I wrote a funny animal story on my blog. Here is the link: http://www.golfwidow.net/archives/012289.html . Remember that if someone else writes a funny animal story, you always need to get their permission before you put it onto your own blog. I'm giving you permission to copy and paste this one into your blog now, if you want to, to get yourself started.
i would love to hear your story golfwidow,and Trish not to meet you both!Harriet if you can send it too. or since i'm a virgin(lol) to this sight how do you get to your sights,so i can find your wonderful stories? oops sorry Trish if you can send them via e-mail would probably be the easiest till i can figure this out is fine. thank you in advance for permission. love to hear from you both again. thanks again.
My dear friend, Ms. F, had a loveable cat named Bandit.
She didn't buy him, or have someone give him to her — she heard him squeaking under the porch and pulled him out.
He was alone, not in a litter, and she took him to the vet at once, knowing he was going to be hers.
Turned out he had feline AIDS, but she took wonderful care of him and he lived to an extremely ripe old age, sick or not. (NOTE: he was in no pain and certainly wasn't aware he was sick at any point in his lifetime.)
There are a lot of funny little stories about Bandit, like the time Ms. F. accidentally dropped a container of tomato sauce on him and he was pink for a week, or the time she said, "He can't dance very well," and I replied, "That's because he has two left feet," or even the time he was mewing in response to everything she said, like a conversation, and I remarked that I had read an article about how a cat will do that if he was neglected by his mother, and she got tears in her eyes and said, "But I'm so good to him!" and I had to explain that the article meant his cat mother, not his people-mother.
But I think the best example of how funny Bandit was can be summed up by this tale:
Background: Ms. F collected Beanie Babies for years, to the point where she finally thinned out her collection by unloading anything that wasn't a teddy bear and still had about fifty million bazillion of the things.
I was at her house one night and she showed me her newest acquisition: a Beanie Bear that had, rather than the traditional velour fur, an inordinately silky body that was about the softest thing we had ever felt.
We sat cooing over the cuddliness of this bear, and suddenly, a grey and white streak flew across the room, snatched the bear, hid it behind a table, and flew back to us, where it plopped itself between us on the sofa and looked up at us with huge eyes as if to say, "What bear? I never saw any bear. However, I am quite soft, myself, should you care to experiment."
I think that qualifies as a funny animal story. If you disagree, oh, well; it's too
You can copy and paste these to your blog, if you like:
I had an Australian Shepherd named Sonic who could let himself out of the house. That might not seem like a big deal, since the door opened outward and the handle was the lever-style that was easy for a dog to push down... but he could also let himself back IN.
One winter day Sonic ran off when I was putting him outside to do his business. Since he was notorious for not coming back unless I went after him and lured him with treats, I shoved my feet into a pair of my husband's work boots, threw a coat over my pajamas, and
In the days of the open road when jobs were often scarce, hoboes rode the rails, traveling around the country and taking whatever work was available. They only worked enough to subsist, gladly traveling again when the spirit (or necessity) struck them. Among the customs of the hobo culture were little messages to the next guy who came by – unnoticed by those who lived there but recognized by other hoboes.
One of these signs was often left on a fence or gatepost, a stick figure of a cat, that meant “a kind women lives here.” It usually indicated a place where a transient might work for a meal. I think there’s a similar sign on my house. Oddly enough, it’s in cat language. I’m not sure of the actual wording, but I know what it means – “suckers here!”
About two years ago we looked outside to see a mother cat nursing her kittens on our pavement. I had no need for more cats – my daughter had brought her “Hey Boy” when she moved back home – but I just can’t ignore a nursing mother. So we took a little food outside, and she quickly learned that she could always eat here. (Fortunately, I was already buying budget cat food and we had plenty of dry food, though we accepted donations from anyone who had a finicky cat.)
She was just adorable and I called her Precious. She was very young – it was probably her first litter – but she was a very good mother. Soon we noticed a pattern; she always ate first. If there was food left, the babies could eat some solid food; if not, the milk bar was open.
As the kittens – two tabbies and one solid black – grew larger, they needed names too. (My daughter had been saying “Precious and the Mews; it sounded like a rock group.)
The black one was Uno – Uno the Intrepid, who came right into the garage and even stayed there overnight. The other two were indistinguishable for a long time and we called them Dos-a and Tres-i. If one looked a little larger than the other, that was Dos-a, by default.
