Fish food: An adventure not for the faint of heart

Sweet potato peelings not having the desired effect in my effort to entrance a raccoon (or possum for that matter since I found one on my film), I decided to try fish food.

I've never had fish, not even the gold variety one might win at a fair booth. Never had the desire to have my cats circle a fish bowl or tank and constantly lick their chops, thereby upsetting not only the fish, but me. So, opening the fish food was a revelation, and a bad one at that. Sheesh! It smelled like fish!

I shook a few flakes onto some grapes--might as well appeal to all tastes-- and set up the trap.

My cats instantly--INSTANTLY!--went on point. Now, we're talking about half a teaspoon of fishy bait here. But they started circling. I said bad things to them and tried to scare them away.

Thirty minutes later, Sammy was in the trap and, from the photos, Duchess (don't forget that name) had circled him and sat on top of the trap in support of his plight. I let him out.

Checked an hour later. Socks was having an absolute conniption in the trap. This is the little cat who had successfully stolen the slice of deli turkey last week. The lure of fish food must have made her careless. She was clinging to the trap and I had to tump her out.

Back to the couch I go. Last night was the Dancing with the Stars finale and the cats were ruining my rhythm.

Next commercial. Duchess. Obviously someone is a slow learner because by now there's no food in the trap because it's been turned over and dispersed by Socks. Duchess patiently allows me to release her. And she performs this same trick a hour later.

So the upshot is I have 111 photos on the trophy cam, four of them after I let Duchess out the second time and none of them with a raccoon.

Dare I try the pork ribs tonight? How much sleep do I want?

And, Happy Thanksgiving!

Why that's Duchess the cat on my Facebook page

Last night's supermoon was gorgeous and hot pink, then orange, then ecru, then... moon-y. I tried for some photos but there wasn't enough light to always set the focus so the camera refused to cooperate. Then if enough light did leak in, by the time the automatic shutter speed for night-pictures went off, the moon had moved. Not that I could see if move, or you could see it move, but the camera knew what was what and it blurred.

So I just watched as it set apricot-colored this morning.

Then, tired of moving my capri pants one pair at a time from the other closet, I changed the winter and spring/summer wardrobes. This guarantees cold weather before Easter so consider yourself warned.

THEN, I decided to join Facebook. Supposedly, it's easy. Let me count the ways it might not be:

1. My profile photo. I held the iPhone up and took a today-pic of myself. Several times. Found one that didn't make me look too pale and ten years older than I am and emailed it to myself. Instant gratification. Uploaded it. Facebook turned it sideways. Yes, that's right, I was on my side. And I couldn't seem to get it any better. I finally figured out that maybe the parameters weren't right, so I loaded it into iPhoto, changed the shape and gave it another go. It worked! Five minutes later, the sideways one reappeared. That is why I deleted the sideways ones and put Duchess the cat up. She is the alpha female in the backyard. I am the alpha female in the house. It's fitting.

2. I made a password like you have to. Then when I went to check back in, it wouldn't work. Three times. Which is all the tries they give you before the message to re-do it comes up. And the two emails. And the code. And the warnings. So I made a new one. We'll see how long this works. I saved the emails.

So, welcome to Facebook?

Savvy kitty

The weather is once again giving us a layer of ice and more snow than we want. (At this stage of February, any snow is too much snow.) The bright side of things--and that's saying a lot since we're to have record low temps--is that this is to last two days and not last week's four. Hope springs eternal in the house-bound breast.

I'm doing laundry and working on a freelance project, considering starting my way through the tax receipts. I've put out more bird seed and will have to do it again, I can tell. The outside kitties have been given food in a spot which won't get wet.

So I put the towels from the washer into the dryer. It vents into a sheltered corner of the patio which should be blocked by house and garbage cans from the worst of the wind. As if from thin air, the alpha female cat Duchess appears and takes her place under the hot air from the vent.

It may be a small brain, but it's dedicated. In this case, to keeping warm.

Snow day!

It is snowing, snowing so hard it looks like rain coming down which just goes to prove we're not doing anything halfway around here. Last winter we had two huge (for us) snows of 6 inches plus. They each lasted a day and then blissfully melted away. We should be so lucky this time.

I don't think we will be. After the snow stops, it's supposed to get colder. And ice is the one thing we're really, really terrible with around here. Don't do ice well.

