My other half calls me the cat whisperer, but this
business of cat whispering runs both ways. The cats exert some
mysterious, mesmeric influence which forces me to tolerate behaviour
that would elicit a robust verbal refusal otherwise. Unless you have
encountered cats, this might sound unlikely, but for the cat-aware
reader this will be perfectly familiar.
It goes like this: Can I sit on your lap… and drool
on your trousers… and sharpen my claws on your skin… and now we
will go to the food bowl… move your feet over, this bit of bed is
mine…
The obvious response should be NO. But this is a cat,
so the power of the subliminal whispering subtly shifts that sharp
refusal to: not really… prefer not to… I'm not really happy about
this… I suppose it would be OK… sure… yes…
That is the whispering cat… a patient predator. But
sometimes they just pounce, catch you out with the surprise
manoeuvre, just like the one Ginger pulled on me to prompt this chain
of thought.
Both Ginger and her stalker, Oatmeal, have moved out of
the barn and into the house, although Ginger likes to spend her time
outside, you just can't beat a good comfy chair on a cold, wet day.
We have now reached a significantly inequitable division of furniture
– Ginger has my chair, my wife has her own chair, Oatmeal has the
sofa and I learn to type standing up. All this close interaction
gives the whispering cat time to study her prey.
I was making the porridge for breakfast – not
hard-as-nails, real-man, Scottish porridge, but poncy English stuff
with milk in. Ginger was in the kitchen, deciding whether or not the
biscuits I had just put in her bowl were fresh enough. A perfectly
ordinary day, until I started pouring the milk, and then she launched
into the circling dance, staring straight up, the sure sign that your
cat has seen something infinitely desirable and the usual
softly-softly catchee human approach is not sufficient. This is the
feline version of gimme-gimme-gimme.
The thing is, I know cats don't really like milk and are
often lactose-intolerant. I am sure there are plenty of exceptions
to the rule, and cats conditioned to drinking it by owners who have
bought into the classic stereotypes. Our own experience has been
somewhat different. Milk? Bugger that and fill my water bowl… too
slow, I'm off to slurp at a muddy puddle. And cream? That rare
moggy treat at Christmas? Most of our cats over the years just
walked away, one or two would have a quick lick and then opt for
something more tasty such as washing chicken poo off their paws.
I told Ginger it was milk. I told her cats don't like
milk, but she didn't believe me. I followed the standard advice to
writers – show not tell – and put a small amount of milk on a
saucer. The only thing I didn't do was think it through. Ginger
recognised a plastic milk bottle, she knew what it was, what it
contained, and it turns out she adores milk. Every last drop
was scoured from the saucer and I heard the determined rasp of tongue
on glaze.
That was the pounce. The psychological killing blow.
Now the pattern is established – milk bottle, dancing cat, saucer…
If only I had just thought it through and said no. Too late now,
because I said yes. I have fallen victim to the milk-shark.
Cats are inextricably linked with quantum physics –
seriously, you don't think it was just chance that led Schrodinger to
pick on a cat? Whispering is a non-localised effect, and the
persistent influence from Ginger has rubbed off on Oatmeal. His pale
fluffiness had no interest in milk before Ginger first lulled me into
the world of the milk-shark, but now he has learned the habit from
her we have gone beyond the cold, ruthless milk-shark: Oatmeal is a
total milk-junkie. He now wails if denied the chance to bury
his nose in a saucer of the white stuff. He recognises the sound of
the fridge door opening, and can hear it, in his sleep, at the other
end of the house. We ration him, but when the whispering is not
enough, when the wailing rises to deaf ears then there is the
special, attention-grabbing cat talent of being where your
feet are about to go. Lactose intolerance? No, lactose impatience.
Not meow, but me, now!
If you whisper to cats for long enough, the cats whisper
back.
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