The Cat Whisperer (LynnK)

Photo by Jose Libres Librodo

Back in the 80's, my sister hired a “Cat Psychic” to, well, I’m not sure what. Read the cat’s mind? Good luck with that!

It related to a health problem the vets couldn’t figure out, so maybe the cat could communicate the source of trouble to the psychic. That was the theory. We never learned how it would turn out because the psychic, pleading family duties, cancelled the appointment.

I saw it as $50 saved from going down the drain. Especially when the cat came south to live with me and the symptoms vanished. A matter of location and allergies, I suspect. Maybe the psychic would have elicited the information in her mysterious way.

I’d forgotten all that until just lately, when I came across several articles about the new art or science or fantasy of “Cat Whisperers.” In the interest of full disclosure, let me say that I’m pretty skeptical about those who charge money to locate ghosts, tell fortunes, or communicate with animals and the dear departed.

It’s nothing new, our wish to reach beyond ourselves and find a link with what interests us, or what we most care about. Quacks have been around to exploit that primal need since time began. And so, perhaps, have true practitioners been around, their gifts unrecognized by those turned off by the fakery. Like me. But let me also say I’d love to be convinced otherwise.

It would take a bolt from the blue, I suppose. An astonishing revelation out of nowhere. Or, perhaps, a beloved pet gone wholly to seed.

The editor of Species Link estimates there are 2000 or more animal whisperers, half a hundred books on the subject, and—get this—whisperers often work with via phone or email. I have visions of Dell’s technicians in India trying to diagnose my computer problems, except that I can’t understand what they are saying.

Leanne Italie, in an AP article, tells how she was troubled when the whisperer she hired to deal with ten-year-old sister cats told her the cats thought their food tasted like sawdust. Italie felt they wouldn’t know about sawdust, but the whisperer assured her that “Animals have normal vocabularies like you and me.”

I must start watching my language around here!

In a more comprehensive report, Kirsten Weir of Salon writes about her loving, troubled, rambunctious kitten who eventually settled down . . . except for the biting. We’re not talking nibbles here, or “love licks.” Between sessions of affectionate purring and nuzzling, Thompson was clamping down and drawing blood. Weir went looking for help.

Picture by Mignon Khargie, Salon

A good journalist, she began with the science of cat behavior, in particular as it compares with dogs. Turns out that when it comes to domesticated animals, the cat stands apart. All the others are pack or herd animals, accustomed to cooperating. Humans exploited that characteristic and put them to work. Some of the animals, like dogs with protective or friendly instincts, were eventually invited to become pets.

Cats, on the other hand, moved in to exploit food sources turned up by human agriculture, pouncing on mice and rats drawn to stores of grain. They didn’t come looking for company or asking how they could be as of help. Being solitary by nature, they have a “What’s in it for me?” attitude. Then again, they are generally low-maintenance.

The whisperer Weir chose, Mieshelle Nagelschneider, is a “cat behaviorist” working to develop a TV show with a major network. Weir first completed a questionnaire about her cat’s environment and behavior. Then, in a phone consultation, the diagnosis was reached: Thompson the cat had low self-esteem.

Yeah. I had the same reaction most of you are having. It’s a cliche. Besides, cats esteem themselves just fine. Usually to an excess. And why would low self-esteem cause a cat to bite the hand that feeds it?

For the whole story, you should real the comprehensive, witty article. Especially you, Suz! Perhaps Nagelschneider can figure out what’s going on with Mandy and how to fix it. Her plan of action for Thompson required some work, but it appears to have worked out really well. I tried a long time to create a link, but Blogger was cranky and wouldn't take it. Best I can do is provide the URL for Weir’s piece in Salon:
http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/03/19/cat_whisperer

On a related subject, I hadn’t realized that dog people and cat people were on opposite sides of some line or other. There’s no rivalry. Really.
And we StoryBroads appear to be perfectly balanced:
Lynn and Suz: Cats only
Tara and Pat: Dogs only
Krissie and Maggie: Cats and Dogs

Then again, I can’t resist mentioning that in the world of pets, there are 13 million more cats than dogs. Must be a reason for that!

Re-Entry (LynnK)

After nearly three months in a world not my own, I seem to be returning to earth. I’m hoping so, anyway. And like the space capsules I’m old enough to remember, I landed in the water.

Since early March, I’ve scarcely gone anywhere or done anything. Singing wasn’t painful, so I managed to rehearse and perform in a concert last Saturday night. Once a week, I staggered out for groceries and other essential errands. Otherwise, I had all the mobility of a cave drawing.

Until Monday, when I wrestled my too, too solid flesh into a bathing suit and dragged myself to water aerobics. The long stretch of virtual immobility (not much room to move in a 500-sq-ft apartment) had packed on at least fifteen pounds, and unlike my skin, my clothes won’t stretch to accommodate them. I needed exercise. Baaaad.

Krissie, another fan of water aerobics, can testify to the benefits. Even a body in pain can move freely and without undue stress in the water. But she lives a long distance from the nearest pool, and the winter in Vermont is frigid. I have no such problem, the heated pool being a mile away and winter temperatures plunging to, oh, the high 50's. Even so, I can’t bear what is, for me, the intolerable cold of a Coronado winter. I hadn’t done aerobics since October.

Nearly all the Aqua-Naughties were there, ostensibly glad to see me again, and there was lots of joking around. I did more moving in one hour than I’d done in months. Muscles that must have thought themselves retired for life were suddenly performing frog leaps, cross-country, pendulums, roly-polies, and sinkers.

On Tuesday, I started paying the price for my exertions. Every part of my body was protesting the pain. Who knew hair could hurt?! But Wednesday I went back, and yesterday I hurt even more.

Nonetheless, I’ll be there again tonight. This pain, unlike the agony produced by the damnable Shingles, is productive. And I’m weary of being the helpless victim of a mean-spirited virus. Outa my way, herpes zoster. I have things to do.

I’m also feeling miserably self-absorbed, which I detest. So many of my friends are dealing with serious problems involving the people they most love–husbands, children, grandchildren, brothers and sisters and parents–where I have only my own pain to grieve about. Not that I haven’t been through the other, excepting offspring, of which I have none. Now I have only a cat, who is doing just fine.

But resentful, from time to time, whenever I clip his claws or clean his ears. Not because of those things, though. He mourns, without exactly being aware of it, the loss of the treat that always used to follow these assaults on his person.

Anyssinians have a tendency to develop gingivitis, and to help combat it, I rewarded him (directly after claw-clipping, etc.) with what looked something like a small rawhide chew stick given to dogs. These ones taste like chicken–I’m taking the package’s word for that–and are fully digestible. The cat liked them a lot. After demolishing one, he’d stretch out like a pasha and give his ragged claws a manicure.


So naturally, about three years ago, the pet stores stopped carrying the chewies. I tried every place in town, pretty much. There was a similar product, someone told me, that I could order on-line. But by the time they added enormous shipping and handling charges, a package cost three times its regular price. I do supply premium cat food, Petromalt, teeth-brushing, and the like, but I couldn’t bring myself to pay extortion rates for pig-in-a-poke chewies.

This only became an issue once a month, when the cat permitted me to groom him and then waited with a hopeful expression for his reward. My explanations cut no mustard with him. He’d proceed to the kitchen cabinet where the treasure had formerly been stored and sit there looking from it to me. Me to it. It to me.

Then he'd go to his favorite perch and fix his gaze on me with the unmistakable message of an aggrieved Abycat:

"Ah, Lynn, you are a great disappointment to me.”

Eventually, in the way of cats, he forgot. And so it went for a couple of years, with him enduring the indignities of claw-clipping and ear-cleaning without any reward except petting, of which he gets plenty anyway.

Then . . . a miracle. Yesterday I ventured out for long-postponed errands, moving with all the grace of Robbie the Robot, and at Petco, I found NuBone chewy thingies! Not the same brand or appearance, but they seem designed for the same purposes.

Will the cat like them? Give me a look of tolerant approval? I dunno. They’re still in the car, which I had to park a long way away. By the time I hauled in the perishables, I was knackered.

He senses something, though. The vibration of impending treats has perked up his ears. He’s fixing me with one of his “get-to-it” looks. Something wonderful this way comes.

And I’m having the same experience. Slowly but steadily, I’m starting to feel better. I have a fun trip in July to look forward to. If not for the (semi)-rigorous dieting and exercise between now and then, I might be positively cheerful.

Really, I ought to fulfill ineffable cat-longings by going out into the night and retrieving chewies from the car. And I would, if I had the vaguest notion where it was parked.

The spirit is willing, the body is semi-functional, but the mind is still lost in space.

She's Baaaack (LynnK)

Well, sorta. Not altogether and full-force, but then, I’m rarely all together and hardly ever forceful. These days, my standards are not high.