As soon as other cats discovered that there was a source of easy food, we had a whole entourage. One of the nicest was one we called Smoky – and that evidently was his name with other people, for he answered to it. Smoky is solid gray with aqua eyes and very lovable, so glad to be petted that he may knock the food out of your hand in his eagerness to touch you. And one of the most interesting things about Smoky is that Precious and her babies seem to like him too. (Maybe he and Precious were from the same litter?) Precious hisses at most other cats – at me too, but I hiss back.
Eventually we named all the strays: Creamsicle, Tuxedo, Fluffy, Not Smoky. Tuxedo was simply a black and white cat that looked as if he were in evening dress. Creamsicle was an orange and white cat with an injured paw. We never found out just how injured it was, but we did notice that he limped more when he knew someone was watching. Fluffy was a dark gray long-haired impostor; that is, he wore a collar with a tag and obviously had another source of food and love, so we chased him away.
I walked up to Smoky one day and he ran away from me. I couldn’t figure out why, until he turned around and I saw his yellow eyes. He was Not Smoky, that’s why he didn’t act like him. Not Smoky eventually became tamer and let me pet him until he got too bold – but that’s another story.
Precious stayed nearby with her kittens all through the winter. I fed them in the morning when I went out to get my newspaper. They came to us for food regularly (and complained if we were too slow!), took shelter under our steps, and still wouldn’t let us touch them.
As a matter of fact, that’s the reason they’re still around. When we talked to Animal Control about them, wondering whether they could be put up for adoption, we were told that feral cats weren’t suitable for adoption and would be destroyed. Not being ready to condemn these kitties, we think we’ll try to tame them.
There were cats around our garage all the time. When I opened the door each the morning to pick up the newspaper, I was surrounded by cats. They didn’t leave me be until I fed them; on garbage pick-up day, I never would have been able to carry the trash out.
We automatically checked them whenever we drove up so we’d be sure not to drive on them. There was no doubt about it: Dos-a was definitely looking larger than Tres-i. One day in the spring I checked to see Precious, Uno, Dos-a and Tres-i on the pavement, and then I noticed a pair of eyes peeking out from under the steps. Who are you? Dos-a had presented us with three new ones.
The distribution was the same, one black and two grey tabbies. Borrowing loosely from the Sneaky Pie Brown series, we named the black one Tucker and the tabbies Murphy and ’Puter. My daughter decided to tame this litter from the start. She started by feeding Dos-a and then, having gained her trust, began picking up the babies and holding them for a while. It worked on some better than others. Tucker allowed us to pet him until he was injured somewhere and then he became very fearful. ’Puter never became friendly, but Murphy winds around my legs when I open the garage.
The original cats like Smoky, and their mother never chased him away. But they don’t like Not Smoky. Poor Not Smoky is very frightened of people, as if he remembers being beaten. But he is also afraid of all the other cats, even the babies. They would not let him eat.
So I began putting out a separate dish for Not Smoky, and each morning I chased away the other cats so the poor guy could get a little food. When he got used to being fed, I tried to pet him, but he always ran away. After a few months, he let me touch him just a little, and finally allowed me to pat his head each morning. And he got a little bolder and sat on the porch when he expected food to come out.
One day our indoor cat, Hey Boy, got outside while Not Smoky was guarding his spot on the porch. When we opened the door for Hey Boy, Not Smoky came in too. Of course, he was disoriented and very scared and ran around a lot before he hid under my daughter’s bed. Soon the room smelled of frightened cat. The more we tried to get him out, the worse it stank.
We tried to tempt him with food, we put up a trap, and nothing worked. He didn’t eat. He stayed there for a week! At last my daughter grabbed hold of him. He scratched and bit her and ran out into the bathroom. She ran in after him and shut the door. Then she opened the bathroom window. Not Smoky got up on the window sill and jumped out the window.
It is a ten-foot drop, but he didn’t get hurt. When I looked out, he had run away. We didn’t expect to see him again.
Next time I put out food, there was Not Smoky waiting with the others. He even tried to come inside again! Maybe he liked being warm so much that he didn’t mind being scared. But he certainly had been scared. I didn’t try to touch him; I thought he would still be terrified. But he stuck his head under my hand for a quick pat before he ate.
There are mornings when I look out the window and see as many as ten cats sitting in rows, as if they’re in church waiting for the sermon. The cast of characters changes constantly. I haven’t seen Precious in a long time. Uno was gone for some time, but he turned up with a sore leg. Evidently, when they can’t hunt for food, they still know where the suckers are.
I haven’t seen Smoky for several months, but Not Smoky sits there eying my little girls. I’m worried…
I don’t want to be the home base for all the cats in the neighborhood. I don’t even want “our cats” – the ones that grew up in my yard – to consider this their territory. So beyond feeding them once a day, I try not to encourage them.
