Poor Cotton! He’s trying so hard to get you trained, and apparently you’re un-trainable! Maybe he should try clicker-training you? :lol:
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Courtesy of work being low and more time on my hands the last few days, here is chapter one of my next book. The title will be The Cats Locked Me in the Well House! Anecdotes and Memoirs from a Lifetime with Cats. This should be a fun and fast-moving project, not near as intense as the dementia book, and I hope to have it out there before the end of the year. It will be full of humor and stories, many from years and years ago.
The Pipe Crisis of 2016 was over - I hoped. The pipes were repaired, the water once again available, and the old well house with its many structural flaws had yet again had been prayed over. This frosty morning, however, the temperature was too cold, and I headed out of the house to reinforce and redirect my pipe heating and make sure all insulation was tucked in.
As I left the house and headed around the corner into the back yard, the cats promptly appeared, coming from all directions. It wasn’t feeding time, but they knew there was always a chance of an ear scratch and a few words. Besides that, they clearly found me interesting. Indeed, they often found me more interesting and entertaining than I had intended to be.
I had been around cats my whole life from Mom on, but the cat population on my farm had seen an explosion in recent months. My friend the Cat Lady, whom I had helped care for, had died, leaving behind sixteen cats. Sixteen orphaned cats. Sixteen orphaned cats who were already well acquainted with me. Sigh. The answer to that problem was obvious. One whole afternoon was spent in a grand cat catching, borrowing every carrier I could and exporting a whole carload of felines to my farm, and I made a few subsequent trips back in the next week to catch stragglers. Some of the cats had been placed since then, but most of Cat Lady’s cats remained here, installed in my outbuildings, happily being farm cats. At her house, they had had open access but had spent 85% of their time outside by choice anyway. At my remote country farm, they were in cat heaven, prowling fields, climbing trees, sunbathing – and watching me, their favorite channel of cat television. Some days I was a comedy, some days a drama, but they usually gave me high ratings and inevitably returned as a rapt audience for the next episode.
On this cold January day, I spent a few minutes dispensing ear scratches, then advanced on to the old well house, eyeing it critically as I approached. Even in winters without Pipe Crises, the well house on my project farm was a regular subject of heavenly petition for both myself and even my distant family. It had been built apparently by the same person who had added the extension on the main house, and I had a memorable and succinct professional opinion from years prior on that workmanship.
The house on the farm had been damaged in a storm in 2002 with all damage occurring over the extension, almost as if the slicer on a roll of Reynold’s wrap had run straight down the junction between the original and the extension, the tar paper roof to one side rolling up in the wind like a giant’s sleeping bag, the roof to the other side remaining in place. The ensuing insurance claim was very efficient, and a team was in place before long repairing the extension. This involved completely stripping what was left of the water-damaged dropped ceiling before providing a new undamaged one, and the contractor foreman called me over in disbelief to point out the rafters once they were visible. They were spliced as if built from somebody’s back yard scrap wood pile. Three or four irregular pieces of wood, not even the same sizes of wood, were nailed haphazardly together to form rafters. It was this construction with its multiple swivel points, plus lack of adequate foundation below, that would lead to years and years of increasing roof problems and settling down the road. The rafters, undamaged even if inadequate, weren’t on the insurance claim in 2002. The contractor couldn’t replace them as part of this company-financed repair, but he told me that truly fixing the extension would take far more than that. He recited a list of various faults he’d found in that place, rafters and (lack of) foundation leading those. His disparaging conclusion was, “The guy who built this place was an ignorant do-it-yourselfer on the weekend when he was drunk.”
The same man on another weekend must have built the well house. The main exterior construction was particle board, low quality and fairly thin particle board at that, with a coat of paint added optimistically on the outside to help weatherproof it. The interior construction was cardboard. The roof, which was shingles, unlike the main house roof, sagged in one spot and had visible patches. I had reinforced that well house with many assorted exterior plywood patches, fresh paint, and several bats of insulation around the inside, as well as rolls of weatherstripping around the door and the various cracks. Foam sealant bubbled out here and there visibly on the outside as I approached it. The old well house looked – and was – terminal. I let my mind run forward to the much-anticipated day years away when the mortgage would be paid off, a new mortgage acquired, and a new well house, not to mention a new main house, would be put in on the farm. This day, however, I was still dealing with the old version, and hope for the future doesn’t keep present pipes unfrozen.
