameter, would race overhead from the direction of the coast range and suddenly a microburst would strike. Our volunteers were first buffeted by a blast of warm air pushed just ahead of a drooping dark curtain, then smashed in the face by a nonstop frigid gale laden with freezing rain and a flung gravel of hail blowing horizontally straight from the middle of the cloud’s footprint. Experts describe a wet microburst as a torrent of freezing storm air, loaded with water and ice, pouring down in a vertical column until it punches into the ground to then turn outward, flowing at gale force strength horizontally from a center. Sounds harmless enough unless you’re a volunteer dragging a heavy wagon of cat food along an exposed path next to the open water of the bay! Pummeled by rain and hail, one could hardly move against the blast, hardly move against gusts over and above a sustained, perhaps 40 mph wind. Why were the volunteers there? To feed those homeless, abandoned cats just surviving by the bay. It was Christmas morning and, although not a sensible feline was yet in sight, one knew from the cold that they were already quite hungry.

The days are long and cold now just on the lee side of December 21^st, the winter solstice. Often these short days and long nights are wet and freezing as well. Naturally this is the time of year that we just want to hunker down with loved ones in the warmth of our homes. With our families and friends. And, this is the season when we are even more willing to share what we have, be it little or be it great. And, it is the time to be grateful, to say thanks for what we have received.

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A house can contain many things potentially dangerous for cats and Emily and Opal seem destined to point each one out. Of course, long ago I had made sure that there was nothing like the notorious cat poisoner, ethylene glycol (antifreeze), anywhere on the premises, especially because our crowded garage is Opal and Emily’s favorite place. No unnecessary chemicals and any needed ones locked away. But, industrial chemicals such as cleaning materials are just one class of hazard for cats, there are many more.

Emily is a wonderfully nimble and athletic cat and loves to jump about high places. Several days ago I was sitting at this computer while she, as usual, kept me company. Always on  the move, she hopped down from a tall chest onto a table under a window. Unfortunately, she inadvertently had jumped thru a Venetian blinds pull cord and had her head and neck tangled in the loop at the bottom of the cord! Before I could reach over to her, she had already freed herself, however now I am going around the house cutting open at the bottom all those loops. They’re not needed anyway and child safety experts have long argued against any looped or closed pulls for window coverings.

After the cords event, not another week had passed before the Ichabod Crane or Headless Horseman incident in our house. Rosemarie and I had been asleep for less than an hour when we were both catapulted awake by a roaring fury boiling thru the darkened halls. Running from the bedroom, I was nearly bowled over by a yowling large dark amorphous thing, as low and as large as a black pig, flying down the stairs, pursued by a cat. The initial impression was some kobald creature that even Stephen King couldn’t conjure up. In the dim house, lit only by a few tiny night lights, I could barely discern that it was Emily running room to room and up and down stairs with that frightening apparition. Hither and there, raced Emily and the Large Dark Thing. Finally, after what seemed like long minutes, they both stopped under the table in the breakfast room, whereupon a frightened and exhausted little Opal finally was able to paw off the big fancy crackling paper shopping bag from her little head. I was so upset to see her in such a terrified, panicked state. So relieved that she seemed okay. So very, very angry at the vanity of some stores sending you home with perhaps a pair of really ordinary socks in a fancy, brand-label sack with those twine loop handles, the sack probably costing the store (then you) fifty cents. Wasteful merchandizing madness. But, I should have been warned by days of sweet, curious Opal poking about irresistible piles of Xmas purchases. So now we’ve gathered up those sacks and store them away as if they were poison too. I couldn’t fall back asleep for hours.

Toxic chemicals aren’t always in the garage or under the sink. Sometimes something harmless for us, is dangerous for animals. Nowadays I try to consider what I’m eating from that perspective. For example, Emily loves to lick a bowl in which I’ve just had ice cream. Sharing. Her current favorite is spumoni and we are together comparing the various brands. When it’s neapolitan I can’t share with her; it contains chocolate. I suppose I could stop any and all sharing, but I’m too weak and Emily so loves good ice cream.