I know that they’re finding food elsewhere, because if I’m too late coming out in the morning, there are fewer cats waiting for me. I don’t ever give them water; I figure they can find water wherever other wild animals find it. We are on the edge of a marsh, after all.
Precious taught her babies to hide under my front steps; they would disappear there as soon as a human approached. Dos-a’s kittens hid there the following year. I don’t think any of the adult cats can fit through. In any case, as spring approached, I decided to stop up the openings with leaves, rocks and dirt to discourage them.
However, I noticed somebody digging away at my work, and I suspected that Dos-a was about to present us with another litter. Eventually there were little faces peeking out from underneath, but they weren’t Dos-a’s after all. ’Puter had delivered her kittens someplace else, but she knew where to bring them as soon as they were old enough to walk.
There were four this time. We continued the computer language, since they were the offspring of ’Puter. Another gray tabby was named Scuzzi. Two black ones – completely interchangeable – were Boris and Top Cat. And a pretty little all gray, who looked like Smoky or Not Smoky, was called WYSIWYG.
Wysi is a feisty little fellow. He mews loudly for food, and he stands in the middle of the dish to eat. He tries to hiss ferociously when he’s picked up, but he just makes you laugh. Despite his reluctance to be held, he is friendly enough to allow an occasional pat.
Within a couple of weeks, there was another litter, hiding under a junked car. Dos-a also had delivered elsewhere but brought her babies to us. One is gray and white. He looks so much like Hey Boy that we called him Screenshot. (Hey Boy, incidentally, is neutered; the resemblance is coincidental.) And there were two calicos, my favorite kind of cat. We called the calicos GUI and Floppy (a port, a disk), but GUI, with her pretty face, soon became Shana Punum.
Heaven help us, we were now “home” to fourteen cats, not to mention all the hangers-on who came by to scrounge food. And about half of them are gray tabbies, so that I can’t always tell who’s who. That became the source of yet another silly story.
For the most part, the cats don’t come in when I open the garage door; they know the food is going to be outside. But my daughter decided to give them some extra food one evening. Unfortunately, the door between the garage and the cellar was open, and someone found a nice warm space.
I saw it only as a flash, a gray tabby. At first I thought it was one of the girls looking for a place to have kittens, but when Hey Boy came downstairs, our intruder marked what he was considering his territory. Phew! Who could it be? Murphy, I guessed, I think he’s the only male tabby. A couple of times he actually came out and stared at me from a distance, but he wouldn’t come close, which was unusual for Murphy. There’s too much stuff downstairs to make a search easy, and so I just left him there, thinking he’d come out when he was ready. Eventually he did. All the others were busy eating outside when I opened the inner door, and after a few minutes there was a flash of gray as whoever he was ran out and disappeared.
He came back, of course. I pointed him out to my daughter, and she said, “that’s not one of our cats.” You could have fooled me. As a matter of fact, I guess he did! All I have to do now is deodorize the cellar. And I definitely have to dissuade the cats from going under the steps. Mothballs, maybe?
The last time I wrote in detail about our kitties, I really wanted to wash my hands of the whole business. It’s just too exhausting to keep watching over them when I know there are outside forces killing them off as fast as they’re born.
So I pulled back. I stopped feeding them at the crack of dawn, hoping they’d lose interest. Soon I had only two regulars, Dos-a – who still expects to be patted before she eats – and Floppy, the calico who was one of Dos-a’s kittens. I set out far less food, and I chased away any males who thought they were horning in. A lot of good that did.
A month ago, I noticed that both cats were looking a little chunky. I don’t want any more kittens; it’s bad enough I feed cats, I don’t want to feed foxes too. I continued to feed the two little girls. The boys were no longer around, of course, since the girls were obviously not available.
I saw Floppy squeezing out from under the steps. And U.D. said she was sure she heard mewing there late at night. I don’t want to know. Dos-a tried to lead me into the woods one day, and I didn’t want to know about that either.
Saturday night U.D. walked into the house with a tiny ball of calico fluff. She had fed her just a little canned food, and the little thing must have thought she was Mama. When she took the kitten back outside, it yelled so loudly that the neighbor from out back came to see what was wrong.
So U.D. got all the cat news. Not only is Mrs. Neighbor feeding them, but her son built a shelter for whatever cats want to stay there. (So she’s the one running a cathouse.) At least one fox has made a home in a hollow oak in our backyard. Our little Fraidy had two litters last summer, after which Mrs. Neighbor had her spayed. An old tom that U.D. calls Droopy Drawers has been killing kittens, breaking their necks. And Mrs. Neighbor gave U.D. the names and phone numbers of some organizations that will help care for cats.
Next morning U.D. found another little calico under the steps, a quieter one. Then she had coffee with an old friend, and she told him all about the kittens. He said he would be happy to take both of them.
U.D. came home and went to look for the babies while Friend would come in his own vehicle. There was only one gray kitten under the steps, and it was dead. Friend helped her dispose of the dead kitten. He said that the mother cat – whichever one it was – had probably led her babies away because she didn’t want U.D. to take them, and that she had probably killed the other one because it was unable to follow. Both U.D. and Friend were very sad, but they looked in the woods to see whether they could find the missing calicos.
Friend actually found another kitten on a bush, and he picked it up. This one may be spotted when it gets older, but it’s not quite calico. She seemed most comfortable with him, and he took her home, where she seems to be very happy.
You would think that Dos-a and Floppy would stay away now. They don’t want their kittens near us. But I continue to be the source of food – SUCKER – and they’re still there every morning. And Dos-a still comes to be patted.
If you want to read the background to this piece, you might go back to The Meow Index. For several years I’ve been following the stories about the stray cats who think they live in my yard. I’m beginning to think I’m bizarre myself for pursuing this story.
U.D. wasn’t sure whether she dreamt it or actually heard the woman with the little dog screaming there’s a dead fox in this yard. So she asked her, and the woman said oh, yes, her little dog had run into our yard and there was a dead fox and she had gone home and gotten a trash bag to dispose of it… I suppose we should be grateful, but that woman is nuts; I would have called Animal Control, because who knows whether a wild fox is contagious. In any case, the only sign of fox here is the furry residue in the hollow tree. If there were ever other foxes, they have left. And you know what that means.
Kittens! Of course, I’m not interested any more and I’m tired of providing a home for any stray cat except Dos-a. These are not Dos-a’s babies. There are two ginger and white beauties hiding under my steps; their mama is the calico, Floppy, who is Dos-a’s granddaughter. Floppy is beautiful – ginger and black and white with cute markings – but she is even more skittish than she was before (we think the fox got her last litter). Not only will she not let me touch her, she calls the babies to hide if any humans are nearby.
There’s another mama, but she is new to the neighborhood. She’s another gray tabby, but she has enough white around her mouth to do a “Got Milk?” ad. One of her babies is yet another gray tabby, but a little darker gray. The other two have some Persian or angora genes; maybe Fluffy got his way after all. One of the babies is a softer version of the one we used to call Screen Shot. The other is one of the prettiest we’ve had in a couple of years – very dark shades of brown, like coffee. Please note, I'm not naming any of them.
This mama brings her kittens up to my deck to be groomed, to be taught, and to play. She will not, however, let them eat the food I put out while I am still around. All of the kittens – both litters – are beautiful and fun to watch, and I wish they’d go play somewhere else. Mrs. Neighbor out back will feed them, and maybe she will have better luck catching them. (When she catches them, she gets them neutered, and I totally approve. Unfortunately, if you can’t catch them yourself, any agency that you call will destroy them.)
One thing I’ve noticed about all the strays is that, as smart as they may be, they don’t understand about doors. They will come into the garage, especially when the weather is bad; Dos-a comes in when she feels threatened by a male. But they don’t go through the door into the cellar even if I leave it open.
U.D.’s cat, on the other hand, knows how to open doors that are closed. He pushes them, and if that doesn’t work, he starts clawing at them until he can pull them open. He’s not street smart, but he’s definitely house smart.
There’s been a lot of noise outside, as two males try to shout each other down. I think the more talkative cat won. He meows at me too, because war has been declared; this is my territory, not his. Whenever I see him marking his territory, I spray Lysol. All animals hate that; I think it interferes with their olfactory nerves. But more importantly, I try to Lysol those spots while he’s watching. He hasn’t given up yet, but I think he’s getting the idea. I would swear I also saw him marking the kittens. Those are not mine; he can keep ’em.
16 comments:
I wrote a funny animal story on my blog. Here is the link: http://www.golfwidow.net/archives/012289.html . Remember that if someone else writes a funny animal story, you always need to get their permission before you put it onto your own blog. I'm giving you permission to copy and paste this one into your blog now, if you want to, to get yourself started.
Hi Deb!
My name is Trish and I found your site via Golfwidow. I have funny dog stories I'd be happy to share. Do you want them via email? Or in comments?
