The Cat in the Grass W/O a Hat

Scooter is showing his age in many ways. He's grown a bit of a belly, okay more than a bit, and he is a little sway-backed. However, he makes up for aging with effort and enthusiasm.

Yesterday, he spotted a small bird peeking at the far edge of the garden. He began his sneak attack from about 20 feet out, and crept, belly dragging, closer and closer. I do not know if it was the sound of his gut dragging, or if the bird just plain outsmarted him, but when Scooter pounced, he missed. I mean he wasn't even close. Of course I would not have allowed him to kill the bird if he'd succeeded, but my intervention was unnecessary.

So I razzed him about his failure and he decided it was time to demonstrate his ability to disappear, which he did handily.

From 25 feet I could not see him. As I got closer, I saw his color but no definition. Then, Scooter being Scooter, he sat up and stared as if to say, what? You got a problem?

Glad I'm not prey.

The Cat Who knew the Cat Who

It is interesting how easily a cat can disappear. Especially a large cat such as Downyflake. He weighs about 18 pounds and tries to squeeze into the smallest spaces he can find. Must be an inner-kitten thing.

Of course, he never succeeds, but does frequently vanish for hours in those spots where he fits. Searching is an act of futility. If he does not want to be found, he will not be.

He does enjoy, as do most cats, a place high above human activities. There he can watch and be ready to pounce, well, okay, Downyflake does not pounce on much of anything. He does sleep and sleep, and. . .well, sleep.

Back when I was collecting Cat Who books, piling them on the top of a bookshelf where they might be safe from cat claws, and hairballs, he decided I had created the perfect cave, closed on three sides with a roof. As you can see, he took advantage and spent many hours thinking about the Cat Who. . . no probably not, but it's fun to consider it.

The Cat Who Sought the High Ground

Never expect a cat to keep his feet on the ground when a restricted area looms overhead like a death defying challenge to a mentally impaired feline.

Downyflake,not the brightest bulb in the box, enjoys the hunt for space (well, he doesn't need to hunt for anything else). He will try to force his 16 pounds into tiny places where a mouse, should he even recognize the creature as possible prey, might hide to escape a brighter cat. As it is, if we had a mouse in the house, I think the two would become pals and sleep together, maybe share food stuff and occasionally act like predator and prey to fool the humans into complacity.

However, never let it be said that Downyflake doesn't come up with ideas that might make his mother proud, and his father roll his eyes with despair. A 6.5 feet tall object he knew to be restricted needed to be assaulted, er. . .climbed and mastered, when his humans weren't paying attention.

Wicker is off limits, or so we thought. Downyflake knew otherwise. Cat 1, Humans 0.

Must've been a Librarian - Now a Cat

Downyflake, the other orange cat (name changed to protect the innocent - me that is not him), loves boxes. He particularly loves small boxes. Downyflake is not a small cat as you can see. He weighs in at around 16 pounds.

It is not unusual for him to nestle close to books. Okay, we're booksellers and writers so of course we have several thousand books. However, large orange cats in small half-filled boxes have got to make you wonder. Is Downyflake a reincarnated Librarian?

He does seem to feel most comfortable around books. He does not hurry away when he gets caught. Maybe he's trying to tell us all something important.

"Read, wish I still could. You never know what you'll become next time around."

Oh, yes and he does leave one with the feeling of a brilliant shine!
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Scooter Pays Tribute to America's veterans!

Take a moment today to reflect on what makes America the great nation it is and honor all veterans!

The Cat Who Walked the Plank

The boardwalk sits ten feet above the ground and the handrail 3.5 feet higher. Scooter, like all of his kind, tends his territory from the best vantage point. Since he is the Alpha male in these parts, despite his age and the droop of his belly, his territory is vast--for a cat.

Each morning he uses the handrail to scan large and wildly overgrown sections of his yard, pausing to scratch, sniff the air and stare at Egrets and Great Blue Herons as if he knows someday he’ll get lucky and bag one. Never mind that both species are ten times his size--not necessarily his weight mind you--he glares at them from afar, flips his tail meaningfully, and then turns a cold shoulder as if to announce, “Sorry, not today, but don’t think I’m not watching, waiting until you leave the water and come a little closer. When you do, it’s over!”

At the end of his handrail walk, he likes to sit and savor his accomplishments, before turning around and heading to the birdbath for a wild animal drink.

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The Cat Who Hated Rain?

There are moments when Scooter seems to need to prove that he is still a feral creature. This morning was one.

A rain storm swept the region during the night. Scooter, who spends the night indoors with his human provided food, clean litter box, and a bowl filled with bottled water, acted reluctant to exit into the storm’s residue when I opened the front door for him. Actually, he turned his back on it certain, I think, that rain fell only in the front of the house.

We went through the daylight basement and I opened the rear door, which opens onto a covered porch. He went out, and glared at the still falling drizzle. It was light rain, so I dared him to join me for our usual morning walk. Yes, that’s right; I walk my cat every morning. Or, perhaps, he walks me. We don’t discuss whose idea it was the first time two years ago, and have followed the daily routine since that day. He also comes when I whistle, which I’m certain he credits as my willingness to cater to his needs by alerting him of my readiness.

This morning, since the yard was soaked, and rain still fell, I didn’t think he’d want to walk. He did and even showed some enthusiasm when he saw that rainwater had collected on the boardwalk. When he began to drink it, I scoffed his effort as foolish since he had clean water inside. He glared and returned to licking like the feral cat he knows lives within.

Old timer in a Tree

Scooter may be getting on in years, but his determination has not diminished.

We have a friendly Mockingbird that enjoys sitting on a low branch in the Mimosa tree, which shades our backyard just beyond the open air porch we use for afternoon tea break.

Over the course of the previous spring and summer, the Mockingbird appeared frequently to pose for photos, sing, and eat whatever it might catch or find.

Scooter and the Mockingbird have this game they play. I call it catch me if you can you stupid cat. Scooter, who is around eight plus years old, either falls for it and chases the bird, or ignores him completely.

Of course, Scooter never succeeds, but he does try when in the mood. You've gotta give him credit for that.

One afternoon, about two weeks ago, the Mockingbird landed on a branch about eight feet in the air and stared at Scooter. An obvious dare.

Scooter, lying in the sun, feeling groggy and relaxed, suddenly sprang into action. He went up the tree and was moving fast -- for an old man -- along the branch where, a moment earlier, the Mockingbird sat taunting him. Too late!

Foiled again, I thought, and decided I would need to help him down. But no, the overweight old timer proved me wrong, turned around on two tiny branches and climbed to the ground without breaking a sweat.

The Mockingbird?