Cat Tales 20

The tadpoles saga is ongoing. As a cat who eats only cat kibbles—and there’s a very good reason for that—I am amazed by the kinds of food that tadpoles will take to.

At a certain point my human said, “I’m done trying to chase up oak-leaf lettuces. They’re obviously not in season. And expensive when I do come across one. We’ll try these little beasts on a few other greens.”

Which we did. The taddies, as we’re calling them now, would have nothing to do with icebergs, silverbeet, warrigal greens or boiled lettuce. Fussy little beggars. Then, out of sheer desperation, my human broke a nasturtium leaf from the abundant plantation of nasturtiums we have camouflaging Skink Haven.

Personally, I hate nasturtiums. I hate their smell on me. I hate their wibbly wobbly leaves, and how they are just the right height to get in my eyes when I walk among them. So, no. I don’t go in that jungle. Which is probably why the nasturtiums have been encouraged to sprawl over the one-time garden bed where now a community of a special sort of skinks live. Since I’m not allowed to hunt them.

But the taddies, now. They love nasturtium leaves. Look at them! But which left us with the fish food problem. They went off fish food, left it floating on the surface of the water. I like it so was mightily tempted to go fishing for it. A couple of times I almost overbalanced reaching for a tasty titbit.

Watching my antics, the pernickety old woman said, “That’s it! No more fish food. We’re going to have to try them on something more substantial.” She went hunting in the backyard with an insect net.

I fetched a salt-reduced cat-kibble that’d been soaking in my water bowl. Dropped it into the pond. See what happens, I thought. It’s the pernickety old woman’s own, favorite, and nearly always useful expression.

Eight or ten of the taddies made a straight line swim to the sodden kibble and started in on it, butting at it and tearing crumbs off it. They obviously like it. I could say I told you so.

The pernickety old woman caught a great big grasshopper eating something precious, and killed it. I didn’t see how. She could’ve let me do that. She lay the grasshopper carcass on the water where it floated for three days.

Then! You guessed it. It had needed to rot a bit before the voracious little beggars could get their teeth into it. Do tadpoles even have teeth? They ate that whole carcass though, worrying at it even after it sank.

Dozens of hungry taddies lined the top of the water, waiting for a meal. They worried me. What if Mr Egret came along now? He’d have a feast!

My human had a couple of solutions. First she soaked a bunch of salt-reduced kibbles, put them in a fruit-net from the green grocer’s with a couple of hefty pebbles, and sank the parcel in the pond. “So they don’t spend all their time at the top of the water, easy pickings for the likes of that egret.”

Next she found a dried Bangalow palm frond and cut it more or less in the shape of the pond. Wedged it in there. “Camouflage for the little critters. And, when they start their legs …”

What? These critters would be growing legs? I intended to spend a whole lot more time on the pond edge to see that happening!

Cat tales 19

My proper, Hand-of-God life, as backyard guardian, started when these frog eggs hatched. The next day, my human carefully emptied all three buckets into the bath in the backyard. A few hours later hundreds of tiny tadpoles wriggled up to get a breath of air, and down to the floor of the pond to get food. And repeated that all day. I studied them for hours.

Their first danger was the egret that came every day. It seemed to know when it was safe. If it came at dawn, I’d be stuck in the house because the pernickety old woman still lay in bed. In the daytime, I might be inside because the pernickety old woman had gone down the street for some shopping.

I stalked from left to right and left sweeping my tail angrily behind the glass doors, hoping Mr Egret would see me and feel threatened by my scary puffed-up black and white shape. But he didn’t appear to be able to see through glass. My human and I had learned from the TV that only intelligent—whatever that means—animals could see through glass or see themselves in mirrors. I have no trouble whatever with either of those types of glass though I confess that the TV sometimes tricks me.

When Mr Egret first arrived, he’d perch on the corner of the garden bed, and would stare for many minutes in every direction. If no movement anywhere—despite me at my performance— he’d half-open his wings and use a slight downward thrust to hop onto the corner of the pond-bath that was mine! He’d start with his scooping action, scooping up a few of the tadpoles at the time, many many times. Every time he’d been for a meal, I expected the crowd in the pond to have been quartered or even halved.

But it didn’t turn out too bad. The babies grew very fast and filled the empty spaces. And they ate everything suitable for them in a matter of three days. When my human and I started to see skinny tadpoles, we knew we had to do something. She researched food for tadpoles and took off down the street. That first day she brought back an oak-leaf lettuce, a tadpole delicacy, she said. I couldn’t see why, surely they’d need something more heartening? She floated the lettuce in the bath to see what would happen.

They loved it. Ate and ate until the remnants sank. My human had already fetched in another lettuce, a different look about the thing, which the little animals barely touched. Oh no! We were back at the beginning plus one. The plus one referring to their growth so far, of course.

“I couldn’t get an oak-leaf,” my human said. “How would they even know the difference?” There were a few things I could’ve said, but I knew she wouldn’t listen. “Maybe they’ll eat fish food,” she said. “If I leave you in the backyard will you still be here when I get back? The Pet Shop is just around the corner.

Humans have a saying for how I decided I would communicate my intention. I tried to remember how it went. Ah. I remember. I arranged my face, and even my body to say Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. Though I might be making a mistake about that saying. I’m not human, after all. It doesn’t sound all that applicable. What I meant to say, Yes I’ll be here. Yes, I’ll be good.

And so I was when my human returned with fish food flakes. They smelled so good I was tempted to jump into the water after them. But in fact, upon getting a good sniff of them herself, she realized their attraction for me and poured a little pile of them for me to lick from the corner of the pond.

Eyes vs Crow’s Feet …

The story about the lack of posts last week? It all started with a trio of crow’s feet. The wrinkles aka grooves and ridges beside your eyes, resulting from years of scrunching up your eyes against too much sun. Everyone over forty will have them.

Last Monday, as I planned to go into the sun light burgeoning down, I spread SP15 over my face not taking the required care as it turned out. After about an hour my right eye started twinging.

Oh right, I thought, sunscreen has sweated down the grooves of my crow’s feet into my eyes. Because that is a thing, right? Well, I hope you’ll tell me I’m not the only person that happens to.

It’s the way that Thorny Devils (Moloch horridus) get their water. They don’t drink. Their ‘crow’s feet’ all lead to their mouths and moisture leaks into them.

By KeresH – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3716812

When I got home, I washed out my eyes. Washed the remains of the sunscreen off. Got the eye-baths out, and the eye drops to soothe my eyes.

Next day, I didn’t go out. Eyes about the same. Did it all again, about three times. Eye-baths. Eye drops. All to be expected. I was prepared for a two-day recovery.

Rest of the week? Right eye the worst. Like sand in there. I lost count how many times I filled the eye-bath with cooled boiled water, pressed it into my eye-socket and fluttered the eye-lid, hoping to dislodge the … what?

Crystalized sunscreen lotion? Yeah I know, we grasp at anything to make meaning. A deep ache developed. Who knew eye-balls have pain receptors? The left eye, though not suffering the original disaster, refused to work by itself and went on strike. It wept non-stop.

Then it was the weekend. No GPs available even if I’d decided to brave the relentless light out there. Monday AM I called the eye specialist. They are lovely people who said, Come down right away, we’ll fit you in.

I wrapped my head with a scarf. Pulled apart the windings so I could see a thin sliver of light, and where I’d be going. I felt like an Inuit in a snow storm despite that it was 35 degrees Celsius outside. Then put on 2 pairs of sunglasses one over the top of the other to make it dark enough.

Once the unidentified muck was plucked from my right eye-ball it started to recover. However, the inflammation had also to be addressed. Result of that, I’m on a once-a-day antibiotic for a month. The kind where you can’t go out in the sun because you’ll get burnt.

In the expectation that my gut would be my next concern, I bought probiotics too. So far so good.

On the way home, popped into the local St Vinnies (thrift/secondhand store) and bought a couple of long-sleeved shirts from their 50% sale. Kind of a synchronicity, I suppose. And stay out of the glare was the other thing.

Apart from all that, it’s pretty amazing to have something more than the usual stuff in common with a 20 centimeter Thorny Devil.

Cheers, all.

Cat Tales 18

When it rained lots and lots, and it was close to summer, the pernickety old woman ran around putting buckets in the backyard to catch rainwater. Even when it stopped raining, she left them standing where they were.

Even as the Hand-of-God, I was mystified as I went round smelling at them. Just rainwater, half a bucket full, that I couldn’t reach to drink. What were they for? Couldn’t be for animals to drink from. I just proved that.

When the buckets were about half-full of rainwater, the pernickety old woman dipped her hand in the frog pond, scooped up a handful of azolla water weed and carried it dripping to the buckets and dripped a bit of the weed in each.

I think there were five buckets. The stuff grew like—well, a weed—and soon all the buckets had an island of green floating in them.

That evening, a clap of thunder! I raced for my favorite hiding place in the bottom of the bookshelves. Another thunderstorm. More rain.

The pernickety old woman loved a good thunderstorm. She stood laughing in the open laundry door, only slightly sheltered. “Smell the petrichor?” she said.

When the storm faded away, and the rain fell only mistily, the down-pipes from the roof started to boom. Or maybe call it a belling. A loud insistent kind of ringing echoed from ours, and all the ones in the neighboring yards on both sides. A racket!

“That’s them,” the pernickety old woman said. “The green tree frogs. The rain woke them, flushed the leaves from their hidey holes, and they’re sitting there—each under his own pipe—calling loud enough to bring any green tree frog female happening to be about.” She laughed.

Ah, I thought. They sit under the down-pipes to have their calling amplified. Smart. I miaowed and joined my human at the laundry door.

“Tomorrow we shall see what we’ll see,” she said. “The buckets will be in all night demand, I’m thinking.”

It was a dark night. I didn’t see a thing peering through the glass doors in the sun-room. I was so curious by the first morning light, I scratched at the pernickety old woman’s bedroom door. She didn’t let me sleep with her for this very reason. She being a night owl and I preferring to be up at the crack of dawn. All I heard was a groan. I think she meant for me to go away.

