The Cat as (*gasp*) Cat

We've been feeding tuna to both cats for quite some time. The Cat and Growler both enjoy it thoroughly; it keeps their coats shiny and thick, and may pass on some inherent tuna-like properties through its consumption. I'm sure they'd both swim with tuna-like expertise if either of them would be willing to get within sight of water.

This weekend, instead of feeding them tuna, we served Tuna Flavored Cat Food of a generic variety.

In the past, both The Cat and Growler had turned up their collective noses at brand name cat food of many flavors and brands, from the middle-of-the-road versions all the way up to the upscale elite types advertised by fluffy well-brushed cats on white pillows. But no matter how fanciful the feast, neither of our spoiled owners would flick a whiska in acceptance.

So when my husband and fellow cat-servant-person brought home a dozen cans of supermarket-brand plain label Tuna Flavored Cat Food (henceforth known as TFCF), I had visions of dusting eleven cans of said TFCF for the next decade. I mentally prepared a place on the same shelf alongside the many other brands of cat food that our cats won't deign to consume.

I figure I'd serve the TFCF while we still had a few cans of REAL tuna handy, in case a feline riot broke out and we had to defend ourselves. So I grab a can of TFCF, and discover:

1) - TFCF is audio-challenged. The Cat knows the sounds of a can opener, manual and electric. TFCF doesn't need a can opener. It has a pull tab. Neither The Cat nor Growler is particularly drawn to the Giant Sucking Sound of a pull tab (with apologies to H. Ross Perot) nor does either of them associate this sound with the promise of food. The Cat hears the sound and ignores it. Growler, who responds instantly to ANY sound of food or kitchen activity, hears the sound and ignores it.

2) - TFCF smells nothing like tuna. Well, it might if the tuna had lain on a remote rickety wooden Alaskan wilderness dock for five weeks in the heat of summer. Covered with mosquitoes. Attacked by a passing grizzly. Then left to spoil until a passing cannery worker took pity on the remains and gave them a decent burial within a small sealed can labeled TFCF, which in this case might mean This Fish Can't Fly. Temporary Formative Concrete Filler. Too Fearful Cannery Flotsam. Or Do Not Eat Contents Of This Can of TFCF.

3) - TFCF sticks like glue. When pushing it off the spoon with a second spoon, it sticks to the second spoon. If you try to move it off the spoon with your finger, it will stick to your finger. About the only thing it will not stick to is the place where you want it to land.

4) - TFCF tastes as good as it smells. Do not lick your finger if you happen to use it in place of a spoon. Yes, I speak from experience. Don't say I didn't warn you.

So I put the TFCF on the two saucers that usually host their real tuna. Growler takes one sniff and steps away, making a noise that sounds a lot like "not even with YOUR mouth am I going to eat that." (Growler will usually eat anything we'll eat, including pizza - and some things we won't eat, including pizza toppings she's fished out of the trash. She's not the picky one.)

The Cat blinks, takes one sniff, and devours the contents of her saucer of TFCF without coming up for air, strides across and devours Growler's abandoned TFCF, races back to her saucer to see if she missed a crumb of TFCF, then sits down in place and stares at me until I get the message that she would not mind at all if I were to serve up the rest of the can now. Immediately. Please. Now. Please.

The Cat as Cat the Bounty Hunter

Nice quiet night, approaching 11pm. I'm minding my own business, listening to reruns of Grey's Anatomy in the background while working on a layout change for one of my new sites.

Suddenly the house is filled with flying fur and the thundering of feline hooves. STAMPEDE! I start to dive beneath my desk.

Oh wait. No. Just one cat, not quite flying, and the thundering is actually a small stack of cardboard boxes being knocked about by a flailing tail. But that one cat is The Cat, and is hellbent on catching up to something. I peer into the darkness toward the kitchen where the galloping continues.

Cats gallop weirdly. It sounds a lot like a nine-year-old with a new drum kit. Random bashing, some experimental cymbal shots, an offbeat attack on the bass drum with one foot, all accompanied by wild-eyed giggling that usually lasts until a nearby parent shouts "ENOUGH ALREADY!" Since I know we hadn't recently acquired a drum kit for The Cat, I keep my silence and remain vigilant. I reach for my flashlight as a precaution. Who knows - The Cat could be herding zombies my way.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a teensy dash of light tan and a minuscule tail which quickly vanishes behind a floor fan caster. A field mouse, a bit shorter than my thumb, cowers shivering, eyes squeezed shut. The Cat marches up to my side and sits down as I train the flashlight beam on the terrified captive.

"Now what?" I whisper. The Cat shakes her head and examines her paw. She has delivered a prisoner of war to headquarters; her work is done. Her interest in the subject will vanish as soon as she collects her tuna reward. I bend down, restraints in hand (aka Yuban coffee can), and gently coerce the tiny creature to safety beneath its loose lid.

Out on the porch, I ease the mouse onto the welcome mat. It staggers around in an ill-defined circle (about the size of a two pound Yuban coffee can), then gathers its wits and races screaming into the desert night.

No doubt the tales around the campfire will be slightly embellished as to the size of its captor, The Cat, the length of its fangs and the persistence of its attack. Its jail cell will have shrunk from two minutes in a two pound Yuban coffee can, to the size of a small chipped coffee mug, where it was fed nothing but bread and water for 22 agonizing days of solitary field mouse hell.

The Cat as Housefly Wrangler

Summer is here in the desert. I can tell: The housefly has landed. You might have felt the impact; it was 4.3 on the Richter scale. The USGS registered aftershocks for three days.

The common housefly, also known as Musca domestica, is on my list of complete and utter annoyances somewhere between the ant and the California State Tax collection office, and was right under the F111 Aardvark for the "ugliest things airborne" award for 1970. As the F111 was retired by the USAF in 1998, the Aardvark is out of the running for the 2010 award, leaving M. domestica as the odds-on favorite.

Unfortunately, our housefly is far from common. Notice I refer to the housefly in the singular. I doubt more would fit in any given room of our house at the same time. Two collided over the highway at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada last week. Traffic was tied up for four hours until someone brought in a skip loader and bulldozer from the dump down the hill (where they are accustomed to sizable housefly settlements).

Unlike us humans, The Cat looks forward to the arrival of M. domestica. Playmate, diversion, a whole host of opportunities. In fact, as I write this, I believe the housefly is giving her a ride around the dining room (I've heard the tinkle of the ceiling light's glass bulb covers a few times as well as several high pitched giggles).

Just yesterday, The Cat coaxed one of her new airborne companions into the master bath where it got caught in the shower stall. We tossed in a few cleaning rags and a spray bottle, and by the time it was done batting around, the chrome sparkled and the walls were pristine. We've considered talking with a couple of them about painting the garage.

As much as she's enjoying this, The Cat knows all good things must come to an end (the sooner the better!), and has begun rounding up her adoring airborne audience slowly, herding them toward the front door. Soon as I can elbow my way past, I'll escort everyone to the front yard, where two or three enterprising M. domestica have been washing and waxing cars whose owners pull off the nearby highway to watch the annual Desert Festival of the Housefly.

(me? bored? no, never. why do you ask?)