Cat tales

Had an encounter today with a cat.

Wait, before I tell you about the cat, let me get a guilty thought off my chest. Some of you may be wondering, "where are the posts on the 'spirit of rebellion/spirit of inquiry' you were babbling about?" 

Well, one of them is in my drafts folder, waiting to get refined. Probably happen in the next couple of days, then posted. I write better when riled. Actually, that's not quite accurate. I am more motivated to write when riled. And I'm not riled at the moment. Probably ought to pick up a copy of Christianity Today, or some such, and get good and steamed, then sit down at my computer. Whatever.

Back to the cat. There is [was] a cat hanging around that's a dead ringer for Ivy (Lauri's cat). Beautiful green eyes. Beautiful two-tone grey and white fur. She's a momma cat, or at least about to be a momma cat, very, very soon [news flash: Ivy herself is not about to be a momma cat nor will she ever be, so the similarity ends there].

This cat's been hanging around our yard. We discovered that she has discovered our uncovered window-well, where the dryer vents. It's under our eaves, never gets wet, sometimes gets warm (when the dryer is running).

Our temperatures have been frigid lately, and we've been worried about momma cat. She curls into a tight little ball in that window-well, and shivers and crys, and well, it just gets to you. We can see her from inside the laundry room, through the window in the window-well.

So my wife, my animal-disliking wife, my I-don't-like-cats wife, came to me a few days ago with the old bathroom rug in her hands, and instructs me to put it at the bottom of the window-well for momma cat (I'm gonna name her Holly. Get it? The Holly and the Ivy? Get it? Never mind.) (Oh, by the way, it's the cat I am referring to. My wife is Doris.)

My wife comes and says, 'Put this in the window-well so she won't be so cold.'

I says, 'You feeling okay, babe? Are you all right?'

So I put it at the bottom of the window-well, made it a little more cozy for Holly (it's hard to consider 12 degrees cozy, but at least it's 12 degrees while on a bathroom rug).

Last night it was snowing hard, and Dor and I stood down in the laundry room in the basement watching the cat through the window. Dor says, 'Isn't there anything else we can do for her?'

I says, 'Maybe we can put an old blanket out there for her,' fully expecting that Dor would not want to go to that extent. Once that blanket goes in the window-well, it's never coming back in the house.

She says, 'Okay. How about that old pink and white one?'

Knock me down with a feather. Are my ears deceiving me?

So I clump outside into the snow, arrange that blanket a bit. Holly darted out of the window-well when I approached, but I knew she'd be back soon. We turned the dryer on with no clothes in it, set it for about 45 minutes. Holly came back and was soon snuggled into the blanket.

This morning Dor and I decided the cat had to go to the shelter, lest it and all its soon-to-come kittens die in this weather. We both clumped out in the snow, big cardboard box in hand. The plan was that I would get Holly and Dor would close the box and hold it shut. We had not consulted the cat, and I was betting she would be voting against this plan.

So I was wearing an old coat that I did not mind if it got shred to ribbons. I was wearing two pairs of gloves. If I'd had a football helmet, I'd have been wearing that, too. I was expecting a significant disagreement from the cat. We did not think the box would attack Doris, so she was not wearing any sort of body armor.

Being somewhat of a cat-whisperer myself, I sweet-talked the cat as we approached. Never have figured out why cats, momma cats in particular, talk baby-talk, but there you have it. Anyway, my golden tongue was sufficient to let me get my heavily gloved hands around that cat, but quite insufficient to get her into the box. She immediately panicked, made more moves than I thought possible for a pregnant feline, and went dashing through the snow.

But she did not go over the fence. Could have had something to do with the fact that she was too heavily loaded down for take-off, I don't know. But after a moment, believe it or not, I managed to sweet-talk her right over to our back door. Told you I was a cat-whisperer. Of course, the bowl of food I had put down in the snow might have helped as well. She ate greedily, as though starved. Poor thing.

As she was eating, I'd reach out and slide the bowl a little closer to the back door. She was a little shy, but within five minutes she was in our sunroom, and we shut the door. Each action resulted in a bad case of nerves for the cat, but she kept coming back to the food.

Time for the box. I got hold of her and got her into the box. Doris got the lid shut, but Holly made such a commotion she managed to destroy the box and get away from us.

Dor and I just looked at each other. Now that dumb cat was terrified of us, our box was destroyed, and we were going to have to chase her around the house just to maneuver her to where we could try again.

