An Intruder At Spring Rock

Lancelot guarding some quilt blocks I was working on in case the intruder tried to steal them.

We had an intruder last night just as I was settling down in bed. I was reading my book about the archaeology of dead (a great Time Life book - I thoroughly recommend it) when it seemed that one of the Neanderthals had come to life! The only way I can describe the sound was heart wrenching. There was moaning and caterwauling (literally as it turned out) and other otherworldly noises coming from very close by indeed. I stopped reading the better to concentrate on where the sound was coming from. I couldn't pinpoint the source of the wailing so I called to Graeme, who was still at his computer, to check if Lancelot was inside and locked in a room in which he didn't belong. I knew it wasn't Tristan or Guinevere. Tristan was on the end of my bed, standing at attention and bristling from every hair follicle, ready to spring into action should the call to arms come, and it wasn't the sort of sounds I associated with the ladylike Guinevere.

Graeme, as ever, wasn't eager to go searching for a black cat at night time and grumbled as he went from room to room giving them a cursory glance in case any cat came forward and surrendered itself. I knew if there was going to be a proper search done it would have to be by me, so I got up and thoroughly searched each room. It's a small house so it didn't take long. The noise had stopped even before I had begun my search, so not finding any black cats lurking in the shadows, I went back to my book. Within seconds the noise started up again so this time I jumped up and headed for the front door, with Tristan in hot pursuit. If there was going to be a cat fight he wanted his share. I found Lancelot on the path to the houseyard gate fluffed out to the size of about four black cats and crouched low casting threats of murder and mayhem into the darkness. Tristan bounded down the steps and stopped just short of Lancelot to see if he could see what Lancelot was seeing. Lancelot decided a cat in the hand was worth two in the bush and taking Tristan's head off was just as good as dealing with whatever he was threatening out there, and proceeded to put thought into deed. I swooped on the two of them, grabbed Lancelot and headed for the front door. There I found Guinevere coming out to see what all the fuss was about so I ordered her inside too. I called to Tristan to come back but he feigned night deafness (closely related to night blindness he tried to convince me later) and refused to budge.

Once I'd deposited Lancelot in the house I returned to retrieve Tristan, picked up Lancelot who was heading out the door again uttering dreadful threats to all and sundry and shooed Guinevere back in with my foot, I closed the front door and settled down to read yet again. It wasn't long after this that Graeme came to bed and we settled down to sleep. It was just as I was snuggling into my pillow that That Sound started up again. I asked Graeme if he'd opened the door and he told me not only had he opened the door, he had shut it again with the cats on the other side because they were all prowling about like cats who wanted to go outside. Any cat inside looks like a cat that wants to go outside to Graeme. I was very strong and didn't hit Graeme over the head with a pillow. I got up yet again and opened the front door. A pale orange flash took off from the porch and headed for our little bush area of the garden. Three house cats proceeded to dash off after it but I managed to catch the two boys and convince Guinevere yet again that she didn't want a part of this war.

This isn't the first time a feral cat has visited us on our front porch. We had a little black kitten come and move into our spare room one night and settled himself on the bed. Life was looking good for the poor little thing when he was quickly surrounded by three anti squatter cats all of whom gave him a number of good reasons not to think of settling in. I didn't know what the noise in the spare room was all about, but suspected that Lancelot and Tristan were at it again so I barged in to deal with them (once again I was almost asleep when the battle began). For once in their lives Lancelot and Tristan had united against a tiny common enemy. As I entered the room the little black flash whizzed past me. Cats were one thing, but humans entering the fray were another matter entirely. He returned a few days later and was again seen off by The Gang of Three. We haven't seen him since. I was more than ready to adopt him and teach him the joys of being domesticated but there was no way I could get close enough even to introduce myself.

Anyway, back to last night's intruder. I could see his eyes shining from the bushes and knew if something wasn't done to put him off the whole idea of settling down on our front porch for the night thus inciting the resident cats to voice their disapproval at the top of their very loud voices, I wouldn't get any sleep. I walked to the end of the porch, shone the torch in the general direction of the shining eyes and made half-hearted threats to back up Lancelot's threats of dismemberment if he returned to the scene of his crime. I don't think he believed a word. Animals seem to know by some sixth sense that I'm a push over for the entire animal world, bar spiders. Still, he left us in peace and quiet for the rest of the night. All three cats were as twitchy as if they'd received an electric shock, and their puffed out tails and raised hackles only enhanced the electric shock similarity. They spent the night jumping at small sounds and muttering threats under their breath.

