In response to the attention of Peter’s feline companion, here is a quick precise of the personality’s of each of the fur-balls that own our home:
Here is the queen of all cats across the world. Not only does she rule our house, she rules all animals who stray past her nose. She has been known to walk right up to BIG dogs, sniff their nose, then swat them for their indignation for getting so close.
On the upside, she is small, squat and sweet. Most of the time. My wife disputes this last compliment. Fluff has some unusual habits, but to be fair: We trained her to tell the time. Consequently, at 10.30pm each night she appears from wherever she has slept all day. Sitting in sphinx-mode in front of my wife, she attempts to kill her with lazer-eyes. She stares straight at her until the wife is guilted into feeding all four cats. Cats, one, Humans, nil points.
I’ve had to lay blankets and bar-runners on our leather lounges to prevent further damage from her claws. The sides of the taller book cases look like someone has thrown axes. Yes, like all cats, she has made the bookcase top her fortress from which to command the house. It took her a few times to realise that she shouldn’t defecate in the same places she sleeps. Sigh. Who, really, who would have cats? It surprises me that she keeps us as slaves!
Paws is the real sweety of the house, though not without a few idiosyncratic personality traits that I cannot fathom. She has been known to… wait, she is doing it now… sit and stare at the stone fire-place for hours on end.
At first I thought it was senility, but she will return to the same spot every time! I’m now convinced she can see ghosts. When she swivels her head to follow nothing more than a fan-breeze across the room, you’ve got to wonder what she can see with those little eyes.
Thankfully she will sleep all day without bothering anyone.
Of all four, he is the worst stink-bomb of all. When he walks into a room, an odour falls in behind. Like Haley’s comet, the smell seems to have a tail of stink-bombs happening later. I swear he taught ‘Spleen’ from Mystery Men how to projectile-fart.
Yet I still call him my ‘Panther-Boy’. He is massive! On several occasions I have let him sit on me, but not without putting on denim jeans and putting down a canvas blanket upon my lap. His claws are like eagle talons. Cut them off? Are you mad? I’d sooner tackle a lion or leopard or that woman three cubicles away: This cat has been known to pat lizards innocently only to stab them mercilessly without blinking. There is nothing more hilariously offensive than watching a cat trying to shake a dead lizard off his paw, not realising he has put a hole right through it!
He’s growing up, but that tail still has a kink at the end where the bone never grew straight. Yet we love him. His paranoia hasn’t lessened, he still claims his shadow is stalking him. With grey whiskers, he sniffs the air around him, seeking free food. Thankfully he has learned not to jump on the kitchen benches, unlike Mischief.
Yes, each description got a little shorter each time. I suggest you follow the links in the article to see just how much we love each cat, and to see the few good photographs I have managed to shoot. These cats might stink, scratch and sleep, but we still love them. Yet all things do come to an end. We’ve had the cats since 1998 when we found them in a car park in the Adelaide CBD – so they may only live a few years longer. Honestly, that’s fine with me.