The Unadulterated Cat Read online

  4. Cat turns up nose at it after one meal. This is a cat, you understand, that will eat dragonflies and frogs.

  Having for some time watched what cats will eat, then I can safely say that any enterprising manufacturer who markets a cat food made of steak, half-thawed turkey, grass, flies, crumbs from under tables, frogs and voles will be on to a winner. At least for one meal.

  The alternative, of course, is hunting. The theory is that a well-fed cat is better at hunting than a hungry one. The reasoning is that a plump and full cat will be more content to lie in wait for the things that need guile and patience to catch—dragonflies, frogs, robins, that sort of thing—while a hungry one will merely dash about the place filling up on ordinary rats and mice. It's not certain who first advanced this view, but it's an evens bet that they probably had fur and whiskers. Real cats don't hunt for food, but because they love you. And, because they love you, they realise that for some reason you have neglected to include in your house all those little personal touches that make it a home, and do their best to provide them. Headless shrews are always popular. For that extra splash of colour, you can't beat miniature sets of innards. For best effect such items should be left somewhere where they won't be found for some days, and can have a chance to develop a personality of their own.

  We had friends in an isolated cottage who had one cat, a big fat boot-faced thing, which'd never turn a paw to hunting despite the hordes of rats that besieged the property on every side. So they got another one, a sleek white young female who strode off into the long grass every day with a purposeful air. But, strangely, never came back with anything. Even odder, the resident huge cat began to hunt and turned up every day with something resembling a draught excluder in its mouth, or was found sitting proudly beside a miniature rodent Somme on the doorstep. Aha, they thought, spurred on by competition he's finally got cracking. What they eventually found out, as any Real cat owner would suspect, was that he was waylaying the female as she approached the house and glaring at her until she dropped the booty, then picking it up and carrying it the rest of the way. When it came to delegation, that was a cat who got someone else to write the book.

  Training and disciplining the Real cat

  Always a tricky one, this, for Real cat owners, who tend to be the types to whom parade-ground shouting and the legendary rolled-up newspaper does not come easily (if it did, they would then be one of those people with huge bounding dogs who do whatever they damn well please in a huge, jolly way to distant strains of “Prince! NO! I said NO! PUT IT DOWN! This minute! Prince! NO!” etc). What it really boils down to is the difference between Inside and Outside (cf. “Hygiene”). Most Real cats cotton on to the idea fairly quickly. Most Real cats, after all, are bright enough to know that a dry box in a corner of the kitchen is a better bet than a flower bed when the wind is blowing straight from Siberia. Their mothers apparently educate them, though much attention paid to this has been unable to fathom exactly how this is done, apart from persistently moving them around in a slightly neurotic game of kitten chess. Possibly the kittens are taken to some secret cat school where they are shown diagrams. (it's amazing how self-possessed and intelligent cats turn out to be when brought up by their mothers. We've been brought up by our mothers for millennia, and look at us. If Romulus and Remus had been reared by a cat instead of a wolf, Rome would be a different place today).

  It'd have better lavatories, for a start.

  Beyond that, you can't teach cats to do anything. No, not a thing. You might think you can, but that is because you've misunderstood what's going on. You think it's the cat turning up obediently at the back door at ten o'clock on the dot for its dinner. From the cat's point, a blob on legs has been trained to take a tin out of the fridge every night.

  Discipline—once you get beyond all the blanco and school traditions—means, If You Don't Do What I Want I'll Hit You. One problem here, of course, is that a cat is a hard animal to hit. A dog is always amenable to the famous rolled-up newspaper, whereupon it can go into the sorrowful grovelling, whining and sighing routine that would get a human actor booed off the stage. Hitting a cat is like walloping a furry glove full of pins, and doesn't make a blind bit of difference anyway. A relative who will remain unidentified until the RSPCA Statute of Limitations runs out always reckoned that a half-brick thrown the length of a garden6 was necessary even to get a cat to pay attention. Distasteful though it may seem, however, there are times when even a Real cat owner feels it necessary to Take Action. Here are some options:

