Lately 2 of the Frankenkitties have taken to lunch, dine and sup at the House of chaos. Both Frankinneke and Frankeminneke tend to be a tad skittish, but respond to our pettings well, with quite thunderous purrs. Yet the feline denizens of the House are not allowed to approach them.

There is an interesting distinction to be made between feral and house cats. I can see it most clearly when I observe Frankinneke, the more adventurous of the twain, exploring the House of Chaos: Hrimnir will try to stalk her, it’s play of course, but he can’t grasp the sad fact that Frankinneke does not play at all. She regards his play-stalking as a nuisance at best, or rather imminent danger to her lithe and lean petite self. She responds with threat and violence. And that leaves Hrimmikins confused because he knows not better than other felines being purrfect playmates.

Ferals don’t have time for play. They don’t have leisure for mock-fights. For them everyday life is a constant and repeated struggle for survival. They eat, but don’t enjoy the food because they must work hard to get it and will not always get it at all. They love to be petted, but remain ever vigilant throughout because you never know when you will be attacked and rest assured that your enemies will attach you when you are at your most vulnerable – like when you let your guard down in order to fully absorb that most sensuous of sensations which is being petted. The ferals never bask completely oblivious to the world in the sun like the house cats do, even though they would enjoy the warm life-giving rays as well. They will, curled up on some strategic spot or in a safe haven, yet must need remain ever watchful. It’s a huge difference in quality of life. They don’t play, they are serious, because play consumes energy and energy is too scarce to waste like that and must be reserved for the serious business of hunting-for-food and fending-off-the-others. There is not time nor leasure for joy. There is only need.

Our house cats have the luxury of being able to remain big kittens: they can sleep safely, eat safely, play safely. The only need they know is when their feeding bowls are empty and they wonder what is going wrong with the simians. They know not want, because everything is in a paw’s reach: a warm soft place to sleep on, a simian hand to groom or pet you, a toy to play with, food to eat at leisure. One indignant meow, and a simian rushes in to do your bidding. One imperious paw on leg or arm, and your wish is granted. No enemies. No fear.

But Frankinneke finds a kind of solace in the House of Chaos she won’t find outside in the danger-filled and hungry world. For this tiny-built feral our beloved House is a safe haven filled with undreamed-of wonders. And one of these wonders is… the mousy-go-round.

It’s some kind of toy, in which a toy mouse is attached to a stick that rotates around a central axle. Tap the mouse and it goes round and round. Tap it hard and it goes whirrrr. To Frankinneke the feral it’s a wondrous toy with the added bonus that it doesn’t bite and stays in one place – more or less. She’s fascinated by the ever-running-round mouse and tries to catch it again and again. Tries to by smarter by forecasting its moves and leaping in front of it. Tries her very best to gnaw at what she can through the slits of the toy. And all the time she forgets to be on her guard and forgets that others could be stalking about and attack her.

Which -strangely- they don’t. They leave her alone. It is as if they know there exists a personal no-play zone around this kitty and they respect it.

But when she lies curled up and snoring blissfully on top of the pile of dirty laundry in the Veranda of Chaos, a curious feline denizen might approach her and take a tentative and cautious sniff. By now our feral kitty has learned not to wake up in full furious wrath, but to first slowly open her lovely eyes, and subsequently open wide her porcelain collection repository for a perfect execution of that good old wide yawn that broadcasts to the world that here lies a kitty content and lazy. The feline denizen will withdraw a pace or two, but remain fixed in abject fascination at such a marvellous display of yawncatship. Frankinneke has mastered the art of studied indifference, that many a feral needs in order to avoid life-threatening battles.

It’s hard to imagine that this little fluff-ball of purring kitty can at the same time be an imminent explosion of full-out ferocity, a meat-grinder of some notoriety, the lady other cats -even tomcats- give wide berth to. When you’re tiny you’d better be ruthless.

That cute she-kitty ?

Image below:
Frankinneke playing with the mousy-go-round…

Oh yes, and notice the kitten ? The latest addition to the Feline Company of the House of Chaos, his will be the next tale here. His name is Frankendrolleke and he is possibly the son of either Frankinneke or Frankeminneke – we’re not sure. What we are sure of, however, is that he’s one persistent little stubborn bugger !

It’s been a long time, but we’re back. And thus we visit again the Carnival of the Cats (hosted by Nikita’s Place) , Weekend Cat Blogging (hosted by Digicats) and the Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos (hosted on Dec 6 by Kashim & Othello and Salome). Also, do not forget to visit the Cat Blogosphere if you want to hop in with your friends !

Loup-Garou has been struggling with a hematoma in his ear lately. The Man in White had gently drained the hematoma and then injected something that was supposed to stop the ear from filling up again. To no avail alas, and so one Monday morning the Mistress was forced to email her manager that she was going to come in later and bring the hapless feline to the Man in White for follow-up treatment.

To say that the ear was nearly bursting is an understatement. I really was wondering what would happen first: Loup-Garoup scratching it open or the seams bursting. Fortunately the Man in White is deft with a syringe. He plunked it in and lo and behold we had a veritable fountain of yellowish fluid. Followed by a bit of blood at the end and Loup-Garou complaining.

A new dose of the stop-swelling fluid was injected and the Man in White supposed that if this didn’t work we had to go for more radical measures, which would have our black furry friend ending up with a shriveled ear. Just like our woofie Critter had.
Fortunately we are now one week further and it seems as if the swelling hasn’t come back. Loup-Garou now sports a rakish floppy ear. And is still not amused.

The same day, however, would not end in peace. When I returned from my work Bouncing Psycho remarked that someone is bleeding badly. Indeed, I had only to follow the blood trail from the living room to the garden and find little Frankette suffering the most grieveous leg-wound I’ve ever seen on a kitty. Man, she was bleeding ! I mean, literally running empty. No time was wasted, the poor kitty was thrown into the travel cage -which she promptly sh*tted in fear- and driven to the Man in White, who was fortunately home and available. He too did not waste any time and immediately prepared his surgery kit. It had been in the oven, being sterilized, and was still scalding hot to the touch. But he laid it out and prepped our bleeding kitty for the operation.

