After a few moments of thinking about the meaning of this unusual bit of self expression on the part of my repatriated stray, I conclude that she’s in need of reassurance rather than more isolation. She saved that shit up for several days as far as I can tell, and she decided that she needed to use her best method of complaining to the administration and her more liberal neighbor, nemesis/competition, about the way her country is heading. It’s the wrong way as far as she’s concerned and she decided to stage a protest. She thinks this administration with its pandering to inferior interests is just a big pile of poop. I got the message loud and clear. I let her back up and she perched in the window, her tail in my direction. I let her be. Eventually, I went upstairs to bed myself. I think I ate another piece of strawberry cake. I don’t remember doing it, but the cake was down a slice this morning. It’s hard to serve the needs of every constituency. Some fur flies, some feathers get ruffled, (or gnawed off, as the evidence in the yard clearly supports). Look, you try to do what you can with the resources available. I can’t accept a resolution that does not allow me to have guests. I am not going to tolerate bullying. I will very likely tootle off on a few days of camping, leaving these cats to fend for themselves, fend each other off, and keep themselves entertained for a few days. They never like it. Back and forth the battle lines are drawn. The progressive analogy can only be stretched so far. To tell the truth, it’s just these two cats, working out their territorial issues under my roof. As Vonnegut writes in a quip that limns the failure of imagination, “No damn cat, and no damn cradle.”
The Heights of Incivility
I’ve been writing lately about the cats. Here’s yet another cat tale. Over the past week we’ve had dinner guests twice. The who and why of it is not important: these were two sets of youngish people, each pertaining to a different area of our endeavors, one set a group on Del’s side and the other couple mine. In both events, the eight year old, freshly rescued from the outside world stray, with the black medium fur and copper eyes of the ‘parlor panther’ Bombay breed, but without any pedigree whatsoever, “Mumbai,” stayed in her territory below decks and in fact, hid even there. In both events, human forays into the basement were undertaken and in the first, Mumbai came darting out from a hiding place to seek another, less threatened by unfamiliar voices. Unable to succeed in this attempt with a posse of four humans all talking too loud (for her), she jumped her dungeon altogether and beat it for the upper floor. She’s quick; I didn’t realize at first she’d done this. I declared the attempt to show the cat to my guests inhumane. We were clearly freaking the cat out. So we retreated from the basement and went back upstairs. Mumbai, poor tortured soul (although the torture is only in her own mind), now had to reverse course, and now I realized, as she streaked down the stairs she’d just come up, that she was working at staying away from all forms of commotion. Fine. The party went on and we forgot about her. In the second event, I again took my guests to the basement, but we didn’t seek the cat. We just looked at what we’d come down to look at, were fairly quiet and brief. Mumbai did not feel threatened enough to abandon her hiding spot, but neither did she appear as the fairly placid animal I see day to day.
Chanel, the little fake Meezer, on the other hand, was constantly underfoot on both occasions. She got cooed over, petted, picked up, played with, and maybe even fed the stray scrap. She was on good behavior. She didn’t bite or scratch anybody. (She tends to reserve that behavior for humans she knows well; that is to say her keepers, me and Del.) She stayed off the dining room table (for the most part). She put on quite a show for us when we sat in the living room, running to the top of her tree and throwing down her balls of string, feathers, catnip mice, and then hunkering down up there either upside down or meat loaf style. “How cute!” Yes. Well. She’s biting my calves as I type this. She’s like an unruly child.
There was one day (24 hours) between these social events. During this day, Chanel hit the main floor in the morning, and strutted her stuff. Mumbai was also topside, staying one room apart from Chanel. This pax felis cattus lasted until I got around to kitchen chores. A human fooling around in the kitchen, in the cat mentality, portends the possibility of a feeding. Neither cat will eat most of what we’re eating, but they’re devoted to the concept of the right of first refusal. So it was that both animals made for the kitchen. For a half an hour, they circled the island in the center of the space. Comical, yes; but for the felines, it’s perfectly functional. The sight of a disappearing tail never ceases to quicken the pulse and brighten the spirit. “Maybe that evil one is gone now. I want the whole place the whole time.” Eventually, though, this game got tired as no treats were forthcoming. The sound of the dishwasher confused auditory nuances, and in the case of Mumbai, set her nerves on edge. Chanel took the coveted spot in the adjacent back porch, opened in the Summer heat to the outside world via screened window panels. She positioned herself facing the kitchen, her tail towards the door out. She meat loafed it, sphinx-like. Mumbai also covets this spot, and she now did the full bulldog, squaring up for aggression and battle. Onward feline soldiers! Chanel was cornered and she knew it. She screamed, spit and prepared to claw out (arm up) and fight her way out. I went for the water bottle, and sprayed Mumbai from behind. The black bruiser turned and fled for the basement, moving rapidly but not in full flight. I left Chanel to simmer, and followed Mumbai to the basement for a few reassuring pets.
There was peace and separation the remainder of the day. The two State solution works well so long as there are no visiting dignitaries to tip the balance and prompt the posturing and cowardice.
I returned from driving the second batch of guests home last night to find that Del had gone up to sleep. I commenced to do the kitchen cleanup. I poured a slug of Bacardi. I noticed Mumbai in the dining room acting odd. Her back was arched and she was looking like she wanted to unload. She was sniffing and clawing at the carpet. I picked her up and moved her to another room, but she craftily found another route back in and went back to dump prep. I picked her up again and closed all doors. This would have been a good time to carry her to her own territory, but I was thinking she’d had a rough few days and would prefer to find her way down herself. Her cat box is her own. I don’t use hers and I expect her not to turn my territory into a turd world. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’ll blame the strawberry cake and Bacardi. I got settled in at last with a magazine and another round. In comes Mumbai, still arched and scratching. She gets to the base of the cat tree (which is historically the province of Chanel, and though Mumbai uses the scratching posts, she’s never been on the top perch). She hunkers down and lets a huge, cylindrical turd drop. What can I do? When she’s done, I carry her downstairs and lock her down. I clean up her little monster and discover that she’s also peed on the bath mat in the first floor bathroom. The complete grand slam; a real ‘elimination event.’ I toss the soiled mat down the basement steps, over Mumbai’s head ’cause she’s hanging out near the top of the stairs. I hunt down the miracle cleaner spray bottle and do my drunken best.