Blended, Not Stirred

Sasha

We have really no idea how old Sasha is. He was an adult when he came to us, frozen and more than half starved, four years ago this winter. However old he was then, he's older now, and is getting a little creaky. I no more have favorites among the cats than I have favorites among the offspring,  but Sasha is the one who spoons with me in bed at night, his head on my pillow. We're close.

A couple of months back, I decided to eliminate dry kibbles from the diet of the Fab Four (the house cats, pampered potentates that they are). As much as everyone was enjoying the nightly canned food treats, I thought this switch would be met by riotous rejoicing in kitty-dom.

For the most part, it was. The benefits to the Fab Four were obvious and immediate as well: more energy, better coat condition.

I had, though, failed to consider that dry kibbles are a little like crack, or at least like potato chips. The point is, they're addictive. Apparently,  according to exhaustive internet research, dry kibbles contain "animal digests" as an additive. This is to make the kibbles tastier to the discerning kitty palate.

Addictive. Like sugar is to us. Or salt. Or...crack.

Well, two of the Fab Four left the Dark Side right away, embracing clean living and canned cat food with a right good will. Not so Rikki the toothless and Sasha the one time starving cat.

You'd think a near starvation experience would make you willing to eat almost anything. Not so, it seems, not so. Rikki and Sasha went on hunger strike. I was going to post video of them, marching around the house, carrying signs with catchy slogans, paws linked singing "We Shall Overcome" in solemn and serious meowing. I knew you would have enjoyed it.  Alas, I have no such footage to share. You'll have to take my word for it.

Saving Sasha

In which we read of fearful giants, the courage of a cat, and kindness richly rewarded.

Sasha in bed

He was starved. I have never seen a cat so thin, nor so afraid. Today as I write, he sleeps in a basket, on a cushion, long gray fur fluffed out, and a contented smile gracing his elegant face. His beautiful tail, a truly glorious tail, long and fluffy and fat, drapes across dark gray paw pads. He is a vision of catly contentment, and I smile, seeing him so. The sight is like healing oil on a parched and cracked heart.

Two years ago things were very different. It was late October, perhaps early November, when I first noticed him. It was feeding time for the feral colony, and there he was, in the biting autumn wind, hanging around at the edge of the group, crying. He was clearly terrified. Only his hunger drove him to us.

That tail, which now is so magnificent in its fat, furry glory, was like no tail I had ever seen. The fur was almost gone; it looked more like a possum's tail than the tail of a cat. Worst of all, it was ridged and lumpy. What I mean is there was so little flesh over the bones of the tail that you could see and count the vertebrae. He was starving. In his desperation, somehow he found us.

How Raven Got His Name

In which a twin is well named, and other tributes are offered as well.

Feral Raven , refusing to look at the camera

"So," he asked me, eyes alight with a gentle twinkle. "How many black cats DO you have now?"

"I don't HAVE any black cats," I explained with patience. "No one HAS a cat." I gave a good natured smile. It was a matter of semantics.

"Well, how many live here?" he asked, grinning. I grinned back.

"Hmmm." I pondered for a minute, whether to continue the semantical debate or give in and answer his question. I opted for compromise.

"I feed four," I said at last. "They're all in the colony." This was in the days before Hades had become a house cat. 

"Hmmm," he responded in his turn. "Four black cats. Gotta wonder about that." We laughed together there in the yard, warm and happy in the summer sunlight, the spousal unit and our friend and I.

I shooed them inside, the two men, with the authority of a woman who needs to get dinner on the table before it burns. We retreated to the air conditioned interior of my cozy house in the City, and, as I remember, we had a wonderful dinner. Afterwards, I abandoned the two men to their conversation, retreating to my upstairs study to mull on the mystery of black cats.

I have never understood why black cats are such a tormented brood, perhaps because of my early infatuation with Bagheera in Disney's "The Jungle Book." He was an elegant, sophisticated, powerful being,

La Tristesse Durera Toujours

In which we meet a lonely cat and a lonely artist, and are confronted with the power of things we can not know.