What was unusual was the he asked me to attend the surgery – if I thought I could handle it. Handle it ? Me having a certificate for First Aid and not being able to handle a bit of surgery ? Of course I could !
And so I was tasked to monitor Frankette’s breathing, while the Man in White would staunch the bleeding, clean up the wound, and sew it shut. It was only afterwards, when I had time to reflect upon it, that I realized the Man in White had been exceptionally kind to me: Frankette had lost a frightening amount of blood, the gums around her teeth were stark white from blood-loss. She could have died there and then.

But she didn’t. Throughout the surgery her tinly little heart kept beating a steady tattoo, and her lovely furred flanks kept going up and down with that delightfully regular rhythm indicating she was inhaling and exhaling well and deeply. She withstood the surgery well, my sweet Frankenkitty, and was showing signs of waking up by the time the final stitches were being knotted.

Just to make sure, the Man in White laid up double stitches (to no avail, as I am typing this one week later Frankette has removed ALL of the stitches and the wound is open) and he explained that he doesn’t really like such nonsense as bandages (which indeed Frankette removed all by herself within a few hours) and collars (those lampshade-thingies that make life for recovering pets a living hell) so he would only put on a light bandage for the first hours and just let her be. I was given a prescription for anti-biotics and could go home again with the bloodied travel-cage and the awakening kitty.

Those anti-biotics are fun. They’re supposed to taste yummy so the cats would willingly take them. Both Loup-Garou and Frankette now had to follow the treatment and I can tell you that neither wanted anything to do with these tiny pink pills. They didn’t like them and promptly spat them out. Unfortunately for both felines I happen to be an expert in administering medications to animals. For me it’s the simple routine of catching the hapless feline, putting him/her on the kitchen counter (just the perfect height for my purpose), clamping him/her down under one arm whilst opening the jaws with one hand and popping in the pill with the other, closing the muzzle and keeping it shut until a swallowing movement has been felt. Then letting the now thoroughly pissed-off feline go. Fun.

Frankette had lost so much blood that the rest of that day she slept, slept and slept again. She did lap up a bit of cat-milk I gave her, but she slept. The day after, however, was entirely devoted to… “building up”, I guess you could call it. I have never ever seen before in my entire life that such a little kitty could eat so much as that day. Every half hour she would wander over to the feeding bowls and start to shovel the grub. I mean: really shoveling the grub. The other cats stood no chance, when Frankette came bunkering they had to sit back and admire her.

But she is doing rather well now. I can only hope that the wound will close nicely, even though the stitches have all gone- she removed them herself ! She doesn’t seem to be in much pain, walks easily and without hesitation. And the wound seems to keep clean as well. Which makes me wonder what had caused it in the first place. A cat-fight would leave a festering wound. Therefore she must have cut herself on something.
But on what ?

And now Bean Sidhe is walking around with a sore caudal appendage: his tail is thick at the base and whenever we try to touch him there he growls, hisses, and bites. Not his usual laid-back self. If this continues a new visit to the Man In White is in order. Tch… Spring… all kinds of ailments seem to sprout these days.

Pictures below: Frankette – the bandaged paw

Loup-Garou – the floppy aural appendage

Don’t forget to visit: The Friday Ark, Carnival of the Cats, Weekend Cat Blogging, Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos.

Freya is soooo generous with her head-butts… she just can’t stop butting her lovely furry head against each and everyone, yes even everything. The sight of that lithe grey-striped figure ambling over in search of some love -and quite single-mindedly determined to get it- is a marvel to behold, but sometimes you can’t help but dread her approach. Because she is wont to be more than generous with the physical manifestations of her undying love, i.e. head-butts, and that is a sure and certain invitation to… disaster.

Typically it goes like this:
she jumps onto your computer desk and
you get a head-butt and
your hand gets a head-butt and
the mouse gets a head-butt and
the keyboard gets a head-butt and
your mug gets a head-butt and
your CPU gets a head-butt and
the reset-button on your CPU gets a head-butt and…

Yes. That’s right. Ah, the marvels of modern technology and love-starved kitties. Forget the all-important details you were just typing. If you hadn’t been quick enough to save your hard work of the last 15 minutes (or 3 hours), that’s just tough luck. When Freya wants to be loved she’ll come and get it, and if that stupid flickering box in front of you takes up all of your precious attention instead of her august little self… well, tough luck for that box too. Yet you can’t fault her for using the direct approach either. By now our little furry lady knows her pet Simians very well indeed, and she’s learned long ago that nothing short of an EMP-flash will tear us from our flickering boxes. If there’s no handy EMP happening, well, then push must come to shove. And head meets button.

Talking about boxes: Freya considers cardboard boxes the ultimate playpen, to be played with, at, in, upon, under, through and around. But she also approaches any box with the typical behaviour we have come to call the “typewriter”. It consists of our lithe grey-striped feline lady sitting in said cardboard box, positioning her tiny yet formidable fangs just so over the rim, and then chomping off little bits – one by one. She spits out the bits whilst chomping and at the end of the row she will go back to the beginning and start anew. Chomp chomp chomp chomp SPIT. Chomp chomp chomp chomp SPIT. In the end nothing much is left of the -by now- forlorn box but a respectable pile of discarded bits of cardboard. Freya is nothing if not thorough.

Isegrim, her illustrious offspring, seems to be cut from the same tree. He too likes boxes to play in. One of the most endearing pictures I have snapped of the twain (so far) was when Freya was recovering from her spaying surgery, had crept inside such a box in order to zonk out, and Isegrim decided to stand guard in front of her and the box. His faithful protective watch while his dearly beloved mommah was semi-comatose is not something I will soon forget. But he too likes to destroy cardboard boxes when he happens upon them, and when Freya woke up from her anesthesia-induced slumber they both joyfully did away with the hapless box.

