Sandra’s Miscellany

After a few serious posts about things that have been bugging me, how about a piece (or two) of fluff?

Allow me to introduce Dot (a.k.a. Technicolor) and Dash (a.k.a. Monochrome):

I’ve read that you can’t tell much about a cat’s temperament from her coloring, but every calico I’ve ever known has been not only randomly affectionate but A Mighty Hunter. My old calico, Spot (a.k.a. The Cat That Wouldn’t Die), used to drag everything from moles to baby rabbits up to the front door and then beg to be let in. One memorable day, she sounded like she was out on the front porch drowning; when we looked out, she had a garter snake hanging out both sides of her mouth.

Dot is much the same. Only she brings in those giant black tree roaches that she catches out on the dock. We have to frisk her before letting her in. Sometimes there’s the tell-tale bit of roach sticking out of the front of her mouth, and sometimes the roach is small enough to fit entirely in her mouth. The next day we usually find legs or antennae lying around.

She’s also very comfortable and confident:

Dash, however, is our “special” cat. She grew up in a chaotic environment as a kitten fostered with a woman who would foster as many as ten cats at a time. When she got old enough, she lived for three months at the local animal shelter in a cage barely big enough to let her turn around. Only after we signed the paperwork to take her home were we told that she’d been in solitary confinement twice for biting people; her data sheet merely said that she was “a little nibbly.” What actually happened was that we rescued her off death row — one more bite and she’d have been put down.

It turns out that Dash was improperly socialized, has a love-hate relationship with hands, and seems not to know what to do with affection. She wants it, but after being petted for a minute or two, she’ll suddenly look startled and slap at the hand as if in some sort of pre-emptive strike. We don’t discipline cats by hitting them, so I’m hoping that she’ll come around before she turns 15.

The other thing striking about Dash is that when we first brought her home, she really didn’t know how to play. She was very slow and couldn’t seem to follow moving toys very well. Thanks heavens her motor skills have improved since being let out of that damned cage. She’ll never be as fast or clever as Dot, but at least she’s made serious progress. She does try very hard.

Dash also turns down every cat treat I’ve ever tried to tempt her with. Both she and Dot give Pounce a wide berth, regardless of flavor. But I’ve discovered that shaking the can still brings Dot running from her far-afield evening wanderings — I just have to give her a different brand of treat as a reward instead.

Dot is extremely clever and surefooted; she leaps happily from dock to boat and putters around the boats on our pier. Dash, as you know if you’ve been reading this blog this spring and summer, has logged four swimming trips since she joined the household in March. These days Dash is much more conservative with her wandering, except for the times she hears something splashing in the water and then gets up on the coaming — about three inches wide — with all four feet and peers down. One slip from there and she’d be gargling. But that thought doesn’t seem to enter her feeble little brain.

So as different as Technicolor and Monochrome, that’s Dot and Dash.