(Wordless Wednesday) Cardigan offensive: collateral damage

Breakfast Club

Back on March 21, the Black-capped Chickadees and Downy Woodpeckers were emptying the feeders, and only the cedars were green.

Sometimes I can smell seasons. This morning is one of those times. On my way over to Robert and Jane’s place to catsit, I could smell Spring. The air is cool, not quite 10 (50) degrees, and damp from yesterday’s downpour; the Crabapples are in full bloom; and the maples are replacing their delicate green bobbly bits with translucent young leaves. Scent is spilling out from sidewalks as each corner grocer displays hundreds of potted plants.

For a while last week, I was afraid we were going to miss out on Spring, just as we were cheated out of Autumn. It went from too hot to snowbound in about two days’ time, and then as soon as the snow melted we were handed unseasonably warm, dry weather. We Canadians like to joke that we have two seasons, Winter and July (or Winter and Construction if you’re a driver), but I think most of us enjoy the buffers between the two extremes.

Anyway, today is a perfect Spring day. And tomorrow I will bring my binoculars! There were three types of sparrows feeding at the suet block next door when I arrived.

The White-crowned Sparrows were encouraging conversation, saying, “Speak! Speak!”

The House Sparrows chuckled, “Ju-jube!” in reply.

The White-throated Sparrows, pushing back from the feeder, sang out “O sweet Canada, Canada, Canada!”

Then an alarmist Starling started spitting, “Ca-a-at! Ca-a-at!” and the party broke up for a moment. But the sparrows were soon back. Robert and Jane’s cats don’t do fences, much less tree limbs. They were simply out for a post-breakfast sniff, to sit in the back yard and enjoy this fine morning as much as I am.

Adam’s First Task

Since I’m no longer able to hide my pets’ names, I would like to explain how they acquired them. 

On March 18th (”A Cat Called Intrep-pawed”), when I explained our street kitty’s name, I was very close to telling the truth. It was a good story. The true story is just as good. The boy we babysit, Jack, wanted to call the fluffball not “The Cat Who Looks at Everything” but “The Curious Kitten.” And I, wanting both to respect the boy’s suggestion and to shorten the handle, abbreviated the name to Cuca, pronounced as in the first half of “kookaburra”, but standing for CUrious CAt. That is the true story of our cat’s name.

Our Cardigan Welsh Corgi’s name is shorter but his naming story is longer.

 We were still keeping the puppy plans a secret from Jack when his aunt and 12-year-old cousin Jon came from England for a visit. We all met in a cafe with Jack’s mum while Jack was in school.

At the time of Jon’s visit, we weren’t even sure whether we would be getting a girl or a boy puppy. To complicate matters, since our Cardi is a purebred, he or she would need both an everyday name and a registered name. We further learned that every litter has a theme. Our breeder required that the pup’s registered name, like those of its littermates, include some kind of gemstone — unless, of course, it came from the differently-themed other litter which was born a week later. And it was a good idea to have an alternate registered name suggestion, in case the one we wanted already existed for another dog somewhere else. That’s, lemme think, four registered and one common name for each sex — TEN NAMES?

Before the kaffeeklatsch, I had worked out all the necessary registered-name possibilities for a girl dog, and short-listed five or six Welsh everyday names for each sex. Jon’s mum suggested “Dyllis” as a girl’s name. I added it to the list, and we discussed whether to call the kibble “Dyllis filler” and other serious grownup topics while Jon sat in silence, thumbing the Minerals and Precious Stones book I had handed him. “Try and find a stone that would suit a boy puppy” were my instructions.

After several minutes of quiet contemplation, Jon presented a page in the book. It was a mineral I’d never heard of before, in a lovely shade of blue.

“Kyanite!” I beamed. ”Well, that settles the boy’s name, then!”

On the boys’ side of my shortlist I had “Cai”, pronounced with a hard c, rhyming with sky, meaning “to rejoice”. A gemstone-litter male would be named Cai, then. Later we worked out his registered name, “[Kennel name] Kyanite so fair”, a pun on “Cai, a knight so fair.” Later still, our breeder informed us that we would indeed be given one of the gemstone boys. He would be Cai, then. And that is the true story of our dog’s name.

