Rigid Heddle Cats

Day 155: Between the linen cupboard and the door into the bathroom, there is a six-inch wide bit of wall which hosts an assortment of changeable bell-pull style fiberarts acknowledging the changing of the seasons. Aside from Christmas, it's the only seasonal decorating I do. Not all the pieces match to a specific holiday, but examples of those which do would include krokbragd sheep for spring, tvistsöm or woven birds for summer, satin stitch/hardanger acorns for autumn, and hardanger poinsettias for winter. Having developed a rigid-heddle pattern for cats, I thought it might be nice to acknowledge Merry's birthday with a cat panel. That said, the grey cats in this little design have tails. Merry only has a stub. Working at 15 epi using 8/2 cotton, the piece was woven with a pickup stick on alternate rows to provide the cat pattern. In between, I wove white tabby (over and under), using floating selvedge threads. The pattern threads must also be taken out to the edges, passing over or under the floating selvedges as appropriate. I had to place dividers between the cats to keep floats on the reverse from being too long. I found that taking both floating selvedge threads either "up" or "down" on each pick worked best for this design. Given the nature of the weave, sometimes a grey thread would get trapped under the tabby pass as they occasionally do in any overshot, but these were easily brought to the surface with a yarn needle and should not be problematic once the fibers have been fulled by washing (not yet done in the image). 

Cats Can Count

Day 11: There is no time like the present to prove that cats can count. I don't usually wear my politics on my sleeve because I was brought up in an era when politics, religion and sex were not things you shared with the world at large. I was also brought up in an era when cursing was frowned on, when dishonesty in business and personal dealings was punished, when adultery was cause for social ostracization, when penises were never a fit subject in a campaign speech, when candidates for major offices (and even minor ones) were intelligent and well-spoken, and were the kind of people we held up for our children to emulate. No, we weren't perfect in those days. There were hate groups and vulgar people. There was discrimination. There were crooks and con men, to be sure, but we didn't put them on pedestals and idolatrize them. In fact, we condemned them, spurned them, in many cases incarcerated them as not fit to walk among us freely. We loved America for what it stood for: freedom and justice for all, a land of opportunity, a working democracy. Where did we go off the rails? Don't answer that. I know you know, right to the day. So here's your chance to get it right. Get off your furry behinds, cats, and go vote.

How Dare You!

Day 146: Today's interrogative is "How?" as in "How dare you put that camera in my face? You said you were going to take my picture. Are you going to give it back?" I'm convinced that cats regard cameras as soul-stealers. They will NOT look one in the eye if they have any say in the matter, and the simple act of lifting a camera up off a table will cause all heads to turn outward, denying the black box any opportunity of incursion. While not exactly Grumpy-Cat, there will be no smiles forthcoming despite the fact that both Tip and Skunk generally wear cheerful, even amused looks when the camera is hidden away. To add insult to injury, I was compelled to use flash for these portraits, something I normally eschew. None of us was happy with this session!

Never Laugh At A Cat

Day 35: Cats' people must understand one thing in feline psychology if they grasp nothing else: it is the height of rudeness to laugh at a cat, or even to allow the slightest inkling of a snicker to twitch the corners of your mouth. This is not to say that cats are humourless; quite the contrary! Many cats have a well-developed sense of humour, though perhaps on a level which eludes mere humans, manifesting most frequently as dry disdain. Ever have a cat give you "The Look?" That's cat humour. The indignity of the Cone of Shame is one thing and must be borne in good grace, but laughter? No. One must never laugh at a cat, no matter how strongly they resemble a vacuum device of some sort, designed for sucking up cat food on an industrial scale.

The Cone Of Shame

Day 33: We are home. I haven't spoken of this publicly, but when Tip went in for his annual exam last week, I asked his doctor to look at a lump beneath his ear. It had been there for a while, but he'd started fussing at it. She determined that it was more than just a "kitty bump" (cyst) via a punch biopsy which was then sent out for analysis. The return stated that it was a mast-cell tumor. This type of tumor in cats is described as "unpredictable, but usually benign," and due to the unpredictability factor, she recommended removal. However, Tip has a pronounced heart murmur which precludes using general anaesthesia. She thought she'd be able to do it under a local, but nevertheless I was worried. I took him in early this morning. Fifteen minutes later, doctor came out of the operating theater and announced that he had come through just fine. I waited another half hour to get the results of his blood tests - everything normal. Now we wait for the pathology, and meanwhile, good little Tippy who didn't bite or claw anybody has been consigned to the Cone of Shame for two weeks while the incision heals. I expected him to protest, but he seems to be accepting his circumstances with amazingly good grace.

