Two link-ups I want to join happen to occur on Fridays. I'm not doing too well at writing posts for both link-ups on Fridays. Other people's Feline Fridays posts have appeared earlier in the week. So mine are migrating back to Tuesdays.
The Cat Sanctuary is full of mixed feelings this week. Since the story so far ends well, I might as well share it here.
The neighborhood lost a fine tomcat last spring. His humans moved away and presumably took him with them. He was the father of most of Serena's kittens. He must have been a social cat, possibly some cousin of Serena's, because his humans also lived with Trumpkin, whom they left behind, and Silver, whom they would have taken with them if she was still alive.
Possibly Serena thought to herself, "Who cares? They'll only be Seralini kittens anyway; all they need to do is draw the poison out of my body and be born dead," when she accepted a new tomcat I call Tar Baby, a big Manx mix, probably a distant cousin of hers.
Meanwhile Trumpkin was apparently left behind when his humans moved away. He nonverbally said he wanted to stay here. Serena said that of course he could. Trumpkin is very small for a Manx tomcat, hardly bigger than Drudge. Drudge, who had been quarrelling with Trumpkin just enough to prove he was male--after Trumpkin pretended to try to mate with him--started yelling at Trumpkin in earnest to stay off my porch. Drudge had learned the rules and not been leaving nasty tomcat odors on the porch.
Tar Baby decided he wanted to move in, too. Many outdoor cats eat at one house and hang out at another house. Trumpkin is a small bobtailed cat, neutered. Tar Baby is a big short-tailed cat, as yet unaltered. Trumpkin showed extreme respect for Tar Baby, and poor little Drudge seemed to feel that they were united against him, and I thought, "If Tar Baby moves in here rather than staying with whichever other human adopted him, I have a right to have him neutered. He's not really oversized, only about fifteen pounds, but big Manx cats scare people and are in danger if they roam about, just like dogs. We certainly don't need any more Manx cats in this neighborhood. And I'm old enough to qualify for the reduced fee for the operation."
In the past, the non-writing members of this web site, who were older than I am, used to claim ownership of cats who were sent in for spaying.
Anyway, year-old tomcats normally feel a desire to explore the world and find out whether it contains females who are more interesting than their grandmothers. Normal cats don't pair off; females often mate with as many males as possible during the short fertile period when they're interested, and sometimes weed out weaker kitten-daddies by mating with the winners of mostly ritual fights. Social cats, however, do pair off to some extent.
So one morning Trumpkin and Tar Baby reported for breakfast. Drudge did not. I walked up the road looking for Drudge.
He answered promptly and loudly when called. He was in the Young Grouch's barn.
The Young Grouch is paranoid and might be dangerous, but I like a neighbor who keeps to himself. I have some idea who made him paranoid, and why.
Hmm. I could nip into the barn and let Drudge out of a box trap faster than the Young Grouch could get around from the far edge of his property. I could. I could be back on the public road and watch the Young Grouch boiling out, waving his weapons, feeling frustrated and humiliated. He wouldn't shoot at me on the road. He wouldn't even say to my face that he'd given any credence to anything he'd heard about me being the one who'd loosened roofing nails and broken locks and generally sabotaged his property. He would think it, and stew in resentment.
(Have I heard such accusations about him? I have. And what I said at the time was, "Oh, be serious. He wasn't like that even when he was a little kid.")
Then again...the Young Grouch wouldn't hurt an animal. Having to wait a day or two for him to check his trap shouldn't do Drudge any harm. Might teach him something useful about staying out of other people's box traps, even if he'd already learned that he never had to worry about being unable to bury anything when he was in my box trap. Petting Drudge's silky coat might be good for his heart. The Young Grouch is not actually so young any more; he's in a high-risk demographic for cardiovascular disease. Waiting for him to find and release Drudge seemed the kindest thing for man and beast. It wasn't as if Drudge was in any danger. I actually had that thought.
It must have been the second day when the Young Grouch checked the trap. On the morning of the third day Drudge reported for breakfast. He looked thin and listless. Good for the Young Grouch for not feeding him, thereby discouraging further visits, I thought. But then Drudge didn't actually eat a single kibble.
"Did you eat something you found in the woods?" I asked.
Drudge has never seemed to understand words as well as some of his relatives do. He knows "no" and "NO" and "kibble." I'm not positive that he knows any other words beyond those; he responds to the tone of "Drudge, come here" and "dear little kitten" and "that's the way, yes, good cat," but he responds the same way to other words said in those tones. So his ability to recognize words is probably about average. A merely normal cat would be a disgrace to Serena's bloodline so I should mention that he's unusually social, unusually gentle and affectionate, and a more successful hunter than most male cats.
I gave him some powdered charcoal in water. He showed no avoidance of water, but didn't lap up water from a dish, either. I put him in a box trap for safekeeping for a few hours, then gave him another dose of charcoal.