Freya has become known in the House of Chaos as the Mistress of Mayhem, and especially shows it off when she negotiates the cupboards in search for a petting hand or a quiet spot for a nap. We Simians tend to clutter said cupboards with all kinds of knick-knacks, books, letters, junk mail, tools, mobile phones… the works. But when Freya passes by and snuggles in we’d better go and save what we can from crashing into the floor because where she takes up space all that stuff has to go. Never mind that it makes for a cozy bed. In fact, Freya likes cozy. She likes to have stuff piled up around her. But once a-slumber she is wont to move in her sleep and said piles never stay put. Thus you will find a huge load of paperwork and assorted items noisily cascading off the cupboard and one kitty waking up grumpily, staring at you with slitted accusing eyes radiating the message: “Why the ruckus ?”
It’s never her fault of course. She was never awake to know. Or so she claims.

Strangely enough she can move with exquisite grace around those assorted objects at other times. We have witnessed her negotiating the weirdest routes on, over and through the cupboards and not cause a single item to crash down at all. She will daintily put down each paw with infinite care, judging every tentative step with an expert eye for distance and mass, and float gracefully all the way without any mishap. To watch her move is to observe poetry in motion. She is impeccable, lithe, lovely and very very careful.
Yet sometimes she simply ambles through. And that is when things go down. Hard.

Picture below: The Mistress of Mayhem caught red-haaah… red-teethed in the act.

Don’t forget to visit: The Friday Ark, Carnival of the Cats, Weekend Cat Blogging, Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos.

An old cat is not poetry in motion. Rather, it is stiff, and awkward and slow and absolutely certain of where it puts its paws. An old cat will try not to jump and climb if he can avoid it, will choose his way with care so that he should not overly exert himself.  He knows all the tricks of the trade, and if he is a lucky old cat, he has a home where he can spend 22 hours a day napping peacefully. The other 2 hours, of course, are spent eating and collecting scritches from his Simian caregivers.
But how old is old ? When is a cat of age ?

Loup-Garou is in his eleventh year now. He’s an indoors-outdoors cat, which means that he lives in a house but goes outside whenever the fancy -or the urge- takes him. He does not have to fend for himself since he has 3 simians to do his bidding, he does not have to defend a large territory since he is spayed and thus no longer prone to the demands of raging hormones, he has friends who will stand by him whenever he encounters a problem (certainly Hrimnir, who is the Peacemaker). He does not have to face the cold and dampness outside that would cause his bones to hurt and ache because he has a warm and dry home to snuggle in. All in all he is a very happy old cat and it shows.

His pelt is more coarse now than it used to be. The luster and shine have been replaced by a dignified glimmer. The black is now interspersed with specks of white. The glorious luxurious fur of old is now merely comfortably worn. But it is clean. It continues to show a certain vitality that only a happy cat who practices regular and thorough grooming with dedicated precision can display. It is the kind of pelt that says “here walks a ruggedly handsome gentleman of years, experienced and wise, dignified and noble, well-kept and well-preserved. Be gentle with him.” Or, as they sing in the musical “Cats”: “And be careful of old Deuteronomy…”

Now, observe a kitten. Take Isegrim for instance. His coat is a ragged bristling jumble of soft plush. His idea of grooming consists of a hurried lick now and then, ad random, when the offending patch has absolutely become… ah… offending. He’s not really concerned about his appearances, as long as he’s reasonably clean, doesn’t stink a mile in the wind, and doesn’t upset the simians when he jumps on their laps. His idea of walking around consists of random bursts of speed, with the odd turn and jump thrown in, more or less aimed at where he sort of wanted to land, and generally causes the resident Simians to wonder what he’s been eating. Sometimes his choice of movement causes us to wonder what he’s been sniffing too. But in the end it all comes down to: hold on the furniture people, Izzy’s passing by again.

Not so the elder and extremely dignified Loup-Garou. He chooses his way with exquisite care, clearly planning in advance what route he will be taking in order to negotiate the various obstacles in the House of Chaos with the least fuss needed. Not a single move is wasted, ultimate conservation of energy is the goal. And not a single object will be endangered, since his lithe form is wont to evade anything and wind himself around whatever he encounters. Isegrim just blunders on, through and over. It’s being boisterous that the kitten lives up to, and he has a lot to learn if you judge him by the elderly cat’s disposition.

But learn he will. The body is -alas !- prone to the ravages of time, and time itself is utmost unforgiving. In time our sweet little kitten will notice that he’s grown so tall that his sweet furry paws are now struggling to carry the load. He will discover that the elasticity of youth has been gradually replaced by the stiffness of age. His aging body will cry out to him to rest, to repose, to lie down, relax and let that pesky mousy be. He will learn the hard way that what once had been a height easily scaled has now gotten quite out of reach, and that when he jumps he may not always land where he wanted to, but crash down in an undignified -and angry- heap instead. The face of a feline who, for the first time in his life, misses his leap is a marvel to behold indeed. Words fail to evoke the look of utter disgust and wrath that ripples over that furry little face, but I am more than able to describe the subsequent countenance… that of a kitty determined not to fail this time, when he sets about to jumping once more, consummate tenaciousness radiating from every whisker.

Fortunately for little Isegrim those days are still far off, he’s got 9 more years to enjoy the prime of his cathood to the fullest. But for Loup-Garou the time has now come to settle down and savour the coddling his Simians lavish upon his august feline self. The other Feline Denizens of the House of Chaos defer to his advanced age (and nasty temper), he only has the upstart usurping feral Almost Franky to fear.
Yet, two nights ago he triumphed.
When I came into the living room yesterday morning tufts of black and white fur could be found in abandon everywhere. Clearly a Clash of the Titans has been happening here, and it certainly explains the angry howls we heard the night before. After a quick check on Loup-Garou I could find no injuries, and Frankette -the only white and black feline in residence- seemed unharmed as well. This leads us to the happy conclusion that Almost Franky has come calling again… and got the trashing of a lifetime.
Clearly the old geezer hasn’t lost his mojo yet.