Rebekah's favorite animal story is at:
http://l-empress.liscious.net/older/005276.html
Please note: we still have Cat.
i would love to hear your story golfwidow,and Trish not to meet you both!Harriet if you can send it too. or since i'm a virgin(lol) to this sight how do you get to your sights,so i can find your wonderful stories?
oops sorry Trish if you can send them via e-mail would probably be the easiest till i can figure this out is fine. thank you in advance for permission. love to hear from you both again. thanks again.
Unlike a dog, how can a turtle ever be naked?
A turtle is always naked. The shell is a house, not an outfit. Tc
Just so you all know, Golfwidow sent me the turtle story.
My dear friend, Ms. F, had a loveable cat named Bandit.
She didn't buy him, or have someone give him to her — she heard him squeaking under the porch and pulled him out.
He was alone, not in a litter, and she took him to the vet at once, knowing he was going to be hers.
Turned out he had feline AIDS, but she took wonderful care of him and he lived to an extremely ripe old age, sick or not. (NOTE: he was in no pain and certainly wasn't aware he was sick at any point in his lifetime.)
There are a lot of funny little stories about Bandit, like the time Ms. F. accidentally dropped a container of tomato sauce on him and he was pink for a week, or the time she said, "He can't dance very well," and I replied, "That's because he has two left feet," or even the time he was mewing in response to everything she said, like a conversation, and I remarked that I had read an article about how a cat will do that if he was neglected by his mother, and she got tears in her eyes and said, "But I'm so good to him!" and I had to explain that the article meant his cat mother, not his people-mother.
But I think the best example of how funny Bandit was can be summed up by this tale:
Background: Ms. F collected Beanie Babies for years, to the point where she finally thinned out her collection by unloading anything that wasn't a teddy bear and still had about fifty million bazillion of the things.
I was at her house one night and she showed me her newest acquisition: a Beanie Bear that had, rather than the traditional velour fur, an inordinately silky body that was about the softest thing we had ever felt.
We sat cooing over the cuddliness of this bear, and suddenly, a grey and white streak flew across the room, snatched the bear, hid it behind a table, and flew back to us, where it plopped itself between us on the sofa and looked up at us with huge eyes as if to say, "What bear? I never saw any bear. However, I am quite soft, myself, should you care to experiment."
I think that qualifies as a funny animal story. If you disagree, oh, well; it's too
The wonderful story about Bandit is fantastic! it was thanks to golfwidow. i enjoyed the story.
Hi Debbi,
You can copy and paste these to your blog, if you like:
I had an Australian Shepherd named Sonic who could let himself out of the house. That might not seem like a big deal, since the door opened outward and the handle was the lever-style that was easy for a dog to push down... but he could also let himself back IN.
One winter day Sonic ran off when I was putting him outside to do his business. Since he was notorious for not coming back unless I went after him and lured him with treats, I shoved my feet into a pair of my husband's work boots, threw a coat over my pajamas, and
thank you Trish. i love it!
In the days of the open road when jobs were often scarce, hoboes rode the rails, traveling around the country and taking whatever work was available. They only worked enough to subsist, gladly traveling again when the spirit (or necessity) struck them. Among the customs of the hobo culture were little messages to the next guy who came by – unnoticed by those who lived there but recognized by other hoboes.
One of these signs was often left on a fence or gatepost, a stick figure of a cat, that meant “a kind women lives here.” It usually indicated a place where a transient might work for a meal. I think there’s a similar sign on my house. Oddly enough, it’s in cat language. I’m not sure of the actual wording, but I know what it means – “suckers here!”
About two years ago we looked outside to see a mother cat nursing her kittens on our pavement. I had no need for more cats – my daughter had brought her “Hey Boy” when she moved back home – but I just can’t ignore a nursing mother. So we took a little food outside, and she quickly learned that she could always eat here. (Fortunately, I was already buying budget cat food and we had plenty of dry food, though we accepted donations from anyone who had a finicky cat.)
She was just adorable and I called her Precious. She was very young – it was probably her first litter – but she was a very good mother. Soon we noticed a pattern; she always ate first. If there was food left, the babies could eat some solid food; if not, the milk bar was open.
As the kittens – two tabbies and one solid black – grew larger, they needed names too. (My daughter had been saying “Precious and the Mews; it sounded like a rock group.)
The black one was Uno – Uno the Intrepid, who came right into the garage and even stayed there overnight. The other two were indistinguishable for a long time and we called them Dos-a and Tres-i. If one looked a little larger than the other, that was Dos-a, by default.
