Cats In Clover

by Lea Tassie

  ***

  George thought Henry's worst fault was his failure to take hunting seriously. This frustrated the King but endeared Henry to Ben, who was fond of watching the birds eating at his feeders and splashing in the bird bath.

  One afternoon we watched George handle a training session. Having told Henry to sit on the veranda and observe, George was belly down in the grass, absolutely still, waiting for a small bird to move a foot closer. Henry soon became bored. His ears perked forward, he marched off the veranda and over to George, eyeing him curiously.

  Wotcha doin', George?

  Every bird in the yard flew away. George rose to his feet, ears back, and walked wearily back to the veranda, muttering about stupid cats who didn't understand the thrill of the chase. He became more determined than ever to teach Henry that all cats, especially royal cats, find great pleasure in hunting and stalking.

  George caught two birds the next day and brought them into the house as offerings, Henry trotting behind on both occasions. The first bird was still alive and I managed to set it free. The second gave one last twitch and died as George dropped it at my feet.

  Henry sniffed the bird with an expression of disgust, then walked away, the arch of his back and the angle of his tail clearly expressing contempt.

  Later, as I stood at the kitchen counter, a raucous but strangely muffled yowl announced Henry's presence. I turned to see what he wanted.

  Henry tossed the dried skeleton of a long-dead bird, a few feathers still attached, at my feet. He walked away, feathery tail waving triumphantly.

  "Henry's an intellectual," I said to Ben. "He was teaching us that such triumphs are short-lived."

  "These cats have too darn much personality." He threw the skeleton into the garbage can.

  George finally gave up on teaching Henry to hunt, but he seemed to think he had to make up for Henry's deficiency by catching twice as many creatures.

  One morning George chased a gray squirrel across the yard and up the tall Garry oak which grew next to a grove of arbutus and fir beyond the orchard. The rough, ridged bark of the oak's spreading branches was ideal for climbing, but George didn't follow at once. About twenty feet up, the squirrel turned around and swore loudly at George, its bushy tail flicking rapidly.

  The verbal trouncing didn't bother George. He stood at the foot of the tree, his own tail lashing, about to climb up after the squirrel. He'd seen a thousand squirrels skittering from branch to branch and tree to tree, almost as agile as birds, but George was a perpetual optimist. One of these days a really clumsy squirrel would come along.

  Two crows, who had nestlings in a neighboring arbutus, started dive bombing the squirrel. It came a little way down the tree, swearing at everybody, took another look at George and went back up again. The crows intensified their intimidation tactics. The squirrel held its ground, yelling defiantly in both directions.

  The crows became bolder and the squirrel had to make a decision. It raced down the tree and jumped, landing a foot in front of George's face. I held my breath, sure George would pounce. Henry and Nicky sat twenty feet away, like spectators at the games in an ancient Roman amphitheater. It was hard to tell whether they were rooting for George or the squirrel.

  George, startled by the squirrel's insolence, leapt backwards. The squirrel made a fast U-turn and streaked for another tree. By the time George recovered his aplomb, the squirrel had raced through the tree-tops, then down into the blackberry brambles on Cal's side of the fence, well away from both cat and crows.

  Pretending indifference, George sat down and leisurely washed his face, then daintily picked his way across the grass to the house. The King might have been an optimist about squirrels, but he knew when to quit.

  "I'm surprised Henry isn't keen on hunting," Ben said. "I thought all cats were avid hunters."

  "Are all men avid hunters?"

  "Well, no, but. . ."

  "I think we'll just have to accept that Henry is a Buddhist at heart and be thankful. Perhaps we should get a cat that George can train properly."

  "We don't need any more personalities in this house. I've got all I can do to keep up with George and Henry."

  XVI - Candidates for the Couch

  It was late May and time to celebrate Ben's birthday again. I couldn't believe the year had gone by so quickly. As I iced his cake, I realized we'd been on the farm fifteen months. Only nine more until Ben and I sat down to review our agreement and I could return to the city I loved, to my old friends and my bridge group. It wasn't that I couldn't stand living on the farm, but I knew I'd be much happier in Victoria. Besides, if Ben didn't stop being so stubborn about building a deer fence around the garden, he'd never make a success of market gardening anyway.

  "Those cats are crazy," Ben said, coming into the kitchen with the morning egg collection. "They won't eat the T-bone steak I cut up for their breakfast. And why would Henry choose to sleep on the kitchen table last night when there are so many softer beds in the house?"

  "That's not very weird. But I have known cats that could do with a session on a psychiatrist's couch. Did I ever tell you about Anna the Siamese?"