Picture below: Loup-Garou giving Isegrim a nose-kiss.

Don’t forget to visit: The Friday Ark, Carnival of the Cats, Weekend Cat Blogging, Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos.

Every evening the same old ritual enfolds itself again and again. The Mistress goes to the bathroom, changes into her nightclothes, goes upstairs, takes the nightclothes off again, and then snuggles into the Nest. Several pairs of very interested feline eyes follow her every move. And if she is not being fast enough about the going upstairs bit, scolding pairs of feline eyes await her in the hallway. Usually there is at least one cat waiting there, eager to mount the stairs and get on with the truly most important event of the day.
The Snuggling.

Usually it is the black one who stands ready to urge her on. Who precedes her on the stair steps. Who jumps into the Nest even before the Mistress had the chance to click on the reading light and shed her nightclothes. Sometimes, though, he’s a bit late but you can hear the swift pitter-patter of softly furred paws on the stairs heralding the imminent arrival of 5.5 kilos of soon-to-be extremely happy cat. Loup-Garou doesn’t just love to snuggle down with any simian in the Nest, he has taken the whole event straight into the lofty realms of the Art form. And his favourite spot is next to the Mistress’ head, between the pillows of the Mistress and Grumpy Man. And, if he feels like it, sometimes on top of the Mistress’ head as well. Grumpy Man usually gets his nose full of tail. Guess who is the boss in this House hm ?

But as Loup-Garou lies softly purring into my ear I can feel a vibration trembling its way towards the Nest and I know that soon a white and black she-kitty will arrive as well. But at the Nest she stops shyly, not sure if she is welcome in it, and so she announces her presence with her formidable purr. Frankette is wont to purr in happy anticipation of good things to come. She likes it in the Nest. Alas, she does not like it in the Nest if also Bean Sidhe is present. But because Bean Sidhe rarely ventures higher than my knees smart little Frankette knows to check out things first at the head department and progress downward from there. So, when I make it known to her that she is -indeed- welcome, with a happy chirrup she jumps in. And after the initial snuggles at my head she will position her little form daintily somewhere in the vicinity of my shoulders. And she does tolerate Hrimnir’s presence there. Sometimes.
Usually it ends in a hissing fit and one she-kitty swiftly vacating the bedroom. Frankette is actually not so fond of company.
However, she is -for some reason that still eludes me mightily- very fond of Grumpy Man’s armpits. I can agree that the smell emanating from that particular region can turn on a simian female with a vengeance, but a she-kitty ? I must admit that if Eau-De-Grumpy Man didn’t include some heady pheromones I would be knocked-out straight by the other molecules. Frankette positively buries that sensitive nose of hers into it. Which leads me to conclude that she is not a normal she-kitty and needs some professional counseling, like, urgently.
Sadly, Freya too follows the same inclination, so I deduct that she-kitties are crazy.

Hrimnir sleeps often with me. He will first come over to me(and Grumpy Man when he’s available), collects his due share of scritches and pettings, and then proceeds to curl up somewhere near my shoulders, and preferably on Grumpy Man’s spot as well. Since he is the cat who gets along fine with all of the resident Feline Denizens of the House of Chaos his sleep is rarely disturbed by hostilities. Which allows him to adopt sleeping poses that can sometimes verge on the ridiculous but are always mega-cute. Even when you disturb him because you are changing your sleeping position he will not deign to be bothered by it. Easy-going he is, that kitty.

At some point Bean Sidhe will arrive too. First, though, he will check out what’s happening in the ‘hood by sitting on the windowsill and taking a peek outside, from between the window blinds. This always happens with a terrible clattering sound, and we suspect he revels in it. After a while he will be bored, and decide to joins us in the Nest. But he rarely comes up higher than our feet. When he does though, it is to lie down on my chest and collect scritches. Bean Sidhe can be so happy when he get chin-scritches, his entire body radiates bliss in the mega-watt range, his whiskers will tickle the sky in rapture, and his front paws won’t know where to knead. He’s that kind of kitty yes, the kind that will wallow in utter bliss when you give him chin-scritches. But after that he will always proceed to his customary spot on or near the feet. Since he is about 6 kilos heavy you can bet we are relieved with his choice of napping spot.

And then the room trembles again, as a rumbling purr roars its way into the Nest and sweet little Isegrim lets his presence be known. When he was a feral kitten he was shy to the touch and would never purr when we petted him. We could approach him and he began to appreciate the sensuous luxury of being petted. And after a few weeks his curiosity got the better of him and he followed the other kitties to the Nest, where he discovered… nirvana. Sort of. Isegrim not only learned to like pettings, he took ferociously to snuggling as well. He is so fond of it that he will spend hours and hours giving you immensely grateful sandpaper kisses in order to show you his undying love, with a preference for fingers and toes. Grumpy Man’s toes in particular. Izzy can just grab that big foot of his between his front paws and start rasping away with enthusiastic gusto. Not just satisfied with just sandblasting away the skin on Grumpy Man’s toes, he will nibble in the spaces between them as well. We call that “eating toe-cheese”. Clearly the little grey fuzz ball relishes toe-cheese.

The only one who has so far not been snuggling down in the Nest on a regular basis is Freya. I don’t know why, since she is otherwise extremely attached to us and wastes no opportunity to get some much-needed pettings all day long. She never enters the House of Chaos without immediately searching the Simian residents for a quick huggy. But so far she has only rarely snuggled down with us in the Nest. Which I find sad, because for me the daily nocturnal snuggling down has become more than a mere ritual. It has become a moment of bonding, when 5 softly (or not-so-softly in some cases) purring fur balls keep me warm and comfy company in the Nest. A happy hour indeed !
Fortunately she seems to be coming around, and lately she has snuggled down with us, with a weird preference for Grumpy Man’s armpits. And when she does snuggle with one of us, you can hear the faint soft but heart-felt purr only a former feral can emit when she knows she is safe and beloved.