  The Great Ballistic Clod of Earth

  …which is the first thing to hand when you're digging7 and you see, out of the corner of your eye, the guilty crouching shape as it sits among the cabbages and peas.8 The GBCOE is the rubber bullet of garden preservation, designed to chastise without actual death. The approved method is to hit ground zero about eighteen inches from the culprit, the resultant short sharp shower of shrapnel causing it to leap two feet vertically and suffer acute intestinal distress for the rest of the day. The trouble is, though, that the cat soon works out that you are a typical Real cat owner, ie, a soft touch, and realises that if it calls your bluff, your ferocious stance will melt and you'll just run grumbling to the United Nations. The four cats that turn our garden into a vegetable Jonestown every Spring have realised this, and sit demurely among the whizzing clods visibly thinking “Why is the funny man jumping up and down like that? And why is his aim so bad?”

  Deep Pits with Spikes at the Bottom

  Don't think this hasn't been discussed.

  Pushing them into the Pond

  Just occasionally Life gets It Right, like the time the sly alsatian from up the road decided to crap in the middle of Real cat owner's driveway just when Real cat owner was coming round the corner with a large onion in his hand.

  Even better, though, was Real cat owner waking up from a doze on the lawn to find the current incumbent of the local Mad Feral Tom slot on the edge of the goldfish pond, staring intently at what remained of the inhabitants. Real cat owner quickly learns that it is, in fact, possible to go from a recumbent position into a full-length dive. But life's a strange thing. Cats can walk on water. I'll—that is, Real cat owner'll—swear MFT leapt off the surface.

  Where was Real cat, obtained you will remember in order to keep other cats out of the garden, when this was going on? Asleep on chair in kitchen, as is always the case. Anyway, felt so bad about the way he wandered off, gave him free meal of sardines later.

  Punishment has no effect on Real cats. This is because Real cats don't associate the punishment with the crime. As far as they're concerned, shouting, slippers on a low trajectory and being talked to in a loud, patient voice are all manifestations of the general weirdness of the blobs. All you have to do to survive it is cower a wee bit and look big-eyed, and then get on with your life.

  Psychological Warfare

  You might as well challenge a centipede to an arse-kicking contest. You always start off ignoring the animal, and end up treating it with added kindness because it appears to be suffering from something.

  Calling in the Mafia

  Only in the worst case. It's beset with difficulties anyway, because:

  1. They're not in the phone book.

  2. It's expensive. Four small concrete boots still cost twice as much as two large ones, it's a bit like children's shoes.

  3. It is almost impossible to get a horse's head into a cat basket.

  Games cats play

  No, this isn't all that stuff with the bells and catnip-filled calico mice. Cats only play with special cat toys for about two minutes, when you're around, in order that you don't get depressed and stop buying them food.

  The thing to remember here is that cats only appear to be solitary animals, forever mooching around the place by themselves. In fact all cats are plugged into this sort of huge feline consciousness which transcends time and space and, in its own mind, a cat is constantly competing and measuring itself against all cats who hav
e ever existed anywhere. It's as if Steve Davis wasn't simply competing against another man in a dicky bow, but against every snooker player throughout history, right back to the first proto-hominid who needed a really mindnumbing way of spending his evenings.

  Cats have subtle, intellectual games.

  Cat chess

  This needs, as the playing area, something the size of a small village. Up to a dozen cats can take part. Each cat selects a vantage point—a roof, the coal house wall, a strategic corner or, in quiet villages, the middle of the road—and sits there. You think it's just found a nice spot to sun itself until you realise that each cat can see at least two other cats. Moves are made in a sort of high-speed slink with the belly almost touching the ground. The actual rules are a little unclear to humans, but it would seem that the object of the game is to see every other cat while remaining unseen yourself. This is just speculation, however, and it may well be that the real game is going on at some mystically higher level unobtainable by normal human minds, as in cricket.

