Cat Tales

I have two cats that I am now pretty much responsible for. As a child, I detested felines - they were cryptic and furtive, not openly emotional like dogs, conveying the distinct impression that they only saw humans as a source of food. However, I have grown to appreciate the fact that they are self sufficient, independent and decidedly low maintenance. The only problem occurs when they revert to their natural instincts.

The first cat is a beautiful silky black female we named Olive, found by a friend at the side of a rural byway. She likes to occupy laps, but prefers seeking out high perches atop refrigerators and staircases, a proud lioness overlooking the African savannah. This delicate and gracious animal is obsessed with birds. Unfortunately, we have a trio of hanging feeders which are constantly full of black oil sunflower seeds, food that will attract all shapes and sizes of birds from miles around. Olive spends most of her days sitting patiently under the receptacles, mesmerized by the ebb and flow.


The second is named Plunky, as in "kerplunk". He used to live behind a restaurant and still prefers to be outside. He shuns human contact, and tries to bite you if you pet him too much. Plunky is gray and muscular, definitely a feline with attitude. Unfortunately, despite the cat door we carefully installed a few years back for easy access, I've been forced to block it at night so that I can monitor Plunky's comings and goings.


The primary reason for restricting his presence indoors has to do with waking up half asleep, heading out to the kitchen to make coffee and finding a headless corpse on the floor. I've uncovered numerous decapitated mice and a few birds, not exactly the kind of wake up call you want before another grim day at work. Outside, Plunky's stalking skills have resulted in the death of several rabbits, moles and chipmunks, the most bizarre incident having occurred one night when I caught him trying to drag a huge rabbit corpse through the cat door into our garage, the body being too big for him to get through the opening.


Nevertheless, we have fought back against the antics of the wanna be lions. I rescued an incredibly angry cardinal one morning, sitting on my foyer carpet, chirping loudly, not yet seriously hurt but about to be devoured by the cat. I am normally scared of birds, but I swallowed my fear, and upended a scrap basket onto the intended victim. I then slid a place mat underneath the basket and manoeuvred the terrified bird outside.


One night when I was getting ready to take my daughters and their friends out to dinner, I was pausing to comb my hair when I heard a volley of terrified screams from our kitchen. I raced inside, assuming an axe murderer was lying in wait for my offspring, only to find a frightened chipmunk racing across the floor, again being pursued by the cat. I managed to corner him between the stove and the counter, then coax him into - you guessed it - the trash can which I managed to transport outside once again, allowing the poor animal to flee into the underbrush.


The moral of the story , I suppose , is you can't judge a book by looking at the cover. My cats may look harmless, but don't cross them.