Birthday Cats

Last Saturday, my sister and I were one year old. That means we are now mature and sensible cats, despite the fact that our humans keep referring to us as 'kittens'.

I didn't know it was going to be such an illustrious day. When I tried to wake the humans before daylight, they shut me out of the bedroom like they always do. No concession to the day. Still, the female human got up shortly after it was light, and gave me my first meal of the day:

She went out after that; she often disappears in the morning, then she comes back a while later with one of our former human family, and they stand outside talking while we call to them from the roof. Eventually our human came in again, and after we greeted her we let her know that water out of the tap is so much nicer than the water in our bowl:

For some reason, she doesn't like us doing this. Or maybe she's just jealous that she can't jump into the sink so neatly. Whatever the reason, she lifted us down, unceremoniously. Which meant that it was time for a nonchalant wash:

When the human was busy making a noise with one of the machines and those big orange ball things with juice inside, I jumped back, as there were some lovely little puddles on the side of the sink:

The humans have some strange routines, but at least they're fairly predictable. After a little tray was taken upstairs to the male human, it was time for our yogurt. Joan is particularly keen on that, and watched closely so we knew when it was time for the call to yogurt:

The human thinks it's strange that we call out, and try to climb up the cupboards when she's putting yogurt on our saucer. She tells us she's doing it as quickly as she can, and that there's no reason to make a fuss. We're not making a fuss; I don't know why she can't understand, it's a way of showing how enthusiastic we are:

Of course, once the saucer is on the floor, we stop our singing and lap it up as fast as we can:

After breakfast, we usually go upstairs to play outside for a while, but on the way up on our birthday, we discovered - oh, joy of joys! - the bathroom door was opened.

That meant we could have a wonderful game:

Alas, it was over all too quickly.  Then we thought we should perhaps make ourselves scarce, as the humans don't seem to like it much when we pull at the roll of tissue. We hoped they wouldn't guess what we had done.

We love exploring the nearby roof-tops:

When the humans came out, we went to see if they had anything interesting for us, but it was just a camera. They never let us grab the bit that dangles down, though we keep trying.

I love being out on the balcony, rolling around in the dust:

Still, we can't spend all day having fun. Before long it was time to go downstairs to keep an eye on the humans:

That gets boring after a while, so I decided to take a nap:

Lunch-time with wet food is a wonderful part of the day, but the human forgot her camera. Then we repeated the morning's activities: more washing, playing outside, sleeping and snacking.

We heard some of the humans talking about women having to be a pace behind men in some other places a long way away, so we thought we'd try it. But walking like that was very awkward, so we sat down instead, and had a rest:

I'm not really sure what the point of a birthday is; it was much the same as any other day, as far as I could see. But then again, our life is mostly quite pleasant. What more could a cat possibly want?

Another escape plan... foiled!

Outside the kitchen is what the humans call the 'utility balcony'. There's a noisy machine where they sometimes put clothes and towels and other strange human paraphernalia. It churns and spins around, and then after a while the female human takes them out again. The things are all wet by this stage, so she hangs them up on some rope things strung across the balcony, until they're dry again.

This is another example of the lack of human intelligence. If they didn't put the things in this machine, they wouldn't get wet. I don't think they realise that it's the machine that makes their clothes so wet; but perhaps their minds aren't developed enough to understand cause and effect.

At the edge of this balcony are metal railings, evidently designed so that the humans don't fall off. It's quite a long way up and they're not good at falling even short distances. Of course, my sister and I can easily get through the railings; sometimes we walk on the little ledges outside. We look down, and at the rooftops nearby, and we keep thinking that maybe - one day - we'll make a bid for our freedom. Not that we want to go very far, but there are so many interesting toys outside, and so many new smells.

There's a litter tray on this balcony, and what they call a 'cat flap' that gives us access from the kitchen. While they went away recently, they blocked up the cat flap and brought the litter tray into the kitchen. We thought this was an excellent idea. Other friendly humans came in each day, two or three times. They gave us our food and water, and cleaned out the litter trays. Our needs were met, and we didn't really miss the humans who belong here, except at night when their bed was cold and unoccupied. It was quite nice when they got back, but then they decided to move the litter tray out to the utility balcony again. I don't know why.

We're trying to train the humans to get up while it's still dark, but they're not very co-operative. We don't mind sleeping for a few hours on their bed, but we get bored around the time the birds start singing outside, so my sister jumps on the humans' feet, while I pat at their heads. The male human used to get up and give us some food when we did that, but now he takes us out of the room and shuts the door. This is not what we intended.

