Category Archives: Photos

Another of the neighborhood cats

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For only the third time to date, I was able to feed another of the neighborhood cats.  I believe this one is female based on personality.  I could, however, be terribly and insultingly wrong.

Regardless of sex, I am assuming the tipped ear means sexual function has been surgically deactivated.

This cat is far shier than any of the others I’ve seen around here so far, including Chira and Vazra.  She’s also more feral, although that infers a level of wildness she does not possess.

She’s not entirely fearful of people.  She’s also not completely trusting of us.  She’s never sure what to do about me: Run?  Or watch carefully?  It all depends on how close I am and what I do.  Mostly, she watches me carefully.

As I mentioned in my previous post, she does allow me to feed her from time to time.  I can count such occasions on one hand.  I’d call that very slow progress considering I’ve seen her around here for more than a year.

She’s always very curious about me; likewise, she’s always leary of me.  It’s fun watching that struggle take place in her each time she visits.

This particular sightseer also roams quite a bit after dark.  She has on more than one occasion chanced upon raccoons and opossums.  Why that seems to happen mostly right outside my patio fence I simply can’t imagine…

She’s also the young lass who follows Vazra sometimes when he comes to visit.  She’s lonely, I can tell, and you’d see it plain as day were you to spy her under such circumstances.  She sits outside the fence and cries for him.  It’s almost heartbreaking to hear and see.  She needs company, companionship, someone to help her feel like she matters.  It can’t be denied.

She followed him to my patio one morning and waited for him as he ate and got dawn’s serving of lovin’.  She stood there the entire time crying and pleading in the hope he would hear her need and oblige her the comradeship.  Vazra, on the other hand, didn’t know what to make of her other than she was terribly pushy.  For the first time since I’d informally been introduced to her, she ate some cat food as she waited.

As Vazra left having enjoyed his time with me, she happily followed with a heartfelt joy on her lips.  I almost cried.  There was a desperation in her that smelled of an emptiness inside that could only be filled with contact.

I guess that’s why I really like her and pay attention to her as much as I can.  She needs it.  She says as much from time to time when she finds the strength and will to speak.  It’s always the cry of the alone, a question for which she will not accept my answer.  At least not yet.

Ultimately, there are a lot of stray and feral cats in this area.  The lake supports an abundance of wildlife because it is a federally-protected refuge.  I suspect that is undoubtedly a reliable source of food.  The feline population also benefits from people like me who feed them without question.  I know for certain that I am not the only one.

Will I name this little lady?  It’s possible, but not yet.  I am a convenient curiosity for her.  I doubt it’s much more than that.  Sure, a meal now and again is always nice, and I’m probably quite entertaining with my whispered cooing and animated gesticulating, but it’s hard to say that I’m much more than that.  She’s just very distant and distrusting of people.

Well, I have time to work on that.

Here’s the best picture of her I have right now.  Click on it for a larger version that makes it a bit easier to appreciate those gorgeous eyes.

Larenti sitting just outside my patio fence (144_4490)
Larenti relaxing under the bushes (144_4493)

And the first photo I got of her?  I hope you’re not holding your breathe.  Again, click on it for a larger version (although the quality goes downhill because the original was taken with much rapidity and lack of preparation).

Larenti behind the fence (144_4456)

That’s as close as I could get considering where she was.  When I tried to improve my view, she bolted.

[Update] I have since named this cat Larenti.

That’s why they’re called The Twins

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I’m speaking, of course, about Kako and Kazon.  They have been called The Twins since I adopted them the first week of December, 1998.  Here are a few reasons why they’re called that.

Kako resting her head on Kazon when they were kittens (the_twins_02)

That’s Kako with her head resting on Kazon.

Kako on her back trying to engage Kazon in play (the_twins_01)

Here, Kako is trying to engage her brother Kazon in a bit of play, something he promptly obliged her.  By the way, that’s Grendel‘s post-surgery half-shaved ass you see in the lower-left corner of the photo.  Similarly, Loki‘s paws are seen dangling from atop a cardboard box near the upper-right corner.

Kako lying on the box and Kako lying beside the box (the_twins_07)

And to finish, that’s Kazon lying on top of the box with Kako on the floor beside it.

We’re not talking Peking ducks

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Many years ago we had pet ducks.  My parents decided my brother and I needed more pets than what we had, and being young we both agreed.  But we already had dogs and cats, so what next?  Ducks, of course!

It started with two very small Muscovy ducklings named Mr. Peabody (left, in front of me) and Mr. Nielsen (right, in front of my brother).

Two small ducklings just brought home as pets (ducks01)

As they grew up, they truly became members of the family.  They would come when called.  Despite not always clipping their wings in a timely manner, which allowed them to gain the ability to fly, they would stay close to home and return to the back yard when it suited them (or when we caught them in the neighboring yards and brought them home).  They played with the dogs but otherwise did not fear them; the back yard was more their domain than any dog’s.  On a related note, the dogs would protect the ducks, especially from children coming from the nearby elementary school who were foolish enough to climb over the fence to get a better look at these fowl neighbors.

