Cat Diary 13

I’m laying here impatiently waiting for the next thing.

These are the cross roads, you understand? The place where I’ll be ready for anything. A couple of cat-lengths southwards of my tail the old woman is having her breakfast.

Behind my back is the kitchen where food is stored. In front is the primary space for playing and hunting. Northward is my den, where I have my water well, my bed and my wood for scratching.

Sniff. Sniff. Oh, I’ll just take another turn through the woodland. I believe I may have missed a cache or two of kibbles. The old woman keeps finding new places.

Kibbles both inside and on the top? I made short work of them!

Then it’s time for her to clean the den.

I’m looking forward to an uninterrupted day. Both Friday and Saturday we had far too many visitors for my comfort. I spent most of Friday under the couch, and a good half of Saturday under the big bed.

Cat Tales 21

I’ve been haunting the tadpole pond for weeks now. Every morning I sit on it in my favorite spot. As the palm fronds have become more pliable through soaking in the water, I’ve been able to wedge a couple of the leaflets aside. To see better.

I stare at the water, at the little blobs wriggling in a ceaseless dance from the top of the water to take a breath, and down again to the bottom of the pond where to hide in the muck down there.

Every so often, I admit, I forget that I’m sitting there merely to look. To study. To enjoy. I stick my paw in. Did you know that I’m right-pawed? Bet you didn’t know cats have a dominant front paw? Hope you were distracted and didn’t see me hook out a slow swimmer? I’ve caught quite a few already. They make a tasty little snack. I guess that egret knows what is what, after all.

But seriously, I’m helping to freshen up the gene pool. I’m helping to breed faster frog tadpoles.
The pernickety old woman caught me at it. Was she upset?
Ropeable, is the word. Like smoke came out of her ears. She’s banished me.

I’m at a loss what to do now. The deck is so boring when you know there’s all that activity going on in the pond. I should just run over there when she isn’t looking, hop up onto the coaming and pretend to be a statue.

Obviously that didn’t work. The pernickety old woman carried me back to the house and shut me in the sun-room while she’s gone to meet friends. Even lounging illegally on the red chair gives me no satisfaction.

I know that when she comes home and sees me on it, she’ll lift me up and drape a towel over the seat. She says it’s so I don’t shed black and white hairs over the furniture.

I don’t believe her. I think she does it to get a cranky look on my face that she’ll take a photo of. She doesn’t have a proper cranky expression yet in her collection, she says. I might’ve mentioned that couple in Japan who said cats can pull 257 different faces? The pernickety old woman and her friends are collecting cat expressions.

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.

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, 16

Ever seen a cat with a medi-collar on? That’s what they put on at the vet’s before they put me in the carrier. They thought to stop me scratching, licking and biting the bandage. Huh? I am the Hand-of God, I don’t do that sort of stuff.

The vet cut my toe off. Just hanging by a thread, she said. So I’m a two-toe wonder now. Most cats that happens to, lose their whole foot, she said. That’s all while I’m still caged in the recovery room.

They gave me wet food. I hate wet food. I’d rather eat a spiny gecko tail. I turned up my nose and the vet nurse laughed. I turned my back then.

As soon as I heard my human in the waiting room, I started a racket. Yowling and throwing myself against the wire front of the cage.

“Take her home, for peace’s sake,” said the vet. “Come back later to pay and for the meds.”

That’s what happened. Me in the shed. The pernickety old woman fetching the meds which she now knew how to toss down my throat. The vet nurse had demoed presumably. I saw her apply the method to some other poor creature. One good thing, to get these meds into me, the pernickety old woman had to take the collar off me.

To open my mouth, the pernickety old woman squeezed my jaws apart at the joints. Then, having tossed the goods into the gulch, she clenched my jaws together to stop me spitting them out! Honestly, where do humans learn this tricks?

But, as a treat, I was then allowed to sleep on her bed within the klamboe—that’s the mosquito net—usually a serious no no. On the understanding that I wouldn’t rip the bandage off.

I gave her my best expression of disdain. Why would I rip off the bandages? Did you know cats can do 247 different expressions? Proven fact. A couple of people studying cats in a cat cafe. In Japan. You find out more? Just do that thing humans always do when they want to know something, using the thing you talk into.

Modem troubles

My modem is ‘on the blink’, which is a colloquial way of saying it has started to fail. Sometimes its little lights work well and my computer has an internet connection.

Sometimes they’re blinking and I know then there’s a gappy reception and goodbye to getting anything done online except by mobile. That means one-fingered typing for me.

I’m sitting on instalment 16 of Cat Tales, with no way that I have found of getting the photos from the computer onto my phone.

People will tell me the cloud and/or dropbox. Seems like neither of them like going in reverse. Mind you that could be a personal bugbear.

Anyway, there it is. Another hold-up.

Now to access the other photo …