At times my bedroom sees more traffic than Grand Central Station

Imagine if you will four cats.  Mickey, Charlotte and Gabriel get along with each other, but Chanel gets bullied by Gabriel.  So, to prevent a fight I came up with the plan of separating them.  Some nights Chanel gets to sleep with me, other nights Gabriel gets to share my bed.  When I’m ready to turn in I close my door.  And that’s when it starts …

No sooner am I in bed or there is scratching at the door.  I know that scratch, only one cat scratches … Mickey.  So I get up and let him in. 

Within minutes I will hear a throaty meow.  I know that meow, only Charlotte sounds like an old coffee grinder.  So once again I get up and let her in.

It’s not long before Mickey decides he wants to go out.  I try to make him change his mind by calling him to bed or tempting him with a nice soft basket.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.  So I have to get up again to let Mick out.

While I’m up I turn to Charlotte … “Do you want to go out too?”  Charlotte isn’t moving, she seems quite happy where she is at the time.  Of course, that doesn’t last long.  Sooner or later she decides she wants a change of scenery.  So, up again to now let Charlotte out.

When I hear Mickey scratching and Charlotte meowing again I decide to ignore them.  If I let them in I’ll only have to get up again to let them out.  “No Mickey,” I call, “go to sleep.”  My call gets answered by more scratching and meowing, but I stand (or rather lie) firm, I’m not letting them in.

That’s when Gabriel raises his head with a face like “Can’t you hear there’s someone at the door?”  Now I have to content with a cat looking at me, waiting to answer his friends’ call.  I’m not falling for it, he can look at me until the cows come home, I’m in bed and I’m staying put.

That is until Gabriel keeps looking at me, now adding a soft “Meeeee” to get his message across.  “Oh all right, I’ll let them in,” I tell him.  “But they better go to sleep or ….”  Or what? 

In the wee hours of the morning I wake up from a pitiful cry.  Now Gabriel wants to go out. 
“Gabriel, no, come back to bed.”

“Mee.”

“No, come, go back to sleep.”

“Mee eee”

If I ignore his meow (or what has to pass for one) it just gets longer and more urgent.  Like an opera singer launching into an area of Tosca.  “Meeeee eeeee eeeee”.

Oh for goodness sake okay, I’m coming.

I wonder what Mickey, Charlotte and Gabriel are saying when they get together.   She falls for it every time?

On the nights that I let Chanel sleep with me, that’s no picnic either.  She curls up with me and doesn’t ask to be let out, but she keeps me awake in other ways … first purring and then snoring.

Jeez but that cat can snore.  At times I’ve asked her if she can turn the volume down a bit, which results in a sound an octave higher than before.  Not to mention that she likes to lie close to me, ticking my face with her whiskers. 

Now that I’m up everyone is sound asleep.  Nobody wants to go out, nobody wants to come in.  Nobody purrs, nobody snores.  For some reason I feel like playing music … really loud.

Cat language

Does your cat meow?  Mine don’t.  None of them.  They each produce a sound that is supposed to pass for a meow, but doesn’t even come close.

We’ll start with the youngest, Gabriel.  Not only was he not paying attention when his mother gave him speech lessons, he wasn’t even in the room.  When he opens his cute little mouth he says “mee”.  Sometimes it’s short, sometimes he stretches out the “meeeeeee” like he’s singing a song. 
It sounds so sad, so utterly pitiful.  Whether he’s crying for food, to get a head rub or to be let into the bathroom, his mournful plea cannot be ignored. 

Next up, Mickey, another one who never learned how to speak cat language properly.  He doesn’t even try.  When Mickey tries to say something he doesn’t get any further than “Eh” or “Ei”.  It’s quite cute, but completely useless.  Not that he’s much of a talker to begin with, he only makes an effort when he wants to play with his laser light.  Once play is over, that’s it for the talking.
He might make an effort to get into the bathroom, but Mick prefers to scratch the door.

Then there’s Charlotte.  Charlotte has a deep, raspy voice, making her meow sounds like “meih”.  Her cry reminds me of a shy old sheep.  Charlotte knows how to purr though, something Gabriel nor Mickey have quite mastered.  Oh they purr, but very, very softly.  Charlotte on the other hand has quite an engine.

Last but not least, Chanel.  Chanel is the talker of the family. She has a whole repertoire of sounds but a proper “meow” isn’t one of them.  Whenever we talk to her, she politely answers, ranging from “mei”, “meei”, “eeeeh” to “mooow”.  Most comical is when she says “now”.  When we ask her “When do you want your food?” she replies with “now”.  When asked again “Do you want your food now?” she’ll confirm that she wants it now.

As for purring … nobody purrs like Chanel.  Whoever she curls up with in bed can forget about sleeping.  She purr so enthusiastically that she sounds like a low flying helicopter.

Cat language … not the easiest language to understand, yet Gabriel, Mickey, Charlotte and Chanel seem to have no problem understanding me.

The story of Skitter

Today's guest blogger is Mike Williams.  Mike is the author of 'Snowed In'.  If you're interested in this book, you will find the link to his Smashwords page at the end of this blog post.

Mike once had a cat called Skitter.  Judging from his story, Skitter was quite an interesting feline.

Skitter was the smallest adult cat I've ever known. By most standards, he was about the size of a six month old kitten. Someone had a litter of all black kittens and my room mate and I decided to take one.

It didn't take long and we knew Skitter was different. He'd suddenly stand up on his hind legs and fight with invisible foes for minutes at a time. During the battle, you'd see him dodge and duck and box, crouch down and stalk and leap up to swipe at nothing. Then, just as suddenly as it started, he would sit down and lick his tail, looking as unperturbed as if he'd just awoken from a nap.


We would swear he could turn himself invisible. One minute he'd be there, the next he was gone and no amount of looking or calling for him would reveal his presence. He never disappeared when we were looking, you'd glance away and look back and there he was. Gone. Later, he would reappear in a "frantic room run."

A "frantic room run" started at any piece of furniture. He'd jump up on it and race at full speed around the room, using only the furniture as a traveling lane. That included the couch back, chairs (and anyone sitting in them), end tables and the fireplace mantle. There were two very long jumps, the first from the mantle to the next chair and from the chair after that to the couch top. Both jumps were more than six feet. Then he'd stop and lick a paw or his tail, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Skitter loved attention. I've never seen or known a cat that purred so easily. Reach down with one finger, scratch his ear twice and purrrrrrrr....

We played stretch the kitty, his favorite form of attention. He'd jump into your lap and roll over on his back. We'd grap his front paws in one hand, his back in the other and (gently) stretch him out to full length. Purrrr....

Pick him up, purrrrrrr...

He'd be happy to provide a neck massage. Just drape him over your neck and occasionally scratch his ear. Or his belly. Or his tail. Or anyplace you could reach. The purr motor would start and it was warm and fuzzy and felt like an ultra gentle massage. As long as you didn't move him, he'd continue to massage your neck with his purring.

We had to give Skitter up when my roommate and I moved in different directions. We gave him to a friend and he lived a long, happy life playing "Spirit fight", "stretch the kitty", "disappear on the owner" and "frantic room run".

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/72596