  "Yes, you have." He put the eggs into the fridge and poured himself a coffee.

  "I don't think I told you this story."

  Anna had never been outside my apartment. When I moved to a house I thought she'd be happy to go out and explore the yard. Not so. The moment her feet touched the grass she yowled and leapt onto my shoulder. Never again would she go outside unless she was draped around my neck.

  "That is weird," Ben said. "I thought all cats liked the outdoors and chasing birds."

  "You know Henry doesn't chase birds."

  "Yes, but he's different."

  "You used to think cats were all alike. And boring."

  "I know." Ben took a date square out of the fridge to go with his coffee. "You don't have to remind me. Now I'm probably more of a sucker for them then you are."

  "I wonder how Nicky and Beanbag will get along." Ben's son Gareth, his wife Sue and their corgi were coming for the weekend to help Ben eat his birthday cake.

  "Like a house on fire. Dogs don't fight." At the sound of tires crunching on gravel, Ben got up and peered out the window over the sink. "Oops, it's Hilda coming to buy eggs. I'm outta here."

  I felt the same way; Hilda barely stopped talking long enough to draw breath. But when you're an Egg Lady, you have to be nice to the customers. I opened the back door.

  A white toy poodle stood beside Hilda. "This is Mitzi. I usually leave her in the car, but I was hoping you'd offer me some coffee today. I want to tell you about the quilting group I'm planning to start this fall."

  "I'd be happy to have a coffee with you, but Mitzi should stay in your car. I have two cats in the house."

  "Don't worry," she said, "Mitzi won't hurt your cats."

  "It's not my cats I'm worried about."

  Hilda laughed and came in with her empty egg cartons. Mitzi smelled the tantalizing odor of cat and skittered across the tile floor in search of it. When she trotted into the living room, I followed her because I knew George and Henry were snoozing on the couch.

  George, blinking sleep out of his eyes, stood up, his back arched like a Halloween cat. Mitzi went into a frenzy of yapping. Henry yawned.

  George gathered himself into attack mode, a gleeful look on his face.

  Finally! A dog my own size.

  He launched himself at the poodle. I grabbed him just as he got his claws in and Mitzi fled, yelping, back to her mistress.

  "Well, really," Hilda said, cuddling a still quivering Mitzi in her arms. "Poor little sweetheart. Cats are such spineless creatures as a rule; I had no idea one would dare attack a dog. There, there, sweetheart, did the nasty old cat frighten you?"

  Hilda drank her coffee quickly and I declined, with pleasure, her invitation to join the quilting group.

  Gareth and company arrived mid-evening. After Nicky and Beanbag did their ritual sniffing and postu
ring and decided they liked each other, we admired Ben's garden, flower beds and the hanging baskets on the veranda.

  "They're gorgeous," Sue said, "except for that one at the end. Why does it look so wilted?"

  "There's a family of finches nesting in it." Ben carefully lifted down the basket and four baby finches blinked at us from among the geranium stalks.

  "They're cute," Sue said, "even if their beaks do look bigger than their bodies. Why didn't you move the nest?"

  "Didn't want to disturb them." Ben hung the basket up again. "I can't water the plants, in case the babies get wet, but they'll be grown up and gone soon."

  At dusk we settled in for a good gossip. Beanbag lay at Gareth's feet and Nicky lay beside Ben, his hero. George eyed Beanbag speculatively from Ben's chair but he'd already had his fun with Mitzi. He put his head on his paws and went back to sleep. Henry came down from his perch on the window sill and wandered toward the corgi.

  "Henry, come here," I said. "Don't frighten the dog."

  Henry sat down two feet away from Beanbag and stared. The corgi looked worried. Henry flopped down on his back and waved his paws around.

  "He wants to play," I said.

  When Beanbag didn't move, Henry gave up. He hopped up on the couch, sprawled in Sue's lap and purred at her.

  "We found out why Beanbag is afraid of cats." Sue stroked Henry and he gazed up at her adoringly.

  Gareth said, "His previous owners told us he was out in their back yard one day when a big gray and white tabby attacked him. The tabby jumped on Beanbag's back, stuck his claws in and rode him all over the yard. Beanbag finally scraped him off by crawling under the back porch."

  "Poor old mutt," Ben said, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears. "Holly says George attacked a toy poodle this morning."

  "That's because the poodle was small enough for him to handle," I said. "George is a noble creature, after all. His inbred sense of fair play dictates that he spar only with an animal his own size."

  "If you're going to talk rot, I'm going to pour everybody a drink," Ben said.