Sometimes there’s danger for your cat in something you wouldn’t think to eat. Especially during the holidays, we humans are dragging various festively colored plants indoors without a thought of ourselves eating either leaves or petals. But, for safety’s sake, assume first that all such plants are poisonous and second that your cat will surely eat half of it. Please leave the plants outside on the porch.

Then there’s the danger of household appliances. These pose a danger all year long. Opal seems disinterested but Emily is obsessed with them. Your cat may be like Emily. In the photo on the left, Emily investigates the dishwasher. Seems harmless enough; she's unlikely to be able to squeeze in for a cleaning cycle if the dishwasher is full. However, dishwasher detergent is ferociously caustic and if there is a spot left anywhere and Emily licked it, she would become quite sick. Does she lick? Anything she can reach! Photo middle, Emily has to check out the oven. Yes it's cool now but might not always be so when she jumps onto the door to investigate. My only option here is to keep one eye on the roast, the other looking for Emily. She would surely scorch her paws. Emily is obsessed with the goings on of the kitchen. She should enroll in a culinary academy but I'm sure they don't allow cats. Photo on the right, both Emily and Opal love to "help" with clean clothes and linens. Whenever the linen closet is opened, Opal races into a lower shelf and Emily jumps into a higher one as seen here. Seems harmless enough until I recall that one night, again well after lights out, there was a pouting caterwauling from the shut closet in the hall... Emily had forgotten to jump out. Sounds like cats can be terrible pests around the house. Well, they are active and intelligent companions for your day and home, not inert stuffed teddy bears. And honestly this engaged friendship of theirs requires a small modicum of looking out for them, our little pals.

Finally, we should understand why the Homeless Cat Network always insists on a home visit prior to finalizing any adoption. We’re not curious to see whether there are any “dust bunnies” under your bed. Or a lot of un-ironed laundry piled up in the hallway. We’re interested in pointing out any hazards to the innocent  little cats. They need us to remove dangers they’re not equipped to understand themselves. Emily doesn’t understand about chocolate, she depends upon me that she gets only the best and healthiest kinds of ice cream. The more expensive kinds of spumoni. And only in appropriate very small amounts.

PS. An hour after posting this, Emily and I opened a new, a major brand container of spumoni. Horrors; it is one third chocolate! What are they thinking there? Emily, of course, is severely disappointed. I'll have to quickly clean this carton up myself so that Emily and I can move on together. Next time I'll study the label more carefully. I'm sorry, sweetheart.    :(

As an expression of thanks, the Homeless Cat Network offers its donors and volunteers Cat Tales, a four-times-per-year newsletter. Each issue ranges from four to eight 8 ½ by 11 pages fully packed with news. Cat news, homeless cat news. The topics cover activities of great interest to our generous donors and volunteers. Where do the donations go and what do our labors accomplish? Feral cat feeding, trapping, spaying / neutering, fostering kittens, socializing adult cats, arranging adoptions, etc. The whole gamut of the Homeless Cat Network’s effort is there. (No paid staff; we’re entirely a volunteer organization.) I’ve always enjoyed reading Cat Tales, and recognized it was exceptionally well done. Now the professionals have made an official announcement. Cimeron Morrissey, our very able editor of Cat Tales shared the news with the volunteers via the email excerpted as follows.

“Great news! Our newsletter, Cat Tales, was just named ‘Best Newsletter of the Year’ by the Cat Writers Association! It's a very prestigious honor, especially since our newsletter was up against so many other well-known, highly celebrated publications. Here's what CWA's president said about HCN and Cat Tales:

‘This feline rescue organization’s mission to humanely reduce the homeless cat population on the San Francisco Peninsula is reflected in its wonderful quarterly newsletter. Noteworthy news, educational information about cats and touching stories celebrate felines and the individuals who care for them. As the Feral Cat Program Manager for The Humane Society of the United States, I hold a special place in my heart for homeless cats. My choice for winner of the President's Award goes to the Regional Newsletter of the Homeless Cat Network, Cat Tales...’

