Cats and Birds

Downy woodpecker on my neighbour's Honey Locust tree.
Proof that I need a better camera. 

In a March of the Penguins-like elaboration on something that could have been a lot simpler, I was in Guelph this past week to make a presentation about climate change.

Subscribers are all aware of the fact that I neither own a car nor drive, so every trip greater than walking distance requires me to find a vehicle of some sort plus someone else to operate it (excepting bicycles, of course; I can get around on a bike all on my own). 

So why was I in Guelph? A number of my colleagues and I were asked a while back to attend a meeting of representatives from the agricultural sector. The resulting game of hot potato ended with my boss being declared the unlucky winner. The rest of us all made other plans for that day. Then my boss could no longer make the meeting. So it fell to me or one other person to go. Knowing the other person had a schedule both full and inflexible, I volunteered myself and one of my team. 

I notified all the folks in Guelph that I would be attending.

Then my colleague e-mailed and said, no, given the likely topic of discussion, she wanted to go.

I notified all the folks in Guelph that my colleague would be attending instead.

At 5:10 p.m. on the day before the meeting, the same colleague who had fought to attend the meeting came to me and said, "I can't go to this meeting; I'm triple booked. But I can get one of my staff to take you to Guelph."

This is how I got there: I caught the 11:43 Lakeshore West GO Train to Burlington (elapsed time from office to Burlington: one hour and thirty minutes). At Burlington, I rendezvoused with staff and we drove from Burlington to Guelph (elapsed time 45 minutes). 

I was on the agenda for 2:15, and, when we finally found a parking space close to 1 Stone Road, it was just coming up on 1:30, so we weren't busting our humps.

Caught up in pleasant conversation walking slowly in the fine weather, we didn't initially notice the woman standing by the doors to 1 Stone Road, yelling at us. The agenda had been changed. We were up.

So, we hurried into the meeting room, I dropped into my seat, introduced myself and my colleague, made my presentation, answered a few pro forma questions with a few scripted answers and then bade everyone farewell. I'd paid for two hours on the parking metre. We were back on the road in less than twenty minutes. 

We beguiled the journey back to the GO station with the tale of Karma, the little rescued Siamese cat. 

Karma came to her new home both starved and terrified. Fate intervened when my colleague Googled "siamese rescue Hamilton". Karma's case was the first to pop up on the list.

She was just a scrawny little kitten, with separation anxiety issues that have never left her. She will eat only in the presence of her rescuer and only a few bits of kibble at a time. Then she has to sniff and rub against her rescuer before returning to her dish for another few kibbles.

"Man," I said, "that's pretty high maintenance."

"Yes," Karma's mom agreed, "it takes a lot of time."

"She also waits for me outside the bathroom when I'm having a shower - she won't come in, and I don't know why - and she follows me around the house like a dog. She fetches, too."

No doubt but Karma's a cat, though ...

"She won't sleep anywhere but with one of our other two cats, the fat male. And she torments him. He'll be sleeping and she come up to him and snuggle, and lick his face and ears, and then bite him. Then she wants to chase him, or for him to chase her..."

The two other household cats were feral kittens when they were brought in. Karma, a long-lived Siamese, will likely outlast them. More separation.

Chester AKA Pester in Extreme Close Up

It was later that same day that Bruce shared the news that Chester, the rescued cat from across the courtyard who would hang out with Bruce, extracting scratches and belly rubs while Bruce smoked, was not well.

"He has some kind of tumour," said Bruce. "They've decided they won't try any heroics. They are going to give him the needle."

Chester had belonged to our neighbour's daughter, but he'd been badly behaved at home. The thinking was if he had a yard in which to prowl and poo, he might be a happier cat and nicer to have around the house. 

Chester did take well to the open spaces of our courtyard, and mapped out the places where he could go to get attention. On any given morning unless it was too cold or too wet, Chester would sit outside our glass patio doors and bellyache. I could hear his meow all the way up on the third floor. We would almost always relent and open the door - keep him from coming in - and scratch his head, back, belly. He would even let me pick him up and give him a squeeze. 

No doubt Chester was a cat, though...

Sometimes when our neighbours are away, we go over and feed the cats and keep their litter fresh. Inside our neighbours' home, Chester did not share the same privileges as he did out of doors. 

I would put my hand down to scratch his head and he would pull away. I could not touch him when he was in the house.

Rest in peace, Chester.

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen