I got to see Jack’s rage-face
Jack got into a cat fight the other night. This is unprecedented as a) Jack’s generally a cheerful, easygoing little chap and b) at the moment, there aren’t any other cats in the neighborhood.
Not counting Charlotte. They fight, or rather ‘fight’ — he gets too close, she hisses and wallops him one. Fight over.
But this was a proper screaming cat set-to. Charlotte was in the house, so we knew it was an intruder of some kind — from the horrible shrieking, possibly a fox. Or a werefox. Or a cat being skinned alive slowly. By a werefox.
But no, it was the typical cat thing: Jack and the stranger were ten feet apart, shouting at each other. The other guy was a big ginger and white fluffy boy. Twice Jack’s size. Don’t know if he’s new in the neighborhood or has come a long distance. He ran off into the hedge and I didn’t think more of it.
Hours passed, though, and we didn’t see Jack. This is highly unusual, so we went looking. Found him under a bush, staring into the gap in the hedge where the stranger fled.
I bent down to speak to him and he flipped his shit, shrieking and hissing and drooling so hard his chin was dripping. I honest to god thought he had rabies or a mortal injury or something.
Then I realized I had shone a flashlight in his eyes, blinding him. He had probably been on a knife edge, waiting for the intruder by the gap for hours, then suddenly blinded. I turned the flashlight onto my face and talked him down, got him into the house. Once he composed himself, he’s been super sweet and needy ever since.
Jack naturally has the crazy-eye — his eyes are slightly asymmetrical, out of focus. Makes him look unsettling. But holy shit I’ve never seen a cat as scary as Jack’s rage-face. For a terrible minute, I was frightened what he might do.
It’s always the little ‘uns.
August 2, 2016 — 6:49 pm
Comments: 16
I don’t think this bun will recover
Why, yes, that is the ass-end of an adorable baby bunny. This one was good ‘n’ dead before he presented us with it, so I had no moral dilemma about taking his kill away.
He ate it up, every bite. It took him all day. By dusk, there was nothing left but a little fluffy cotton tail. I haven’t had the heart to go see if it’s still in the grass.
I would never scold him for this — it’s his proper job, and besides we need the bun control. But, eesh. I am mighty squeamish about it.
I have never cleaned a rabbit or gutted a fish. I ate a fair bit of game growing up, but I never learned to like it and I certainly never prepared any myself.
I remember standing in my kitchen in my twenties, staring at an uncooked steak and thinking about going vegetarian. I didn’t, of course, but I wont deny it has an appeal.
The day they learn to grow delicious filet mignon in a laboratory tank…
July 25, 2016 — 8:47 pm
Comments: 11
Jack: 2 Rabbits: nil
Well, technically I suppose it’s Jack: 1 Rabbits: 1. It’s hard to see here (easier to make out in color) but that thing in my right hand is the head of a bunny, which is fortunately still connected to the rest of the rabbit. I distracted Jack just long enough for Mr Buns to get away.
Yes, I felt awful for stealing his rabbit, but I just can’t deal with the screams. He can torture a little animal for hours and hours and never get bored.
Earlier in the day, he (I assume it was he) left quite a large dead one on the front stoop with significant pieces missing. Explains why he never turned up for his Friskies today.
We could use the rabbit control and I’m proud of him for taking down such a big beast (he’s a little squirt). I just wish he’d be a little quicker and cleaner about it, at least when I’m in the garden.
July 20, 2016 — 8:33 pm
Comments: 15
Meow.
Happy World Cat Day (not to be confused International Cat Day) (or, for that matter, National Cat Day, National Feral Cat Day, National Black Cat Day or any of the other silly made up cat holidays). Yes, you have guessed — this sad excuse for a post means I still feel like shit, though I did go into work for an hour today.
Whoever warned me to be careful of whisky and ginger wine, you were right. I was wrong. I have paid for my foolishness.
I’m hoping to post a miraculous recovery from here; there’s a seminar I really, really want to go to on Friday. But it will involve getting up at the crack of dawn and walking to the train station, just for starters.
Gin and tonic never hurt anyone, right?
February 17, 2016 — 11:11 pm
Comments: 13
The most Zen place I have ever been
Celia Hammond was a supermodel in the Sixties. She modeled a lot of fur coats (among other things), until somebody took her to watch a baby seal clubbin’. Now she’s the supervillain mastermind behind C.H.A.T.
Um, the Celia Hammond Animal Trust. Mostly, they spay and rehome cats. Thousands and thousands of them. I get the impression she twists a lot of famous arms to fund this enterprise (she was Jeff Beck’s girlfriend for, like, thirty years).
Her main gig is trapping and neutering ferals in London (she trapped a lot of them with her own hands, using equipment she invented her own self, though I don’t know how much of that she does these days). But out in the country near us, she maintains a hundred acres of free-range pussoes. They had their second ever open day last Sunday, and we went.