On a different note: the feral Zorro-killer called Almost Franky has been entering the House of Chaos a bit often lately, not just coming over for the food, but staying for a quick -and warm and dry- nap as well (especially with the recent cold spell that had us shivering with temperatures of -15°C some nights). Last week I had to chase him off the Nest. Not that he needs much encouragement in order to be chased away by the way. He is feral after all, and we are not exactly friendly disposed to him, him having killed Zorro and regularly injuring Loup-Garou and Hrimnir. But that the vermin-ridden spraying stinking feline pheromones-oozing fur ball dares to repose into our Nest is an insult beyond repair. So far he has attacked and injured Grumpy Man twice already, but for some strange reason he allows me to pick him up and put him outside. His slowly budding trust that I would not attack him has been betrayed bitterly today. You see, I had this big syringe filled with water, and he was having this quiet but exposed nap in the Kitchen of Chaos…
Mèh, it wasn’t his happy hour at all.

Picture below: a very young Bean Sidhe and even younger Hrimnir having a quiet Nirvana-moment in the Nest. Bad quality of picture due to having been taken by a mobile phone at night. But oh so endearing… even more so because the Feline Residents of the House of Chaos so rarely sleep together…

Don’t forget to visit: The Friday Ark, Carnival of the Cats, Weekend Cat Blogging, Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos.

It behooves the Simians to think, from time to time, about what would have happened if things had turned out differently. Simians are capable of entertaining such abstract thoughts, whereas Felines usually don’t bother with anything beyond the now. But sometimes, very rarely but it has been known to happen, a feline denizen of the House of Chaos can be caught doing such an un-Feline thing. Freya for instance: She still has her days of feral living firmly etched in her memory, and sometimes she walks around in the House of Chaos, rubbing herself almost desperately against the simian denizens, as if to ensure herself that -yes- these love her and -yes- she has a place here. Warm, well-fed, dry and safe. This sets The Mistress to thinking herself, about the fate that would have befallen her beloved Feline babies, had they been forced to survive as ferals.

Loup-Garou would have been doing fine, one can suppose. He’s always been master of his domain and capacities. Together with his brother Zorro he has in the past been seen hunting in tandem, and he often came home with freshly-caught prey – one time even a partridge. But now, starting his years of decline at age 11, we can not be so sure that he would be able to fend for himself much longer. His older body would start to betray him. Already has he been bested in battle by such young upstarts as Almost Franky (who has by the way killed Zorro not so long ago). Already does he show signs of creaking joints and stiff muscles when he awakes from a long nap. Already has his pelt lost some of its luster and softness. He’s aging. And amongst ferals that’s a death sentence.

Bean Sidhe might have become King Of The Hill. He’s bigger and bulkier than most of his age. Had he not been spayed he might have become a formidable he-cat, but in the House of Chaos his more lazy nature has been given ample opportunity to develop in full. We can only guess what he could have done had he been feral. But obviously anything that would render his life more comfortable would have been seized upon, and we can easily imagine him leading a pride of females catering to his every whim and need. He’d been the Lion of the neighbourhood, that’s for sure… pampered by his pride.

Hrimnir, the Peacemaker… now there is a challenge to the Simian fantasy. His injuries during the past months have shown that he would not easily cower to the bullying of a dominant tomcat. He would have become one himself had we not taken him to the Man In White for emasculation. Would his cheerful demeanor have had time to develop in a feral environment, or would his better-developed musculature (thanks to his Norwegian Forest Cat dam) have allowed him to become top-cat ? In either way, we can not envision him being at the bottom of things. At the very least he would have diplomated his way to a secure spot in the local hierarchy.

Frankette, now there is one who would have become utterly lost in the feral scene. Petite and dainty as she is, and fearful and timid besides, she would not have been making many friends or allies – in fact scaring off anyone who could have helped her because she would trust no one at all. She would have been doomed to die young and miserable because of her small size and lack of courage. Her sisters are actually living as ferals, one even having survived a hideous wound in the neck, and have given birth to several litters already, but can only do so because there is a powerful tomcat in the neighbourhood (their brother Almost Franky) who protects them against other toms. But Frankette would not have been able to survive for long. Her character wouldn’t let her.

Freya has shown her mettle as a feral. She’s managed not only to survive, but to raise a kitten on her own as well before finding a Forever Home in the House of Chaos. She’s wily and smart, cunning and very very resourceful. Even now, when she has access to an ever-overflowing bowl of food (3 of them in fact) does she go out and raid for food elsewhere. Often we find gnawed-on bones and bits in the Garden of Chaos, discarded by a successful huntress after having sated her desire for food. She’s still very pre-occupied and enormously obsessed with food, but she has stopped jumping into our dinner plates when we’re eating. That, at last, we have been able to discourage. Raiding other Simians’ waste bins, alas, we could not stop. Her courage goes unquestioned, because you have to be very brave indeed to enter the territory of a strange tom (Almost Franky is NOT the sire of Isegrim – of that we can be sure when looking at the definitely not black-and-white kitten who is a darker shade of grey than his dam) and strange females (who might welcome her as an ally, but could as well have chasen her as the interloper that she was). The fact that she lives with us has greatly enhanced her status in the local Feline population. She walks about unchallenged.

Isegrim has been taught well by his dam. He’s a proud little tom-kitty (although since his recent castration no longer technically a tom) and is developing well. His dam teaches him all her tricks in fighting and hunting. He’s learning from a pro. And the way he evades the Big Bully who’s been terrorizing the House of Chaos recently you can imagine he would have stood up against Almost Franky soon. But would he have won ? He does not have the impressive size of Bean Sidhe, nor the solid muscles of Hrimnir, and certainly not the wiry experience of Loup-Garou. He only has the wits his dam has endowed him with, and which she is very busy at the moment with nurturing. But the sheer brazenness and malevolence of a tom in his prime would prove to be too much for him. And so he might be forced to leave the terrain and carve out a territory for himself elsewhere. Or be killed.

