Blather

A feuilleton is a short, illustrative essay. That isn't quite a piece of plagiarism from Merriam Webster, though it should be. This will be a feuilleton about our cats, both mostly domesticated and mostly feral.

News from the Grove Way Cat Gazette: Sam the Feral Cat has been making more of an appearance and has been less skittish.

He had a couple of run-ins of the ... um ... reproductive kind with Fulla aka Four-Foot. She fights and screams, he tries to ... um ... well, you know what boy cats try to do with girl cats, don't you? He can't help himself, she's so "saftig." He thinks of himself as Sir Mixalot. (If you don't know this reference, that's all right. My big son had to explain the reference to me; I'm hoping some younger folks will catch on.)

Richie has threatened to trap him and take him to get ... um ... "modified surgically." I talked to Sam, telling him that he'll be OK as long as I'm around. I won't let Richie do that. But if I'm not around, he's on his own. Richie seems to have a paternal approach to our two girl cats. Me, I think cats aren't people, so if one cat catches another, that's the way things go. Of course, it could be something more than mere reproductive impulse; Sam's behavior might be some sort of territorial imperative. That might make things different. But this takes us to the misty, ethereal world of cat psychology.

So, are we on the cusp of trapping him? No. Kimmie has been doing her "cat whisperer" thing. She got him to eat right outside our glass doors. That's the good part. Of course, our two cats are watching him like a hawk from inside the glass doors. Yesterday, Fulla watched him and growled. For five minutes all we heard was "Grrrrrrr" in a very low pitch. I think she's not happy with him, but as long as we're around, she's not quite as unhappy.



Here's Sam the Feral Cat, through the glass doors. He's nibbling the other cats' kibble out of their bowl. When he was younger last summer, he was striped all over. Now he's got some stripes on his shoulders and hips, but his body is kinda buff-colored. He's a small tom but bigger than either of our other cats. Does he look like a randy rascal? Look behind those eyes- there's initiative and feline intent that's incomprehensible to us thumbed folk.


This morning he ate for awhile right outside the door. Then he went under the deck. After a minute, Frigga/No-Foot went outside and sniffed the carpet where he was sitting and sniffed the bowl he ate from. He didn't go far, just under the deck. Kimmie opened the door and talked to him from just outside the glass doors and he just watched her from under the deck. Then he went around the side of the house by the low-quat trees. The two girls went outside, Fulla on the deck by the smoker and Friga down by the firewood on the patio. Sam came back and Fulla went on Full Alert. Friga watched him, but she seems less afraid. We believe she's less afraid of Sam because she's larger, thinner and faster. So if Sam tried to chase her, she'd just tell him, "How do you like my ass from waa-aay back there?" and zoom away. Poor Fulla is smaller and chubbier, so Sam might have better luck chasing and catching her. Or "he just likes 'em saftig," as Richie opines.




Here are our two formerly feral cats. On the left is the saftig Four-Foot aka Fulla. On the right, getting some attention from her sister, is the schlanke Frigga aka No-Foot. Frigga likes the attention until she says, "That's enough!" Then she hisses and the two of them get into some feline fisticuffs.





We don't know if Sam will ever come inside and spend the night with us. He eats our cat food but he doesn't let us get too close. And "too close" is his determination. Sometimes it's five feet, sometimes it's 20 feet. He is a very skittish, mostly feral cat. I give him some flea pills, broken up between two spoons like you do with babies and pills, and mixed with some canned cat food. I'd like to take him to a vet for a full set of shots, but I don't know how to get close enough to touch him. I'm not sure that "trap and release" will sit well with his very independent attitude. If I can keep him from having too many fleas and if I can feed him a few days per week, I'll be satisfied with this not-quite-domesticated approach. Some pets are tied to their owners' laps by an invisible umbilical; Sam isn't my "pet," so if he has a distant relationship with me, that's enough for now. We each have a life outside being a pet and an owner. Heck, I can't say that I "own" him at all. And he isn't anyone's "pet."


Here's my little big son playing Stick with Fulla aka Four-Foot, the focus of Sam's romantic attentions. Stick is a game Schaffe plays with her because she's a lot of fun to play with. You take a five-foot piece of tree, strip the leaves off and drag it on the ground. Something in Four-Foot's predatory DNA makes her want to "attack" the end, catch it and bite it. She's crouching, waiting for the precise instant to make a four-legged jump and capture that perpetually elusive Stick.

Her sister, Frigga aka No-Foot, also plays, but there seem to be unspoken rules between them. Only one at a time "attacks," even though both are out there. I think for Frigga, playing Stick is as much a spectator sport as it is a participant sport.