Note: I wrote this column when my cats, Pumba and Powder, were tiny kittens. Now they are 14 years old.
Lately I’ve been seeing life through kitten’s eyes.
While cats of all ages are known for their curiosity, I’ve noticed through watching my kittens, Pumba and Powder, that those first months of life are full of endlessly fascinating experiences.
Each of my potted plants is a new jungle to explore and hide in while hoping to ambush the other and each level of chair or table that they find themselves able to climb is a new conquest.
There are things that are scary … like those birds at the feeder that fill grown cats with a compulsion to attack. To a small kitten these sparrows and tufted titmice are huge eagles swooping down at them. Powder was sitting on the window sill when a bird came soaring in for a landing at the feeder outside the window. Powder hasn’t quite figured out that things can’t come through the window pain, so when he saw those birds coming toward him, he jumped down from the window sill and scurried into the other room sliding to a stop against the far wall.
The sound of the vacuum cleaner also causes little feet to scurry so fast that they are running in place as they slip and slide on the linoleum. Blow dryers too, are a disturbance, but not quite so urgent. They glance with worried looks at the source of the noise and cautiously back away, eyes wide. And if I blow my nose it sounds to them like a hiss from a very large cat, so they both take off running in the other direction...
Some experiences probably seem like brushes with death to a kitten. Like that little slip of the foot Pumba made when walking around the toilet seat, then caught himself and hung two inches from the water below.
But you’d never know it when he is off jumping on Powder’s tail the next moment. No dwelling on bad memories for a kitten. There is too much to see! Too much to do! Like whenever I come home from work and stand behind my wicker dressing screen to change and hang my discarded clothes over the top. Pumba quickly climbs the screen, grabs my bra and runs through the house with it. It was fun the first time he did it, so now he does it habitually, every evening.
I’ve determined that the game “Follow the Leader” was not an idea originated by human beings. The kittens will continuously follow each other, taking the same path over and over, round and round.
Kitten thoughts: First we jump on the stereo, then we climb in the plant, then spread some potting soil on the floor and run across the room. Don’t forget to step on Mom’s face as you cross over the couch. There is a penalty if you don’t. Now let’s do it over again … back to the stereo, then the plant …
And as many who own cats know, a kitten will feel an unexplainable need to be in a different room all of the sudden. Who knows what those little brains are thinking when those eyes begin to dart around the room wildly before a kitten jumps up and races into another room, skids to a stop a the wall, scrambles his little claws against the floor and takes off in yet another direction.
Kitten thoughts: Whoops, I think I’m missing something that is going on in there!”
or “I just realized I’m bored in here. I need a change and fast!
Are they being chased by ghosts? Are they practicing their hunting skills for sneaking up and suddenly dashing for the attack? Are they getting back to their roots and imagining themselves to be large powerful Cheetahs sprinting at a speed of 60 mph across the plains of Africa?
But they aren’t huge Cheetahs. They aren’t even grown cats. They are tiny fluffballs with tails and claws, which makes this activity particularly endearing to me. I could watch them run for hours with their little ears held back to streamline their bodies and reduce the windforce from traveling at such speeds, or at least the speeds at which they think they are running.
And then there’s that perpetual nursing instinct that Pumba has yet to shake.
I can see his little mind working as he stops playing with Powder, looks me straight in the ear and starts walking determinedly toward me.
Kitten thoughts: I miss my mommy, I miss my mommy! Why did you take me away from my mommy at the shelter. Mommy gave me milk too. I want milk, I miss milk, I think there may be some milk in that earlobe up there. Okay, you’re my mommy now, roll over and give me an earlobe.
Because I have a particular sensitivity about the idea of youngsters losing their mommies, I decided to go ahead and let him suck on my earlobe for comfort. Each night, after I lie down, he perches on my shoulder and sucks on my earlobe until he is consumed with sleepiness, then he lets out a long moan and passes out with his nose pink and wet from the workout. BBBut if I lift my head or move in any fashion, he immediately wakes, grabs onto that earlobe and starts sucking again. I’m not sure if he’ll ever realize there is no milk to be had in that earlobe.
But life is full of adventures yet to come, like paper bags to hide in and closets to explore, or analyzing the moth that strayed in through the window.