He didn't like the second dose of charcoal, but Drudge always was a snugglebunny. He lay on my lap and cuddled. He did not, as usual, purr. Serena, strangely, plopped down beside him on my lap. She's only an inch or two taller or longer, but still, with her wide frame, about twice his circumference. She purred and groomed his fur. Drudge always liked being groomed and petted. His skin was healing from several little surface wounds; he showed no serious injury.
"I want to go to the sand pit," he nonverbally said.
"Go and come back," I said. "When you come back I'll get out some fresh kibble." Tar Baby had come in late and eaten what had been meant for Drudge's breakfast.
But he didn't come back. He was not interested in fresh kibble. This was most unusual for Drudge, who is probably not going to be a very large cat, but tries to eat in such a way as to grow as big as possible. He hadn't shown bleeding wounds, broken bones, or a high or low temperature; hadn't been coughing or vomiting; hadn't shown abnormal neurological reactions. Had he been poisoned?
"Leave him alone," said Serena.
"He didn't look all that ill," I said. "He looked as if some chicken broth might restore his strength...unless some sort of insidious poison was seeping through his bloodstream for thirty hours."
"You can bring out chicken broth if he comes out and asks for some," Serena said. "Leave him alone."
Drudge did not come out. Meanwhile I heard a big dog stravaging up and down the road during the night. Barking like a big dog, not yipping like a coyote. Both dogs and coyotes howl.
This might be what set off the Bad Neighbor's ideas about coyotes...back in the winter when, I thought entirely from frustration at having lost the ability to shoot, the Bad Neighbor decided he needed to kill all the cute little forest creatures that coyotes kill and eat, in order to be able to trap a coyote. (He used to be considered intelligent, but that was long ago.) I've seen the animal close up. It is big for a coyote, though some "coy-dogs" are big and it might be a "coy-dog." It has a dog's face and a slightly fluffier than average tail, light reddish brown coat, black skin. Its mother might be "pure" Rottweiler by the look of her, and this dog may look more like a Rottweiler when it's full-grown. I think it belongs to some recent immigrants from Tennessee who are clueless enough to think that in the country a dog of that size can be allowed to roam. It's wary, but familiar with humans and cars. And I know that it would eat a cat, because I had buried one of the Seralini kittens and it dug up and chomped on the body.
Neither Serena nor I had expected her Manx-looking kittens to survive. Two of the three didn't survive. One is still alive. It's black, it's oversized, and I suspect it of being male; if she'd had a smaller kitten with a normal tail I doubt Serena would have bothered feeding this one, but as things are, an oversized Manx kitten is what Serena has to love. I've seen it waving its paws about as if it wanted siblings to play with. If a vet could confirm that orphaned kittens didn't have FIV or FLV, the chances that Serena would adopt them are high. She knows that kittens need siblings. I may be a bit hypercautious about allowing other cats to be around Serena this year because her once robust immune system took such a beating from the poisoned meat episode, but she is a very social Queen Cat who likes to have a full assemblage of loyal subjects.
The kitten doesn't have a name yet. I told Serena that if it lived three months, by which time kittens who are going to die of "Manx Syndrome" (congenital organ defects) are usually dead, its name would be officially recorded as "Miracle." For now it's just the kitten, the one and only kitten. By all rights it shouldn't even have been born alive.
Its eyes are opening on schedule. It's a cool customer, which is the stereotype for Manx cats. Usually the first time kittens see a human, they're wary. They could not have imagined that their mother would know a creature as big and ugly as we are. With this kitten, I don't know when the first time it really saw me was, because there was not a time when it seemed surprised or startled. It knew I was a friend. It will climb into my hand if it wants to be picked up. Mostly it doesn't. Mostly it's interested in eating, sleeping, being cleaned, and practicing standing up on its fast-growing legs.
I did not spend much time searching for Drudge. I didn't expect the remains to be positively identifiable. If the dog survived, maybe it would learn something about staying home at night; or its humans would.
I was thinking sadly of how pleasant it would be if someone sent us a half-grown girl cat who could appreciate Drudge in ways his grandmother and I do not, and how the social cats have really seemed happiest when, as one of them once typed, they're kept "6 byyy 6"...when I heard something rustle in the not-a-lawn.
Could it be?
It was Drudge. "Meow?" he said. It sounded as if he meant, "Were you going to bring out breakfast today?"
When I looked outside around sunrise this morning, the thermometer was reading 42 degrees Fahrenheit, surely a record for June in Virginia. Serena had had her breakfast in the office.
"Since you're interested, I will," I said, and set out kibble for Drudge. Serena came out and wanted some too. I gave her some. She's eating for two, so she ate all of her share and some of Drudge's. Later she admitted she'd eaten too much, too soon after breakfast.
Drudge looked at me. I could almost hear the words, "I heard somebody say 'chicken broth'."
"Do you know what chicken broth is, Drudge?"
"I do now," Drudge nonverbally said. "It is some sort of treat. This is just ordinary kibble."
He ate about two-thirds of his usual breakfast, though. His stomach might have started to shrink, because he seemed overburdened by the effort, and went to lie down.