  Wet cement

  A popular and simple cat game which archaeologists have found is as old as, well, wet cement. It consists of finding some wet cement and then running through it. There are degrees of skill, of course. Most marks are scored by running through cement which, while still being wet enough to take a pretty pattern of paw marks, is too far set for the builder to smooth them out.

  The Builder's Nice New Pile of Clean Sand

  This is similar to Wet Cement, only, er, not quite.

  Offside

  Offside is a cat game similar to Zen archery, in that it is not what is actually done but the style in which it is achieved that really matters. It consists simply of persistently being on the wrong side of

  a door, and goes on for as long as human tolerance will stand and then a bit longer. A straightforward little game, only marginally more complex than the old favourite, Staring at the fridge.

  However, there are degrees of complexity, and a skilled player of Offside will naturally choose locations which, while preternaturally difficult for humans to get to, will be soup and nuts for the cat to get away from.

  The Locked Gerbil Mystery is a case in point.

  Neighbour went away for holiday, leaving complex instructions re watering of garden, etc, but not to worry about the pullulating colony of gerbils in the dining room because distant relative Mrs Thing would drop in every day, or two to keep an eye on them.

  Night comes, but not accompanied by Real cat. Familiar midnight performance, standing outside back door banging plate with spoon and calling out cat's name in squeaky voice, you know how you do, in tones that you hope will attract cat while not waking neighbours. Fancy takes hold, fears of lorries, foxes, traps float across mind.

  Answer rises with dreadful inevitability, like boiling milk. Take torch, put on dressing gown, pad through dewy grass to picture-window of neighbour's house. Cat is sitting dribbling on dining table, watching vibrating gerbil colony, which is going mad. Treadmills are squeaking frantically in the night.

  Mrs Thing must have been and Real cat, always on the look out for new experiences, must have wandered into the house while the door was open.

  Do what any Real cat owner does in these circumstances, but cat takes no notice of shouts and threats. Run around house looking for open window, but all has been sealed tight against burglars, ie, self.

  Run back home. Wasn't listening properly to instructions, can't remember who Mrs Thing really is or where she lives. Also, how long is a day or two? Gerbils seem to live indefinitely in Spaceship Gerbil, with huge food hopper and nothing to do but make more gerbils. Whereas cat eats with knife, fork and hammer and has hair-trigger appetite. How long can it last? How long can it last on gerbil?

  Run back again, try garage door, miraculously been left open, bang clong thud in the misty dawn, Neighbourhood Watchers probably already have digit poised to press the third 9, police will arrive deedabdeedah, pull the other one, chummy, it's got bells on, neighbours summoned from hotel bed in Majorca, may or may not corroborate story, will have crime record, finally, shunned in street, We Are All Guilty…

  Still door from garage into house itself. Locked. Wonder if situation justifies breaking in but neighbours away for fortnight, can't leave house with broken door, will have to get carpenter, etc, in, and he won't be able to come along for probably three weeks. Look under door. See cat paws. Cat has turned up to watch entertainment. Peer through keyhole, all dark, key still in there…

  Sudden flashback. Eagle comic, c. 1958. Tips for Boys No. 5: Beating the Burglar. Apparently miscreants push newspaper under door, twiddle key in lock with special key twiddler, key drops down onto paper, paper pulled back under door.

  Home again, grab paper, tweezers, three-in-one oil, run back, twiddle, twiddle, key drops down, pull paper, there is key. Unbelievable but true.

  Unlock door. Cat no longer visible. Run from room to room. Thousands of frightened eyes stare from tower tenement block that is gerbil colony, even sex isn't so interesting as watching damp, crazed, dressing-gown wearer charging around room. Search under beds. Look out of window, see Real cat strolling down drive.

