Puzzles With Cats

I'm an addict.  I need between 1,000 - 1,500 pieces every week.  I could do more, but I'm trying to keep it under control.

Cats help.  That is, they pretend to help, while being incredibly hindering.

Here, try this piece...

 

 

I'll just lay over here, out of the way.

Lopsided

Ella has the typical white whiskers of a tuxedo cat.  They shed out like all other hairs, but Ella's "eyebrows" have a pattern of falling out at the same time...but just on one side. 

It's hard to take her seriously until they grow back in!  The dogs might not care if I laugh at them for no apparent reason, but cats take offense.  GREAT offense.  Looks like I'll be biting my cheek for a few weeks.

Just Add Drugs

This scratching post sat on our landing for the past three months, sadly ignored by all 9 cats who are in and out of the house. 








Today I sprinkled dried catnip on it.  Two minutes later:

 "Where did this thing come from?  It's SO MUCH FUN!"

The Contenders

I said a couple months ago that two tom cats were contending to be the new barn cat.  I'm not sure I won't get stuck with both, since they seem to come and go at the same time and never fight. 

I call them Black Cat and White Cat - being a writer, I'm creative like that.  Black Cat is very ordinary, with one spot of white:

White Cat is different.  He's mostly white with a couple black spots on his body, a dark raccoon tail, and black that spills across his head and face like the result of a horrible accident with an ink bottle:

I hesitate to call him ugly, but that face is difficult to look at.  He's also a stalker.  He's waiting here on top of the chicken yard for Zoe to come out of the coop for the day.  He used to wait in the weeds, but he's getting bolder.  He's often there at night, too, when I put her in.  She used to trot out happily to see him, but now she lingers inside the coop, apparently waiting for him to leave.  Can't blame her - who wants a needy, clingy boyfriend?

Kittens Aren't The Only Reason

I've been MIA with several animal issues, plus trying to finish my book.  Still in the process with both, but here's an update.

I neuter and spay all my dogs and cats.  I don't say that to get a patronizing round of applause, but to explain why it took me more than three years to spay Abby.  I adopted her and her brother, Simon, when they were about 4 months old, rescues who were found living under a deck, trying to survive on birdseed.  Both were frightened of people and terrified if touched.  I worked with them on that.  Simon got over it; Abby didn't.  After three years, we could touch her, but attempting to pick her up resulted in a terrified dive for cover. 

So spaying was delayed.  No big deal, right?  Everyone else was neutered.  Uh, wrong.  This is why you want to spay your cat:  (If you can't see the picture, press play anyway.  It works.)

Abby is complaining to Penny that none of the 4 male cats in the house is man enough to see what a hot babe she is.  Penny just wants her to go away so she can play with her leaf.  She will, but she won't shut up.  She'll cry like this constantly for a week.  Let me repeat that.  Constantly.  Then she might be back to normal for 6 months.  Or maybe for a week.  You never know.

 It gets old after 3 minutes.  After 3 days you want to crawl out of your skin.  After three years you say the hell with her terror level, bait a cage with catnip, and let her whirl, cry, and climb the walls until you can hand her over to the vet. 

This is Abby now.  She's not happy.  The rest of us are.

Harley's A Winner!

My local Tractor Supply store is running a promotion for their new line of cat and dog food. You submit a picture of your cat with a bag of their food, and each month it goes into a drawing for a free bag of cat food, value $17.50. Today I got a call that Harley had won! Actually, that I had won, but it was Harley's picture that did it.

Here's Harley, showing her winning form.  I didn't tell her it was a random drawing because, really, isn't that a good picture?  She's interested in the cat on the bag.  (Or in Frieda, who was on the other side of the bag, but why quibble over details?)

I lined the other 8 cats up and told them it was time to start earning their keep, like Harley.

Kittens At 5 Weeks

Cute trio!  And they're all so different you might not guess they came from the same litter.

Giving her brother a hug

How could anyone resist this face?

Scratching?  I have no idea what you're talking about.

Kittens At 3 Weeks

Stray cat Whitney's babies:  This is much more like it - they're starting to look like cats.