I arrived at the well house and opened the door. The original latch, installed by the drunk do-it-yourselfer, was a thick piece of wood, genuine wood, one of the sturdiest parts on the structure. It was nailed on but not tightly, letting it turn when some effort was applied. When horizontal, it crossed the gap between the door and the building and held the outward-opening door closed. When moved to vertical, it allowed the door to open. Within the last year, I had found the well house open a time or two and had supplemented this moving wooden latch with a spring-loaded hook-and-eye up higher. That one no animal paws could manipulate. I unfastened the hook-and-eye, turned the wood to vertical, and opened the door.
The cats crowded forward immediately, peering into this opening. It was heated as well as usually forbidden, thus making it doubly enticing to felines. To stop the cats from entering, I stepped in myself and pulled the door closed behind me. With the hook-and-eye undone and the piece of wood vertical, the door wasn’t locked. All I had to do was push it back open to exit.
I heard the frustrated cats scratching and scrabbling on the outside with all the annoyance of a TV viewer who is missing part of a favorite episode. They wanted to watch me, preferably also to help me, but they didn’t need in here. The screw on the heat lamp had slipped again, which it did at times. I redirected the heat lamp to better heat the pipes and tightened its screw once more to hold the aim. I then went around the well house checking my insulation bats, feeling for any drafts, tucking in loosened corners. The red light from the heat lamp made visibility easy enough. Finally satisfied, I returned to the door and pushed against it.
It didn’t open.
I pushed again, harder.
It still didn’t open.
The light dawned as I tried a third time. The cats, scratching outside on and against the door, had turned the wooden latch from vertical back to horizontal, and I was now imprisoned by an inch-and-a-half thick piece of solid wood. I pushed futilely on the door another time or two just to verify that, then took stock of the situation.
My cell phone wasn’t on me, since I had been going out “just for a minute” to the back yard. I lived alone. Nobody knew that I was in the well house, and nobody would be sending a search party any time soon. Nope, this situation fell firmly on me.
I looked around at the structure which I had deliberately tried to make more solid. The weakest point and the one easiest to destruct was the door. I stripped away the weatherstripping that I had diligently used to seal cracks, exposing the gap between the door and the frame. Yes, there was the wooden piece. I could see its shadow. If I could force something solid through that gap just below it, I could then use that as a battering ram, pushing up and turning the wood back to vertical. A straight-slot screwdriver would have been perfect. Unfortunately, I didn’t have one with me. I vowed that once I got out, I promptly would install a straight-slot screwdriver as a permanent fixture in the well house and that I also would never again step outside, not even to go to the mailbox, without having my cell phone on my person. Neither of those vows helped me out now.
I patted myself down again. No keys. Nothing hard and sturdy to use as a pry stick. The smallest thing I had with me turned out to be my little finger. It was still slightly too large to fit through the gap. I began scratching and scrabbling at the door myself, chinking away little bits of it, trying to enlarge the crack. Finally, I had it large enough in that one spot just below the wood that I could wedge my pinky in. I stuck it through – still a tight fit – and began pounding upward.
The scratching against the outside of the door ceased, and in the next moment, the attack on the protruding tip of my finger began. I was giving them a definite target now, and the cats helpfully clawed and nipped at my fingertip as I worked it up repeatedly against that wooden latch. Finally, I felt the wood give. The latch turned, the door opened, and I was free.
I stepped out and glared at my feline audience. “Do you all realize how much I’ve done for you?” I snapped. “Do not lock me in the well house.”
They crowded up, ears alert, giving me their full, undivided attention, and their message was obvious. “That was fun. Do it again!”
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i’ve enjoyed this thread, and will look forward to the book. I love your humor that comes through your posts.
That moment when a previous feral suddenly turns picky.
I drove down to town just now to fill up the car and see if the world was still there. It is, but running on fewer cylinders. The river was sure up when I crossed the river valley, though. Lots of rain lately.