Honestly, I think it’s the most peaceful place I’ve ever been. Inside the buildings are the ‘tame’ cats, suitable for rehoming, but the hopeless ferals are given a home for life, roaming free. Or coming inside, if they like. Or swanning around waving their wild tails and suiting their own damn selves.
There are about a hundred and fifty ferals in residence at the moment. The grounds are dotted with little hay-filled chalets and cabins, connected by ramps and stepped platforms, surrounded by woods and miles from the nearest busy road. Pictures here.
There were cats ev-er-y-where. They were all of them awfully friendly for unhomeable ferals, drifting around seeking treats and skritchies. It was terribly tranquil and hypnotic. I’m pretty sure that’s where I want to go when I die.
In the spirit of leaving something wholesome up for the weekend, there you go. Your weekend of Zen.
August 21, 2015 — 9:33 pm
Comments: 7
How do you say, “godammit, kitty!” in ancient Croatian?
Paw prints found on a 15th Century Croatian manuscript. Also Roman roof tiles in Gloucester. And Roman mortar in York. And in Leicester.
In the Netherlands, they convinced themselves that animal prints in floor and roof tiles were lucky and every home must have at least one. I suspect that’s a case of potters making the best of all those godammit, kitty! tiles.
But my favorite is this German manuscript from 1420, left oddly incomplete on one page. Scribbled on the blank part are accusatory pointing fingers, a sketch of a cat and the inscription
Here is nothing missing, but a cat urinated on this during a certain night. Cursed be the pesty cat that urinated over this book during the night in Deventer and because of it many others [other cats] too. And beware well not to leave open books at night where cats can come.
August 3, 2015 — 9:14 pm
Comments: 10
It’s what’s for dinner
Well, it’s safe to say our snooky-ookums has developed a taste for rodent. First, stealing them out of traps and now this. I came around the corner the other day just in time to see the last of a tail slithering down his gullet. So Jack, like Charlotte, quietly kills and eats rather than bringing us gifts. We never know how many mice she catch and we won’t know with him, either.
Pretty good on the old girl for managing to eat them, since she’s had all her teeth extracted. You don’t want me to describe how she does it.
Photo is Uncle B’s. He also got a cracking few minutes video of Jack making love to the corpse with dead, staring eyes (Jack’s, not the mouse).
Good weekend, y’all!
April 10, 2015 — 9:54 pm
Comments: 8
Action Jack!
I am a merciful weasel. No more beards. Have a cat.
We took Jack for his annual checkup and shots. (Aside — do y’all think that’s really necessary? Annual boosters, I mean? It’s one thing to give him his baby shots, but I’m not sure it’s worth hauling him in once a year, he hates it so).
According to the medico, his weight is exactly the same as last time. So, that’s it. He’s not growing. He’s going to be a runty little boy 4eva. With a sweet little pink kitteny face and mad unfocused psychotic eyes.
He’s still a friendly little beast, though. He has a bad habit of making love to strangers and trying to crawl into their cars. Bad enough with the UPS man, but people stop at the end of our drive to make phone calls and exchange drivers and such, so there’s a real worry he might get in somebody’s ride and drive off one day.
So, weird story: we had a tree guy over to look at our drive (we’re overdue for a pollarding) and Jack wouldn’t go anywhere near him. Really, obviously shunned him. Not like Jack at all.
The tree guy tells us animals used to love him. People’s dogs and cats would crawl into his lap and they’d be all, like, “Mister Tibbles has never done that before!” and he’d be all, like, “shucks — happens to me all the time.”
Then, about five years ago, it stopped abruptly. Animals began to avoid him. No idea why. It obviously made him sad.
If it happened more recently, I’d tell him to get a complete checkup right away. But five years is ample time for a serious, personal-smell-changing disease to do him in.
March 25, 2015 — 10:31 pm
Comments: 19
Jack the Disemboweler
As requested, cat picture not politics. Hm. That would be a pretty good t-shirt — “no politics, cat pictures.”
I popped Jack up on the desk and took this snapshot a half an hour ago. Sixteen months old and he’s still got a kitten face. And he’s a little squirt. I guess that’s going to be permanent.
What he lacks in stature he makes up in savagery. Not to us — he’s got the friendly ginger kitty personality — but to the local fauna. Mostly rodents, I’m happy to say. I don’t mind that so much.
But I found a pigeon on the doorstep two nights ago. He’d executed it by blood eagle, so we think he’s got some Viking in him.
Good weekend, folks!
January 16, 2015 — 9:39 pm
Comments: 20
We knew this day would come
Jack has found his way on top of the beams in the kitchen. This wouldn’t be a huge problem — well, other’n the old greasy shit he knocks off the beams onto the work surfaces — but his only path to reach them is up a series of shelves covered in china. So far, no casualties, but I fear for my novelty teapots.
Welcome back! We had a lovely time and we’re trying desperately to hang onto that feeling for a few more days. I went to work this morning, but it was so utterly dead, I’m not sure I’ll repeat the experiment until Friday.
You?
December 29, 2014 — 10:20 pm
Comments: 16