And the mom isn't spoiled at all.  All strays eventually end up eating from silver bowls on silver trays, don't they?

I could narrate this, but really, what's the point?  Their cuteness speaks for itself.

Free Range!

My chickens have become escape artists.  It's the cat's fault.

The three hens are in a fenced yard for their protection - foxes and hawks would love to meet them.  But Zoe, the cat who lives in the chicken coop is free to come and go.  The white Aracauna was the first to figure it out - if she's quick enough, she can follow her out the door before it closes.  And then . . . paradise!  Grass, bugs, worms, and a limitless choice of gritty bits of gravel.  If you're a chicken, it doesn't get any better than that.

It started when I saw the Aracauna outside one day, with Zoe nearby, babysitting her friend.  I herded her back to the coop and chalked it up to an accident.  The next morning I learned differently.  The Aracauna waited for me to leave the coop, then charged the open door as I stepped out, making a break for it.  Seriously.  Like, "Out of the way!  Free range chicken coming through!"  And she took off.  It's possible to round up a chicken that wants to go inside because it's time for a drink of water and some cracked corn, but otherwise, forget it.  They run, jump, dodge, and flap, and it might be possible to corner them, but I'm not fond of letting a chicken make me look like an idiot.  She was on her own.

After that, it was a daily group prison break.  But it's not all bad - Zoe stays with them.  Sometimes one of the two stray cats vying for the new barn cat position are with her, too.  Must be part of the job application process.  I worried one day when the chicken-cat group wandered under the fence and into my neighbor's trees, so I called Zoe.  (And brought my camera along.)  She came, and so did her three girls.  I led the way to the coop, then stood back while Zoe pawed the door open and the hens followed her back inside. 

The whole thing is worrisome, because Zoe can't fend off predators.  But it's cute, and it's funny, and there doesn't seem to be much I can do about it without locking Zoe in.  Or out.  Neither is an option, so my free range cat is now accompanied most days by her three free range chickens.

If we make it safely through the summer, they'll stop charging outside when the green grass is gone.

Kittens - 13 Days Old

Just for you all - I got nothing out of it whatsoever - I made another visit to the foster kittens next door.  Their eyes are just beginning to open, and they squirm around constantly, enough that mom spends most of her time out of the box where she can stretch out and pretend for a moment that she doesn't have five kids.

Aren't they cuddly? 

But sometimes, all that togetherness is just too much.

And the only way to get a good nap is to sleep alone.

Kittens! And Other Second Chances

My neighbor fosters dogs and cats until she finds them homes.  I have her to thank for my cat Harley (as if I needed help finding cats!)  Several other neighbors have dogs from her, and she didn't even have to twist arms; she's good at finding the right people for the right pet.  This was her most recent success story a few days ago:

Chewy was a four year old head-strong, rambunctious dog rejected by the shelter because they couldn't handle him.  That means he was headed straight for euthanasia.  But my neighbor took him and had him evaluated by a trainer who snatched him up, saying he had the perfect disposition and abilities he looks for when training  tracking dogs.  Chewy will soon be a search dog for missing people, the dogs often used to find Alzheimer patients who wander off and get lost.  A close call and a happy ending because someone bothered to look for an alternative.


This is Whitney, the latest stray cat.  She arrived with perfect house manners and a loving disposition.  Unfortunately, she'd been a little too free with her love, and she was pregnant.  (A lot of romance novels start this way!)  Sunday she delivered these five kittens.  They will all be adopted into good homes by eight weeks, but for now I get to enjoy watching them grow.  And because kittens are an automatic dose of feel-good, I'll share with you here.

Five days old, and looking more like rats than cats.  One will be like mom, long-haired and black.  A couple are tuxedo patterned, one is all gray, and the little tiger on the right is a black tabby who, we think, will be a big handsome hunk.

One of the tuxedoes.  Stay tuned - more unbearable cuteness to come!