As soon as other cats discovered that there was a source of easy food, we had a whole entourage. One of the nicest was one we called Smoky – and that evidently was his name with other people, for he answered to it. Smoky is solid gray with aqua eyes and very lovable, so glad to be petted that he may knock the food out of your hand in his eagerness to touch you. And one of the most interesting things about Smoky is that Precious and her babies seem to like him too. (Maybe he and Precious were from the same litter?) Precious hisses at most other cats – at me too, but I hiss back.
Eventually we named all the strays: Creamsicle, Tuxedo, Fluffy, Not Smoky. Tuxedo was simply a black and white cat that looked as if he were in evening dress. Creamsicle was an orange and white cat with an injured paw. We never found out just how injured it was, but we did notice that he limped more when he knew someone was watching. Fluffy was a dark gray long-haired impostor; that is, he wore a collar with a tag and obviously had another source of food and love, so we chased him away.
I walked up to Smoky one day and he ran away from me. I couldn’t figure out why, until he turned around and I saw his yellow eyes. He was Not Smoky, that’s why he didn’t act like him. Not Smoky eventually became tamer and let me pet him until he got too bold – but that’s another story.
Precious stayed nearby with her kittens all through the winter. I fed them in the morning when I went out to get my newspaper. They came to us for food regularly (and complained if we were too slow!), took shelter under our steps, and still wouldn’t let us touch them.
As a matter of fact, that’s the reason they’re still around. When we talked to Animal Control about them, wondering whether they could be put up for adoption, we were told that feral cats weren’t suitable for adoption and would be destroyed. Not being ready to condemn these kitties, we think we’ll try to tame them.
To be continued…
by Harriet V.
There were cats around our garage all the time. When I opened the door each the morning to pick up the newspaper, I was surrounded by cats. They didn’t leave me be until I fed them; on garbage pick-up day, I never would have been able to carry the trash out.
We automatically checked them whenever we drove up so we’d be sure not to drive on them. There was no doubt about it: Dos-a was definitely looking larger than Tres-i. One day in the spring I checked to see Precious, Uno, Dos-a and Tres-i on the pavement, and then I noticed a pair of eyes peeking out from under the steps. Who are you? Dos-a had presented us with three new ones.
The distribution was the same, one black and two grey tabbies. Borrowing loosely from the Sneaky Pie Brown series, we named the black one Tucker and the tabbies Murphy and ’Puter. My daughter decided to tame this litter from the start. She started by feeding Dos-a and then, having gained her trust, began picking up the babies and holding them for a while. It worked on some better than others. Tucker allowed us to pet him until he was injured somewhere and then he became very fearful. ’Puter never became friendly, but Murphy winds around my legs when I open the garage.
The original cats like Smoky, and their mother never chased him away. But they don’t like Not Smoky. Poor Not Smoky is very frightened of people, as if he remembers being beaten. But he is also afraid of all the other cats, even the babies. They would not let him eat.
So I began putting out a separate dish for Not Smoky, and each morning I chased away the other cats so the poor guy could get a little food. When he got used to being fed, I tried to pet him, but he always ran away. After a few months, he let me touch him just a little, and finally allowed me to pat his head each morning. And he got a little bolder and sat on the porch when he expected food to come out.
One day our indoor cat, Hey Boy, got outside while Not Smoky was guarding his spot on the porch. When we opened the door for Hey Boy, Not Smoky came in too. Of course, he was disoriented and very scared and ran around a lot before he hid under my daughter’s bed. Soon the room smelled of frightened cat. The more we tried to get him out, the worse it stank.
We tried to tempt him with food, we put up a trap, and nothing worked. He didn’t eat. He stayed there for a week! At last my daughter grabbed hold of him. He scratched and bit her and ran out into the bathroom. She ran in after him and shut the door. Then she opened the bathroom window. Not Smoky got up on the window sill and jumped out the window.
It is a ten-foot drop, but he didn’t get hurt. When I looked out, he had run away. We didn’t expect to see him again.
Next time I put out food, there was Not Smoky waiting with the others. He even tried to come inside again! Maybe he liked being warm so much that he didn’t mind being scared. But he certainly had been scared. I didn’t try to touch him; I thought he would still be terrified. But he stuck his head under my hand for a quick pat before he ate.
There are mornings when I look out the window and see as many as ten cats sitting in rows, as if they’re in church waiting for the sermon. The cast of characters changes constantly. I haven’t seen Precious in a long time. Uno was gone for some time, but he turned up with a sore leg. Evidently, when they can’t hunt for food, they still know where the suckers are.
