I never thought that cats could be trained until I read an article in a very interesting book on felines, entitled “The Little Big Book of Cats“, and even then I was skeptical as I took out the material necessary to clicker-train my cat, Kiwi (R.I.P.). Believe it or not, clicker-training was not only a very simple technique to make your cat understand that a certain action = a treat, it also actually worked! I was never able to show off the results of my training to anybody else than my immediate family, but at the time that Kiwi passed away I was writing an article about the procedure. Read it here!

TO EACH CAT HIS CATEGORY - (c) September 5th, 2007

“He’s got light blond hair, almost orange but not quite. Medium-long. And beautiful yellow-green eyes,” I described our new family member over the phone to my friend Kayla. I came close to adding, “He’s also the Lazy-Learner type,” but decided not to. Already enough people considered me crazy, and I wasn’t looking for any more. In fact, I wondered how I could regain my reputation as a sane girl, maybe a little hyper and slightly addicted to my new laptop, but overall, quite normal.

That was before we had cats. Now, I’m not only hyper and addicted to my laptop, I can’t live a day without a digital camera in hand (I take about two or three hundred photos a week), I spend hours imagining all sorts of terrible things that could happen to my beloved kitties, I change clothes every hour or so because they are covered with cat hair, I spend all my allowances on furry cat toys that are destroyed within a day, and I have taken to the habit of keeping cat treats in my pajama drawer all the time. (Needless to say, our three cats spend most of their lives staring at the dresser in my bedroom, expecting the top drawer to magically pop open and send kibbles flying downward, straight into their open mouths…)

Worst of all, I secretly classify cats. There are lots of ways to classify cats, of course – there are tabby cats and tortoiseshell cats, flat-nosed cats such as the Persian and long-faced felines such as Siamese cats, there are brown-eyed cats, green-eyed cats, and even orange-eyed cats – yes, there are countless ways to classify cats. But the strangest and yet most relevant way to classify a cat is one that I invented one day as I was doing my math homework – I spend much of my studying time pondering over new ideas and having useless thoughts such as, why do streetlights exist if nobody respects their signals?

My new way of classification is behavior. Of course, I don’t have latin names such as felix behavioralis lazinis and felix behavioralis exitis. I don’t even know how to speak latin, so my poor substitute is a range of peculiar English names: there’s the Sleep’n Eat cat, who spends his days snoozing on a windowsill and eating once in a while. Then, there is the Lazy-Learner cat who is very smart but doesn’t want to learn – Sacha is one of those. There is also the Eager cat, who is curious and eager to know everything. Our cat who crossed the Rainbow Bridge last May, Kiwi, was one of those. Coming last is the Plain Stupid cat who wants to do his own stuff (mainly sleeping and eating) and doesn’t care about the rest.

Choosing the names is an easy task. The classification itself is another story. That’s how I often end up inventing another category for every cat I meet. Kiwi was the easiest to classify – each and every one of his brain cells could have been described as “eager”. He was the type of cat who wouldn’t drink the old water in his forgotten bowl – instead, he would jump on the kitchen table, plunge his head in the pitcher and lap up the fresh water from our last meal. He was the type of cat who would rather eat the bigger handful of kibble, even if it was further away. He was the type of cat who wouldn’t check for an intruder each time he passed by a mirror – once he’d found out there was no enemy behind it and, instead, a wall that isn’t pleasant to bump your nose on, he would remember. He was the type of cat who would stand by the table and watch you with such a pitiful look that you felt compelled to give him something to eat. He was the type of cat who would learn how to give you high-fives within minutes, and spend hours doing tricks just to get the treats he deserved. He was the type of cat who would come when called, contrary to the popular saying: “Dogs come when they are called. Cats take a message and get back to you later.”

When I had classified Kiwi, it was easier to classify Sacha. Just as Kiwi was an eager learner, Sacha was the “Lazy-Learner” type. He was the type of cat who wouldn’t wait for you to show him how to high-five – he would rather walk straight to the treat container and serve himself. I tried with every kind of treat I could think of, including ground beef, but Sacha was stubborn and very determined to get the treats before the lesson. Needless to say, he got the treats, but I quickly gave up on the lessons…

Another characteristic of the Lazy-Learner type is its uncanny ability to ignore each and every kind of attempt of an invitation. Well, sometimes he does come. Whereas you will notice another of the Lazy-Learner’s strange ways: if you kneel down three or four meters away and show the cat your clean fingertip, he will ignore you so much it hurts. But if by any chance your finger is coated with milk (which is quite transparent, therefore perfectly invisible, I remind you), a Lazy-Learner will hurriedly scramble towards you and delicately lick your finger clean.