Snoozy Suzy

Day 85: I once saw a cartoon of two cats sprawled on a couch, in which one says to the other, "I don't know how I can get by on just seventeen and a half hours sleep," and Skunk and Tip are both prime examples of the truth of that assertion. They spend most daylight hours sacked out, and a fair portion of the night as well. If you're a cat owner, you know what I mean: they spend 90 percent their time sleeping, with the occasional wake-break for eating or using the litter box. Cats are professional loafers, no doubt about it.

So here I am, on the third day of a three-month physical fitness challenge which is demanding about three hours a day of aerobic exercise to achieve my goal, and a question which has puzzled me for some time has arisen once again. How, I want to know, does a cat who does nothing but loaf maintain the muscle tone necessary to leap to the top of a counter or chair? What cardiovascular secret is there in a cat's physique which allows it to race like fury around the house for half an hour without getting even marginally short of breath? All you weekend warriors out there...you know how they're always warning you about jackrabbit starts? A cat can go from total inactivity to the equivalent of running a marathon without even a fifteen-second warmup and never risks tearing a muscle or falling over with cramps.

Snoozy Suzy here (Skunk) stays in shape by being lazy. Why doesn't it work that way for me? 

National Cat Day

Day 16: Skunk and Tip would like to wish you a happy National Cat Day. We did not know it was National Cat Day when we got up this morning, or we would have been better prepared. After breakfasting, we snugged down for our customary postprandial nap, only to be disturbed by Mama running the vacuum cleaner and then moving our chairs and other furniture around so she could do a photo project. It was an exhausting morning for us, so when everything was put back to rights, we immediately settled in to finish the business of napping. Alas, that was when Mama discovered it was National Cat Day. You can imagine our frustration as once again she woke us up and made us pose for portraits. Hopefully, there will be no more disturbances between now and bedtime, when we'll both wake up, ready to bounce and pounce the whole night long. Humans just don't understand how hard it is to be a cat.

Tippy Tippy

Day 302: Every time I post a photo like this on one of the social media sites, I get a flurry of comments along the lines of, "If I tried that with my cat, she'd claw me to pieces." On the flip side of the coin, I am always surprised that people CAN'T do things like this with their cats. I guess the secret is in building a relationship of trust from the beginning.

Tip is a gentle and loving Boy, very easy-going and mellow. The hardest part here was getting him to look at the camera long enough for the 10-second timer to run down and trigger the lens. Don't go thinking I got this on the first try, either. I took at least a dozen, never once turning him rightside-up. I had to support his back with my knees to free up a hand to push the shutter button each time, but he knew I wasn't going to drop him. He trusts me.

On the other hand, Skunk is a crabby old gal. Still, when it's time for mama to do something wicked to her like brush her teeth or give her a bath, she doesn't fight me because we've established the parameters for how the job is done. She may not like what's going on, but she understands that I won't push her past her limits.

I treat my kitties like kids. I explain things to them, whether they can understand me or not. I have introduced them to scary concepts like bathing one slow step at a time. Those first baths weren't long or complete by any means, but now I can leave to get a towel with either cat standing in the sink, water up to tummy level, and not worry about them jumping out.

Y'know, it's like a relationship with another human: you get out of it what you put into it. If you play hard or tease meanly, you'll be repaid in kind. If you're patient and gentle, you'll be rewarded with trust. Tippy Tippy knows that.

Sunny Cats

Day 174: Just let the sun stream through the window, and Tip and Skunk both go bonelessly limp. What is it that makes cats such heat lovers? They'll lay beside the fireplace until their fur feels hot enough to ignite, and a sunny spot on the floor makes them spread out like too-warm pats of butter. I can't abide feeling melted, yet these two seek out the experience and revel in it. A sunny cat is a happy cat, "limp dishrag" look or no.

The Great Equalizer

Day 101: A windstorm blew my power away yesterday and brought the residents of the house as close together as they ever get. I see photos of other peoples' cats snuggled up together and often wonder why mine can't come to terms. There will be the occasional whisker contact, but it nearly always ends with a hiss from Skunk, as if she feels a need to reinforce that she is mistress of the household. Tip would cuddle if she would allow it, but Skunk came up the hard way, fighting off a pair of savage dogs when she was only six weeks old. It has only been in her later years that she will even accept physical contact with me. That said, the fire brings these two to an accord. They agree that warmth is a Good Thing. As truces go, it's a good beginning.