I haven’t seen Smoky for several months, but Not Smoky sits there eying my little girls. I’m worried…
also by Harriet V.
<< Previous | | Next >>
I don’t want to be the home base for all the cats in the neighborhood. I don’t even want “our cats” – the ones that grew up in my yard – to consider this their territory. So beyond feeding them once a day, I try not to encourage them.
I know that they’re finding food elsewhere, because if I’m too late coming out in the morning, there are fewer cats waiting for me. I don’t ever give them water; I figure they can find water wherever other wild animals find it. We are on the edge of a marsh, after all.
Precious taught her babies to hide under my front steps; they would disappear there as soon as a human approached. Dos-a’s kittens hid there the following year. I don’t think any of the adult cats can fit through. In any case, as spring approached, I decided to stop up the openings with leaves, rocks and dirt to discourage them.
However, I noticed somebody digging away at my work, and I suspected that Dos-a was about to present us with another litter. Eventually there were little faces peeking out from underneath, but they weren’t Dos-a’s after all. ’Puter had delivered her kittens someplace else, but she knew where to bring them as soon as they were old enough to walk.
There were four this time. We continued the computer language, since they were the offspring of ’Puter. Another gray tabby was named Scuzzi. Two black ones – completely interchangeable – were Boris and Top Cat. And a pretty little all gray, who looked like Smoky or Not Smoky, was called WYSIWYG.
Wysi is a feisty little fellow. He mews loudly for food, and he stands in the middle of the dish to eat. He tries to hiss ferociously when he’s picked up, but he just makes you laugh. Despite his reluctance to be held, he is friendly enough to allow an occasional pat.
Within a couple of weeks, there was another litter, hiding under a junked car. Dos-a also had delivered elsewhere but brought her babies to us. One is gray and white. He looks so much like Hey Boy that we called him Screenshot. (Hey Boy, incidentally, is neutered; the resemblance is coincidental.) And there were two calicos, my favorite kind of cat. We called the calicos GUI and Floppy (a port, a disk), but GUI, with her pretty face, soon became Shana Punum.
Heaven help us, we were now “home” to fourteen cats, not to mention all the hangers-on who came by to scrounge food. And about half of them are gray tabbies, so that I can’t always tell who’s who. That became the source of yet another silly story.
For the most part, the cats don’t come in when I open the garage door; they know the food is going to be outside. But my daughter decided to give them some extra food one evening. Unfortunately, the door between the garage and the cellar was open, and someone found a nice warm space.
I saw it only as a flash, a gray tabby. At first I thought it was one of the girls looking for a place to have kittens, but when Hey Boy came downstairs, our intruder marked what he was considering his territory. Phew! Who could it be? Murphy, I guessed, I think he’s the only male tabby. A couple of times he actually came out and stared at me from a distance, but he wouldn’t come close, which was unusual for Murphy. There’s too much stuff downstairs to make a search easy, and so I just left him there, thinking he’d come out when he was ready. Eventually he did. All the others were busy eating outside when I opened the inner door, and after a few minutes there was a flash of gray as whoever he was ran out and disappeared.
He came back, of course. I pointed him out to my daughter, and she said, “that’s not one of our cats.” You could have fooled me. As a matter of fact, I guess he did! All I have to do now is deodorize the cellar. And I definitely have to dissuade the cats from going under the steps. Mothballs, maybe?
<< Previous | | Next >>
The last time I wrote in detail about our kitties, I really wanted to wash my hands of the whole business. It’s just too exhausting to keep watching over them when I know there are outside forces killing them off as fast as they’re born.
So I pulled back. I stopped feeding them at the crack
of dawn, hoping they’d lose interest. Soon I had only two regulars, Dos-a – who still expects to be patted before she eats – and Floppy, the calico who was one of Dos-a’s kittens. I set out far less food, and I chased away any males who thought they were horning in. A lot of good that did.
A month ago, I noticed that both cats were looking a little chunky. I don’t want any more kittens; it’s bad enough I feed cats, I don’t want to feed foxes too. I continued to feed the two little girls. The boys were no longer around, of course, since the girls were obviously not available.
I saw Floppy squeezing out from under the steps. And U.D. said she was sure she heard mewing there late at night. I don’t want to know. Dos-a tried to lead me into the woods one day, and I didn’t want to know about that either.
Saturday night U.D. walked into the house with a tiny ball of calico fluff. She had fed her just a little canned food, and the little thing must have thought she was Mama. When she took the kitten back outside, it yelled so loudly that the neighbor from out back came to see what was wrong.
