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by Malcolm Welshman
Bobby, the black and white cat owned by my school pal, Terry, was a typical example. When I visited Terry, what did the cat do? He fixed me with a penetrating stare and padded up, tail erect – a sign of greeting.
‘See, he likes you,’ said Terry.
Not reciprocated, I assure you as Bobby then proceeded to rub his head against my leg smearing me with his secretions– his way of telling me I smelt funny and needed to be marked by his own scent.
At Terry’s insistence I once allowed Bobby to leap onto my lap, where he promptly curled round and settled down.
‘There. Friends at last,’ declared Terry. ‘Now give him a stroke.’
So as not to appear too much of a wuss, I tentatively ran my hand down the cat’s back. I’ve read such action improves your immune system, your blood pressure goes down and your body halts production of stress-related hormones – making you a third less likely to suffer from heart disease.
I should be so lucky. As my fingers caressed Bobby’s fur, my hand shook and my heart thumped wildly in my chest.
An animal behaviourist would say, ‘When a cat throws itself on its side and shows its belly, it’s showing a greeting behaviour and showing trust. It is actually an abuse of that trust to stroke its belly.’ Hence the claws and teeth.
Uhm … I’m not so sure. I swore it was just Bobby’s excuse to have a go at me.
Cats have a sixth sense. They, like dogs, can be aware of when their owners are going to return home from work. People say it’s because they have far better hearing than us and can detect their owner’s car coming back long before we can. And it’s true they can pin point a mouse scratching thirty feet away. But a trial where owners were instructed to return home at different times in different vehicles still had their pets waiting at the door or watching from the window just before their owners got back. A clear indication of a sense of anticipation rather than just acute hearing.
Crackerjack, a feisty cat belonging to an elderly client of mine, Miss Jameson, exhibited such anticipation. Whenever I was due to make a home visit the cat would disappear upstairs long before I arrived and hide under Miss Jameson’s large Victorian bedstead. Miss Jameson would usher me into her hallway and point up the stairs.
‘I’m afraid Crackerjack’s bolted under my bed again,’ she’d say apologetically. ‘Seemed to sense you were on your way.’
The scenario that followed was worthy of a Feydeau farce with me crawling under the bed, Crackerjack, hissing and snarling before making his escape from the other end leaving me similarly foul mouthed, spitting with rage under the bed springs.
There are other attributes of cats to which I could attest.
A cat has the ability to fall from a great height, turning itself into a living parachute, spreading out all four legs to slow its fall. Then it manages to land on its feet, claws out. I’ve seen it happen for myself.
My neighbour, Rita, called round in a panic to say Tammy, her tortoiseshell, had climbed the sycamore tree by our house and was now stuck up it.
‘Could I do anything to get her down?’ she asked.
I was certainly prepared to take a look. Even if a little unwillingly. As I peered up nervously from the base of the tree. Tammy decided she’d had enough, scrabbled along a branch and then took a flying leap. Tammy careered downwards, her legs splayed out, to finally land on my head. And I can verify a cat does use its claws to ensure a grip when it lands. Tammy’s claws searing into my scalp was proof of that.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had a close encounter with Tammy. She was one of those cats who constantly brought home spoils of her hunting to deposit on Rita’s back door mat. Mice, shrews, baby birds. Even a young grass snake. The list was endless. And a constant source of amusement for me. I’d hear Rita’s agitated voice admonishing Tammy yet again for bringing in her latest offering. Where upon I’d pop my head over the garden fence and with a smirk on my face ask what it was. That smirk was rapidly wiped off one Sunday morning when Rita held up a mangled chicken I recognised as our Sunday-roast-to-be. Tammy had nicked it from our kitchen. Meanwhile, the cat was sitting on the patio, calmly washing her whiskers. When she did condescend to glance up at me, her look said it all. ‘You’re too chicken to mess with moggies.’
She was absolutely right of course.
But that’s cats for you. They say dogs see you as masters. Whereas cats see you as their servant. Quite so. And despite my misgivings, I’ve been delighted to provide them with the service they require – and indeed deserve – throughout my career.
© Malcolm Welshman
Malcolm has had a lifetime filled with exciting encounters with animals. As a lad in Nigeria, he is attacked by soldier ants and terrified by a snake in his treehouse. His treasured companion, Poucher, an African Bush dog, prevents him and his mother from being savaged by baboons. Once qualified as a vet Malcolm has to attempt life-saving surgery on his beloved parrot. On a road trip across the Sahara, there is a tussle with a lame camel and the operation on an Ostrich gored by an antelope.
Settling back in West Sussex, he tackles a cow that’s got stuck in a tree, wily cats and battles with cunning badgers and baby bats. He shares all these fascinating experiences in this gently humorous memoir that will guarantee to tug at the heart strings while bringing a smile to your face. Anyone who loves animals will be enchanted and enthralled.
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Website www.malcolmwelshman.co.uk
* Helen: Additional fun cat pics courtesy Facebook
What a delightful array of pet stories; all of which those of us who are "serving" at the moment can attest to. Thanks for sharing that we are not alone.
ReplyDeleteWith two cats, two dogs, ponies, horses, a donkey, ducks, hens, geese I can well attest to how complicated life with pets can ge! *laugh*
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