Since our newsletter celebrates the compassionate, wonderful work of all of you - our incredible volunteers and donors - we share this honor together. Please also join me in giving special thanks Gail Waldo of Waldo Graphics for making each issue a visual masterpiece, to our printer, Sharon Peterson of Calibre Printing for making Cat Tales possible, and to all who have contributed stories, ideas and help to make each issue of Cat Tales come to life. This is truly a huge honor for all of us. This is a very proud day for HCN! Congratulations everyone!

- Cimeron

Proud editor of Cat Tales “

As Cimeron notes in the above quotation, in a real way this is an accomplishment of all of Homeless Cat Network’s donors and volunteers. Without your support and hard work, this would not have been possible. There simply would have been nothing to report! Thank you each and every one. And, again, thanks to Cimeron for her outstanding writing and editing.

If you not currently receiving Cat Tales, then find out how to be on our mailing list via other pages on this Homeless Cat Network web site.

Ciao Miao

I had scarcely entered one’s age of reason, maybe the second grade, when I suffered a profound crisis of faith. It was not some mild disagreement with a minor point of church doctrine which one could easily overlook. Not say, are trout pan fried with bacon still okay for Friday supper.  No, in hindsight it was a fatal problem, lethal to my belief.  Specifically, it was a crucial question in eschatology, the study of the afterlife. More precisely, the question I put to Sister Elizabeth in religion class was, do good dogs and good cats go to heaven.

I still clearly remember being shocked by her answer. The smiling nun told all fifty students of her crowded classroom an emphatic no. Cheerfully she continued. Heaven, and hell, as well as purgatory and limbo, were only for humans because only humans possessed an immortal soul. (For those not in the know, at the time limbo was thought a probably temporary suburb of the afterlife for the good but not baptized person prior to the Second Coming.)  And of course, per the Church, neither dogs nor cats possessed souls. Ergo, as Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas would have argued, with no souls, even exemplary dogs and cats could not possibly get into heaven. We grade school tinies shifted uneasily at our little desks. Here at last was catechism of real interest to us, not just another putatively sympathetic ancient Roman market  troublemaker strung upside down and pin cushioned with arrows.  “Dogs not even into limbo?” we begged. No, not even limbo. No eternal soul, no nothing, came the crushing answer. A cat was only as a stone, or possibly as a potato. Possibly useful, but no more.

Sister Elizabeth went on. “Don’t worry, dears. You won’t miss your pets at all; heaven is absolutely perfect.”

“Then what would I do there, without my cats, my dogs?”

“Oh but there’s eternal praising. Wonderful. Just fills up the whole day, 24/7 and more. A whole eternity of days praising. Days upon days without end. Praising, just like Sundays.”

“Hmm. Who’s  there then?”

“The whole Church.“

I could only imagine my parents, possibly my siblings or maybe just some of them and the squalling infants and doddering elderly in the adjacent Sunday pews. For example, decrepit old men with startled eyes and hair, coarse as broom straw, astonishingly sprouting from nose and ear. And of course, elderly retired nuns, armies of them. And legions of angels, like the polychrome plaster ones in church, only sort of animated, almost alive. All rounded out with suffocating mobs of The Just occupying banks and banks of bleacher benches in some cloud-borne celestial sports stadium stretching to infinity. For all eternity.

This one-dimensional and claustrophobic kind of heaven, without any mitigating pets, made no sense to a child who shared his bed with two poodles, a Siamese cat pushing against his stomach under the covers and an ex-feral cat wrapped around his head like some warm, luxurious turban. A child who could race around the green city parks of San Francisco with two laughing dogs on leashes. A child who could spend sunny summer hours sprawled on the ground in the backyard studying beetles with an attentive cat at his elbow. Sadly, from that day on, I wanted no part of any sterile salvation.