So U.D. got all the cat news. Not only is Mrs. Neighbor feeding them, but her son built a shelter for whatever cats want to stay there. (So she’s the one running a cathouse.) At least one fox has made a home in a hollow oak in our backyard. Our little Fraidy had two litters last summer, after which Mrs. Neighbor had her spayed. An old tom that U.D. calls Droopy Drawers has been killing kittens, breaking their necks. And Mrs. Neighbor gave U.D. the names and phone numbers of some organizations that will help care for cats.
Next morning U.D. found another little calico under the steps, a quieter one. Then she had coffee with an old friend, and she told him all about the kittens. He said he would be happy to take both of them.
U.D. came home and went to look for the babies while Friend would come in his own vehicle. There was only one gray kitten under the steps, and it was dead. Friend helped her dispose of the dead kitten. He said that the mother cat – whichever one it was – had probably led her babies away because she didn’t want U.D. to take them, and that she had probably killed the other one because it was unable to follow. Both U.D. and Friend were very sad, but they looked in the woods to see whether they could find the missing calicos.
Friend actually found another kitten on a bush, and he picked it up. This one may be spotted when it gets older, but it’s not quite calico. She seemed most comfortable with him, and he took her home, where she seems to be very happy.
You would think that Dos-a and Floppy would stay away now. They don’t want their kittens near us. But I continue to be the source of food – SUCKER – and they’re still there every morning. And Dos-a still comes to be patted.
Anybody want a cat?
all of the following stories are from Harriet V.
If you want to read the background to this piece, you might go back to The Meow Index. For several years I’ve been following the stories about the stray cats who think they live in my yard. I’m beginning to think I’m bizarre myself for pursuing this story.
U.D. wasn’t sure whether she dreamt it or actually heard the woman with the little dog screaming there’s a dead fox in this yard. So she asked her, and the woman said oh, yes, her little dog had run into our yard and there was a dead fox and she had gone home and gotten a trash bag to dispose of it… I suppose we should be grateful, but that woman is nuts; I would have called Animal Control, because who knows whether a wild fox is contagious. In any case, the only sign of fox here is the furry residue in the hollow tree. If there were ever other foxes, they have left. And you know what that means.
Kittens! Of course, I’m not interested any more and I’m tired of providing a home for any stray cat except Dos-a. These are not Dos-a’s babies. There are two ginger and white beauties hiding under my steps; their mama is the calico, Floppy, who is Dos-a’s granddaughter. Floppy is beautiful – ginger and black and white with cute markings – but she is even more skittish than she was before (we think the fox got her last litter). Not only will she not let me touch her, she calls the babies to hide if any humans are nearby.
There’s another mama, but she is new to the neighborhood. She’s another gray tabby, but she has enough white around her mouth to do a “Got Milk?” ad. One of her babies is yet another gray tabby, but a little darker gray. The other two have some Persian or angora genes; maybe Fluffy got his way after all. One of the babies is a softer version of the one we used to call Screen Shot. The other is one of the prettiest we’ve had in a couple of years – very dark shades of brown, like coffee. Please note, I'm not naming any of them.
This mama brings her kittens up to my deck to be groomed, to be taught, and to play. She will not, however, let them eat the food I put out while I am still around. All of the kittens – both litters – are beautiful and fun to watch, and I wish they’d go play somewhere else. Mrs. Neighbor out back will feed them, and maybe she will have better luck catching them. (When she catches them, she gets them neutered, and I totally approve. Unfortunately, if you can’t catch them yourself, any agency that you call will destroy them.)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One thing I’ve noticed about all the strays is that, as smart as they may be, they don’t understand about doors. They will come into the garage, especially when the weather is bad; Dos-a comes in when she feels threatened by a male. But they don’t go through the door into the cellar even if I leave it open.
U.D.’s cat, on the other hand, knows how to open doors that are closed. He pushes them, and if that doesn’t work, he starts clawing at them until he can pull them open. He’s not street smart, but he’s definitely house smart.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There’s been a lot of noise outside, as two males try to shout each other down. I think the more talkative cat won. He meows at me too, because war has been declared; this is my territory, not his. Whenever I see him marking his territory, I spray Lysol. All animals hate that; I think it interferes with their olfactory nerves. But more importantly, I try to Lysol those spots while he’s watching. He hasn’t given up yet, but I think he’s getting the idea. I would swear I also saw him marking the kittens. Those are not mine; he can keep ’em.
Harriet V.
<< Previous | | Next >>
Post a Comment