I did. For about five minutes. Scratched at the bedroom door again. “Fine!” I heard from the bed. Then it creaking.

The pernickety old woman grumbled from near the wardrobe. I understood her to be clothing herself. Humans are so bereft without fur. I skipped back to my position at the glass doors.

My human came bleary-eyed from the bedroom. Dressed in her usual long pants, cotton shirt and kimono loose over the top. She yawned. “Let me put on a pot of tea first.”

“Miaaoow!” Let’s go see outside first, that meant.

“Might as well, I suppose. Water won’t boil for a bit. Beautiful sunrise, all said and done. Wait till I grab my camera.”

She walked. I pranced to the first bucket. We peered into it. “Ah ha,” my human said. “I think we have a jackpot. Look at that! I think a whole clutch. Green tree frog spawn for sure.”

Cat Tales, 14

Despite the danger of the currawongs, I got used to doing my proper Hand-of-God work, and revelled in the thrill of seeing off intruders.

Small dogs, magpies and kookaburras all took flight when I ran at them. My large belly flubbered and wobbled as I ran, was one visitor’s unkind remark, after her little dog hid under her chair. My human glazed a stern glare over her face.

I am big, I accept it. Comes with being a daytime cat, apparently. My size helps me stay on top of the heap.

When even the pheasant-coucal stopped coming, probably because I chased him from the premises one too many times, I started to look for more excitement.

I had a go at climbing a tree. Got as far as the first branch, not more than a metre and a half from the ground.

The pernickety old woman, moving very fast for a human of her age, slapped an aluminium ladder against the trunk.

While she tied a denim apron round her waist I did not have the good sense to keep climbing. Always a sticky beak, I stopped to see what she was planning.

She climbed the ladder and lifted me from the tree. “Forget it,” she said. “You’re too heavy. Lucky for you I saw you before you got too high.”

“I’ll explain why one day,” she said through my complaints.

She continued wrapping me in the apron, tying the corners tightly round her waist. There’d be no getting free.

She climbed down and took me back to the deck. Where I lay about, sulking, and licking my wounded pride.

Cat Tales, 13

Now came the time of the big birds. They made me so mad!

I could sit inside on my chair, or I could sit with my human on the deck under the awning. Whenever either of us went into the yard, a pied currawong would chase us back onto the deck or into the house. Currawongs are like large crows I’ve heard it said, except they are black and white.

We had some Bangalow Palm trees in our yard, and when their berries turned red, all the currawongs in the neighborhood congregate in our other trees where they wait their turn to eat the berries.

Too bad I can’t show you. My human tried to take a pic and they swooped her. She came running back in under the awning. We had to make do with just the one that lives nearby and sometimes comes by itself.

Yellow eyes. Fierce-looking. It even has a berry in its beak.

There’s another sort of black-and-white bird around, as well. They have red-brown eyes and grey-white beaks, and aren’t as big or fierce. They’re Australian magpies. One of them comes into the yard to listen for worms traveling underground. When it hears one, it pokes its beak into the grass to catch them.

When I chase the magpie, it just jumps up higher than I can jump, and comes down again when I’m not looking. I’ve given up on it. I don’t like worms.

Cat Tales, 12

That big fluffy white rug is me of course, relaxing in the sun, while the pernickety old woman has her coffee and catches up on her social calls.

“Frog eggs?!” she said excitedly. “I have some too.” She laughed. “They’re no problem in my frog pond. I have an old cast iron bath now, that someone was tossing out in the white-goods recycling event.”

I pricked up my ears. Rolled over and sat up. Stared at the frog pond in the back of the yard. Reeds and a yellow flowering plant showed above the rim. On the white ledge nearest lay a bent piece of wood.

My human went on with her conversation. “There’s not a canetoad on Earth that can jump backward and over the lip. And they are not that good at climbing. Yes, I’ll teach my cat not to hunt them.”

Huh, I thought. We’ll see about that. I’ll hunt whatever catches my eye. And something did catch my eye just then. I stared.

The piece of wood on the lip of the pond moved! All by itself! Not a breath of wind!

This I needed to investigate. I hopped down from the deck and stalked silently toward the frog pond using all the cover at my disposal.

“Won’t do you any good,” the pernickety old woman called from the deck. “It’s the Frog Pond Guardian at her post.”

Her words made no sense. Belly to the ground, I leopard-crawled nearer, the nasturtium patch grew densely to well above my head.

I peered around the corner …

A large water dragon stared implacably back at me. I’d heard rumours about this lizard. In the backyard nextdoor it was supposed to have bitten off the head of a hen sitting on a nest of eggs.

The lizard moved! I backed up in a hurry! Waited there in the protection of the nasturtiums. Peered round the corner.

No. It just changed position. Lay there, immoveable.

“She’s just sunning herself,” the pernickety old woman said from behind me. What is it about her? She is always, always, giving away my hunting position.