As I arrived back home, Sarge met me on the porch. I haven’t seen Sarge in three days. He’s still a drifter and looks on me as sort of a cat motel to stop at when he’s in the neighborhood. He was meowing. The food from the earlier afternoon feeding was already gone, and I told him he was late. “Meow.” I told him serving hours were clearly posted. “Meow.”
So because I’m a sucker, when I went in the house, I got a handful of the outdoor cats’ food and went back out to toss it on the porch. Three days ago when I last bought outdoor cat food, Walmart was out of the usual brand, all flavors. I therefore bought Another Brand instead. Today, when I tossed him a handful of food, Sarge sniffed at it. Then he looked at me. Sniffed along the whole scatter of kibble. Looked at me. Finally, with a feline sigh, he started without enthusiasm to eat.
I had to laugh. Ah, Sarge. It took me a year and a half to be able to touch this guy; he was wild. He’s now arrived at the state of commentary on the menu.
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Here’s Atticus this afternoon watching me sewing the latch hook piano bench cover I made onto its pillow base. He knows that when I am playing with string, he is not allowed to chase my string. He sure watches, though.
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Here’s that full project so you can see it. It will have Velcro straps fastening it to the bench, too; they just haven’t been done yet. Probably will have the whole thing finished tomorrow. I did the latch hook a while ago, but the making of the base pillow has been in the project line for a few months.
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I LOVE that he talks to you about your choose of food for him now! He has come a long way!
That bench pillow is SO pretty! Very well done!
This episode took place many, many, many years ago, but it still brings a smile, and it came to mind as I am collecting my favorite cat anecdotes.
Amahl was solid black and came by night, thus named out of Amahl and the Night Visitors. His stay on the farm wasn’t long, because as he grew from a little black kitten to a large black cat, he became cat aggressive, even though he was neutered, as are all of my farm felines. Finally, reluctantly, I had to rehome him to be a single cat. With people, he was loving, purring, and amiable; he just wanted undivided attention, unwilling to share with any other animal. However, in his brief months on the farm, he starred in a short skit one afternoon that still has me laughing when I think of it.
My office where I sat typing in the old house had a window that faced out onto a huge pasture, acres and acres of grass with woods along one edge. This didn’t belong to me (though I will confess coveting a few acres of it to parallel my farm), but the cats were convinced firmly that it belonged to them. They prowled through that field and hunted in it. It – and its game – were rightfully theirs, they believed. And thereby hangs a tale.
I was typing one afternoon when movement out the window caught my eye. A man emerged from the woods and started across the field. His head was up, his shoulders back, his gun resting on his shoulder. The body language was a walking caption. I have hunted! I am a man! He angled across the field toward the gate.
Shortly into his victory walk, his non-gun hand, which was hanging down at his side just at the level of the tall grass with his catch hidden below, caught abruptly, and he stumbled. He looked down, and in the next moment, he snatched that hand way up, revealing his prize. He had a turkey, but he was not the only claimant. Amahl was attached to the bottom of the turkey, hooked in with claws and teeth, so firmly seizing it that he was lifted clear off the ground now.
I nearly fell out of the chair laughing. Work was forgotten, of course, in favor of this unexpected movie unfolding right in front of me. The hunter shook the turkey fiercely and clearly yelled something; I saw his mouth move, but at my distance and through the window, I couldn’t hear the words. Amahl hung on tightly. This was his bird, the biggest he’d ever hooked onto, and he had no intention of relinquishing it. The hunter used his gun at that point, not to shoot but as a stick, swinging at the cat and finally knocking him loose.
Amahl fell to the ground and sprang back up, recapturing his prize. The hunter shook and knocked him loose again, then lifted the turkey at full arm’s length over his head, high as he could. Amahl continued jumping for it, popping up out of the grass regularly as if on a feline trampoline. The hunter broke into a jog, and the remainder of his crossing of that field had none of the pride and masculine dignity of the initial victory parade. All the way, Amahl kept trying for the turkey.
Even after they crossed out of sight, I kept laughing, and it was several minutes before I was able to return to work. Cats: Nature’s quintessential hunters, contrary to the opinions of some men.
