More on Cats and Dogs

My apologies for my lack of blogging as of late. I have been completely taken down by my genetic disease, TNF Receptor Associated Periodic Syndrome. I'm back on the up and go, though, and have several observations to chronicle in my ever-quest to gain a greater understanding of the illusive mind of the cat.

One day last week while I actually had a few hours of gusto, I decided that it was time to rearrange the living room. Its layout at the time really didn't work with me energetically, and having pondered potential arrangements filled me with determination to make a serious change the moment I felt well enough to do so.

Enter cats and dogs. Please allow me to take a moment to remind any readers who may have forgotten that I am a die-hard dog fan who diligently studies the three cats who live with us. Rearranging furniture certainly gave me a whole new environment in which to study the mind of felines.

I admit to having a somewhat stubborn streak, liking to do things myself as a matter of pride. Having gone from being a paramedic and member of a search and rescue team to suddenly being incapacitated by a debilitating disease leaves me with “something to prove” – if only to myself. So my daughter was sleeping in, my wife was at work, and I was gung-ho. The cats were sleeping with Dear Daughter and the dogs were excitedly “helping” me move the Goddess hutch and other furniture.

Now, dogs are most enthusiastic little “helpers”. Their eyes are happy, they wag their tails, they pant (and sometimes drool a little bit) all agog about what's happening. The only time they are devastated is when they are excluded. So with great gusto, they rode happily on the sofa, as if it were a giant bob-sled, while I scooted it about. They ran circles around the recliners while I moved them. They boof-ed and barked encouragement to me while I moved the tv, the cat tree… And the whole while, I was so focused, I didn't realize the cats weren't present.

Oh. My. Goodness.

When I let the cats out of Dear Daughter's room, there is no other word for their expression upon entering the living room than… Sacred-Litter-Box-What-the-Heck-Happened-Here?! Yes, I'm aware that's more than one word. You'd have thought someone de-feathered their feather toy. You'd have thought I'd dismembered their catnip balls… Taken the bells out of their jingly toys, put some inferior box-store cat food in their ceramic food bowl… Capri and Mushi came trotting out to the edge of the living room where they suddenly froze – and their tails…. Oh my Goddess, POUF!!! Both cats went into instant “G.I. Joe” mode, shrinking down into a deep army crawl, (or what I now recognize now as slinking-stealth-stalking mode). Generally, cats going into G.I. Joe mode means it's time for me to sit somewhere with my feet up and protected by a blanket. I recognize also that it is a time to enforce the “keep all fingers, hands and arms within the armchair”, lest they become targets of attack. So, as I jumped up onto the sofa, keeping my feet underneath me and resting my head on my knees, all I could think was exactly what the dogs appeared to be expressing themselves… “What the heck is their problem?” (Secondarily, “how am I supposed to go get a glass of water without being sushi for two cuckoo cats?”)

Lancelot made an unwise choice… To investigate the cats. This resulted in a paw swipe across the muzzle, and then blessed Queen of Fire…

Well, anyway… The remainder of the day, the cats were freaked out. Suddenly, they had to be… all the way over there!! And then, it would seem that they would realize – again, rather suddenly – that they really belonged all the way over here!!

Okay, so the dogs and I are wondering what's brought the freak-on out in the cats. So I tried giving them catnip, because I figured it was something like kitty mary-jane – only legal everywhere in the U.S. (and safe for cats). BAD IDEA, because apparently they get far more hyper FIRST – as in, before they mellow. Oh dear.

So here we are with swishy tails, crouched attack positions, kitty rips all around the house (including OVER furniture, under furniture, up the cat tree, back down again)….

WOW. All I can say is I sure am glad they both can see. I'd have hated to see what the freak-out would have been like, moving furniture with cats who couldn't see. Holy cow. Kitties 101. Whew. Who knew??

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Cats… Dogs… Hmmm….

Okay, let me begin with full disclosure. I'm a die-hard dog lover who studies the three cats that live alongside my wife, my daughter, myself… AND our two dogs.

