Remembering the Feast

Because I went away for the holiday, this year I do not have leftovers.

Leftovers may be my favorite part of Thanksgiving, because it is a way to have all that delicious food again . . . in a good way. There is something about the more humble pleasure of leftovers that taste even a little better, because it is the pleasure of tasting the food AND ALSO the pleasure of remembering the initial feast.

So I am hungry for leftovers. Fortunately, I have saved a blog post that will serve as my "leftovers."

You may recall that I had an earlier post in which I referenced something about a phone call and cats and a mouse and dancing and chases and a feast. Or maybe you don't recall that, but I promised at the time that it would require another post. This is that "another post."

The week before Thanksgiving, I was on the phone discussing horse racing matters with a friend in California, relaxing on the sofa. It occurred to me that Shiva and Paxil were nowhere to be seen. I wasn't really thinking about them, because I was having a conversation. But even as I carried on the conversation, one corner of my brain was remembering how intently they seemed to be studying the wall in the dining room thirty minutes ago. And they seem to be down in the basement now. And, oh, yeah, it's November isn't it--when the field mice begin looking for winter lodgings. Hmmm.

Last winter, I had counted on three cats in residence curbing the mouse population. But it didn't work. The mice came in. The cats were fascinated by them, followed their scent trails everywhere, spent hours in the cabinets where the mice had been. Never caught a mouse. I would trap mice in live traps, but never see any evidence that a cat had caught one.

For about six months, when in springtime something seemed to kick in. It was just about the time that I learned that there is a parasite that lives in cats, that can transfer to other species--like humans and mice, where it triggers behavioral changes. Studies show that mice with this parasite engage in more risk-taking behavior, thereby becoming a source of cat food, returning the parasite to his natural host. So maybe it took my cats six months to learn how to hunt mice . . . or maybe it took that long for them to infect the mice and make them self-destructive. Who knows?

But now I was in the living room and my cats were suspiciously pre-occupied in the basement.

And then just as I became aware of that, they weren't any more. Here they were in fact. Sauntering into the living room like two overly innocent adolescent boys. Here came Shiva first, diffident, rather unconcerned, stretching out on the rug. And there just half a dozen steps behind, adopting a mask of clueless innocence was Paxil himself. He contemplated Shiva, who rolled on his back, and then thought better of starting a mock fight. Instead, he wandered aimlessly to the foot of the stairs. If he had lips, I am sure from his walk, he would have whistled, that's how much he was exaggerating his nonchalance.

By now, my efforts at conversation were a bit strained, because something seemed definitely up. And then, that quickly it became clear what was up. What was up was the little four-legged brown-and-white risk-taking moron that came bouncing into the room, tail in the air, not so much running as bouncing stiff-legged in little addle-pated rodent ballet moves, squeaking madly as he pursued the cats who had abandoned him down in the basement.

He scurried over to where I was on the sofa, swung around past Shiva, provoking that one to get to his feet and follow and bounced straight over to Paxil.

Still talking on the phone, I--without even thinking--rose to follow Shiva toward where the mouse was now taunting Paxil. The closest thing I had to a thought was "I can prevent bloodshed and carnage if I can open the door and get him to go out without letting the cats pursue him."

By the time I completed that thought, I was clear-headed enough to realize that I did not WANT the mouse to get away, because he would just come back in. And, after all, I kind of want my cats to eat my mice. I guess.

What only dawned on me later was how perfectly our little ecosystem had built a little image that must have looked like some sort of crazy Pied Piper in reverse: human following cat, following cat, pursuing mad, dancing mouse.

But all this happened quickly. Dumb, dense, innocent Paxil didn't need a mouse to hurl himself at him twice. Or if he did, this must have been the second time. Because the next thing I knew, Paxil--looking a bit like he does in that stalking photo above--had a mouse in his mouth and was headed for the basement. Shiva was in pursuit.

I gave up and went back to my sofa and my phone conversation. By the time I finished it and hung up, both cats had returned upstairs. Upon investigation, I discovered a little bit of mouse entrails left behind on the basement floor. Upstairs, Paxil and Shiva were each grooming themselves and looking smug. This was their Thanksgiving feast, and recalling it will have to suffice as my leftovers.

