Category Archives: Vazra

‘Bah!’ said Vazra. ‘Humbug!’

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It’s not even Christmas yet and Vazra is already practicing his miserly look.  He feels Scrooge was too nice a character; only a cat could have done the part true justice.  But to be perfectly honest, although he looks like a grumpy old coot, he’s quite the opposite… most of the time.

To paraphrase Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol:

Oh! But he was a tight-pawed hand at the grind-stone, Vazra! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, scratching, biting, clutching, covetous, shedding, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his flat nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes yellow, his thin lips black; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice, disarming though it was for its constant purring. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.

Vazra lying on the bedroom floor looking miserly (159_5989)

When a cat speaks to you

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Larenti sitting in the parking lot with sunshine beaming down on her (155_5564)

Larenti was standing outside a few minutes ago when I stepped out.  She sat patiently next to the fence and immediately spoke to me when I exited.  I turned around, went back inside, and retrieved some food for her.

As I stepped back outside, she again spoke to me.  I could tell she was hungry and I was more than happy to oblige her some breakfast.

Even as I knelt to put some food outside the fence for her, she looked directly at me and meowed appreciatively.

Why is this important?  I mean, all this kitty talk is normal, right?

Hardly.  And it speaks to another reason I felt compelled to rescue Vazra.

Cats do not speak to people unless they learned to do so from people.  Like all other animals, the domestic cat is inherently a wild animal that simply has been around people long enough to be malleable insofar as domestication is concerned.  As long as a kitten is exposed to people at a young age, they grow accustomed to human company and learn not to fear us as they would normally (which is the difference between a feral cat and a stray/abandoned cat).

The significance of a cat talking directly to a human is that again it represents a personality trait that is not native to felines.  They do not naturally understand that speaking to a human can elicit a specific response.  In fact, they do not understand natively that speaking is useful at all except in extenuating circumstances (as a warning, for instance, or to communicate with offspring).  A cat who did not grow up with people and did not learn from people that talking to them is useful will only talk to other cats—notwithstanding warnings, of course.  That is the natural order of the world.

Why do I point this out?

If Larenti, like Vazra before her, is willing to talk to me directly, it shows she is not feral but instead has been abandoned to the streets.  She learned at a young age that meowing to a human could produce results.  That is not something they learn quickly except when they are young (as with all animals, the older they get, the more set in their ways they become).

It’s common for domestic cats to talk to people when they live with people.  If one lives outside and without a home to which they can return, talking to people means they did not start out on the streets but instead grew up in a home where they learned to communicate with humans.  That is one of the ways I knew Vazra was neither feral nor a lifelong stray.  He’s quite vocal.  Not only that, but he loves human interaction and attention.  Larenti’s comfort with me proved she was not feral; her willingness to talk to me directly proves she once had a home but was abandoned or rejected.

Larenti sitting in the sunshine (155_5565)

Beware all ye who enter here

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THE TIME: This morning around 5:30 A.M. CST.

THE SCENE: I lay in bed curled beneath covers warmed of my own body heat, freezing temperatures outside the walls of the cavern, cooling temperatures inside, my head resting on pillows and my body set upon its side, and five cats spread about me in various poses of comfortable sleep.  Kazon huddled under the blankets and pressed firmly against me, his head resting gently upon my arm, his occasional purr-snore breathing rising to barely audible levels.  Vazra, curled in a ball and recognizable only as a lump of respiring fur, lay wedged against my back in what I assumed to be an attempt to hold me in place and prohibit a too-early rising.  Grendel and Kako rested betwixt my legs intertwined in a ball of limbs and tails so tightly woven that a knot of wet, heated plastic wrap clumsily fisted together would be easier to untangle, a passionate embrace so powerful that it can render two cats as one.  Loki lazed heavily against my feet in a black-and-white peace unbecoming one so evil and powerful.