Such things you notice when you live with several cats – presently, I’m trying to figure out in which categories our two new kittens fit. Each and every cat is unique, and this is why, each time I meet a new one while walking on the street, I watch him carefully and think to myself a brand new name for this type of behavior. Sometimes, I actually say it out loud. I wonder what Kayla thought the other day when we met this Siamese cat and I mumbled, “Quick Come, Quick Gone”.

That hits me suddenly as I stand with the phone stuck to my ear. Of course, Kayla already thinks I’m crazy.

“What did you say? It didn’t get through, the line’s bad,” says Kayla as I regain my senses.

“He’s got beautiful yellow-green eyes,” I repeat. And then I add, ignoring her puzzled reaction, “He’s also the Lazy-Learner type.” I don’t really care what she thinks about me, anyway. Once you’ve got the reputation of an insane girl who is slightly hyper and is addicted to her new laptop, it doesn’t hurt much to add the fact that you invent countless categories and classify each feline you meet. After all, we’re all unique, aren’t we?

I love writing about my cats… On this blog, I will post some of my favorite works for you to read. I hope that you will enjoy them! Please leave a comment to let me know what you think.

The story I will share with you today is about my cats’ habit of hunting – and some funny things that have happened thus.

SURVIVING THE MIGHTY HUNTER – (c) 2007

I never thought that hunting could be a hazard to my cats’ health. Of course, they would pick up some worms and would be in need of an occasional de-worming session at the vet, but even though the bills would add up high over the years, it would be well worth it. Sacha, Pollux and Kashmir lived for hunting and would be miserable without their daily preys.

As I expected, they survive hunting. It’s not really dangerous for them, as long as they catch reasonable prey, and they simply love the fresh meat. But for the humans, it isn’t as easy as you may think to survive such mighty hunters. The prey is the first thing you must learn to endure; I almost had a heart attack on the day when, as I was working on the laptop in my messy bedroom, Pollux trotted up the stairs, greeted me and settled down on the pile of dirty clothes that cluttered my floor. As I was typing away on a diary entry, I watched him from the corner of my eyes, amused at his playful rolling and other kitten antics. When he started softly growling, though, I turned around to look more carefully, and saw him viciously attacking a favorite sweater of mine. Knowing that he could easily tear apart the fabric, I lifted him up and placed him outside of my room. As I returned to my diary entry, I saw him rush back towards my clothes and eagerly start digging through the pile.

Curious to see what he was up to, I edged closer and watched with horror as I saw him grab a dead mouse, shake it hard, and then let go so it flew right at me.

I scrambled backwards and observed him from as far as I could get; I knew that he would soon begin eating, and my clothes (which are, needless to say, a very important part of my life) would all be stained with mouse blood, which really didn’t appeal to me, so I tried to figure out a way to get cat and mouse out of the room (and house, if possible).

As I pondered over this difficult matter, I saw Kashmir peacefully walking down the hall, streching, yawning, and purring all at once. Obviously he had just woken up from a long afternoon nap, and hadn’t regained all his senses yet, as I realized when he tripped over his own legs. My first reaction was to chase him away: one cat with a mouse was enough – I didn’t need two cats with a mouse. But suddenly, I knew I was wrong. Those kittens were always jealous of each other, and now was the time to take advantage of it.

I quickly snatched sleepy Kashmir, placed him on my pile of clothes and pushed his nose to the ground. Sleepy Kashmir suddenly wasn’t that sleepy anymore as he quickly sniffed the area, and before Pollux had the time to realize his brother had joined him, Kashmir had the mouse firmly stuck between his two rows of sharp kitten teeth and fled.

I hurried downstairs, opened the front door, and watched in awe as Kashmir slipped through the crack and quickly retreated under the porch, followed closely by jealous, confused Pollux. Problem solved!

It wasn’t as simple with Sacha, though…

Sacha loves hunting, and goes into depression when he can’t hunt. Of course, the countryside is the best place to hunt, but when the summer holiday is over and we go back to Montreal, Sacha doesn’t want to stop hunting. This has never proved to be a problem until last summer, when after the long drive to the big city, Sacha’s depression didn’t last as long as usual, for the simple reason that he had found a solution. He would hunt in the city.