Back Home Again

When I arrived home, I could tell that not all had been calm while I was away. There were signs of disturbance, notably the box on the dresser where Paxil and Remedios take turns sleeping while I type was overturned on the floor.

Actually, when I think about it, that may have been the only sign. But it's the standard sign that Shiva has seized the opportunity of my absence to get too close to Remedios. No lasting damage seems to have occurred in any direction. Paxil and Remedios have happily bounced around, playing with each other, while Shiva has patiently followed me from room to room, as though confirmed in his resolve to never again let me get completely out of his sight.

In other words, all is back the way it usually is.

Now that I have returned the box to its spot on the dresser and filled it with its blanket, so that it can once again contain a cat.

Turkey Day

I know, I know.

We think Turkey Day is Thursday. But it's not.

This morning, I looked out the window, and there, not twenty yards from my deck was a flock of turkeys.

Of course, by the time I got downstairs and eased the door open, they had moved a way a little.

But here's a few I was able to shoot before they got away.

With a camera, of course.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Goodbye to a Good Friend

This week I will be going to say goodbye to Saskia.

She has been living in Washington DC for the past few years, and she is very old for a wolf (14) and no longer thriving. She has had an excellent life, has loved well and been well loved, and my life is richer for having known her.

When I first got to know her, I thought of her as an extremely large dog. It took several weeks of casual interaction before I began to realize the subtle, important ways in which she was not-dog. Things like awareness of space--how to place herself inside your sphere of personal comfort WITHOUT initiating contact, as a wolfish way to invite contact; or how to interrupt your boring conversation by physically interposing her body directly in the sight line of two people speaking while assertively refusing to make eye contact with either. When something clicked in my mind and I stopped thinking of her as "dog-large," it was as though some threshold was crossed in our relationship and we became closer.

For a little more than a month, I had the enormous privilege of sharing my house with her. And I still enjoy vividly the memory of the experience of her in this house. She was already arthritic then, and her size, combined with the steepness of my staircase and the slipperiness of hardwood floors made it difficult for her to go upstairs. So every evening I would bring books down to the living room and read with her curled at my feet.

There are coyotes who roam the fields outside, and sometimes at night they get a rabbit. A rabbit being killed by coyotes makes a pitiful sound. And a pack of coyotes, in the frenzy of the chase and kill, yip shrill and sharp and incessantly. This disturbs the dogs of the neighborhood (all my neighbors had dogs) and they bark loudly and repeatedly. And one young dog next door, in particular, sought to sound bolder than all the others by howling. So there we were one night, when the stillness was broken by coyote yipping. This triggered dog barking. Saskia opened an eye, but nothing more. But the yipping got more insistent, and then the rabbit screamed, the yipping went wild, and the dogs exploded. Saskia looked up. And the neighbor dog took the noise to a new level with his howl.

Saskia rose and walked to the window. The dog howled again, atop all the other noise. Saskia turned to me, head cocked, and whimpered. I said, "it's okay; do you want to howl?" The noise grew outside. Very softly, I offered an encouraging "owwooo." That was all Saskia needed. As the noise grew outside from all quarters, she tilted back her head, and offered one definitive comment: "owwwWWWOOOOOOHHHHhhh."

It was as though someone in charge of the world had thrown a switch. Everything was still. No rabbit. No coyote. No dogs. No sound.

Saskia turned from the window, walked back across the hardwood floor, curled up at my feet, went back to sleep.

She is one of the quietest, calmest, sweetest and most personable animals I have ever known. I will miss her, and I am extremely grateful that I had a chance to know her.

Deep Touch Pressure is Calming

Temple Grandin is one of the world's foremost authorities on both animal mind and autism.

She is, herself, autistic; and she has developed an international reputation in animal behavior, particularly through her design of humane slaughter plants that would minimize fear, anxiety and suffering in livestock slaughter facilities.

