The truth about cats and dogs - CAT

dogs | cats | sequel

It's maybe 7.30 am: about that time, though it varies. I've taken five different medications and had some cereal, so I sit down here, at the computer. I make the first stroke on the keyboard.

"Meow."

It is neither a question nor a plea. It's more like a command, coming from the front verandah.

I sigh. Getting myself arranged comfortably at the keyboard is quite a challenge for me, for reasons I won't detail here.

"Meeow."

The tone hasn't changed.

If I remain here, ignoring it, she would repeat it, just once, and go. Same tone, neither more nor less insistent or pleading.

I sigh again, manoeuvre myself out of the chair, and open the door, and she is waiting. She comes in without hesitation, brushing up against the front of my legs. This is a bit dangerous for someone like me who lacks balance, but she crosses back and forth vigorously as I drag myself over to the cupboard. Move, dumb cat.

No. There's a large Tupperware container there, of dry cat food. "Crunchies", to use the household idiom. Soxy is a lover of Crunchies.

I walk to her bowl on the verandah, br-ushered all the way by her tail across my shaky legs, directed to her breakfast spot by a tabby who considers she's speeding up the process. She's not. She jumps up on to her table, right where I want to do the one-armed pour of the Crunchies into the bowl. Out of the way!

The Crunchie distribution finally happens, and I am dismissed. I am no longer relevant to her morning. Or her existence. For two minutes I was.

I close the door and return the container to the kitchen.

This is not a Teddy-poodle type story.

Which one of these is the real me?

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Soxy came to us, already named, from the animal refuge; look at her paws and there's a wee clue there as to the name. She was a half-grown young female. They were honest with us. She had been one of a feral litter that had survived on their own wits and hunting skills. She'd had three previous "trial" owners and they had all returned her to the refuge.

In the interests of not dragging this out, I leave out much of the story. Obviously, she needed to settle down in the house and get reassurance before she could be allowed outside, or she would have disappeared.

That crucial bonding of tiny kitten and human surrogate mother – she missed that. I made the first mistake and tried to pick her up. That was dumb and I paid quite a penalty in severe scratches. A half grown cat with her strength was not to be toyed with and there was no way she was going to let some stranger hold her.

Even so, gradually she came round. Tracey and Christian were very gentle with her, and she responded.

Clichéd it may be as an expression, the Call of the Wild was deep in her. She loathed the catbox and we had to experiment with all kinds of litter to see what she liked best. Hated least, I should say. Gradually, we could let her out and that suited her much better.

She would return promptly, especially when the weather turned cold, and she would luxuriate in front of the fire as only a cat really can. She would come up and be stroked and if in the mood, might sit for a while on Tracey's knee or play with Christian, but she was never fully comfortable with it. She was a control freak.

She still is, totally – but given her past, I get that.

My domain. Go away. Do Not Disturb.

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She would play with rubber balls, batting them all over the house. They had to be collected before bedtime or she would resume the game and play for hours starting at 3 am – noisily. She loved any game where she could play at hunting.

It peeved Tracey and Christian that sometimes she would come and sit with me rather than them, but I'm sure it was because I tended to make little fuss of her that she did it. After all, you never quite knew what devious trick a human could pull when they acted nice – like those times Tracey would sneak up and put that nasty anti-flea stuff on her. How very dare she!

Once we were away for a week, so the question of what to do with her came up. We took her to a place where they board cats and dogs while their owners temporarily desert them. She was terrified of the cacophony of dog noises and being surrounded by other unhappy cats, but there was no choice.

She spent what must have been the worst week of her life cowering in a corner of the cage and in spite of the best efforts of the proprietors to get her out into a safe exercise area, she wouldn't budge. I don't blame her.

If I say lying over a bar is comfortable, it is comfortable, silly little human.

.

I want to say here and now that this is the reason why all my adult life I never wanted house pets. Growing up on a farm gives you a deep sense of responsibility towards animals, but you do not think of them as 'inside' creatures. Dogs and cats on a farm have to earn their living, not be molly-coddled. But we always had pets of one sort or another for my adult life as a non-farmer. That was never my choice. Call me hard-hearted but my respect and love for animals is of a different type from that of townies.

Yes? You have business with me? See my humans and discuss it with them.

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She took a long time to forgive us for that pet-motel episode and it was months before diplomatic relations were resumed. We had broken her fragile trust. We vowed never to do put her in a cattery again. Ever.

When we occasionally went away for a weekend, the best solution was to ask our kindly neighbour to put out food for her on the verandah each evening, and she accepted that routine. She chose her own sleeping place outside.

The first time we did that, she wasn't sure we'd return, and she took days to resume cordial relations. She chose not to come inside some nights, rather than enjoy the comforts of soft living and human company. We did everything we could to reassure her, but her trust was brittle. All those previous owners who had sent her back.... when would we do that too? It was bound to happen. It always did.

On other occasions we went away for a couple of days, she was less concerned, because we had returned each time. She still didn't approve of it and would show her displeasure by not coming inside for a couple of days. Oh, she might eat from her bowl in the kitchen, but she demanded release immediately after.

We figured the worst thing to do was to deny her that, so we did let her out, though sometimes she was happy to stay inside and play games if she felt no pressure. Maybe it depended on which particular cat she had to defend her territory from at the time. She wasn't fully-grown and there were some big toms out there.

Does my gut look big in this? It's a trick of the light. Please leave.

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Then came the watershed incident. 3 December 2009. Out of the blue, I was having a severe seizure. We went to Newcastle to have my brain excavated. That time away was brief enough.

But it meant that we were to go to Melbourne for my treatment; months of it. Things became totally erratic, from Soxy's point of view. There were weeks at a time when we didn't return; the first stretch of radiotherapy and chemo in particular. She was left in the hands of our long-suffering but wonderful neighbours a lot that summer.

We had deserted her. It had happened again. The trust was broken. That's humans for you. Henceforth they would be tolerated as long as they bore food.

You know what I want. Move, human servant. I have needs.

.

So, she comes in but rarely now. It is mainly on a quest for food. No matter how hard Tracey and Christian have tried – all sorts of tactics – she's not buying it. In the coldest and most miserable of weather, she stays out in one of her hidey-holes, and hasn't slept inside ever since I became ill those years ago.

She's mature, she tough and can see any other cat off the premises, no matter how big – because they're soft by comparison, even when she bulks up for the winter and looks tubby. And she's unyielding.

Even though we've rarely left this house overnight for two years now, she'll keep her own counsel.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wouldn't mind... Nah. It'll end in tears.

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Dogs, it is said, have owners. Dogs forgive if not forget quite easily as long as the hand of friendship is extended and the indignity or hurt is not too severe. Cats though – they don't have owners. They have servants who do their bidding. Let those servants imagine they are in control, but it's Mr or Ms Feline who is.

And cats never forget. Trip over your cat by accident or stand on her paw or tail – it's all filed away, to be used on evidence against you if the time comes.

She is happy enough, sunning herself in the yard. She is a free spirit. But no way does she belong to us.

NOTE: There is a sequel to this story – added 29 September 2012

Yes. I am both comfortable and well asleep. This is my domain. Go.

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dogs | cats | sequel