Now Hiring: Barn Cat

Experience preferred, but not necessary.  Must be able to work independently.  Pay commensurate with skill at catching rodents.  Base pay is kibbles.  No vacation days.  Male cat preferred, neutered status a plus.  We are looking for an individual who can work all shifts in all weather.  Must be able to get along with two resident female (spayed) cats. Apply within, Sophie's decison final.

Applications are still coming in!  For the past two days the mysterious black cat has been absent, and a long haired white cat with a dark raccoon tail has been slinking around.  Both were absent today, and I believe Sophie is still interviewing.  And both, I am sure, are male cats because Sophie has not tangled with either, but TC has.  He came home a few days ago with a pierced ear from a bite that went clean through it.  Maybe I shouldn't have let it heal - it's a good spot for an earing.

Is This Weird?

Honestly, I don't know.  You'd think drinking from a water dish would be a simple thing, with one way to do it.  But I have two cats who have developed their own style, using one paw as a spoon.  It's hard to imagine if you haven't seen it, so here's a video (below) of Ella practicing her elegant, prissy style of drinking.

Is this normal?  Does anyone know a cat who does this, or do I own two weird ones?

But Did It Have To Be Black?

About six weeks ago (as I wrote here ) one of our barn cats, Gray, disappeared.  I predicted that it wouldn't be long before another cat showed up to fill the vacancy.  It's a balance that seems to work for our little farm - two female barn cats, Sophie and Zoe, and one male.  The male cats have come and gone (or in TC's case, moved into the house and annointed himself king.)  It's possible the next barn cat has arrived.

This evening as I did barn chores I walked out of the stalls in time to see a cat scuttle away from Sophie's food dish to hide under the Murder Car.  A black cat.  There are two solid black cats that could possibly be in the barn - Zoe, who I'd just tucked in with the chickens for the night, and Nicky, a big indoor-outdoor cat who would probably run from me because he knows I don't want him in the barn.  Except he was currently in the house.  And this cat looked smaller, about the size of Penny, an exclusively indoor black cat.

Sounds like a lot of black cats, doesn't it?  We seem to specialize in them.  For instance, this was the scene in our family room this evening, where the cats bask in front of the fireplace:

That's Nicky at the left, keeping a suspicious eye on Harley.  Penny and Ella (sisters) are behind them.

All nice cats.  But come on, what are the odds that the next stray to show up here would be solid black? 

Updates as they happen.

Vole Story

This little guy is a vole. Isn't he cute?

Not in your house, he isn't!

The other day I let Frieda outside.  Not ten seconds later, before I'd even walked away from the door, she wanted back in.  I assumed it was because TC was on the porch, in a pissy mood.  But as soon as I closed the door behind her I saw why she wanted in - she'd stolen his vole.  And now it was in my house.  Alive.

I ordered her outside.  She ran upstairs and hid behind a toilet.  I nudged her butt out, and she took off downstairs with her vole, his little vole legs kicking frantically.  We repeated this in a few more rooms, until she finally found safety beneath a chair and put her vole down.  And the real game was on! 

We couldn't find him.  Not me or Frieda, and not Harley or Penny or Ella, all of whom are strictly indoor cats and thought this was the best game we'd ever played.  I did the only thing I could do - I left the experts alone and waited.

An hour later I heard soft growling in the family room.  TC walked in there with me to see what was going on.  In the center of the room, Ella was facing down Harley and Penny with the vole hanging from her mouth, still kicking.  TC went, "Hey, I recognize that vole!"  Ella, knowing a real threat when she saw it, dove under the rolltop desk, where she made the mistake of putting down her vole.  Three cats went for it.  The vole miraculously ran through the furry melee and darted across the room.  I darted to the laundry room for a bucket, and came back to find the vole sitting up on his hind legs, back to the wall, facing down his four biggest nightmares.  While they tried to decide who should make the first grab, I did.  I scooped him up and carried him outside, releasing him in the dead marigolds where he promptly dove beneath the snow and disappeared.

I came back inside to incredulous looks from five cats who wondered how I could be so stupid.

Frieda
"You threw it out?  Seriously?"

Missing

For eight days now my barn cat, Gray, has been gone.