His first urban hunting expedition was held one warm Saturday evening when our neighbours were hosting an outdoor birthday party with family friends. My sister and I had a pal over as well, and we were chatting on the back porch when Sacha appeared from nowhere, a dead mouse hanging from the corner of his mouth. Our neighbours and their guests politely ignored him as he started the “ritual” – the classical “catch” games before the meal started – only a couple of meters away from their table.

As we heard the final “crunch-crunch” coming from Sacha’s powerful jaws, I felt as if I had never been so ashamed of my cat. Not only was he devouring a mouse at our neighbours’ birthday party, but he was also devouring it in front of my friend, an ex-hamster owner and rodent lover… Little did I know he was about to shock me twice as badly, only a few minutes away…

When he had gulped down his catch, Sacha vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. I forgot him for a while and we went on chatting on the back porch, when I heard a faraway squeal that strangely sounded like a kitten, or at least, a young animal. Knowing that Sacha loved getting into trouble, I immediately knew that he had something to do with this strange sound, and whistled for him to come.

The squealing gradually grew louder, and then we heard an unusual scratching sound coming from the garden. Wondering (and, I must admit, fearing) what he could have brought home this time, I walked down the stairs to meet a very proud Sacha facing his second prey of the evening. I still shiver when I think of the moment when I understood what it was.

Apparently, the mouse hadn’t been big enough. Sacha clearly was in for some real hunting that night, so he had caught the next size up that was available (all the squirrels were asleep by then) – a skunk. And now I was standing face to face with a young, inexperienced skunk that didn’t feel comfortable with the situation (and God knows what a skunk does when not feeling at ease), and a cat who was enjoying himself tremendously. As it is not an easy task to catch a skunk, my first reaction was to catch the cat, but Sacha knew what was coming. A quick swat threw the skunk to the ground; Sacha grabbed its neck and carried it away before I had a chance to seize him. The skunk easily wiggled out of his grip and scrambled away, but Sacha would not let go of such an interesting prey. Naturally, he went right after it.

It turns out that the skunk was a very sociable one and, seeking for human company, decided to run toward our neighbours’ dinner party, instead of straight into the bushes where any sensible skunk would have escaped. I shrieked a warning and as the party guests froze to their seats, I ran after Sacha and tried to grab whatever part of him I could get hold of – most likely his tail.

That night, I learned that it’s sometimes better not to listen to a neighbour’s advice. Especially if this neighbour has just learned that yes, cats actually eat mice. This particular neighbour had no idea what a cat can do to a skunk – and what a skunk can do to a cat. And I actually followed her advice not to catch Sacha, for the simple reason that until then, I had believed adults were always right.

That was one big mistake. Of course, Sacha and the skunk disappeared in the bushes, and evidently Sacha wouldn’t come back if I called. All of us knew that the only time he would come home was either when he had eaten the skunk, or when the skunk, well, had sprayed him. And any normal human being knows that a cat cannot possibly eat a skunk without getting sprayed.

We all stood silently in the garden, wondering what would happen next. Honestly, I think we had all guessed by now what was next to come. We got our tomato juice out and filled the sink with soapy water…

At one point, one of our neighbours’ guest sniffed the air and said, “Uh-oh.” They quickly moved inside the house as I whistled for Sacha. This time, he came, and as it was only hand-washable, I took off my beautiful brand new sweater before I picked up my beloved – and now very smelly – pet. Thus we gave a very reluctant Sacha a bath at ten thirty PM, and when I went to bed that night, I closed my bedroom door so he would not make my room stink.

It wasn’t the end of the story yet. The next morning, as usual, my dad woke up early and let Sacha go outside for his early morning run. Half-an-hour later, he opened the door to a very miserable cat with a greasy face and puffy eyes, and this time Sacha was really ashamed of himself. Not only had he disgraced his humans and crashed his neighbours’ party, he had also somehow managed to get two baths in less than eight hours. All because, by pure coincidence, he had caught the very same skunk once again. If it had been a different skunk, surely, it wouldn’t have sprayed him square in the face…

Needless to say, Sacha never approached a skunk again. I wonder, though, when he will come home with a dozen porcupine needles stuck in his muzzle. Or with a budgie in his mouth. Well, it might be tomorrow, or it might be never. That’s how it goes when you have hunting cats. You’re in for a lot of surprises!