All in all, the prospect for feral cats is always bleak. Even in the rare cases when one can prosper and thrive, it is only temporary because there will always be a contender or would-be successor to fight and overcome. There will always be the daily struggle to find enough food, and the yearly struggle to drag oneself through the gruelling cold months of winter. At least in a Forever Home a cat can devote oneself to the development of one’s finer capabilities, the pleasant sensation of dozing at a warm and soft place, the luxurious grooming at ease knowing one is safe, the gastronomic delights of eating all you want in constant variation of possible foodstuffs. And the endless stimulating games one plays with the other Felines or with the Simians.

I feel that as Simians we have a duty to other animals… to make for some life as pleasant as possible.

Picture below: Almost Franky, in the Kitchen of Chaos, as frank as you please

Don’t forget to visit: The Friday Ark, Carnival of the Cats, Weekend Cat Blogging, Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos.

Freya is a Gastropod. A stomach on legs. There’s not much else in her whenever she spots even the remotest possibility of food to be had, but the burning all-consuming desire to consume whatever edibles can be grabbed, bit and swallowed. Her obsession about food is so overwhelming that, whenever she hears someone being occupied in the Kitchen of Chaos, she will drop whatever she has been doing (taking a nap, stalking Hrimnir, teaching her kitten to lose a fight) in order to dash madly over to the kitchen counter, jump on it, and steal whatever the Simian in question had been trying to prepare. She will grab it from under the knife, try to fish it out of the frying pan, pry it from between your clenched lips, open the waste bin and take out what you had just thrown in it… everything in the pursuit of food -glorious food- to be had.

Undoubtedly she must have known starvation during the time before she entered the House of Chaos and she was wandering outside without a forever home and trying to raise her kitten. Her obsessive feeding habit clearly shows that she has been in serious nutritional want. During her first days as a Denizen of the House of Chaos she even would display aggression towards any other kitty that would try and eat from the same bowl she was emptying. And the rate with which she shoveled the grub inside that weird black hole she calls “stomach” was truly astonishing. But now she knows better, and dares even to disdain the Crunchy Goodness and demand a pouch of Stinky Goodness to be opened just for her. Nevertheless she will eat whatever she can get and many is the time when our ears are delighted with the sound of a happy kitty contentedly munching away.
Or better yet: the blissful snores of a thoroughly stuffed kitty At Peace With The World And Her Bulging Stomach.

The main problem is however that she will try and steal anything edible, even if that means she has to reach out and grab it from our forks. Eating has become quite the adventure at the House of Chaos, what with that lithe feline urging us on to give her a morsel. She is wont to grab our attention with both paws, hindpaws, all of her whiskers and her tail to boot, undulating all over the place with desperate mute pleas for succour. It is real hard to concentrate on eating when there’s this splendid mime show being enacted right before your eyes. And when you are paying attention to said show, Freya is paying attention to your food. In a heart-beat she will pounce and if you are not swift enough you’ll find the kitty in your plate. And your dinner in her bottomless pit.

But if you remain steadfast and keep pushing her away she will push even harder back. Clearly she knows the Power of Kjoot and will mercilessly put it to good use. You try and push, you even pick her up and deposit her on the floor time and time again. But before you have had to chance to pick up your fork again she’s back, lying all over the place, preferably over your plate, and trying to push her way into your dinner. Or milk mug. Whatever.

Yet she doesn’t scream, yell or even moan. There’s not even the slightest whimper to be heard. All her begging and pleading is doggedly and persistently done in utter, total and complete silence. And she doesn’t do the “Pleading Paw on your Knee” either. That’s just not effective enough if you want her opinion. Oh no, she does the “Entire Body Spread Next to your Dinner Plate”. And she has the “Huge Imploring Eyes” rehearsed to perfection. It’s almost a shame that both Grumpy Man and The Mistress are immune to such pleas and will never be moved by the force of it. When you’ve had an eternally-hungry Alsatian Woofie for 11 years you tend to acquire some degree of immunity where begging is concerned. There’s little more effective than a begging Alsatian.

But Freya gives her best shot at it anyway.

All in all, she’s a potluck kitty. The day she decided to investigate our Garden of Chaos she hit the jackpot big time. First thing we did was feed her. That sort of sealed our fates really. Freya must have decided there and then that the Garden -and subsequently the House- of Chaos would be ideally suited for her continuous existence and would improve matters in the feeding department greatly. Ever since that day has she not lived through a single day in want (except when I had her neutered… she had to go into surgery empty-stomached and she did not like that one bit ! Nor did the other feline denizens who are used to the usual cornucopia of Crunchy Goodness…).

I dare to think she is happy here. It’s currently 3° Celcius outside, the sleet has just stopped, but in the House of Chaos it’s a balmy 20.5°Celcius and Freya just came in wet and cold, making a happy beeline towards my keyboard so that I can pet her.

She’s purring on my lap.

Picture below: all 6 Feline Denizens of the House of Chaos doing what they love best… shoveling the grub. And as you can see, we never did away with the woofie’s water bowl. Not with so many thirsty little throats purring around…
From left to right: Freya, Loup-Garou, Bean Sidhe, Hrimnir, Isegrim and Frankette.

It’s weekend again and this means we are dining out ! First to the Friday Ark, then to the Carnival of the Cats hosted by Nikita’s Place, before stopping by over at the Weekend Cat Blogging done by Diamond’s Lair, and finally for a nightcap at the Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos which happens at the House of the (Mostly) Black Cats.