As an adolescent, her autism created a troubling internal dissonance for her, as she simultaneously craved the comfort of being held and also the not unusual autistic response of recoiling from human touch. Her solution was to create her own contraption that could mechanically provide her with soothing comfort of deep touch pressure--she termed it her "squeeze machine": http://www.grandin.com/inc/squeeze.html

If you Google "Temple Grandin squeeze machine" today, you will find not only her own version of the squeeze machine discussed and advertised, but also a variety of imitators--usually marketed as "hug machines"--for working with autistic children.

Research seems to support the idea that the deep touch pressure provided by a squeeze machine or human contact has a calming effect on the recipient. Deep touch pressure refers to the pressure of a hug or caress or a cat on your lap, and is distinguished from light touch pressure, such as tickling or scratching.

Both Remedios and Paxil are deep touch machines of remarkable effectiveness, both giving and receiving the calming effects of deep touch pressure. But Shiva, that remarkable individual, abandoned early by his asocial mother and living most of his life in splendid near solitude, bonding with a single stoic of another species, has NEVER been a "lap cat." Yet he remains a sweet, affectionate companion who both provides company and enjoys it. While he spends many hours alone, he will often play with Paxil. And when it has been too long since he received the quantity of brushing and human contact he desires, he will come looking for me, as I sit at the computer.

And there, within a foot or two of me, he will work himself into his own favorite "squeeze machine," an abandoned Wine Country gift basket in which he can feel that reassuring deep touch pressure.

Space is relaxing

Paxil is fond of stretching out.

He is, alas, particularly fond of sinking his claws into the back of a chair and stretching out by hurling his weight backwards and trying to disembowel and/or filet the chair in the process.

But he is also fond of seeing how much of one sofa he can occupy without assistance. His personal best (not, unfortunately, photographed) is a half of a three-cushion sofa--an achievement that required significant hind leg and tail extension, accompanied by a foreleg lick-and-stretch move that had to be seen to be appreciated.

The nearest approximation I have is the image, which claims only a third of the sofa--but clearly does so without great effort.

The complement to the relaxation of space and openness is, of course, the comfort and security of containment. But that's more Shiva's forte and will be dealt with in a separate entry.

Possession is 9/10ths etc.

There was much excitement in the house today. And a feast.

It is November and the mice are beginning to look for winter homes. Alas (for them), the cats have learned that mice can be eaten. Therein lies a tale, full of chases, dances, phone calls, and much mirth, concluding with a feast in the basement. But I'll save that tale for another day.

Today's post will reflect instead on Remedios's keen understanding of a basic principle of common law: when I occupy a lap, that lap is mine, and I cannot be moved.

I know the various unkind things you may be thinking now, but "yes, that is a lap." If you look closely, you will grey socks peeking out from the end of those legs propped up on the camelback trunk next to my desk. And the apparently endless sea of grey above the black sweatpants is (remarkably bulky) sweatshirt. That is NOT a huge pile of dirty laundry, it is my lap.

Remedios insists that when I type in the morning, I spend at least sometime in this position, so that she can spend at least some time in this position.

It is notable that her right paw is always extended in exactly that pose, so that if she really relaxes and begins to recline, she dig her claws in deeply and keep herself from falling. On the few occasions where this has been tested, it has failed miserably. The moment her claws extend, I arise vigorously and she loses her spot amid howls and curses. But most of the time, we sit quietly together until my typing is more than she can stand and she goes to curl up in a box.

But while she is there, that lap belongs to her.

Papasan

"In my father's house are many mansions."

It has always been one of favorite lines in scripture. When I was still a child, I found myself hearing that line wondering "aren't mansions bigger than houses? How does that work?" I've given up trying to figure it out, as has (so far as I can tell) modern translators who reduce the magnificence considerably to make heaven sound like a boarding house or condo development: "in my father's house are many rooms."

My daughter, however, can say "in my father's house are many chairs . . . and two of them are mine."