It was the first rain-free day we'd had in a week. Some unwelcome plants had sprouted in the not-a-lawn. I picked them up before the soil hardened around their roots and took them to the fire barrel. Drudge walked past me to the gate and looked up the road.
"Why are you not staying close to the house?" I asked Drudge.
"I don't feel like running just yet," Drudge nonverbally said. "I wanted to do the part of our game where you carry me back to the steps. I want some more purr-and-cuddle time."
So I sat on the steps and petted him, noting how many scabs had already flaked off his fast-healing young skin. Serena sat on my lap and purred at him again.
We need to put sociopaths like my Professional Bad Neighbor into little cramped cages, stacked up on top of each other. We need to keep neighborhoods safe for prowling cats doing their duty of keeping the vermin populations down.
Whether your neighborhood is safe for outdoor cats, or will be made so, or you're still stuck in some horrible neighborhood where healthy cats need to be kept indoors, here are some cats and dogs who deserve to have homes rather than being kept in cages. "Blue" gray cats like Drudge, and reddish tan dogs like the mutt who obviously didn't eat him after all.
Zipcode 10101: Tamar from NYC
Like Drudge, Tamar is small, weighing only seven pounds. Unlike Drudge, she's not last spring's kitten, though it's probably every small cat's fate to go through life being mistaken for a year-old kitten. Tamar is thought to be three years old. She seems to be otherwise healthy and likely to make a good pet.
Zipcode 20202: Bob from Merrifield
His web page: https://www.petfinder.com/cat/bob-bcas-75233969/va/merrifield/4paws-rescue-team-va260/
Yes, he's a classic Manx, though small for the breed. Mellow and friendly with adult humans, he's accustomed to watching television with his humans. At least he sits with them while they watch television. He 's apt to roll over and encourage stroking, grooming, and tickling. Bob is described as not good with children. Who's more afraid of whom, they don't say. The critical point about a Manx cat is that they shouldn't pass the gene that some people consider cute, but that is often lethal, down to kittens. This makes them a good breed to adopt from a shelter. Bob won't pass on any "cute" birth defects that will cause his kittens to die screaming in pain. Hurray for Bob.
Zipcode 30303: Aly from Snellville
Despite her soft coloring Aly is every bit of a Queen Cat. She is not recommended to families that include a large or dominant cat, but can be kind and gracious to a mellow beta-type female. She was put in a shelter with five kittens, all of whom were adopted first. Not that she is bitter...or at least, if she is, she knows whom to blame. She does not like male cats.
Zipcode 10101: Royce from Texas by way of Ridgefield, New Jersey
His web page: https://www.petfinder.com/dog/royce-76476963/nj/ridgefield/faith-and-hope-foundation-inc-tx2308/
This possibly unique dog breed (Royce does have a sister, Reese) was produced by crossing a Catahoula Leopard Dog with a retriever. These puppies (six and a half months old when their web page was set up) are from Texas. They are in Texas. They can be delivered to selected other States; the price may be lower if you're near where they are. It's still a substantial price since it includes veterinary care. You will receive an application form, which will probably ask about the dimensions of your yard and fence, and whether you've lived with large dogs and/or trained puppies before. Royce weighed 31 pounds when he was six months old. He's accustomed to hanging out with other dogs but his foster humans think he might be happiest as the only dog in the household.
Zipcode 20202: Daisy from DC
Only in her second year, Daisy has not really had much education, but they think she has potential and will recommend a trainer. At the very least she ought to be a "smart," well-behaved pet. Her ancestors were bred to look mellow and friendly, while being tough enough to hunt raccoons and other animals that fight back. (They adjust well to nonviolent families where they only have to hunt thrown toys, though.) Daisy has been spayed and run up a vet bill, which will be covered by her substantial adoption fee.
Zipcode 30303: Bella from Mississippi by way of Atlanta
I picked this dog because some of its pictures looked more like the dog I've seen straying in my neighborhood than most Petfinder dog pictures do. We are talking about a dog nobody would ever call pretty, a dog whose face brings "Cur" and "Rottweiler," rather than "coyote" or "wolf," to mind. Well, Bella is another dog who was not bred to be pretty, but when I turned to her web page, the first thing I noticed was that she's twice the size of the stray dog in my neighborhood. They think her ancestors may include MASTIFFS as well as Black Mouth Curs. Mastiffs have a reputation for being gentle giants, which is more than can be said for Curs (or for Rottweilers). Bella is not overweight and she weighs over 80 pounds.
However, she's still a pet dog who has been trained to obey. She's not the most active and won't demand the kind of workout many not-quite-so-big dogs need. She likes snoozing with a paw around a snuggle buddy, as shown at her web site. She will need a lot of food and may incur extra vet fees just because of her size--she was put up for adoption because her humans couldn't afford her. The shelter staff insist that this dog is much easier to live with than she is to pay for.
If you are rich, brave, and accustomed to living with oversized dogs, you may be the person Bella's humans in Mississippi have been hoping she will find.
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