Picture this.
You are a lovely ginger tabby tomkitty. You have come to live in a lovely Den, with Simians who caressed you and cuddled you and fed you the good grub. It was cozy there, and warm all the time, and full of snuggling-places and friendly hands. You were happy.
But then you were put into a box, and the box put into the Box-That-Growls and the strange movements made you sick and scared. You howled your misery out and angry voices hissed at you to be quiet. You can’t remember how long this strange journey lasted but suddenly the movements stopped, the Box-That-Growls didn’t growl anymore and your box was taken out and brought into a strange Den and you were let out. Strange smells, strange place, but your Simians acted as if they were completely at home and you reasoned that -just as  Mama Cat would bring her kitlings to a new and safer spot from time to time- the Simians must have done the same for their kitlings.
But after a few days they started putting the stuff they hang around themselves in boxes again and all got into the Box-That-Growls. The Simian kitlings were mewing but the Papa Simian said:”He’ll be fine here. He’s a hunter, he has plenty of prey and plenty of space, this is the perfect place for him to live, and when we come back next vacation he will be here for you to play with. He’ll no longer wreck our house this way. So stop sniveling !” And they went away.
And you were alone.
Outside of the Den. Outside of the warmth and the cuddles and the good grub.

The other kitty-cats didn’t like you, you are a stranger. The few Simians who remained didn’t like you either, you may carry vermin and disease, like the other feral felines. You grew hungry. You grew cold. Prey was scarce with so many feral kitty-cats around. Other prey was simply too big (ever seen a cat trying to kill a boar ? you won’t, because cats are smart enough to realize that anything with that kind of tusks is deadly) and some even hunt YOU.

You miss the cuddles. You miss the Simian hands gently stroking your pelt. You are alone and very very miserable. Even the sole Simian who insists on feeding the Carious Tribes will not cuddle you because he knows that you are full with vermin and possibly carrying a disease. That Simian tries to give more than food, he also gives medication. He tries to give the females special medication that stops them from having more kittens. He is not liked by the other few resident Simians of that Vacation Village because he keeps the feral population alive. But he insists he loves animals and even though the Animal Welfare Society has spat him out like the human-hating stubborn recluse he is, he goes on with his meager means and manages to drag the Carious Tribes through the long hard winter every year again. But you will get no cuddles from him.

Then there is the Abode of Plenty. The other kitty-cats have whispered amongst themselves that when one Box-That-Growls stands in front of it you may sometimes expect some food to be thrown outside. But when there are 2 of those strange things then the Good Life starts. Because 2 Simians that come in it are always calling them with food in their hands and generously throw so much at you that your belly is soon bursting and you are sated. They also try to approach you, the ferals whisper with awed voices, but the feral felines don’t trust that. They keep their distance. It is safer that way. Too many Simians have seemed friendly, only to attack you when you were within their reach. No, stay away from the dangers…

But you, you know what that means. You remember the snugglings and the cuddles and the play. And so you approach the Abode of Plenty, sit at the entrance of that Den, and meow your heart out: “Let me in !! Feed me !! Stroke my back and make me happy again !!!” Food is suddenly offered, and OH GLORIOUS a hand gently strokes your back. You wallow in that most pleasant of sensations and you purr your little heart out. But they will not let you in, because they know you are teeming with vermin and you may carry the disease that has eliminated the Carious Tribes so many times before. After a few days they go away again, but not before stuffing your tummy with as much good grub as they can. They come and they go. But they always carry food and they always will greet you with soft voices and gentle hands.

So, every time these 2 Simians are there again, you will faithfully lie down at the entrance of their Den and wait patiently for a bit of food and a bit of friendship to come your way. Because it is the only way you know now. It is all you’ve got.

This is the story of Brass Balls, as far as The Mistress can guess what happened to him. The most frank of all feral members of the Carious Tribes, and possibly their youngest member because he showed up for the first time at the end of last Summer. He exhibits the behaviour of a cat who has known humans all of his short life, and who has possibly been thrown out of his home and his family. Clearly he misses his Simians and clearly he is distraught with having to fend for himself. But he is learning fast and has made his way already into the Carious Tribes. He teamed up with One-Eye (possibly is a member of her Grey Tribe now) and when we were at the Abode of Plenty again last week they both showed up in order to receive their due share of what we brought with us.
We must leave them time and time again, but every time we have to go back home to the House of Chaos we first make sure that they get as much calories as we can give them. Because One-Eye is so lovely.
Because Brass Balls is so lovable.

Picture below: Oh how happy Brass Balls is… nom AND a cuddle

Rarely has the elusive One-Eye ventured this close. But the lure of food…

Ow… weekend already ? Gee, almost gone too. My my. Better hurry over to the Friday Ark before it’s sailed away. And when you’re about it, stop by the Carnival of the Cats hosted by Artsy Catsy, Weekend Cat Blogging done by Cats in Maryland, and the Bad Kitty Festival of Chaos held over at Mind of Mog.

PS: it started snowing today. And the kitties of the House of Chaos go.. NOT YAY !!! For some reason it eludes the Simians that the Felines abhor the white wet cold stuff…

To watch Freya busying herself with her kitten is to watch Motherly Love in action. With little Isegrim she is so patient, so enduring, so endlessly concerned, it is simply a joy to behold. Until Isegrim is big and strong enough to fend for himself will she be his provider, his protector, his… mother.

She is the warm cushion he snuggles against when he is drowsy. She is the seemingly endless fountain of that sweet-tasting nourishing milk only mothers can provide. She is the ever-ready playmate who is teaching him all the hunting skills and self-defense techniques he will need for the rest of his life. She protects him against strange tomcats who have not-so-honourable designs with that nubile female who is so obviously fertile but has this cute kitten that is him not sired by them standing in the way. She is the eternal patient parent who will groom him with tender care and infinite love.
Well… that’s the theory.

In reality that endless fountain of free food is rapidly drying up, now that Freya is weaning Isegrim. And her patience with that rambunctious son of hers rapidly vanishes when he keeps insisting on suckling with those fine needle-sharp teeth of his. She also makes clear that she does need her sleep and when her wayward son does keep on trying to play with her he will know soon her wrath. With swift and well-aimed punishment to follow.

She is teaching him to hunt and fight all right, but the tender motherly love can not be spotted even remotely in the vicinity whenever she is busy doing so. Freya clearly is a fervent adherent of the School of Tough Love. Isegrim just has to prove that kittens are made of über-elastic materials and do bounce when thrown up and coming down. I get the picture that she is teaching him to accept loss with dignity, and to expect attack at unexpected times and in unexpected places. Even from the ones you love and trust.