The first of these is a large overstuffed turquoise armchair in the living room. It used to belong to my father. When my daughter was young and we would visit, she would curl up in the chair with her feet one arm and her head on the other, and eventually fall asleep, listening to adults talk. In his will, my father left the chair to me to keep until Carolyn was ready to claim it, so it is an upholstered trust in my possession.

The second of these chairs--in the loft--is a papasan. A friend of mine had one of these chairs, and in early adolescence, Carolyn found the shape again the perfect size for curling up and listening to the verge of sleep. Seeing--and hearing--how much she enjoyed the chair, I bought her one for Christmas one year. It, too, remains in my house for safekeeping, pending it being re-claimed.

When Shiva first arrived in my house, he took greater comfort in the downstairs than the upstairs. And his most favorite resting place was the overstuffed armchair, doubtless because he knew it so well from my father's house. But these days, he also spends many hours upstairs, and in the loft, his new favorite place is the papasan.

I need a remote!

Paxil is generally quite, well, peaceful.

But there are times when he becomes insistent on receiving his necessary dose of affection. At the moment, he is teetering precariously on a pile of books next to the computer, leaning toward my lap like an imitation of Snoopy imitating a vulture, eyes narrowing as he falls asleep, dangerously close to tumbling into my lap as I type. This is not an impossibility. He has fallen from many more secure perches, always for similar reasons--loss of consciousness, due to torpor.

In the image above, he is however in his animated--and wide awake mode. His only interest in the camera is in the little strap that dangles from it, which he thinks is a toy for him to play with. He seldom looks more serious and thoughtful than when he is playing like this. But now it is late at night for Paxil and he looms over the keyboard, reminding me that it is time to shut off the machine and go to bed.

Zombie Cat

Not really. More like Zombie photographer.

Remedios is not really possessed by the undead; she's only vaguely accusatory from the position of the Unfed.

Quiet Time

This weekend will be a quiet time.

I am going to a horse sale (which should be interesting), and that means that I won't be blogging for a few days. I have laid in supplies (fresh litter and food) and will leave the peaceable kingdom to fend for itself. Which mostly involves finding a comfortable place to sleep. The things people can learn from animals . . .

Race you to the bottom!

Shiva is a living legacy.

Shiva at the head of the stairs:

He was my father's cat, and my father made me promise that he would have a good home. He does.

Every morning, all his life, he would meet my father at the head of the stairs and lean his head through the railings. My father would scratch his head and talk to him, and then start down the stairs. Shiva would then race down the stairs to get there ahead of him.

It is a good thing to have constancy in our lives.

Shiva, when I'm still on the stairs.

Sleepy Beauty

In One Hundred Years of Solitude, Remedios the Beautiful ascends into heaven one day, as she is hanging out her laundry. Realism is seldom so magical as in that moment, and the Remedios in my life seldom ascends higher than the top of a bookcase where she seeks refuge from the much larger, but persistently earthbound Shiva. She also has little to do with laundry, beyond squirming between the bedsheets late at night, looking for a warm safe place to sleep. Mornings are among her favorite times, as I spend too much time at the computer, and she can usually catch a little extra naptime in my lap. But sometimes, I actually get some writing done there, and at those times, I sit up straighter and become a less comfortable bed. On those occasions (happily rare) she takes a few minutes to sit upright, with irritated patience, waiting for my writing to come to a halt, so she can resume her interrupted sleep. This morning, I recorded her attitude for posterity.

Curiosity

Curiosity has gotten the better of me.

So I am entering the blogosphere, timidly, tentatively, with trepidation . . . on, as it were, cat's feet. Among my interests at the moment, questions of animality rank high, and from time to time, I might think out loud here. But more than anything else, at least at the start, my goal is simple: to post regularly--perhaps almost daily--snapshots. Not photographs, snapshots. No great claim to artistic quality, just a record, an animal trace. Eventually, I may branch out--horses, wolves, eagles, mice, etc. But at the start the focus will be on the three cats with whom I currently cohabit: Paxil, Remedios the Beautiful, and Shiva. Introducing Paxil from about the time he entered my life two years ago, amid the papers with which I decorate most flat surfaces.