In this photo, they are still juveniles and have not yet formed their permanent colorings.  That is Mr. Peabody on the left again, and Mr. Nielsen is on the right.

Two juvenile Muscovy ducks (ducks02)

We built a house for them in which they nested.  Nested?  But their names…?

Yes, I know.  Get off me about it.  We had no idea when we brought them home that they were both females.  Then again, the idiot we got them from didn’t know either, although, in that horribly Texan way, he relied on a bit of hemming and hawing to delay while he made up an answer.  He said they were both males.  I think the eggs they laid for years and years might be an indication to the contrary.

Anyway, we built a house for them, then dug a hole and put in a large tub for swimming and bathing.  They were in heaven.  But then someone wanted babies (ahem, brother) and decided to bring home some males.  First it was a wild mallard named Maynard who promptly ate himself to death (he ate less of what we fed them and more of what he could find in the yard, so he was dead only one day after Diazinon was used).  Despite whatever intentions this duck had prior to his untimely demise, his efforts to mate with Mr. Peabody and Mr. Nielsen failed to produce a single viable egg (they were never fertilized).

After Maynard’s passing, another Muscovy was brought in with the thought that it was a male.  We weren’t terribly bright back then when it came to identifying duck genders, though, for the ‘he’ was actually another ‘she.’  I’m afraid I don’t remember this one’s name, but at least I have a picture of her with the girls.  That’s Mr. Nielsen on the left, Mr. Peabody in the middle, and the latest not-really-a-gentleman caller on the right.  It goes without saying that she didn’t help with the mating idea.  You’ll notice their plumage has finally settled into its permanent design (look at the tops of their heads to see a major difference from their juvenile displays in the photo above).

Three Muscovy ducks on the sidewalk (ducks)

Despite the comings and goings of various suitors and false suitors, all of whom seemed unable to satisfy the ladies, they remained wonderful pets and never questioned our intentions.

As part of the family, they knew they had to pull their weight around the house (or yard in their case).  One way they did this was to keep the insect population in check.  Another way they helped was with the garden.  Again, this had much to do with insects.  My father would till the garden before planting; the ducks helped with this by following him.  By doing this, they could rid the garden soil of any pests right after he churned them up.  There was no time for escape.  You see below Mr. Peabody following the tiller and Mr. Nielsen ahead of it (on the left edge of the picture).

The two Muscovy ducks keeping up with my father as he tills the garden (ducks04)

And again.  This time they’re sticking close to Dad’s feet as he makes his way through the garden.  You can see from this picture how much they trusted us.  They’re right under his feet, following very close to the gas-powered engine roaring away in the tiller, and yet they feel completely safe and unworried.  That’s Mr. Nielsen on the left and Mr. Peabody on the right.

The two Muscovy ducks at my father's feet while he tills the garden (ducks05)

Eventually, as with all children, we began to grow up and move out of the house.  And when maturity drew us away, the ducks finally were donated to a local farm or wildlife sanctuary or something along those lines.  It was innocuous as far as I remember and knew back then.

Despite not fearing for their welfare, a part of me laments their departure.  No one—and I even mean no one within the family—knew them as well as I did.  No one else knew what they liked, how best to treat them, where and how they most liked to be petted, what their various personality traits were, or how much they really were attached to us.  I do not doubt they moved to a place where there were a lot of other ducks.  I also do not doubt they had a lot more room in which to roam.

Likewise, I do not doubt for a single moment that they missed us, that they missed their home and their family, and that they did not get the attention to which they were accustomed, attention lavished on them by everyone (especially me).  I know they never again were petted in all the ways they liked.  I know never again were they held in someone’s lap in that oh-so-special way.  I know never again did they enjoy the same level of trust and comfort around people that they enjoyed while living with us.

I look back now and regret terribly letting them go so easily.  Ah, but these are the lessons of growing up, the disappointments that teach us to be better in the future.

I miss those ducks.  I miss the tremendous entertainment they provided.  I miss the unconditional love they demonstrated in ways too few would even understand.  I wish things had been different, but that’s like wishing none of us ever grew up.  Time moves forward.  People grow and change.  Oh but were we better able to appreciate the loves of childhood when they mattered most…

[Update] Now years after posting this, a close look at the third Muscovy had me realizing it was a female, not a male.  We couldn’t tell back then, of course, and I didn’t look closely at the image when I first posted this entry in 2006.  But referencing it in a recent post had me looking closely at the images, hence the sudden realization that we’d laughably misidentified her as a him.  I’ve since updated this entry to properly identify her gender.