And that pretty much continued to this day, until Rosemarie pointed out a surprising entry on the Internet. Searching about the topic, “Homeless Cats..”, she came upon an Internet address reporting the late Pope John Paul II’s dream of homeless cats. Pope dreams? Cats? Say what!?

all-creatures.org/hr/hra-popecats.htm

If that doesn’t work for you, just search about the words “pope” and “homeless cats”.

The result of your search will be several sites reporting their various summaries of four pages from the biography of John Paul II, God’s Broker, in which  a dream of his is described. In brief, the Polish cardinal and future pope is visiting America for the first time. Traveling to New York City he has a troubling nightmare. On a lonely winter night in Manhattan, trudging thru a foot of fresh snow, John Paul is surprised to see a feral mother cat and her six little kittens emerge from a dark alley. In his dream a concerned John Paul follows this vulnerable little family. The mother tries to obtain shelter for her babies at place after place. At fancy New York hotels. At wealthy Roman Catholic and Episcopal churches. But always the little family is turned away. Rejected by Jesuit priests. By Episcopal bishops. No one will take in the desperately  cold and hungry little creatures. John Paul repeatedly attempts to intercede, to use his authority on the cats behalf. However, as is often the case in dreams, mute observer, he cannot be even heard. Door by closed door the cats move out of plush and comfortable Manhattan into poorer and meaner neighborhoods. Finally at a worn down tenement,  an impoverished old woman warmly takes the desperate little mother and her babies inside from the bitter night.

Of course the overarching message is as old as mankind, certainly as old as religion. However, what struck me here was that it was a call from the contemporary church to treat well all of God’s cast of fragile creatures. John Paul takes a position much like that of St. Francis of Assisi in declaring care for all creation as essential for  living a just life. This report may be a hint that the story’s homeless cat and her kittens may now be considered something more, just a little more, than only a metaphor in a parable. For my part, I believe it is. I know it is. And, I like to think that, when she finally arrived at the pearly gates and saw a dog dozing at St. Peter’s feet and a cat helping him with the ledger on the desk, my old Sister Elizabeth was very happily surprised.

Post Script

Browsing further on the Internet, I found more. The current pope, Benedict XVI, has been fond of cats his entire life. The boyhood home he shared with a brother was full of cats. Even today, he is known to sneak out of the Vatican to walk about nearby Rome feeding and even talking to bands of feral cats. He’s considered something of a cat whisperer. A story has him returning from one such covert expedition trailed by ten homeless cats who followed him back right inside the Vatican itself. Unfortunately, the cats were soon removed by the Swiss Guards. No cats allowed. Apparently not everyone in the Papal State has gotten the word yet, but cats are now allowed.

Mi’ao! Mi'ao! Greetings from the Maine Coon Cats of Tuscany. Yes, Tuscany, that area of northwest Italy where you have always wanted to visit or even to live. The earthy yet smooth wines. The aromatic cheeses. The spicy cured meats. The crusty rough and rustic breads. That whole wonderful, organically balanced way of life in Italy. Che Bello! But you never thought of Tuscany as a source of cats. There’s still more of a surprise; the cats come from a Carmelite cloister of nuns. Il Monastero Janua Coeli. Men, the Benedictine monks, produce that famous green liquor, honey and other gifts of soil and toil, to say nothing of their ineffably beautiful monasteries. Here the good ladies of this Carmelite order provide world class show cats. Oh, and they've just added honey too.

I was led to all of this by an article in the Chicago Tribune. The Trib offered only the briefest paragraph but also a web address… tribudeldeserto.com/language=en. And with an address, this whole small world of fur and prayer opened up. Vows of obedience. Of silence. Of poverty. Of mi’ao, mi’ao. Almost a heaven on earth for cats. The good nuns provide not only cat runs about the premises for the cats, but even a cat gym! You have to visit the web site yourself. You never again will think of Tuscany or nuns in quite the same way. Now my pipe dreams of living in Italy have expanded to include some Carmelite cats to chase the mice out of my centuries old farmhouse. To protect the cheeses, etc.