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, but I was pretty sure it was my cat. Wasn’t quite sure which at the distance; there are three very similarly colored, and the cat was also in three-foot grass. But it was running parallel to the boundary fence. The fence I was working on wasn’t the boundary fence but was at a right angle to it, so I had a good view straight down the boundary fence line.
The cat ran along the fence line on the wrong side, and I wondered if they had a hole somewhere or if he would have to go clear to the road. That fence is pretty tight mesh, not big enough squares for a cat. The answer turned out to be C, neither of the above.
The cat ran easily along through the grass until arriving at a tree on the fence line, then went straight up it about six feet, rotated around across the property line, and descended on my side. Very smooth maneuver all around. It turned out to be Satin, who then came over to say hello.
Ah, yes, cats think in three dimensions. [IMG]https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/t4c/1/16/1f642.png)
I wish I’d gotten a video of that, but by the time I realized what he was doing, he was already over and down. Obviously a familiar maneuver.
A couple of pictures. Here is Sarge practicing social distancing, while Cory, Rascal, and Bagheera need to work on it.
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And here is an example of the very rare two-headed cat. At least the heads color coordinate. This is Pharaoh and Mystery. Mystery, of course, goes with the tail.
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I love kitties!!!
Loving these stories!
Cat moment from yesterday morning: Differences in purrsonality.
I was sitting on the couch, watching a DVD, eating a bowl of cereal and two slices of bacon. Pilgrim was on the couch arm to my left (less than a foot from the bacon, on my left thigh, but food in my possession is mine, period, and they all know it). Mystery was on the back of the couch behind me looking out the window. Atticus was in the floor about 15 feet away practicing long-distance coveting.
I finished off the bacon and almost cleared out the cereal bowl. Anything that could be had with the spoon, I got; there was just a tiny bit of residue around the bowl. I know milk isn’t the greatest thing for adult cats, but this was very slight. Then I put the bowl down on the couch a few feet away from me on the right, thus yielding ownership.
All three nearby cats came to attention. Pilgrim is an epicure, the least food-motivated cat in the house, and he looked at the bowl, then at Atticus, not at Mystery, who was closer. Pilgrim didn’t move, just watching Atticus. He is also the sharpest crayon in this feline box in the house, and he clearly decided to get Atticus’ opinion on the treat before determining whether to move himself.
Mystery is not the sharpest crayon in the box, gorgeous but not that bright. He started down from the back of the couch, stepping down my right shoulder, then got himself distracted as he accidentally brushed up against me en route. He paused halfway and combed jaws against my shoulder.
Atticus, farthest away, is very food motivated. Atticus was off like a shot, jumped up onto the couch, and started polishing the bowl. Pilgrim, after watching Atticus for a few seconds, decided that this was getting a high-enough rating, so he stood up, then looked at me before stepping across me, just confirming that the restrictions on access to my person which apply when I’m eating had been switched off. I told him, “Go ahead,” and he stepped on across me, bumped Atticus out of the bowl (he’s much larger), and started polishing the rest of the bowl himself.
Just as he was finishing, Mystery had the light bulb switch on. “Oh, yeah, duh, there was a treat.” Mystery went the rest of the way down to the bowl. Pilgrim, who had just finished, sat back polishing his whiskers as Mystery sniffed forlornly around the bowl, wondering where the treat had gone.
They do keep me entertained. Furthermore, it’s mutual; they think I’m highly interesting.
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I was just having a conversation with Pharaoh, and it occurred to me that that dumped litter is probably right around their birthday. It was June 6th, 2015, the day American Pharoah won the Triple Crown, when the four kittens turned up at Cat Lady’s during an aide shift. I’ve always hoped there were only four. I searched all around outside for more after it became obvious that there was a dumped litter, but the search ended with only the four. They were probably around six weeks old. Pharaoh, the runt, was smallest and wasn’t quite healthy (though the voice made up for it), but judging from the others, probably six weeks. Yes, they were probably born around mid heading into later half of April.
Five years. My, how time flies.