Still, a few days ago I decided to make use of the time to study the escape routes from the balcony while there were no humans around.

I spent a long time weighing up my options. The best place to jump to was a small roof where I've seen other cats, occasionally. I wiggled, and moved, and found the best spot, and nearly kittened out several times. But finally I jumped. My sister wasn't brave enough to join me, but I made a beautiful landing. I explored the small roof - it was quite light by this time.

The female human had got up by this stage, and my sister let her know I was outside. She came and looked at me, then she went to get her camera, and then asked me what I was going to do next.

And there's where I perceived a flaw in my plan.

There was no easy way down.

There was no easy way up.

Of course I didn't let the human know I had miscalculated. I walked around the small roof, sniffing the exciting smells, and trying to see if there was something I had missed.

Then I heard the sound of food being placed into our bowls. I heard my sister starting to eat. The human called to me, and I started feeling very unhappy.

I cried a bit and the human came out again. 'Silly Alex', she said. She tried to persuade me to jump up to the balcony, or down to another bit of roof, but I was feeling scared so I just cried some more.

She went inside, and I felt even worse. Even the humans had abandoned me. Would I be stuck on this little roof forever? How would I eat? How would I reach my litter tray??

The sound of my sister crunching at MY food was too much. I looked up at the balcony again. I didn't think too hard. I concentrated... and I jumped.

I then strolled casually into the kitchen, as if I had not just been through one of the most stressful experiences of my life.  The human made quite a fuss of me, and told me, again, that I was silly. But she said it in a nice voice.

I haven't tried it again.  I will do, one day, but it wasn't terribly exciting on that little bit of roof, once I had sniffed it all thoroughly. We have all we need in the house, after all. Maybe there's no real reason to go outside.... 

Sister up high

I'm bigger and stronger than my sister. I'm also much more interested in everything that's going on with the humans. Sometimes my sister Joan stays fast asleep while I'm in the kitchen, trying to get involved (usually in vain) with the interesting smells and noises that happen.

Joan is pretty good at jumping, though.

For a girl, that is.

She's quite elegant, too. I admit it, I can be a bit clumsy and heavy-footed at times. I miss my footing if I'm not concentrating. Joan is better at estimating how far she can jump, and landing neatly on the ground. It's only recently that she's begun exploring the high places of the house.

However (being a girl) she's sometimes a bit lacking in common sense.

I've looked at doors. The tops of them are very tempting, sometimes. But they move, and there's not a lot of space... so I've resisted the temptation to explore them.

Not Joan. She jumped from a bookcase to the top of a door last week:

She was quite pleased with herself. When the female human saw her, and asked what she was doing there, Joan sat down to show that she was quite comfortable.

But after a few minutes she realised she was a bit stuck... she walked up and down the door, but it had moved a bit when she jumped, and she could no longer jump to the bookcase.  

So the human eventually lifted her down. I would have felt humiliated in such a situation, but Joan didn't seem to mind. 

She hasn't been on the door again, but a couple of days later she jumped right up from the sofa to the top of the curtains, where there's a nice broad ledge. 

That's me sitting on a small table, deciding it wasn't a good idea to join her.

Here's a better picture of her, as she tried to decide whether she could jump down the other side: 

The human didn't help this time so eventually Joan turned around and jumped down via the sofa.

It feels very strange that my sister has been exploring and getting into tricky situations, while I remain in safer places lower down.  Surely I can't be turning into an elderly, boring cat already....? 

Cats up high

I've mentioned before how the humans have an odd tendency to remove us from the kitchen counter tops. It's frustrating, because they put so many interesting things there. We're cats, we're supposed to explore and examine everything new that comes into the house, and that includes new things that the humans make.

They have some clever tricks, I have to admit. A whole load of different things go into a black thing at the end of the countertop and it makes noises for quite some time.

It gets hot, too. I've checked, when nobody else is watching. I leave it alone now.

But I find it intriguing, because nice smells come out of it, then eventually it makes a bleeping noise... and, like magic, a loaf of bread is inside. I love bread, but unfortunately we don't get given any. We have to make do with crumbs on the counter top after they've cut it up.

That's just one example of how ridiculous it is that we're not permitted on the work surfaces when the humans are around. Do they really think they can stop us when they're not looking?  Sometimes I sigh inwardly at their lack of imagination.

But I digress.