Daubigny's Garden by Vincent Van Gogh, 1890

His name was "Vincent." Rather, that was what we called him, for what human truly knows the true name of any cat? To be completely truthful, we don't even know for sure he was a he. Fluffy fur trousers hid the pertinent area of anatomy from casual view, and he was shy, terrified of humans. Terrified not only of humans, but of dogs, of traffic. It was only his need, his hunger, which drove him to our back porch. We were never able to touch him, to stroke and to comfort him. So we never learned his gender.

We called him "Vincent" after Vincent van Gogh, because one of his ears

The Power of the Paw

  

A man was walking along the beach. He saw that it was covered with starfish that had been washed up in the tide. A little boy was walking along, picking them up one by one and throwing them back into the water. "What are you doing son?" the man asked. "You see how many starfish there are? You'll never make a difference." 

The boy paused thoughtfully and picked up another starfish and threw it into the ocean.  “It sure made a difference to that one,” he said. ~~source unknown

 
I am an American, and so it goes without saying that I like Happy Endings. They are among my Favorite Things. I demand them, even. It's not that I don't like tragedy, because I do. The difference is, Gentle Reader, that I like my tragedies epic and ancient. Think of Beowulf, The Illiad, King Lear, Oedipus. Tales from before the dawn of time that make me weep over the courage and tragedy of people who are long dead and crumbled to dust, if indeed they ever lived. For day to day stories, in my own life and in the lives of people I connect with, Happy Endings are de rigueur.

It was a quiet Sunday evening. The spousal unit was off to a potluck with friends, leaving the cats and I to a blissfully decadent evening of doing nothing. I was at the computer, playing a little solitaire, watching a little YouTube, cruising on Facebook and Twitter, when these three re-tweets came across my screen:

"Mum and Dad are heartbroken. They need to find someone good and kind to take me in, because they have to move somewhere they can't keep me."

Unexpected Treasure

"Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before. Say "please" before you open the latch, go through, walk down the path. A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted front door, as a knocker, do not touch it; it will bite your fingers. Walk through the house.  Take nothing. Eat nothing. However, if any creature tells you that it hungers, feed it. If it tells you that it is dirty, clean it. If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain."   ~~~From "Instructions" by Neil Gaiman in his book Fragile Things

Treasure

I was sleeping; the sun was not even thinking about being up. It was one of those rare days when I didn't have to be anywhere before ten, and I was deep in dreamland, warm and comfortable when the spousal unit shook me awake.

"There's a cat outside," he said.

With reluctance, I cracked one eye part way open. "What?"

He repeated himself patiently. "There's a cat outside."

"A cat?" I rolled over, opened the eye a bit further, not relinquishing the blankets. He stood over me, and nodded.

"A kitten."

"Ok." This was in the days before the feral colony had all been through the Trap-Neuter-Return program. It was August. Of course there were kittens.

It Takes a Village...

In which we read of Booty the Cat and his rise to Lordly status; a terrible tragedy is narrowly averted, but happy endings ensue.

It's a joyful thing to see when friends reunite. Yesterday, as temperatures inched toward 40 degrees F, life was not so bad if you happen to be a feral cat in a particular managed colony. All souls are accounted for. In fact, if you were to peer into the back yard about feeding time, you would have seen happy cats decorating the deck and its environs, draped elegantly over the railing or loafing in any available patch of sun. The deck is dry and free from snow; the sun is shining with benign intent. The water bowl is full and unfrozen, the kitty kibbles are piled high in generous helpings. Raven, a big neutered male, black as jet or ebony or a raven's wing, hears me putting out the kibbles. He leaps to the top of the chain link fence, then saunters into my yard. He approaches the deck, tail held straight up in the air. This is the signal to all and sundry that he is a happy cat, and is happy to greet the group he approaches.