Kitten thoughts: Ooooh, look at the thing flittering around -- oops, missed ---- ah, got him in my claws, now lets try tasting this new delicacy …. Hmmm, kinda fuzzy.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Annual trip to the vet brings hisses and other bad cat language
If cats could swear I think I would have gotten an earful Saturday.
It was time for their annual trip to the vet for their vaccines and you should have heard the language Pumba and Powder used before, during and after their visit.
First, of course, was the point at which their ESP kicked in at home, just before we left.
I thought I’d be sneaky this time and put them in the car long before I got out the dreaded cat carrier. See, I figure it is the cat carrier that tips them off. Usually I put them in it, carry them out to the car, then bring a litter box and set it in the car, then let them out of the carrier so they can see where we are going, in hopes that they won’t get quite so nervous or be so cramped by staying in that carrier the whole way.
This time, I thought, “I’ll put the litter box in the car first (because fear tends to upset Pumba’s bowels), then I’ll pick up each cat separately, put each in the car, then put the carrier in the car last, so they wouldn’t be tipped off by the sight of it. But I guess they were tipped off when they saw me taking the litter box to the car. By the time I got back in the house, Pumba, the more clingy and affectionate of the two, who always wants to be around me, was mysteriously missing. As I suspected, he had climbed up in the top of a closet and all that could be seen was his glowing yellow eyes and little mustached nose peeking over a stack of sheets.
I reached up and picked him up, and he was strangely silent. No hello meow, no mommy-give-me-a-kiss murmur; just fearful silence. Somehow, he knew what was to come. It wasn’t until Powder and Pumba were both in the car that the language began; “Meoooooowwwwwww,” Meeeooooowwwwwww,” all the way to the vet’s office as I tried to sing along to one of my tapes to comfort them ... or me.
I could only imagine that if they spoke English they would have been yelling, “Where are you taking us? This is scary! We’re not used to this! The last time this happened we were poked with needles! You think we don’t remember? Why are you doing this? I thought you loved us!”
Yes, it’s just like trying to explain to a two-year old child, why he needs his flu shot and why you are indirectly inflicting pain when he did nothing wrong.
But when we got into the vet’s office it was another story - total silence and they huddled in their carrier with eyes glazed over with fear. Well, maybe an officasional hiss or growl at a curious dog sniffing their cage. Yes, cats growl too. It’s just higher pitched and further down in the throat.
Then, as he got his shot, Pumba’s language got a little bit naughtier and a little big naughtier: I imagine it was something like, “I’ll get you for this you *&^$ You think this is good for me? I’ll show you good! Look at these teeth! Look at these claws! How’d you like to be poked with them?”
Oh, the heartbreak of our language barrier. Why can’t I help them understand?
Afterwards, I cuddled Pumba in my arms while Powder got his shot, and Pumba continued to protest with low dissatisfied murmurs. “Hey Powder, watch out! It hurts!”
And Powder, well, he showed some teeth and hissed a little, but then it was over and he climbed back into the carrier on his own. He’s not the dramatic type like Pumba.
Then, at last, we were off on our way down the road again, me singing to my tape, them howling along, “Meeeeoooowwwww, meeeeooooowwww …. Why are we in this darned moving thing again? Where are you taking us now? When are we gonna get home?”
Thankfully, once we were back in the familiar environment of home they were both as loving as could be, and the only sounds I heard were the little murmurs and coos they make when they want affection. Now there is the one part of their language I completely understand.
Warning: Having cats loose in the car can cause accidents if they get down around your feet while you are driving. It’s hard to slam on the brakes if you’re afraid you might squash a cat.
It was time for their annual trip to the vet for their vaccines and you should have heard the language Pumba and Powder used before, during and after their visit.
First, of course, was the point at which their ESP kicked in at home, just before we left.
I thought I’d be sneaky this time and put them in the car long before I got out the dreaded cat carrier. See, I figure it is the cat carrier that tips them off. Usually I put them in it, carry them out to the car, then bring a litter box and set it in the car, then let them out of the carrier so they can see where we are going, in hopes that they won’t get quite so nervous or be so cramped by staying in that carrier the whole way.
This time, I thought, “I’ll put the litter box in the car first (because fear tends to upset Pumba’s bowels), then I’ll pick up each cat separately, put each in the car, then put the carrier in the car last, so they wouldn’t be tipped off by the sight of it. But I guess they were tipped off when they saw me taking the litter box to the car. By the time I got back in the house, Pumba, the more clingy and affectionate of the two, who always wants to be around me, was mysteriously missing. As I suspected, he had climbed up in the top of a closet and all that could be seen was his glowing yellow eyes and little mustached nose peeking over a stack of sheets.
I reached up and picked him up, and he was strangely silent. No hello meow, no mommy-give-me-a-kiss murmur; just fearful silence. Somehow, he knew what was to come. It wasn’t until Powder and Pumba were both in the car that the language began; “Meoooooowwwwwww,” Meeeooooowwwwwww,” all the way to the vet’s office as I tried to sing along to one of my tapes to comfort them ... or me.
I could only imagine that if they spoke English they would have been yelling, “Where are you taking us? This is scary! We’re not used to this! The last time this happened we were poked with needles! You think we don’t remember? Why are you doing this? I thought you loved us!”
Yes, it’s just like trying to explain to a two-year old child, why he needs his flu shot and why you are indirectly inflicting pain when he did nothing wrong.
But when we got into the vet’s office it was another story - total silence and they huddled in their carrier with eyes glazed over with fear. Well, maybe an officasional hiss or growl at a curious dog sniffing their cage. Yes, cats growl too. It’s just higher pitched and further down in the throat.
Then, as he got his shot, Pumba’s language got a little bit naughtier and a little big naughtier: I imagine it was something like, “I’ll get you for this you *&^$ You think this is good for me? I’ll show you good! Look at these teeth! Look at these claws! How’d you like to be poked with them?”
Oh, the heartbreak of our language barrier. Why can’t I help them understand?
Afterwards, I cuddled Pumba in my arms while Powder got his shot, and Pumba continued to protest with low dissatisfied murmurs. “Hey Powder, watch out! It hurts!”
And Powder, well, he showed some teeth and hissed a little, but then it was over and he climbed back into the carrier on his own. He’s not the dramatic type like Pumba.
Then, at last, we were off on our way down the road again, me singing to my tape, them howling along, “Meeeeoooowwwww, meeeeooooowwww …. Why are we in this darned moving thing again? Where are you taking us now? When are we gonna get home?”
Thankfully, once we were back in the familiar environment of home they were both as loving as could be, and the only sounds I heard were the little murmurs and coos they make when they want affection. Now there is the one part of their language I completely understand.
Warning: Having cats loose in the car can cause accidents if they get down around your feet while you are driving. It’s hard to slam on the brakes if you’re afraid you might squash a cat.
The purrrpetrators go through adolescence
Ahhhhh, at last, Pumba sprawled across me while I was watching television the other day and snoozed with his bearded little chin pointed to the ceiling.
It was a rare occurrence that he should do that without the ulterior motive of. sucking on my earlobe until passing out from exhaustion with his nose pink and wet from the workout.
Yes, he seems to be calming down a little in his old age (he should be year old next month) and doesn’t feel quite the obsessive oral fixation that he did as a kitten. Although he hasn’t stopped that ear sucking thing completely and I still have a sore spot on the back of my ear from his teeth.
Powder too, decided to take a snooze on top of me the other day, eyes squinted shut, slow soft breaths on my ear, and he didn’t even use his claws to knead my head like a loaf of bread.
I guess cats go through stages just like children. Those first few months are like the terrible twos when children can’t stay out of anything and must be running all of the time. Now my boys are hitting adolescence. They still enjoy acting like kids, but they also take time to act like adults and slow down to smell the cat food and reflect on the purrrrrpose of life.
But ya know … it seems like all cats get rowdier in the morning than any other time. Maybe it’s because morning isn’t really morning for them. It’s just a time after one of 15 or 20 naps they have taken that day.
But for me, morning is just what is sounds like … “mourning.” It’s time to mourn the end of another wonderful night of sleep. It’s like being a newborn baby suddenly dropped out of that nice warm enveloping liquid into a cold and wicked world and then smacked on the behind to add insult to injury.
All of the cats I’ve had in my life have found their own unique way to wake me in the morning, but I must admit, all of these methods seem much more preferable to the sound of that infernal buzzing alarm clock.
Pudha, my first cat, used to pat my eyelids with her paws, then, that failing, would gently pick at the tip of my nose with her claws. Duphous, my true love for 15 years after Pudha passed away, had a more subtle method of lying on the pillow above my head and casually tossing her tail onto my face. Although, a few times she knocked the water glass of the bureau beside my bed and drenched me. One time she was so upset because I was too tired to wake up and feed her that she peed on my leg. She brought a very literal meaning to the term. pissed off.