A couple of days ago, the female human was doing something in the kitchen that smelled very good. It wasn't bread; she called it fish. She was putting things on it, and turning it around.. no way could I avoid jumping up to investigate.

But she put me back on the floor.

Repeatedly.

She started to sound quite frustrated and I nearly gave up. I don't want to upset the humans, after all. I just want to find out what's going on, and - if possible - have a taste of things that smell good. Maybe more than a taste. Why should we be limited to food we're given in our dishes?

I could tell I wasn't getting anywhere with my attempts to wear her down. The problem was that if I stayed on the floor, or left the room, she would think she had won. How humiliating. It's not as if I'm a small kitten any more. We don't want humans to think they're in charge.

Then I had a brilliant idea. Humans, I remembered, are remarkably bad at jumping. They're not particularly good at climbing, either. If they want to reach something high, they find a chair to stand on, or even a ladder.

So I jumped up, via a bookcase and the fridge, to the top of the kitchen cupboards:

It was a cunning plan. It let the human know I was not to be intimidated, and reminded her that I could reach higher places than she could. She would have to go and find the ladder to get me down - and while she was gone, I planned to investigate the counter top thoroughly. 

She did pop out of the room but before I had a chance to jump down, she returned. Not with a ladder, but with her camera. 

She made no attempt to get me down. She just smiled. 

I strode up and down on the cupboards for a while to remind her that I was there and that she was not the boss. I knew I had won.  

But it was a bit of a hollow victory, as I gradually realised. There was nothing interesting on the top of the cupboards.  I couldn't reach down to the counter top, and the human ignored me.

So I climbed down again, when she wasn't looking. 

Cat toys or human toys?

We gradually realised that the small human is not just benign, but bears a lot of resemblance to a kitten. He doesn't seem able to move very far by himself, but that's an advantage, from our perspective. He doesn't try to eat our food, and he mostly stays away from our toys.

So, on the whole, we've stayed away from his toys. They're not as interesting as ours, in any case.

Or so we thought.

We are particularly uninterested in books, which seem entirely pointless to us - other than when we jump on the shelves and pull them out, but the bigger humans don't seem to like it when we do that. So when the small human was looking at a book, we didn't take much notice until we heard a sound, and realised that this was no ordinary book. It had a little metal thing that went all by itself around a kind of track:

At least, it went once around. Then it stopped, and the big humans had to do something to a little knob on the side, and put it back. They called it a 'bus'. Of course that quickly became rather boring... the small human preferred to pick it up or move it, and so did we. We batted it around quite a bit, although the big humans kept putting it back. 

Most of the other small human toys were put away in a big and colourful bag at night time. I don't know why humans keep putting things away. It's a lot more interesting to have them scattered around the floor, under furniture or in the middle of the kitchen. That way, we come across things when we're not expecting them, which is so much more fun.

However, big humans seem to like things to be organised. The little one was happy to tip his toys all over the floor, however.  I thought I might check that there was nothing left inside the bag; then I had the idea of hiding completely.

I  have no idea how the humans knew I was there: 

Floating, vanishing balls...

Just when we thought things were settling down, we had a new and unexpected experience.

We're quite used to balls rolling around the floor. There are some that go slowly, and some that go faster. Some of them bounce better than others. Most of them eventually get lost under a sofa, or beside a big piece of furniture until we can persuade the humans to get them out again.

However, after much experimentation and a great deal of playing, we had determined that balls last pretty well, even if we sometimes can't easily find them. At first we thought that sometimes they vanished - but that was when we got distracted and forgot to watch them. As we grew older and more mature, we realised that they simply disappeared from our view, under or beside furniture. Sometimes with a careful paw we can retrieve them ourselves.

What they don't do is to vanish into the air.

Or so we thought.

We had just finished our afternoon nap one afternoon when we heard talking from the big humans and some chuckling from the small one. We had a good stretch, and made our way slowly downstairs.

There we saw some new and shiny balls, some floating in the air and some on the carpet. They looked very interesting:

We started to jump at them, only to have a nasty shock. As we touched them, they disappeared. It was as if they stopped existing! We chased them and tried to bat them about, but it was useless. And when I nudged one with my nose, I had a nasty taste in my mouth; it reminded me somewhat of the sink when the human has been washing dishes.

We backed away. Then we saw something even stranger: the humans were somehow making these balls appear. Or so it seemed.

We didn't make the same mistake more than a few times. The small human was still trying to bat at them to catch them, but we kept out of the way. This is a scary kind of magic.