Usually, he is there to greet me both morning and evening when I go to the barn.  For months he hasn't missed one single visit.  I'm sadly accepting that he has met his fate. 

Twice before I've had wild cats appear who could be tamed enough to pet, but who could never give up their wanderlust.  Those two, like Gray, were all older, and no longer spry when they disappeared.  I fear coyotes.

Sophie is the lone barn cat now, with Zoe sticking to the chicken coop.  We seem to have a vacancy for a young male cat.  I can almost guarantee one will appear. 

In Defense Of Cats

Cats love comfort.  They also know a good thing when they see it.  From this, they've somehow gained a reputation for being finicky, for shunning the cold, or the wet, and for not leaving their silk-tasseled cushions by the fire for anything less than food. 

Don't you believe it.  This is a picture of my barn cats Sophie and Gray, coming out to meet me in the morning.  Yes, I have food.  But they know darn well they could wait in the relative warmth of the barn, and get their food just as quickly.  But they don't.  Rain, snow, or shine, they come out to say hello.  Just because.  There's nothing wimpy about cats.

When You Just Have To Kill Something

Cats are meant to kill things.  Cat owners know this.  We give them stuffed toy mice so little Fluffy can pretend to kill them.  If our cats go outside, their owners are blessed with real mice on their doorstep, or pieces of them.  Sometimes it's just a head.  Sometimes a tail - it's a matter of taste.

Harley wants to kill things.  Badly.  But I don't allow Harley to go outside.  She's little, which might make her vulnerable to predators despite her badass leather jacket and switchblade.  Also, I have a large enough collection of headless rodents from the cats who do go outside.  But toy mice just don't do it for Harley, not even the ones stuffed with catnip.  In her heart, she knows she is made for tougher game.  So she went to the basement to hunt . . . (ominous music) . . . something different.

And she found it.  High on the storage shelves, standing on boxes of baby toys and Christmas ornaments, she found game so fearsome even the toughest cat might hesitate to rip into it - insulation.  Pockets and pockets of it, stuffed between the floor joists along the top of the basement walls.  For several weeks we've heard the plaintive meow that announces a kill as Harley comes upstairs dragging a mouthful of pink fiberglass.

I spent days cutting out squares of cardboard and fitting them over each space between the joists, covering the insulation.  New hunting grounds were found, but after three or four weeks, the fiberglass kills stopped.  That's when the potatoes started appearing.  I keep my open bag of potatoes at the bottom of the basement stairs, where they stay cool.  Harley has begun killing them.  First the odd stray potato, then on a regular basis each night, carrying her potatoes upstairs and leaving her "kills" in the kitchen for me to admire each morning.

We're not talking cute little red potatoes.  We're talking Idahoes, a good four inches and up, which is a hefty mouthful for a little cat.  I've tried to get a picture, but Harley is a stealthy hunter, and doesn't announce her kills until she's ready to drop them on the floor.  Then, you know how it is - who wants to pick up a dead potato?  I can't even get her to pose with her trophy in her mouth.  But she did show me how she beat one of them into submission, briefly re-enacting the death scene:

I believe that slightly insane look is normal when bringing down a wild potato.

Below: a rare shot of pink fiberglass in the feral state, alongside a dead potato.

Anniversary

I did a head count today of all the animals on the farm:
Horses - 3
Chickens - 4
Dogs - 1
Cats, both barn and house - 13

Every cat and dog was a rescue of some sort, either a stray that found its way here, or an animal I was handed and just couldn't say no to.  Some have weird rescue stories - I'll save that for another day.  It was enough today just to see that grand total and flinch.  I am grateful we have the room to do this, and to my husband for putting up with my penchant for rescuing animals in need!

Yesterday was my anniversary, but my husband was out of town so we're celebrating today.  Two things I KNOW I won't get: a kitten or a puppy.  And that's okay!

Writer's Block

I could ignore the furry body between the keyboard and the monitor - I'm used to writing like that.

I could even ignore the lazy change in position that put a foot on the corner of the screen.

But when TC decided it was bath time, it was too much.  I called a temporary writer's block and took a break.