Still p***ed off

This is the longest my queen has ever called – 9 days so far.  Usually her calls last about a week and the realisation that this is no ordinary call and could drag on is wearing us down.

Hubby is particularly pissed off.  I don’t blame him because the living room is his cave, and that’s where I’ve confined my queen, thinking that its wooden floors would make cleaning easier.

I thought I’d leave thorough cleaning to when it’s all over, but the stink was too much. 

So I spent 3 hours this afternoon on my hands and knees.  First I went over all the horizontal and vertical surfaces with a cloths soaked with a dilute solution of biological laundry detergent.  This included all the legs of the dining room chairs and table.  Then I rinsed with plain water, then sprayed urine eliminator on the more obvious surfaces.

You know that film Karate Kid where Mr Miyagi trains Daniel (the Kid) to fight by having him perform household chores like painting the house and waxing the car?  Well, I wonder what defensive moves he would have ascribed to the actions I used in cleaning the floor.  All I can say is that all of my right arm and the muscles attaching right arm to chest are aching in a way that bodes ill for tomorrow.

Back to hubby.  I bought him a 4-pack of John Smith’s last night.  So he wasn’t pissed off anymore.  Just pissed.  Sorted.

Teddy and the Woodpigeon

Last summer, a fledgling flew into our garden at twilight.  What the stupid bird was trying to do, I don’t know – most of the neighbourhood birds avoid our garden.

If I hadn’t seen it with my eyes I wouldn’t have believed it.  Teddy took off after it and when it tried to gain altitude, he sprang at least 3 feet off his hind legs, did a remarkable mid-air twist as the bird tried to evade him, and swiped at it with a paw.  It was a remarkable display of split-second timing and agility by a cat whom I thought was too heavy and ponderous for such acrobatics.  Amazingly, his paw connected with the bird and it fell to the ground, but before he could pounce, it flapped desperately and got away.

At the weekend, it was the turn of the Woodpigeon.  Mr Woodpigeon used to be one of a pair who visited the garden.  Years ago, even before my current family of cats, Mrs Woodpigeon became a pile of feathers in the garden.  So Mr Woodpigeon was reduced to sitting on the rose arch, cooing to himself, looking lonely. 

Well, I don’t know how, but Teddy got him.  The only witnesses were Ananda (my queen) who was in the garden, and hubby who was in the kitchen, who saw the sudden spray of feathers.

We went out, me armed with a carrier bag, to try to rescue the pigeon as it fluttered its way down the garden.  I made hubby pick it up, and he tried, but as soon as he grasped it he let it go because its wounds were not minor.  We should have wrung its neck, but neither of us couldn’t bring ourselves to do it.  So we left the cats to finish it off.

I meant to write this as a kind of proud tribute to my cat’s hunting prowess, but I’m aware that there are people reading this who will think it’s cruel.  It’s certainly made me look at Teddy in another way … this cat who’s packaged as a cuddle wuss has claws … teeth and real cattitude.

Let us Spray

My girl is calling again.

As mentioned in previous posts, “calling” in context of an un-neutered female cat is when they go on heat.

I’m not sure why it’s called “calling”.  “Calling” has connotations of a genteel telephone conversation between two parties.  Whereas as, every breeder knows, a cat on heat is more of a “moaning”, “howling” or, in my girl’s case, a “spraying”.

It’s the third time she’s called since her last litter, and the first time she’s ever called in the winter.  Winter’s long nights, short days and cold weather is supposed to stop cats from calling.  However, the weather has been unseasonably warm, about 13 degrees C one night, and apparently, from comparing notes, I’m not the only breeder with a calling cat.

I’ve tried to make sure that she’s confined to the living room which has wooden floors that can be cleaned, and tidied away items of clothing in case she marks them with her pee.

Hubby called me on the mobile today.  He said he thought she’d sprayed one of his shirts.  (This despite my warning to him not to hang his shirts over the chairs in the living room as what calling cat can resist a dangling shirt sleeve?)

There was silence and then:  “Why are you laughing?” he asked plaintively.