And speaking of namings, we now have six entries for the Name-and-genderize-the-sea-turtle-stuffy contest! Contest closes March 30th at midnight (Samoan time). No purchase necessary! See my blog of March 24 for details!

Sibling Revelry

Lucas the street kitty is a wiry soul. When he first appeared, the size of a crumpled handkerchief, we were living in a place a few blocks from here. This is Lucas’s third apartment in two and-a-half years. Not once has he pottied outside the box or shown any other signs of maladjustment. He may have experienced a bit of stress shortly after his first birthday; but even then, he handled himself with aplomb.

The first sign that something was up was when a kennel-crate smelling of pet store was stationed in the spare room. No big deal, but it was obviously a mistake: Lucas was a streetcat, not an ocelot. Yet there the oversized cat carrier remained.

Then there was the behaviour change in his mommies. We paid more attention to him than usual, giving him soothing hugs when he wasn’t upset. Hmm. The last time we had done that was the day before he got neutered.

The final straw, though, was the exercise pen. Unaware that they come in shorter models, we bought the remaining one on sale at Canadian Tire, with four-foot-high sides. It’s made of metal wires the thickness of coat hangers, in six connected panels two feet wide each. Kinda heavy. Kinda bulky.

I grappled the thing loose from its cardboard packaging and opened it out, pushing back the furniture, to see how much floor space it took up. Then I flattened it in half, making it four feet high by six feet wide, and leaned it, almost perpendicular to the floor, against the kitchen table. Then I went to fetch a plastic tarp from the closet, to use as flooring.

All this while, Lucas was observing these latest shenanigans of his amusing biped and investigating the shiny metal contraption with delicate sniffs. Then I bumped into the table.

Down the pen tipped onto the hardwood parquet, with the force of an overturned piano and the sound of an exploding dry cleaner’s. Lucas tore around three sides of it and vaporized. He beamed down into the bedroom closet, from which he refused to emerge for four hours.

Two days later, the hominids arrived home with a funny-smelling, lop-eared, fuzzy brown thing smaller than any self-respecting cat. We tried to explain to Lucas that this was his new brother, just an innocent little baby, that’s all. “Oh, yeah?” Lucas hissed. “Well if that thing’s so harmless, why is it in a cage?”

Despite such an inauspicious beginning, Lucas has gradually warmed to the intruder. He has always been willing to teach the puppy proper etiquette (see photo); he has always slapped the dog with sheathed claws only; he has always left plenty of food for poggles after taking the first few bites. I suspect that his tolerance began changing to genuine love the first time the pup washed one of Lucas’s ears.

Now dog and cat rough-house together, greet each other with head rubs, sit side-by-side to watch a squirrel on the balcony, and hover in concern when their sibling is sick. We uprights spend more time with the high-maintenance pet than with the self-cleaning model; but the joy that the two brothers get from each other’s company alleviates any resentment that Lucas might otherwise have harboured.

A Cat Called Intrep-pawed

Our cat is a street kitty. At the time he entered our family, we were petless, a state so strange that I returned from a three-week hostelling trip expecting to see a new kitten. I even said so — silly me.

My partner and Jack, the boy we babysit, were going to a community barbecue the evening I returned. I stayed home because the time change made it feel like the party was starting at midnight. Half an hour later, I got a call.

“Jack has found a kitten. Remember you said…”

Okay, then. Out I went to locate my chosen family, scoop up our newest member with one hand, tuck it in my fleece jacket, and walk it home again. The bipeds returned later, after they had supped.

It was a dustbunny on wobbly legs, it was so young. But it was intrepid. Jack first noticed the kitten poking its head out from a bush, withdrawing, peeking out again, all on its lonesome. A thorough search of its surroundings turned up neither siblings nor momma, so this adventurous little mote must have staggered quite a ways to arrive at the bush where Jack found him. A tiny male street kitty, off to a running start (at least figuratively).

Jack wanted to name him The Kitten Who Looks At Everything which, despite its nobility, may be a bit long for everyday use. I abbreviated it to Lucas.

That was two and-a-half years ago. Lucas has grown into a fine, healthy, sturdy fellow, with a Spencer Tracy persona: aloof tough guy, embarrassed if anyone notices that he cares. He only purrs when it’s nummy time, he’ll swat first and ask questions later, but he’s always there, hovering on the periphery, keeping a half-closed eye on the rest of us.