Christmas Portrait Time

Day 63: Pets of any sort are a challenge for the photographer, but cats are especially difficult. They don't like to be posed. They don't like to have the camera's eye staring at them. They don't hold still. And they especially don't like to be draped in fabric. Fortunately, I have two Very Good Kitties who know that their mama isn't going to do anything mean to them, all evidence to the contrary. Tip (left) was hard to convince. If I'd given any real thought to it, I would have trimmed his toenails after the photo session, but because I hadn't really been planning the shoot, I'd done it only seconds before. It took me five minutes to convince him that the fabric wasn't some new cat-torture device, and when I was finally satisfied with his comfort level, I backed away for a zoomed-in shot. Skunk (right) presented an entirely different problem. I'd waked her up from a sound sleep. While I arranged the cloth around her, she burrowed her head down in the folds and resumed her nap. Getting her to look up wasn't easy. She's deaf, so noise-making had no effect at all. I had to toss something just lightly enough to bump the chair but not so hard that it upset her, and once I'd got her to raise her eyes, I waved a second piece of fabric to keep her attention as I triggered the shutter with my free hand. Tip's portrait was taken at 0.4 sec shutter speed, Skunk's at 1/6 sec. That's a long time to hold still when you're a cat!

Her Imperial Majesty, Skunk

Day 365: There is no doubt about it, Skunk is the queen of the household. She's getting on in years and is a bit arthritic in addition to being deaf, but she still manages to keep Tip in line when he wants to play too rambunctiously. She spends most of her day perched on the back of my recliner or sleeping on the seat, or if I happened to take possession of the chair before she could stake a claim, she will insert herself beneath my book or needlework to curl up on my lap. If you serve Her Majesty well, she will reward you with her warmth and a soft purr of contentment.

Young Master Tip

Day 364: I am convinced that the superstition which designates black cats as "bad luck" originated because they justifiably sunk their teeth and claws into people who stepped on them in the dark or sat on them when they were sleeping on dark upholstery, bad luck for the person who was clawed and bitten, but worse luck for the poor cat. Whatever the reason, the reputation is undeserved. I have shared my home with several black or black-and-white cats over the years, and Master Tip is certainly one of the sweetest and most loving kitties I've known. My Boy has been with me for five years now, and certainly qualifies as a stroke of good luck in my book.

Tippy Turns Five

Day 289: Somebody's a Birthday Boy! At six months old, Tip had just been brought in from his temporary foster family to be put up for adoption, and I was looking specifically for a black kitty. I didn't know it at the time, but black and "tuxedo" cats (black and white) are the least likely to be adopted from shelters. Why? Some say it's the superstition, but how did that superstition evolve? Well, if you've ever fallen over a black cat in the dark of night, you might be inclined to say they were unlucky. Even if you haven't tripped on a cat, you may have stepped on a midnight-colored tail and seen a sudden flash of white just before the teeth were embedded in your leg. Yeah, I can see why people think black cats are unlucky.

But not Tippy. Tippy was one of the luckiest finds of my life. I'd just lost a little black genius of a kitten during routine surgery, and friends who had seen the zest come back into my life with Harry Dickens' presence were pushing me hard to take on another kitty. A search of local shelters and pet stores yielded nothing, and I wound up travelling several hours north only to discover that the last kitten at one shelter had been taken just before I arrived. A friend who had accompanied me pulled out his phone and started calling around. He found one shelter with mostly adult cats and a few juveniles, but to my dismay, no little baby kitties. However, when we arrived, they showed me a pair of six-month old "tuxedo" brothers. I picked out the one with the least white and spent an hour getting to know him before deciding to take him home.

A few days later when I took him in for his first physical, the veterinarian told me he had a heart murmur. With my emotions raw from the loss of little Harry, I was rocked hard by the news. The shelter footed the bill for a full cardiological exam, and Tip was given a better prognosis than I had feared. His current doctor monitors his condition carefully and so far has not been concerned. "He's just noisy," she said, but she wants me to watch his weight and be sure he gets good exercise.

Exercise? He's a mile-a-minute fellow! He runs and leaps, and keeps up a sweet, soft commentary as he passes things by. "Mirrl?" he asks his toys. "Mirrl-mirrl!" he tells me as he races around my legs to encourage me to chase him. He plays ever so gently when I tickle him; never a bite, never a scratch, and he's always ready with a nose-rub or a paw on my cheek. For all the love he gives me, my Boy was a very lucky find indeed!

Kitty Dreams

Day 185: Skunk came to me as a four-week old spitfire who had been born somewhere outdoors and adopted by a barn cat into her slightly older litter. Even at that age, she was a scrapper. When dogs attacked the kittens, she turned on them tooth and nail and came away alive, but with one paw nearly severed at the wrist by a bite. With such a history behind her, she was understandably suspicious and defensive, and for two years, resisted sitting on my lap. Then one day, she came and sat beside my chair as if to say, "Well? Aren't you going to pick me up?" I did so, and was surprised when she curled up happily and went to sleep. Since then, she has become much more tractable, often insinuating herself under my needlework or pushing my book aside to demand a cuddle. Twelve years later, I have a loving "lap cat" whose affection for me is much appreciated.