Our outdoor cats seem to be adjusting. The steady three have been up for lunch. I've been checking on them and found the alpha female, Duchess, not huddled in her towel-lined box but under the clothes dryer vent's warm air!

Now I know how she's survived. Savvy girl.

Mark and the mockingbird

When I was a little girl my cat was named Tiger. He was a dark gray tabby, the product of an ambitious Siamese mother who escaped from her owner one night. Said owner was my sister's second grade teacher and one thing led to another. My sister had Buster, a light gray tabby, and I had Tiger. While Buster, who was a bit of a lazy, slightly overweight neutered cat, lived into my 20s, my beloved lean, mean, but neutered, machine died while I was yet in high school.

I suppose there is something to be said for the non-adventurous, slothful life.

Tiger, true to his name, was a hunter. There was a field behind our house and it was a source of constant amusement and abuse for him. The latter was meted out by birds, most particularly I remember from one summer, a mockingbird.

Tiger would lie in the grass and chatter to the bird, charming it is what my mother called it. Usually it worked, but this particular bird was a bit of a freer spirit and he fought back, dive-bombing and pecking my baby until he was bald on the very top of his head. I suppose that at this point, Tiger gathered whatever testosterone he still had and each day returned to the field of battle. Noting my interference would be a lost cause and warned away by Mother, I gave up trying to protect and soothe him.

Then one day, I heard a strange muffled cry. As it grew louder we looked out the back door and, coming up the walk was Tiger, mockingbird clutched in his mouth. He laid his prize on the back steps and sat on his haunches, proudly showing to us his prize. He didn't eat it and I think the job of disposal most likely fell to my dad.

So Monday I'm sitting at my computer trying to pull some words together since I'm making an effort to get my WIP off the ground again, and as our windows were still up then, I hear a very loud rustle in the bushes. I spin my chair around and watch calico cat Duchess trot from the patio further into the back yard. The lantana is still moving. On the other side of the fence, in the driveway, is neighborhood cat Mark (so named because his brother had luxurious long yellow fur and I called him Cleo, so therefore there had to be a Mark, as in Anthony, but Cleo disappeared a long time ago). Mark is backing out of the lantana's reach and in his mouth is a spread-eagled mockingbird.

I am so impressed. Not a hair out of place, not a bald spot on him, Mark takes his prize and meanders into the roses on the other side of the yard, where he proceeds, because I check on it later, to eat every bit but the feathers.

Tiger would be proud.

Duchess defends her territory

As recounted before, backyard calico cat Duchess has to have a male escort. Never mind she is no longer in the kitten business, she likes companionship. As such, she and backyard orange tabby Sam are friends. But Sam is a very friendly boy. He'd rather I scratched between his ears and rubbed his back than eat.

So yesterday morning when were completing this little ritual of me being encircled by "starving" cats as I was putting out their food, I was scratching and rubbing Sam as well. He was purring and, since he was quite sure where his next meal was coming from, he was in no hurry to eat. All of a sudden, my hand is tapped. By Duchess! She had had quite enough of my making over "her man", thank you very much. It was time for me to quit! Her claws were sheathed but there was a look of seriousness in her eyes. She seemed to be saying, "Leave him alone, sister!"

And since she's packing heat in the shape of finely honed claws, I did just that. Sam's disappointment didn't last long, as I went inside, and he went to eating beside Duchess.

For every Duchess, a duke

This is Duchess:


And this is Sammy:


Duchess is the mama cat who spent two-plus summers giving our neighborhood kittens until I trapped her last August and had her put out of the business. Obviously, as she has spent the intervening year sleeping on my chaise and eating my food, I have been forgiven. Perhaps my "misdeed" has not been forgotten however because I still can't pet her.

Duchess is so called because her first companion was already named Duke. This was several years ago when she took up with Duke and, in order to refer to her to her human "mother", I called her Duchess. Duke, I was informed, was neutered, so I suppose that for the majority of the year, they were friends, and for a couple of brief periods, she left him for more fertile company. Duke eventually disappeared; he was an older cat and mainly feral, so he could easily have happened upon a misadventure. And was, no doubt, no match for Duchess's brief liaisons.