Ci’ao.

 Photos borrowed from the Carmelite's own web site. Go to that site to enjoy many more photos. Photo left, a Carmelite at the cloister. Photo middle, cats enjoying their own gym for felines in the cloister. Photo right, cats and nuns mixing it up.

Look! A squirrel! Opal, look! Look, a squirrel! ka ka ka ka ka ka. A squirrel! ka ka ka ka ka...

Years ago I had the pleasure of eating with a circle of friends in a faculty lunch room. One professor had a stay-at-home wife, a graduate in biology, who, he reported, had transformed their back yard into a wonderful sanctuary for birds. Apparently for song birds; every kind of local or transient song bird was welcome. Each year we would hear wonderful reports as she participated in those Pacific Flyway surveys. So many robins hosted, etc. And maybe more robins counted this year than last. But one day my friend came to lunch in a terrible state. He was so worried about his poor wife’s emotional condition; the day before she had suffered a horrible ordeal. She had been enjoying the song birds in the yard when suddenly there was a quick hissing, a terrible swift darkness and a loud boom as if some giant had slammed open a huge umbrella right in her face. When she recovered herself and again looked about it was thru a gauzy thick haze of thousands of settling feathers. And there on the lawn in front of her stood tall a large hawk, deadly talons almost cutting right thru a dying bird. A song bird smashed onto the ground. The hawk unblinking slowly turned its proud, fierce glare into the woman’s eyes. She fled into the house to call the husband. There had been a shocking, murderous crime in their yard.

So My thoughts turned to Rose again. That she had trapped and taken in my feral Emily and her little family of kittens. And, how busy Rose always is, doing for cats and people. The next thing to cross my mind in this free association was amusement at reading some internal HCN communication in which Emily was posed as a sort of bench mark for difficult cats. As if, “Be careful with Timmy Cat. He’s a handful, really wild, but of course nothing like that Emily!” So again I need to thank Rose for getting Emily into the HCN system so Rosemarie and I could adopt her. How different from her fierce reputation Emily has proven to be, once she was in her own home. Thank Rose and all the other trappers and foster moms. And, thank all of the volunteers at the Socialization Center for helping Emily adjust to people and for finding a home for her.

Then my mind, congenitally unable to stay focused on anything, recalled another, earlier event. With Emily’s “help” I was hanging clothes on a line to dry, taking them out of our old top-loading washing machine. But when I turned back for more, Emily suddenly was gone, nowhere to be seen. Then, reaching for more wet, clean clothes to hang,  I looked down INSIDE the washer and saw Emily at the bottom of the drum looking back up sweetly as if to say, “Can I hand you up some more socks?” I laughed and laughed! Of course, by the time I had fetched a camera she had jumped up out again, and was pacing about to check on the drying clothes, which detergent I had used, had I mixed whites with colors, etc. Or maybe my laughter had embarrassed Emily out of the tub. “I was just trying to help!” with ears laid back. At any rate, she soon was just herself. Cats live in the moment too, minute by minute.

Finally my memories turned to the feral family cat of my childhood, Sam. Time and again he would sneak onto the warm, clean clothes inside my mother’s clothes dryer, sometimes taking a short, unwanted and thankfully harmless spin before his immediate hollering alerted Mom. So for safety’s sake, one should always check inside washers and dryers for little unauthorized passengers. Appliances can be dangerous for curious cats.

Photos: Left, Emily seems to prefer unscented detergent. Or chicken scented soaps? Middle, Emily notes where the water comes in. Right, Emily says, “Hey Pop, you think that’s a quarter down there?”