My mind registered only cursory senses.  The dark appeared as much a lack of light as a sleepy mind wishing to ignore the world for yet another hour… just one more hour.  My head, the only part of me protruding from under blankets and sheets tasked with ensuring my warm contentment, declared the cold had settled in around the bed and threatened to attack at the first signs of life, so I tended my own safety through a conscious-unconscious decision: I shall take shelter here amongst these felines and linens, and I shall be safe.  My ears heard only the sweet song of sleeping predators.  My skin felt Kazon’s heat pressed firmly against me as we hunkered together, and it also told me of the other cats, each in their place, each finding in the moment respite and rejuvenation.

THE EVENT: From outside the front door came a racket so piercing and dire as to be the end of the world.  Chorused by barking squirrels declaring imminent threats to their own well-being—or were they shouting and applauding combatants employed in a show of entertaining struggle?—there came a raucous sound of screaming cats locked in battle with one another, howls and hisses and shrieks and shouts of a nature so violent, so frightful, so unrelenting that one could scarcely believe animals capable of such noises.  And it seemed all too close, perhaps right outside our cave’s entrance where neighborhood felines busied themselves in a tussle, a battle to the death even, as crowds cheered on the gladiators and their final combat.

Each of my senses leaped to high-availability mode, each straining to accept whatever raw input they could find, each wishing to know what manner of hell might be taking place nearby.  In turn, each of the cats sleeping on and around me likewise awoke, each of them hearing the call of brethren cries, each of them tasting in the sound the bitter passion of conflict.

Before my body could react, and even as my mind willed my muscles to secure my movement and carry me forth, five felines responded in kind.  They jumped to their feet and trampled me under paw while scrambling to be the first to investigate the tumult occurring right outside our safe haven.  Had feline feet been made of heavy stone, I would have been crushed against the pallet upon which I slept, my body squashed by a throng of animals put on high alert by what they were hearing and by that which set them into a furious dash.

After the commotion of exodus left me alone, I rose from bed, grabbed a robe in which to wrap my bruised and battered self, and made my way to the living room.  Casting a bit of strategic light into that once dark space, all the while listening to the bloody rampage taking place a stone’s throw away and separated from us by our own cave’s entrance, I set my eyes upon all five of the home’s protectors.  Their moods alight, their nerves on edge, their senses focused on the door, the five of them sat in a nervous semicircle of astute attention.  Mayhem had come to our home, violence took shape right outside the door, and none of them was able to resist the call to investigate, to prepare, and to wait and watch and listen.

Before I reached the gaping maw leading from our world to the rest of the universe, scrambling bellows announced a hasty retreat by the warring factions who dared to invade our space and our sleep.  Yet I reached the door, unlocked it, and cast an eye through the narrow space offered by the small opening created by pulling the massive stone but a breath away from the cave walls.

Nothing.  While darkness lay atop everything my senses could behold, nary a sign of the battle nor its warriors was seen.  Battle lines had collapsed and enemies had fallen back.  The world again had become silent, for even those witness to the gladiatorial fight had returned to the shadows and silenced their voices.  We had missed the show, had arrived too late to the arena.

I closed the door with a silent thud as the heavy stone fell against the rock face.  After securing the cave entrance lest we be attacked without notice, I turned to the five who remained in place, eyes wide, ears erect and rotating in radar-like motion as they swept the area for sound, and I could see the nervousness in each of them.  Our sacred peace had been violated, our rest interrupted.  There would be no more sleep this day, at least for me, and they too would not sleep for some time, nerves afire with predatory instincts, hearts drumming the ancient beat of wild beasts too close to the edge of scathe to back down, fearful of invading marauders and ready to do battle to protect their own.  It was the same look I see in them when one of them cries out, perhaps in pain or frustration, and the rest come running, their blood pumping a willingness to attack throughout their bodies, their reflexes engaged to protect and fight.

THE WARNING: This is indeed a home of dangerous predators whose family nature calls them to duty.  Always willing to do battle, always ready to protect their own, and always prepared to hold their ground to defend home and loved ones…  Beware all ye who enter here.