He Who Will Not Be Touched

September 26, 2011September 27, 2011 / still a dreamer

It’s tough looking after a feral cat. And by that I mean beyond making sure he always has enough food and fresh water, and de-worming him at the end of summer, there’s not much more you can do for a cat that has never been touched. He will run in terror if you approach him or even make too loud a noise. I call him Little Fee. (He appeared in Summer 2009, and I initially thought he was a female, and named him Fiona.)

I continue to be amazed at how this little guy – so small, he must have been the runt of his litter – tugs at my heartstrings. He will run at the drop of a hat, but lately he has been a little more brave. He seems to know that he has some small sense of entitlement on my back porch. If he is already eating at the back door, he will continue eating his fill and ignore the cat from next door that normally threatens and chases him away. He even dares to look him in the eye, then continue eating.

“She loves me,” I imagine him saying. “I belong here, too.”

But once done, he slinks away submissively in slow motion so as not to challenge the next door cat who also spends time with me and on my porch.

Imagine my surprise when I went into the kitchen for coffee late this morning and saw none other than Little Fee sound asleep on one of the back porch chairs, (see photo above), looking for all the world like he lived here and was just napping. I say surprise because I have never once seen this cat sound asleep on a chair on my porch – he seemingly just discovered it as an actual possibility. I took the photo through the closed back door and storm screen. If I’d opened it, the moment would have been lost, and since my intention is not for a gallery shot so much as a moment, it’s as unfocused and grainy as it is.

Little Fee … who would think one could be so in love with a creature that cannot – will not – be touched?

Feline Floor Ballet

July 25, 2010 / still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Some say it’s a lost art … floor ballet. Not true. But its practitioners – unfortunately for its admirers – tend to work in isolation rather than coming together in troupes, such as in formal ballet as we know it.

I am proud to say that I have one of those practitioners right here in my very own home, pictured performing the famed masterpiece, “Danse du Soleil.” Claude wasn’t always this talented. He spent much of his young dance career in awkward leaps, caricaturistic posturing, and mad dashes. It has only been in the last few years that he has been practicing and devoting himself to floor ballet. At first it seemed like he was mastering the art of relaxation.

I was wrong. Dance is his life. It seems, as he has matured, that floor ballet has become his everything. While it’s true that he has brought the art to sofa and bed, it is the floor ballet which is his heart and soul. The sun is his greatest inspiration, but he happily jetés on the floor under so many circumstances, he has simply become an inspiration.

Although the attached photographs are lacking in detail due to the brilliant sunlight, you can see the progression of movement, the grace, the utter joy. I am so proud to have a dancer in the family.

And here I thought I had nothing to write about today.

No One Does It Like A Cat

April 23, 2010 / still a dreamer / 4 Comments

If you have a prescribed spot of sun and a cat, chances are the latter will find the former and fit right in it. It is the cat’s artistry to seek Ra and pour oneself into his shape.

Witness Mewsette below – the perfect cat in a light box.

Conversations with Fiona

September 9, 2009 / still a dreamer / 1 Comment

Fiona-Smudge She appeared out of nowhere. She was clearly hungry and looking for food. She was also, as best I could tell, feral, although immaculately clean, as even the wildest of cats can be.

I offered her some of the dry food which I feed my own cats and she inhaled it. Any move towards her and she ran off the back porch to points unknown. She soon discovered, however, that there was always food on my back porch for the cats next door, who are outside days, inside nights. For reasons unknown, I named her Fiona.

Our conversations have been mostly long eye blinks, (“I love you” for cats), and my cooing to her in the most assuring tones I can offer a frightened animal. We got along in our distant way, and a few weeks ago, she ate while I read my book on the back porch, and then nodded off. I accepted this as quite the compliment.

She disappeared for a week and has since returned. This past Saturday while I baked, she seemed to enjoy the kitchen sounds and my occasional cooing to her. She fell asleep with her head leaning on the food bowl. This morning she was waiting for me. I fed her, and she has now dared to come about 4′ away from me. I sat on my haunches near one set of steps on the back porch while she sat and we exchanged long, long blinks.

I wonder where she has come from and where she goes at night. Does she actually belong to someone? I’m not really even sure if Fiona is a female, and it’s not easy to tell with her somewhat bushy tail. Looking at her face, I’m thinking to rename her Smudge for the white smudges on her nose, a name for all sexes, knowing all the while, she may well have a home somewhere in the neighborhood and another name.

Having just peeked outside my side door, I see she has fallen sound asleep on the second step, in earshot of my voice and activity. I wonder where our conversations will lead.

Catching A Catnap

August 16, 2008September 9, 2009 / still a dreamer / 1 Comment

It occurred to me the other day that the small fry in my life were getting far too little face time. In fact, they were getting none, and deserved a little respect. So what better time to catch them than just at the time when I settle down to work and they, with nice full tummies, settle down to catch that most cat-like of all endeavors, the catnap.

It was easy to catch Mewsette. Once she settles down for a snooze, she’s out like a light!

But then surprisingly, everyone else decided something interesting must be happening, so let’s pose! And Gypsy Rose started her on-the-back rolls and twirls which has earned her the nickname of Twirly-Girl.

Not to be left out, Claude, a.k.a. Claudie the Dog Boy, decided to sit up and get his mug in the camera. But it didn’t take terribly long for him to give it up and find his catnap spot on their favorite brown paper bag. He couldn’t keep his eyes open and was soon out like a light, too.

Ahhhh – but I did say face time, didn’t I? OK, Mewsette, a beautiful tabby and white girl with kiwi green eyes, is the delicate soul of the bunch and so bonded to me that my moods become her moods. She is terribly devoted to me. I rescued her from Weequahic Park in Newark when she was about 9 months old. As cats go, she is the old soul, always wiser and more in tune, but sometimes in need of protection from the other two.

Gypsy Rose was another rescue from that park who’d been living in the adjacent cemetery; I snatched her while riding through one morning to work. She was 6 months old at the time. What’s so unusual about Gypsy is her tortoiseshell markings – she has touches on her face, chest and paw, stray hairs through her body, but all her bright, flashy colors are on her tummy! Gypsy is the top cat and the most independent.

I rescued Claude at the age of 5 weeks from a railroad bridge where he was waiting, no doubt, to be hit by a car or go over the edge and a 100′ drop. I hadn’t wanted a kitten, (because I would take an older cat, a pair that couldn’t be separated, a handicap, etc.), but felt he was meant to be mine. When I saw him run under the chin of my 12 year old pit bull terrier, Chloe, I knew it was true. Chloe raised him pretty much with her energy. He does all kinds of tricks no self-respecting cat would ever do, ergo the name, Claudie the Dog Boy, and is a bit on the goofy side.