Okay, it’s time to actually assemble a cat bed. We have the plan from a previous blog. We have all of the materials and tools. We even have, as seen in the attached photos, an expert feline supervisor, herself a cat bed customer, our Emily, recent graduate of the HCN Socialization Center.

First, we used the white glue to attach sheets of aluminum foil, only one layer thick, to the inside of the cardboard box. This dried very quickly. See left hand photo of Emily carefully yet comfortably observing. She never left the construction site until the job was 100% finished.

Attachments:

It’s from 5 to 9 in the evening at the historic old county courthouse, now a beautifully restored museum. Plenty of parking nearby. Two carving stations loaded with good food. Not a sit-down, wait-table affair, but you can still easily bust your diet. Don't eat, save room before you come. Vegetarian and not. Wine, beer or non-alcoholic provided with entrance. Sit in the jury box, kick back and swill chardonnay. Good casual dress. Talk trash to the prosecutor. Diss the judge! Catered. A door prize.

Music. Make that good music. Great sounds to listen to or converse over. Not a thunderous rock noise. Nobody will smash their guitar and set fire to their hair. Nice.

A better than usual, great auction, crowded with wonderful stuff / things at steal prices. Restaurant scripts. Bed at great overnights. Art works. Cats stuff!

Naturally, all net proceeds benefit the kitties of the Homeless Cat Network. Check elsewhere on this web site for more details!   :)

Tools:               Making a cat bed is easy and requires only a few basic tools found in any residence. It isn’t a woodshop project with Norm from This Old House. No 230 volt sliding differential router is required. Only scissors. A dispenser with tape, but not duct tape. A glue dispenser, preferably white glue for paper and wood. Nothing with toxic fumes.

Cardboard box:     The cat bed is basically a gussied-up cardboard box. Nothing fancier. But, no need to tell your cat that of course; you know how proud they can be. Besides, along with newspaper, cardboard is among a cat’s most favorite human materials. Felines certainly have to climb inside any cardboard box on the floor left unguarded for more than a minute. Who knows why? Maybe someday a chemist will win the Nobel by figuring it out. Then, alongside good old catnip, we’ll have cardboard mice toys and tuna and cardboard treats. Size? Not so small that your cat can’t actually fit inside, even curled. Oh sure, a cat will try to get into something half as big, but it just won’t work long term. A minute ago Emily was trying to climb into a tissues box. And yet, not so big that your cat feels loose and unprotected. If a cat can move comfortably about, then it’s a cat room, not a cat bed.

Newspaper:     Newspaper offers a second dose of whatever cats enjoy from paper. However, it also begins the process of personalizing a cat’s bed. This is not to be approached lightly; I’ve often missed the mark as will become apparent in a following blog about assembling a bed. Start reflecting upon your cat’s personality and just what newspaper sheets would be sympathetic. For example, Opal loves kitchen activities, so I gathered some of those colorful grocery sales ads. For Emily's personality, I decided automobile tire ads and some of the sports section. Of course no golf or tennis for Emily. No pantywaist stuff. No tiddliwinks. No NASCAR either. Trout fishing might have worked but for Emily I went for the sports pages about ice hockey. Along with the tire ads.

Soft Fabrics:     The bedding in the box is absolutely essential: for warmth, for the tactile or touch pleasure and, as with the newspaper, for personalizing the bed. Done correctly, an attractively fitted bed offers at least some explanation to give visitors for the cat’s lying abed all day. Other than the most likely reason, a total absence of any purpose or ambition. Flannel can be warm and colorful.  And, if it is one of your own pajamas, ready to be retired, then don’t wash it after its last tour of duty. Your cat will love it all the more, provided of course that you are on good terms. Once Rosemarie found a moth-eaten, half-century old cashmere sweater. This was duly placed atop little Eddie’s cat bed and for the entire winter season seemed a great source of pride for the cat. I know because he was most often found in bed.