Not really. More sweet-talk, more food, and soon she was purring and letting me pet her, walking back and forth and rubbing against my leg. I was beginning to wonder who was sweet-talking whom.

It took, I think, two more tries and we finally got her into a plastic tub and put a child-safety fence piece over the top of it. Bungeed it down good and tight.

Animal Shelter charged us five dollars to take her. Glad they did not notice she's pregnant. Wonder if they would have charged me for the whole lot, mom and kitties, too.

Now if you go to the Darke County Animal Shelter, there is a beautiful grey and white cat, with lovely green eyes, and a meow that just melts your heart. She's going to be having kittens soon. If you like her, take her home with you. If she's still there after she's had her babies, well. . . , I think she may have sweet-talked my wife. Not me, of course. I'm immune to that sort of thing.

Here kitty, kitty, kitty. . .

MORE lembas bread . . . .

Okay, this is getting bad. Thoughtspot is supposed to be a serious blog. And it really will be. Someday.

But for now, a little more fun. It is, after all, Friday night. Doris [love you babe!] is away with identical twin sister Diane [yes, to those who are wondering, I have gotten them confused, at least when we were first married] having a ladies weekend. And, to those insatiably curious souls out there (all two of you), Dor and Di sew when they get together without Tom and I around. Yes, you read that right: sew. I know, I know, it's a really wild life.

But I digress. Tonight, I watched Bourne Supremacy, while I ate dinner off of a TV tray [I guess if the ladies get their night out, I can have a Man Night]. And, I watched this funny video by Josh and two of his buddies in their Young Married's class, who were having a Man Night. Josh is my son, and in this flick he is the guy on the extreme right of the couch. And, unless I am mistaken, the starring cat is his and Abbie's feline, Modis. Modis has, well, issues. [He fetches toys when they are thrown. Just like a dog.]

Anyway, get out your popcorn, send your wife to her sewing room, and enjoy. It's a hoot.

An exercise in studied boredom

Rosy is a long-haired Jack Russell terrier (think of a mop whose handle has been disconnected). Funny Face is a cat. The former character belongs to my mom. The latter belongs to my sister, Elizabeth (aka, Cobber). Or, Elizabeth is Funny Face's hired help, I suppose you could say.

In any case, you need to see this video Elizabeth made of the two contenders. Actually, only one contender: Funny Face looks on with an aloof detachment, a studied boredom, at Rosy's foolish attempts to get a rise out of her. For a better view of Rosy, watch her reflection in the glass.

I'm not sure any video I've seen captures the difference in psyche between a cat and a dog better than this. Obviously Funny Face and Garfield are friends, cut out of the same cloth. Great sequence, Cobber!

Enjoy (click here)

[Added 4/1/2011] For the rest of the story, see Elizabeth's blog entry here. Apparently Funny Face reminded Rosy of her spot on the food chain. . . .

No foot-tapping cats

For today's profound, blog-worthy thought, let me share this cogent observation: never seen a cat tapping its foot in time to music. Have you?

Meet Ivy the Cat, compliments of Dani Snell Photography:



 Ivy is best buddies with Laurielle who ostensibly owns the animal, if one can truly say that a cat can be owned. People own dogs; cats own you.

Now, while studying and listening to a Mairead Nesbitt CD [okay, I admit it, I was 'sposed to be studying, but was really watching Ivy] it occured to me. Never have seen a cat, or any other animal, tapping it's foot in time to music [or tail, or any other body part]. That's an amazing thing, when you think about it. Humans are totally wired in to music. We dance, we celebrate, we sorrow, we rejoice, through music. Part of what makes the movie Inception is the brilliant Hans Zimmer score. What communicates in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, if it is not Howard Shore's genius?

Music speaks at a more basic level than perhaps even words themselves, transmitting emotions such that the feeling the artist is engineering is reproduced in the experience of the listener.

And yet animals are more or less impervious to music. Perhaps, at best, you can agitate a creature with obnoxious sounds. But it does not bring forth celebration, like music does in people.

Now, some contrarian is sure to say that in a controlled laboratory condition, an animal's pulse rate or some such mechanical response to music can be detected. But that's the point, isn't it? We are not talking lab conditions nor exceptions. We are talking about an essential difference between the masses of people and masses of animals.

We dance to music. Its got something to do with the image of God.