Now Powder will do that kneading thing when really desperate, but usually leaves it all up to Pumba. And since I’ve gotten a slow-leaking waterbed – a source of endless fascination for him-Pumba has invented the Waterbed Prance to wake me in the morning. It’s new dance to the squish, squish rhythm of the sloshing water. Pumba will crouch and stare intently at a spot on the bed, then suddenly dive for it, lunging into the mattress then riding the waves like a surfer. Then he’ll turn around, set his sights on another spot, run across the bed and pounce again.
I’ve never been awake enough to count, but I’d estimate that Pumba does at least 15 laps back and forth across the bed each morning.
The other morning after his little workout, he followed me into the bathroom and jumped from the window sill onto the shower curtain rod. He was hanging by his front paws until I reached up and saved him. Why can’t I wake up in the morning with an incredible desire to bounce all over my bed and make little chirp-like purring sounds?
Why is it that I drag myself into the bathroom and sit on the bathroom floor in front of the heater while slurping down my first cup of coffee before I can even drag my body over the edge of the tub to bathe, when Pumba has already done 15 laps across the bed and is ready to swing from the shower rod?
Maybe I need to take more cat naps.
It was a rare occurrence that he should do that without the ulterior motive of. sucking on my earlobe until passing out from exhaustion with his nose pink and wet from the workout.
Yes, he seems to be calming down a little in his old age (he should be year old next month) and doesn’t feel quite the obsessive oral fixation that he did as a kitten. Although he hasn’t stopped that ear sucking thing completely and I still have a sore spot on the back of my ear from his teeth.
Powder too, decided to take a snooze on top of me the other day, eyes squinted shut, slow soft breaths on my ear, and he didn’t even use his claws to knead my head like a loaf of bread.
I guess cats go through stages just like children. Those first few months are like the terrible twos when children can’t stay out of anything and must be running all of the time. Now my boys are hitting adolescence. They still enjoy acting like kids, but they also take time to act like adults and slow down to smell the cat food and reflect on the purrrrrpose of life.
But ya know … it seems like all cats get rowdier in the morning than any other time. Maybe it’s because morning isn’t really morning for them. It’s just a time after one of 15 or 20 naps they have taken that day.
But for me, morning is just what is sounds like … “mourning.” It’s time to mourn the end of another wonderful night of sleep. It’s like being a newborn baby suddenly dropped out of that nice warm enveloping liquid into a cold and wicked world and then smacked on the behind to add insult to injury.
All of the cats I’ve had in my life have found their own unique way to wake me in the morning, but I must admit, all of these methods seem much more preferable to the sound of that infernal buzzing alarm clock.
Pudha, my first cat, used to pat my eyelids with her paws, then, that failing, would gently pick at the tip of my nose with her claws. Duphous, my true love for 15 years after Pudha passed away, had a more subtle method of lying on the pillow above my head and casually tossing her tail onto my face. Although, a few times she knocked the water glass of the bureau beside my bed and drenched me. One time she was so upset because I was too tired to wake up and feed her that she peed on my leg. She brought a very literal meaning to the term. pissed off.
Now Powder will do that kneading thing when really desperate, but usually leaves it all up to Pumba. And since I’ve gotten a slow-leaking waterbed – a source of endless fascination for him-Pumba has invented the Waterbed Prance to wake me in the morning. It’s new dance to the squish, squish rhythm of the sloshing water. Pumba will crouch and stare intently at a spot on the bed, then suddenly dive for it, lunging into the mattress then riding the waves like a surfer. Then he’ll turn around, set his sights on another spot, run across the bed and pounce again.
I’ve never been awake enough to count, but I’d estimate that Pumba does at least 15 laps back and forth across the bed each morning.
The other morning after his little workout, he followed me into the bathroom and jumped from the window sill onto the shower curtain rod. He was hanging by his front paws until I reached up and saved him. Why can’t I wake up in the morning with an incredible desire to bounce all over my bed and make little chirp-like purring sounds?
Why is it that I drag myself into the bathroom and sit on the bathroom floor in front of the heater while slurping down my first cup of coffee before I can even drag my body over the edge of the tub to bathe, when Pumba has already done 15 laps across the bed and is ready to swing from the shower rod?
Maybe I need to take more cat naps.
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