But like many humans, men who seek feminine companionship and women who can't seem to be without a man, Duchess needed a buddy. Enter Sammy. He, too, belongs next door, but has decided my patio is a better deal. He'll climb the wooden fence and sit on the window sills and look in. He talks to my indoor cats through the screens. He lets me pet him and practically knocks me over when I'm gardening and he wants attention.

He would seem the perfect male companion: solicitous, easily pawed out of the way over a chicken tidbit, and ever ready to share his sleeping space. And neutered. Did I mention that? He's able to give his entire attention to Duchess. And, to her chagrin, to me.

Duchess has once again shown good taste in companions, but the Duch, she doesn't like to share. This may explain the frequently raised paw when I'm putting her generous portion of free food in front of her. Just a little warning... and then she hip-butts Sammy out of the way.

Heaven only knows what she'd like to do to me.

Now my feelings really are hurt

True to my word to them (although I have my doubts that they believed me), I cut the outside mooching kitties off from their daily feasts at my house on Sunday morning. There was meowing and lashing of tails, even a little bumping on the screen door when they heard me inside and then didn't promptly see me with food dish in hand.

Monday, the hardy souls showed up but neither stayed around as long as on Sunday, nor did they come back as often. As for today... no one was there.

At least they can take a hint. But really now, was I just a full bowl of kibble to them? And it was name-brand kibble too. I guess I was. They've added insult to injury and quickly forgotten me.

Now my feelings really are hurt.

The saga continues

Duchess, mama cat in the previous entry, has moved her kittens once again, this time to the dubious place between the a/c units. It is probably easier to defend than the bushes, being in an L-shaped area, but is concrete and not soft dirt. She has all four of them with her and she has ventured no further than the driveway in 3 days. I have not seen the big tom that caused her anxiety earlier.

I am using a hands-off approach, although I will eventually have to capture the little darlings. I was hoping she would grab them up and find a new home for them as she did with last year's brood. I have even emailed friends and loops to advertise their availability. Amazingly, no one has replied in the affirmative.

This is not looking good.

Do I have what it takes?

A year ago yesterday I blogged about Animal Planet's Meerkat Manor and the fact that the second season was being elusive. The third season started a few weeks ago and we are once again attentive. But this year is harder: bad things are happening to our Whiskers family and the other meeerkat groups. It's a meerkat-kill-meerkat world in the Kalahari where survival is all we have on our minds.

So, how do the teams of researchers and film makers handle it? They set the cameras up and let them roll, let Nature and meerkat take their courses. There's even a disclaimer to that fact at the beginning of the half-hour. Meerkat Manor is not for the faint-hearted.

Our backyard is a crossroads for the feline population. Two years ago I adopted a stray kitty who was being abused monthly by the neighborhood tomcats. It took me two months of bribing her with food to get her close enough to the house to trap her. I had her spayed and inoculated. Amazingly, when I returned her to the backyard, she got over her snit and has stayed with me, finally allowing me to stroke her back and scratch behind her ears.

All was well, just she and me, until said neighborhood toms noticed where the freebie food was. Over the course of the last year, they all stop by for breakfast. They'll laze in the garden or on the furniture. They are, for tomcats, well-mannered. I do not attempt to adopt them.

There is also a female in the group, a calico we've named Duchess. I think she originated across the street because she wanders from food bowl to food bowl. She is in the family way every chance she gets. Last year, she wore herself out ferrying kittens between my house and her official home. Neither human could grab her and see that she ceased her prolific ways.

This years has been no different, although she no longer runs from me. I have hopes of nabbing her when her litter (location unknown until an hour ago) is large enough not to need her.

From my study window, I look down onto the backyard. And who should I see clutching a kitten in her mouth and disappearing under the lantana but Duchess. And who is entering the yard right behind her? A tom. He took her exact path to the bushes and stopped. I'd no doubt Duchess would defind her litter, but for how long could she hold out? He marked the bushes by spraying and then left. She emerged and took up a sentinel position.

I could stand it no longer, so I went down. She was now on the back steps. I gave her food and scurried over to check on the kittens. Last week there had been four of them when she'd given them a temporary stop in the rose bushes (the sprinkler system flushed them out on Monday morning). Today there are three. Has one died? Is she waiting for an all-clear to go get it?

Can I stand by and watch tomcats circling her litter and not interfere? Should Nature take its course? Duchess is not a first-time mama and she is bound to be savvier about the location of her 6 week old brood than I am, but do I have what it takes to be an impartial observer?