It’s amazing, really, how much energy and strength leaches away after two virtually motionless months. Doing a load of laundry yesterday put me out of breath. A trip to the grocery story is akin to invading a small, hostile country. Tonight I walked to choir practice, maybe half a mile each way on level ground, and by the time I got home, I felt as if I’d crossed the Nefud desert.

But the pain is much, much less now, and I no longer have to spend sleepless nights sitting upright in a chair gazing blankly at the TV screen. The plumbing is working, for a change. And except for the Infinity Construction Project next door, no one is building or repairing anything in my immediate vicinity.

My standard for happiness has definitely hit rock bottom. Slight mobility, only moderate pain, and a growing belief that the Shingles viruses are about done with me. Huzzah!

My brain is not quite so fuzzy now, or so I fancy. I no longer spend agonizing days and sleepless nights exploring mindless stuff on the Internets. But you would not believe what’s going on out there. Or what managed to catch my faltering attention.

For example, I’ve been trying to teach myself Lolcat. It’s a language, sort of,
for cats if they bothered to talk, which appears to have originated at the website I Can Has Cheezburger?
http://icanhascheezburger.com/
I’d previously enjoyed the pictures and captions there, like this example.




But I hadn’t realized that a sort of cult (like Star Trek fans who learn to speak Klingon) had grown up around the cat-lingo. And now, on a Wiki site, lolcat fans are busy translating . . . wait for it . . .
the Bible.
Lolcatbible.com

Yup. It probably takes a warped sense of humor, which I was born with, to get a kick out of this. And with about 2/3rds of the work accomplished, I expect all the good Bible sections are taken. But if I have a recurrence of the pain, which has happened a couple times since I started improving, I may put my hand to a psalm or something. Lymond would be so proud.



Lik I carz!







Nah. Truth is, I’m having withdrawal pains. Feeling lousy makes even useless silliness shine like diamonds. It helped me through a bad time. Besides, I’m drawn to lolcat because, unlike every foreign language on the planet, it might just be easy enough for me to learn.

I can practically hear Pat Potter all the way from Memphis ordering me to get a grip and get back to work on something useful. Okaaay, girlfriend. Will do.

But meantime, for those of you not in a mood to work at this moment, here’s the lolcat version of a familiar biblical passage. In lolcat, it’s all about bad spelling. Oh, and God is Ceiling Cat.

Ceiling Cat iz mai sheprd (which is funni if u knowz teh joek about herdin catz LOL.)
He givz me evrithin I need.
He letz me sleeps in teh sunni spot
an haz liek nice waterz r ovar thar.
He makez mai soul happi
an maeks sure I go teh riet wai for him. Liek thru teh cat flap insted of out teh opin windo LOL.
I iz in teh valli of dogz, fearin no pooch,
bcz Ceiling Cat iz besied me rubbin' mah ears, an it maek me so kumfy.
He letz me sit at teh taebl evn when peepl who duzint liek me iz watchn.
He givz me a flea baff an so much gooshy fud it runz out of mai bowl LOL.
Niec things an luck wil chase me evrydai
an I wil liv in teh Ceiling Cats houz forevr.

May you all live safe, well-fed, and blessed forever by Ceiling Cat. Srsly!

Cat Scan (Lymond de Sevigny)

Two sun-cycles ago, when I saw the Can-Opener pack a bag and arrange for someone to feed me, I knew something was up. Still not sure what, though. She went to see the vet, I think, but he sent her home again. That's good for me.

He gave her medicine, too. It's supposed to stop the hurting, but it makes her throw up. See, I'm not the only one barfs on the carpet! So she's not moving a lot, which makes for a lot of lap time for me. And she's a little cranky, but that might relate to something called "doing taxes."

She also got to catch up on Battlestar Gallactica, which was too loud for my taste. I'm a Jane Austen fan. Oh, and what does "frack" mean?

Anyhow. Looks like what Lynn's got will pass in a few weeks, so not to worry. She will be just fine. That's what she tells me, anyway. Like I worry about anything!

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

King of All I Survey.
This is my "Feed Me" stare. But the Can-Opener has got her nose buried in a book. Where are your priorities?!

Deep Thought:
I am, therefore I am.

Leftover turkey for lunch. Again.
Tryptophan.
Naptime.

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

It's almost Halloween. Bring me treats.





Peel me a mouse.







And thereby hangs a tale.