Here’s the litter. Satin is the tabby. Pharaoh the runt is at the top. The other two blacks are Panther and Bagheera, but I can’t tell them apart in this shot. Three are here on the farm with me, and Panther is happy and well in his home.
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And here is little Pharaoh.
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I went to Walmart because I was out of outdoor cat food. Got that and a few groceries. I just came back home, and I came in the door carrying a sack of cat food and a few sacks of fridgeables. Put the cat food on the floor, fridged the fridgeables, then went to the bathroom. As I was exiting, there was a kibble-full crash, and I came back into the living room to find the sack of cat food knocked over and Pilgrim on it trying to pull the pull strip on the end. He was starting from the wrong side, but he was absolutely trying to pull the pull strip on the end, not just making a general assault on the sack. He sees me open those all the time, and he was doing his best to repeat the method.
I’ve mentioned before that I call him the tuxedo scientist. This is another demonstration of why. Nothing at all wrong with his intelligence or his observation.
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Cotton, the arboreal cat. He’s at least 25 feet up; this is a major tree. He’s the one who climbs trees on command, and I even have witnesses to that now since my brother and his family visited recently and I asked Cotton to perform while they stayed WAY over on the other side of the yard. He was nervous at the strangers, but he did it. SIL was quite impressed even before the tree climbing that Cotton came out of hiding when I called him (slowly and checking the perimeter, with them WAY over on the other side of the yard) and then followed me about 30 feet to a tree. She said that she doesn’t get that good of response from her beagles at times.
I didn’t put him up this tree, though. He scampered straight up on his own. Five minutes later, he was back on the ground. He easily climbs both directions, fortunately.
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Rascal on the mower.
I just went out to assess the grass. Far too wet to mow. So in the interest of doing something, at least, I decided to try to set up a picture of a cat on the mower for my cat book I’m working on. Each chapter will have one picture at the beginning. Of course, I have no picture of the actual almost-naked June bug dance in the back yard, but I thought a cat-on-mower shot would work for that chapter.
So I called up Cotton, who is so cooperative with trees. He did come, but he wasn’t having any of that mower, wouldn’t get within five feet of it, despite my reassurance that it was off and wouldn’t be turned on. Nope, the mower is loud, spits things, and can’t be trusted, and he knows that.
To my surprise, it was Rascal I coaxed up on it and got into sitting posture facing the camera. I love Rascal dearly, but she is not a “get on things when asked” cat. She doesn’t even get on my lap. She wants to be beside her person, not on. But today, she cooperated. Thanks, girl. And Cotton, you missed your chance for an extra appearance in the book.
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Aw good girl Rascal!
P.
SWEET. Rascal likes being a star!!
This picture summarizes landscaping efforts with cats around. :lol:
At least my edge stones aren’t preventing Bagheera’s efforts at a nap.
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As I was having my mow, I accidentally turned the cats’ yard water dish over. I was moving it over with my foot to mow the area around it, and it caught and upended. I growled and made a mental note to refill it when I finished my daily mow time in another fifteen minutes. Note that the cats do have two other water dishes on the place. This could wait 15 minutes, even on a moderately warm day.
I noticed a few laps later that Cotton had come over to the dish and was sniffing it. He then, as I watched, turned it back over, climbed in, and sat upright in it. He stayed sitting there, looking straight at me, until I finished my mow and got a freshly filled container of water and brought it over. Then he stepped aside. When I filled it, he lay down next to the dish. Didn’t take a drink; he wasn’t thirsty. He was just calling the State of Affairs to my attention.
Protesting, cat style. Nonviolent, highly effective.
A few pictures. This one I took to be an illustration for the cat book I’m working on. Every morning, when I come out on the porch, Cotton jumps up on the rail and waits for me to greet him privately and last. He isn’t afraid of the other cats; he’s down with them up until I come out. He just wants a private greeting, and he counts it worth it that he is delayed on the first installment of breakfast in order to get that private greeting.
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Here’s Atticus coveting my turkey burgers I was fixing for lunch.
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Pilgrim and Solo
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For Cotton fans, here’s a little video showing both his predilection for trees and his amiable and talkative personality. I was leaving the farm, walking toward the car, and noticed him asleep in a tree.
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