Archives for posts with tag: cats

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Two bundles of grey fur. There are those who will say that animals do not have “personalities,” that they merely respond to your training. Try getting two. Siblings. Biologically, these two kittens are pretty close, brothers and littermates. When they first arrived, the primary difference between them was size. One was the runt and was just slightly over half the size of the other.

Now, he’s catching up. So much so that we sometimes have trouble telling them apart. Their markings are near identical–grey coats with a whisper of tabby. But you need only watch them for a few minutes to know who is who. The runt is bouncing-off-the-walls-batshit-crazy. He’s totally engaged, and addicted to his people. For him anything is a game, and he is up to the challenge. He follows us everywhere.

The larger kitten, Ollie, is mellow and reserved. Sometimes we wonder is he’s okay, but only because the comparison is so dramatic. He’s just fine. Really. We know that because he becomes fully engaged when he goes outside. He’s all cat–brave and intrepid, exploring the property, even in deep snow. It’s not even that he’s shy inside, but next to Mr. Personality, he seems so. He’s just a softer, gentler version.

Obviously, these doppelgängers have the same food, the same environment, and similar genetics and yet the differences are marked. We don’t think that we contribute to the difference in how they’re treated (although that little guy sometimes requires self-defense maneuvers.) So, innately they must come pre-wired with different characters. Not so different than the rest of us.

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It’s been a long time since we had kittens. One forgets. They’re into everything. I thought I kept a moderately tidy home, but they show up wearing dust bunnies, from God only knows where. I guess the bright spot is that they’re dusting areas that I’ve clearly missed.

They follow me around making trouble with whatever it is I am trying to accomplish. Today was laundry. First, they kept running off with the socks. Then, finally they settled in for a nap. I guess I can do without the laundry basket for a while.

Thankfully, there are two. For the most part they keep each other busy, which is good because I don’t have that kind of energy to entertain a kitten.

We’ve set firm rules. For the most part, they’ve been pretty good. We decided at the outset, no kittens on the bed–and that’s been the hardest thing to enforce. They want to be where we are. I should take it as a compliment, but at 2:00 am, I’m not easily flattered.

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Because, no matter how painful the losses, there’s always room for more loving.

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Without a doubt, he is. The hearth-cat is in charge.

A.V. Walters–

bob

Who, me?

And thank you for many years of a great temperament and good company. You will be missed.

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Bob, from a safe distance.

 

Training Cats

A. V. Walters

Who, me?

Who, me?

I’ve always had well-behaved cats. I train them as kittens. That’s right, trained cats. I’m from a large family where good behavior wasn’t optional. With kittens, I use a squirt gun to enforce the House Rules. It’s about boundaries. Some places are okay for cats and some are verboten.

Bob came to us as an adult stray. He is a genial cat, not bright but friendly. In fact, he is clueless. As a kid, I had a school teacher who, when confronted with less-than-perfect indoor etiquette, would demand, “Where were you raised, in a barn?!” In fact, it was a slur on the agricultural kids—the farmers and the French-Canadians. But I try to remember it as a cautionary guideline, with Bob. After all, he’s a twice-abandoned farm cat. And, as a matter of fact, he was raised in a barn.

When he first arrived on my door-step, Bob had no boundaries. He felt fully entitled to get up on the kitchen counters or the table, and help himself to whatever goodies were there. Well, something had to be done about that! I used a spray bottle and Bob learned. What he learned was that he could not go on the counters if somebody was around! Bob learned to be a sneak. So, we redoubled our efforts. To reduce temptation, we made a concerted effort not to leave anything out. Butter went into a covered dish. The dishes were mostly washed after a meal. Meat scraps went into the freezer (not the garbage) for disposal later. And we watched, like hawks, to catch him in the act. That was the tough part, because, as a sneak, Bob was good at quietly committing his mischief. The only notice we got was the thump of his feet hitting the floor, after his forays. He had a well-practiced innocent look. “Who me?” (Though, there were clear Bob prints on the countertop.)

For the most part, he’s well-trained, now, though there are the occasional lapses. The most egregious of his sins is his propensity to lick the cream-cheese frosting off of the carrot cake. After icing the cake, it needs to sit out for a bit to set up. Bob did it again, last night. Rick came in to a freshly iced, and licked, cake. We’ll need to be more diligent about putting the cake away—or covering it. And, well, it’s back to training… We can’t have cats mixing with cakes.

I’m glad that we’ve had such success with him. Most people think you cannot train a cat.