Aluminum Foil:     Yes, the same stuff used in the kitchen. This is critical. The floor and walls of the cat bed are lined inside with aluminum foil for the same reason that foil lines those emergency survival blankets carried into the woods. While the cardboard, newspaper and the fabric provide insulation, i.e. they prevent your cat’s body heat from migrating out of the bed, the foil preserves heat via a different physical phenomenon. The shiny foil REFLECTS or radiates the cat’s own warmth back into the bed. This one-two action explains the great effect of both the survival blanket and this cat bed design. So set about collecting the materials!

Photo left. A good reason for a cat bed. Winters Eddie slept here above our heads, until that night he was sick to his stomach. Photo middle. Eddie, happy in bed with ratty cashmere sweater. Photo right. This year’s tools and box.

Watching television this evening, I had an amusing experience with Emily. I had plopped myself down sideways on my bed, resting my head on one elbow, my face turned towards COPS or some other deep fare. Emily drifted into the room but suddenly planted herself down on the floor beneath me. She looked neither left nor right, not even down, but firmly, fixedly into my face. Specifically, she didn’t take her eyes off my mouth. It was odd, as if she wanted some of the dark brown toffee lollypop with which I was absently toying. But that was absurd; the pop was cloyingly sweet and forbidden chocolate. Because I was lying on my side, it was too awkward to periodically remove the lollypop and assess one’s progress, or how much remains, the way one is wont to do, the way one learns as a child. So I kept it in my mouth and only sporadically wiggled it randomly around with my teeth. And when I did so, the inches long thin white paper “stick” would wriggle all about in response.

Curiously, at these moments Emily wriggled involuntarily too, for example quickly lifting then setting down her front paws in ungoverned agitation. She also extended her neck, craning for a closer, better sniff, all the while never taking her eyes off my mouth. No, her eyes never off the lollypop stick! Then it dawned on me; Emily was convinced that I had a mouse captive in my mouth! After all, as a feral she had seen that behavior before. She could see the evidence, see the moving tail. And I was playing with it, selfishly not sharing. I removed the lollypop and carefully held it close enough to Emily so that she could sense its sticky sweet undesirable nature. She slowly subsided to the floor and stalked off in embarrassed disgust. Humans can be such a disappointment!

As the days cool, our thoughts turn not only to flu shots and turkey dinners but also to cold nights. Cold nights require warm beds. For humans it means no more than pulling the comforter closer around the neck or maybe turning on an electric blanket. However, with December approaching even a cat can no longer, with its devil-may-care disregard, just plop anywhere for the night, e.g. on a human bed. (See photo on left of Eddie enjoying easy summer nights.)

Several times a week I visit the cats at PetSmart Hillsdale. Currently, there’s Callie, a very friendly  3-year-old grey tabby and the two tiny brothers, orange tabby kittens. Callie looks exactly like my own Emily, so she’s gorgeous. She’s a great cat, all broken-in and ready-to-go for another home. (She lost her first home simply due the economy.)

Before this I had been amused by my recycling role. Diving into school garbage cans, I had been spotted a few times by neighbors who gaped in pained surprise before quickly looking away. No sense in embarrassing poor Peter, they seemed to be thinking, guess his retirement is falling short. So I kind of fancied the whole effort as an exercise in Franciscan humility. Walking a mile in others’ shoes, etc. I know there was a whiff of posture, of Pharisee in me, too.

Since then, I can’t help but reflect differently upon what HCN is trying to do. You see, we do our work better if we do it in a public way. It’s unavoidable. The cats need the right, constructive publicity and good will. Good will leads to good thoughts and good action from ordinary people, from authorities, from politicians, from people in business from whom we must ask for things. We must always be our best, not indulge our little grudges and quirks, our little social rough edges. If I’m wearing that tee shirt while collecting cans, then I represent HCN. And all our needy cats and even society (for example, that decent woman) need a good HCN. Our project is larger than any of us. Before this obligation, we truly are small and humble.