But the protecting bit Freya has got down to pat, that I must admit. Whenever Bean Sidhe ambles over with a hopeful expression on that big face of his, all of her defenses come up in full kitten-protection mode. It does not matter that this big softy has been neutered, or that he is the most lazy feline ever found, and it certainly does not matter that all he has in mind is some innocent and fun playing. What matters is size, and that he has in outrageous abundance. So, you can observe the interesting scene of a heart-broken white-and-orange teddy-bear forlornly staring at this cute little dark-grey fluff-ball of a kitten, whilst a grey ghost of a mother hoovers protectively nearby, with the promise of murder in her eyes should said giant try to move even one hair’s width closer to her precious offspring.

This special treatment, however, is wont to pass soon. With little Isegrim growing real fast his mother will have to wean him of more than just suckling. In wild nature she would soon be pregnant again and chase her son away with angry hisses and menacing claws in order to make place for the newcomer(s). But here in the House of Chaos he will not be expelled and banned from the premises. No. Freya will be spayed soon, so a new litter will never ensue. And Isegrim too, when he’s old enough, will be relieved of a certain hormones factory. Mother and son will both be “neutral” and may live together forever in relative peace from then on.

Yet instinct cannot be easily denied. It is not uncommon for Freya already to leave her son more and more to fend for his own. He must become independent for his own good and learn not to hide behind his mother’s skirts forever. And besides, after so many busy months of taking care of her offspring, Freya is due for some rest and leisure time of her own. She is barely adult herself you know, and the way she plays with Hrimnir clearly shows that this little mother has not forgetten how to be a child herself !

Picture below: a picture of happy times indeed. Could we all be so care-free…

The Mistress and Grumpy Man are away for a well-deserved vacation over at the Abode of Plenty where the Strong Woman of Flanders lives and internet-time is precious there. Therefore we hope you won’t be angry when we only direct direct you towards The Friday Ark, but there you will find who is hosting the Carnival of the Cats, Weekend Cat Blogging and the Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos this weekend !!

It’s All Hallows today, or rather the original Holiday… Samhain. The Mistress and Grumpy Man have celebrated Samhain the way any self-respecting kitty would do… we went to bed early. That glorious luxurious big Nest with the flannel sheets and the huge eiderdown with real feathers. We just snuggled down, with a few of our feline babies, and snuggled and read and snuggled and slept. No, we aren’t into Halloween. We are not really interested in commercially inflated festivities, and physically no longer able to do “haunted walkabouts” or “witch-mazes”. We don’t have children of the Simian kind who would need some guidance in trick-and-treating (besides, that is not really done here in Belgium), and in our street live only immigrants who are mostly Muslim and certainly not interested in either a Christian Holiday or a Heathen Holiday. No reason at all to celebrate Halloween.

But we do remember our beloved ones who have gone over The Rainbow Bridge. We do have fond memories of our furred friends and now is the time to remember… Now is the time to open up our memories and let them walk once more in front of our eyes…

Grumpy Man fondly remembers Sheba. A lovely tabby she was, and even in her old age of 16 quite capable to climb on a roof fast when a woofie she didn’t know visited her house.
That woofie was Critter, the first dog of The Mistress. Critter was a huge but extremely gently German Shepherd and lived to a nice 11,5 years. We sorely miss her enormous eternal appetite, her rather boisterous way of greeting people, and the endearing “wwrrrooof” she would greet us with.
Critter was the Best Friend Forever of Zorro, the Grumpy Cat. Zorro passed away two months ago. Despite the fact that he was not lovable at all we do miss him. The absence of his presence is felt, yet he is not really mourned by either his brother or the other Feline Denizens of the House of Chaos. After all, he was Trouble.
Grumpy Man also remembers Twiggy, who was his uncle’s dog. A feisty little mix she was, black with a bit of white, floppy ears… and a hell of an attitude.  Where she walked in other woofies would cower and hide away. Cats made a detour around their house. She wasn’t mean really, she was just… dominant.

And next we go back further in time and think of other furry companions who have graced our lives with their friendship and love but who are no longer here… we remember Misj Masj, although she didn’t stay long with us. We remember Rataplan Frankenstein The Mobile Disaster Area, Horsehunter, Master Barfer, Walking Cesspit And Bloody Awkward Nuisance On Paws who had an unfortunate and fatal encounter with Mister Electricity Outlet before his 3rd birthday. And then we come to Ragnar and Rabauw, who lived with The Mistress in her former house, The Moist Shambles. Likewise there have been Rhuarhir and Rhuarhuss – who was murdered by foul geese- and poor little Bar-Choc. These were the first feline companions of The Mistress when she left her parental homes.

The Strong Woman of Flanders has more furry friends to miss and fondly remember… the woofies Fenris, Spock, Imboua, Thor, Kaffer, Cora, Sandy, Wodanowitch… and the kitties Pinoccio, Poesie, Loup-Garou the First, and way way long way ago Monsieur Balthasar, and before them other dogs and cats I don’t remember the names from.

Each and every one of these 4-footers have enriched our lives, have given us the best of themselves, and have brought warmth to our homes. They have shown us that Simians and Felines and Canines can live together in peace and harmony, and that they can understand each other well enough to develop strong and lasting friendships. We sleep together, we eat together, we spend a lot of time together. And when their short lives have reached the end they teach us compassion, gentle care, and above all to have faith that one day we will all be reunited in that Big Playground in the Sky.

Picture below: Who could forget the indomitable Rataplan Frankenstein The Mobile Disaster Area, Horsehunter, Master Barfer, Walking Cesspit And Bloody Awkward Nuisance On Paws ?

And so we hail our remembered friends with a salute of horns…

Oof, weekend again ? That means visiting our furriends over at the Friday Ark, the Carnival of the Cats hosted this Sunday by Chey’s Place, Weekend Cat Blogging done by Mind of Mog, and the Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos happening at Kashim @ the BKCFoC home.