When I was young, I was – quite literally – very nearly deathly allergic to cats. This really tore me up inside, because we actually had a cat. She was a lovely Siamese cat who we called Mitzy. Every time I would try and pet her, I would end up at the hospital. She was banished to the basement, and I was heart-broken. I remember crying, my mother holding me tightly, as I asked her again and again why I was allergic to everything I loved (including my stuffed animals which got pitched – all, save one stuffed bunny, aptly named “Bun-Bun”). I am not being sarcastic, nor trying to be funny when I say that my childhood was marred.

However, (and much to my parent's chagrin), I wasn't ready to throw in the towel as an adult. I'd heard that if you adopted a cat when it was but a kitten, you were more likely to adapt to its dander – thereby reducing allergic reaction. And so we have. Not once… But three times.

Let me back up a bit, though. Mitzy, the poor banished-to-the-basement kitty, crossed the Rainbow Bridge when I was 10. We lived sans animal companions for the next 5 years. When I was 15, we decided to try a dog, seeing as how my allergy to dogs was significantly lesser than that of cats. Enter Toby, our beloved weiner-dog. Toby was one righteous dude. He put up with my childhood-deprived play encounters, proudly sitting beside me while watching TV and dozing – all while wearing the scarf and sunglasses I'd put on him. It was SO awesome to finally have an animal companion that I could be near!

Fast-forward to today. My parents have crossed over – both within 9 months of each other – something I'm still trying to get used to. And I no longer have anyone to chide me when I add to my little animal companion pack (currentlly no longer accepting applications – sorry)! Nobody warns me I'm “going to kill” myself, having kitties living with me. And frankly, my kitties really don't bother me – allergy-wise, as long as I remember to cover my pillows on the sofa when up and moving around, and the pillows on the bed by making said bed each morning (no big deal). But here's the thing.

I have three of 'em… My daughter is a die-hard cat lover… And I just don't understand 'em. Cats, I mean. We have a senior citizen cat, an adult cat, and a juvenile kitten that is 7 months old. I'm fascinated with them, much in the same way people are fascinated with lions and tigers. Perhaps that statement most aptly addresses the issue. I look at them as if they are BIG cats. They're still kinda scary to me, frankly. I mean, they attack out of no-where! Especially Mushi, our youngest. He's the Siamese. Let's see if he will deign to let me take a snapshot. (He did).

 

While I'm at it, please allow me to introduce Gordy (our senior citizen 22 lb. kitty), followed by Capri, the Familiar to my daughter. Without further adieu…

And, because it pertains to the remainder of this post, please allow me to introduce my Familiar, DaVinci (aka Moof, Sir Moof-a-lot, Moofers, and/or Little Buddy), and our wonderful mini-daschund, Lancelot (aka Roo-Roo [what it sounds like when he “sings”], Roscoe P. Coltrane [he's our Chief “Stranger Danger” alert system], or Little Man).

 

Yes, that IS, indeed, peanut brittle that our little thief stole last Yuletide. No, he didn't get to eat it, but did “trade it in” for a puppy treat.

Okay, so now that proper introductions have been made… I was saying… It's still true that if I get so much as a tiny little claw mark from the kitties, I turn red at that spot and itch like crazy. Mushi, the youngling, scares me half to death popping out of no-where. He's a jungle cat, I'm telling you. He's hell on paws for any kleenex he can get his little paws on, even if that means stealing them from the trash (which he does, daily. Multiple times a day, in fact). Capri has done his best to raise the wee tyke properly… But Capri isn't nearly the acrobat that Mushi is. It's fascinating and hilarious to watch him somersault over a tissue, only to bunny-kick it to death…

I'm learning that their tail must be their Emotion Indicator. Whenever a bird lands outside the windows, Mushi will swish his long, lithe tail furiously (often batting one of the dogs in the face. He cares not). I don't fully understand this sign language yet, though… I think a swishy tail means they are also out to get whomever happens by.

Dogs are so much simpler. They follow me around from room to room. They don't seem to plot the same way cats do. They come when you call them. They don't treat you miserably when you've left the house for an afternoon – they're excited to see you again, like a long-lost friend returning. Cats… no so much. What gives?

I admit I am an understudy when it comes to cats. Alas, I need to start supper, so the remainder of my queries will have to wait for later. One thing is predictable, though… As soon as I turn on the faucet in the kitchen, the cats will be there, much to my dismay. It seems to be the one way to get cats to come when you want them… And also when you don't, because you just want to brush your teeth in peace.

Hmmmm…

 

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