  Neighbour had turned water off before going on holiday. This had meant lifting floorboard in washroom. This had left easy access to huge draughty space under bungalow, with dozens of entry holes for inquisitive cats. Slam board down, stamp heavily, break tap…

  Another old favourite among cat games is:

  Being Good

  Doesn't sound much like a game, but the most important rule about Being Good is that the cat should be good in such a way as to cause maximum trouble to its owner who can't however give it a thump because it is manifestly Being Good. We had a cat who would, very occasionally, catch some small, inoffensive and squeaky creature and leave it on the scraper mat outside the door. You know—those flat scrapers that are rather like a chip slicer, with lots of little blades sticking up? And, of course, first thing in the morning you don't look down as you step out… This might, of course, be a real cat's way of food preparation. But we knew, and it knew, that in reality it was Being Good.

  Schrodinger

  [“And I say you must have left a window open”]

  Cats

  All cats are now Schrodinger cats. Once you understand that, the whole cat business falls into place.

  The original Schrodinger cats were the offspring of an infamous quantum mechanics experiment of the 1930s (or possibly they weren't the original ones. Possibly there were no original ones.)

  Everyone's heard of Erwin Schrodinger's famous thought experiment. You put a cat in a box with a bottle of poison, which many people would suggest is about as far as you need go. Then you add a little bottle-smashing mechanism which may—or may not–smash the bottle; it all depends on random nuclear thingummies being given off by some radioactive material. This is also in the box. It is a large box. Now, according to quantum theory, the cat in the box is both a wave and a particle… hang on, no. What it is, because of all these quantums, is in a state of not actually being either alive or dead,9 but both and neither at the same time, until the observer lifts the lid and, by the act of observation, sort of fixes the cat in space/time etc. He's either looking at a candidate for the sad patch, or a spitting ball of mildly-radioactive hatred with bits of glass in it. The weird part about it is that, before the lid is lifted, not only the cat's future but also its immediate past are both undecided. It might have had been dead for five minutes, for example.

  That's the story that got into the textbooks, anyway.

  If you can believe it. It's like the one about one twin staying here and the other going off to Sirius at the speed of light and coming back and finding his brother is now a grandfather running a huge vegetable wholesale operation in Bradford. How does anyone know? Has anyone met them? What was it like on Sirius, anyway?

  Less well known is the work by a group of scientists who failed to realise that Schrodinger was talking about a “thought experi
ment” 10, and did it. Box, radioactive source, bottle of poison, everything. And the cat, of course.

  They left out one important consideration, though. While the observer might not know what was going on, the cat in the box damn well would. We can assume that if the prospect of hanging concentrates the mind, then the inkling that, any minute now, some guy in a white coat is going to lift the lid and there's a fifty-fifty chance that you are dead already, does wonders for the brain. Spurred by this knowledge, and perhaps by all the quantums floating around the laboratory, the cat nipped around a corner in space-time and was found, slightly bewildered, in the janitor's cupboard.

  Evolution is always quick to exploit a new idea, however, and this novel way of getting out of tricky situations was soon passed on to its offspring. It had a large number of offspring.

  Given its new-found talent, this is not surprising.

  The important gene was so incredibly dominant that now many cats have a bit of Schrodinger in them. It is characterised by the ability to get in and out of locked boxes, such as rooms, houses, fridges, the thing you swore you put it in to take it to the vet, etc. If you threw the cat out last night, and this morning it's peacefully asleep under your bed, it's a Schrodinger cat.

  There is a school of thought which says there is in fact a sort of negative Schrodinger gene.

  Whereas your full-blown Schrodinger can get in and out of the most unusual places there are cats, it has been pointed out, that would find it difficult to get out of a hoop with both ends open. These are the cats that you normally see, or rather, you normally hear behind fridges, in those dead little areas behind kitchen storage units, in locked garages and, in one case known to us, inside the walls (dreadful Edgar Allan Poetic visions led to a hole being knocked into the cavity a little way from the noise, which of course caused the cat—definitely a Real cat—to retreat further from the noise; it came out 24 hours later, dragged by the scent of a plate of food). But we are inclined to believe that this is not so and that these are merely examples of Offside (see “Games cats play”).