Not the best environment in which to get a good night's sleep but better than diving outside to break up a four way cat fight on a regular basis.

Resting Ha!!!

Tristan doing his Meerkat impression. He does it rather well don't you think?

I can't remember if I've mentioned I have a spinal disc injury. Most days I need to have a lie down in the middle of the day to rest my back and enable me to get through the remainder of the day. I read a book while I'm resting and generally try to relax. If only relaxing was that easy. My three cats Lancelot - my big black cat, his tabby sister Guinevere and Tristan (known to the other cats as That Orange Interloper) make resting very difficult. Guinevere and Lancelot (and Tristan, if he is not out consorting with rabbits) all love to come and share this rest time with me. Guinevere has come to love spending quality time with me on my bed so much that if I try to do without my rest one day or she's outside communing with nature while I am resting, she follows me around the house and nags me to go and lie down so she can have her rest. She tries to tell me that it just isn't the same lying on the bed without me and it's my duty as a loving cat owner to go and keep her company. The nagging would be easier to ignore if she just confined herself to nagging from the floor, but Guinevere is too smart for that. When floor level nagging doesn't work she jumps up on any available furniture, puts her paws on my shoulder and rubs her face against mine the better to nag. I've found the easiest thing to do is to give in and go and lie down for five minutes with her. She's happy after that and we can both get on with what we were doing before the nagging started.

Well, a couple of days ago I was resting as usual and all three cats were on board. I must add here that there is a prime piece of real estate on my body that might not be obvious to the untrained eye. All three cats prefer to snuggle on my right side right up as far as they can get almost into my armpit with my right arm moved out to make a little nest for them there. If I don't voluntarily move my arm, the invading cat will just paw at it and work away until a nest is made. It's a lot less painful to just move my arm as any of the cats approach with that look on their face that says they are ready to colonise my side once more. I don't suppose I need to add that there is no way three cats can all fit in this keenly sought after spot. Guinevere, a master campaigner, usually prevails by the simple tactic of washing the cat who beat her to the spot. Guinevere over the years has perfected this strategy and uses it whenever and wherever she finds a cat where she wants to be. She begins by moving in so close she's almost, but not quite shoving the cat out of the spot. If she shoved, a fight might ensue and I'd get involved. Guinevere doesn't want me to get involved because I tend to favour the cat that got there first. A silly human foible, but one she has learned to deal with. Once cuddled up to the target cat she begins washing their face. At first Tristan and Lancelot enjoy the attention and even point out bits Guinevere has missed, but as time goes on and the licking continues the boys find it all a bit annoying. Tristan, the brighter of the two has tried to turn away from her to present her with his rump, only to find that as soon as he strands up to shift position the spot has been entirely filled with Guinevere and there's no room for him. Guinevere has mastered the skill of taking up the entire space where two cats sat just seconds before. As Guinevere is a little cat and both boys would each make two of her, this is quite a talent for her to have perfected. Lancelot, our mentally deficient cat, has never been able to think the problem through to come up with a defensive strategy. Every time Guinevere muscles in and starts washing him, he's pleasantly surprised at the attention and laps it up until it all gets to be too much and he moves off, and Guinevere once again reigns supreme. Tristan, as I said, tries resisting the inevitable and often come up with new defensive manoeuvres all as unsuccessful as the rest.

Anyway, back to my rest this day. I was lying down with two pillows under my knees to ease the back pain and Lancelot chose to lie on my feet. Tristan made a bee line for the prime position and settled in. Guinevere fussed around on the bed for a while, pretending to try and find a comfortable spot and peace and serenity reigned (as long as the three of us ignored Guinevere's fussing – and we did). Then Guinevere began her invasion tactics. As soon as he saw Guinevere on the move, Tristan burrowed his head into my armpit in an effort to ward off any washing that might be in his future. Not to be deterred Guinevere, after circling around my arm and right hand side a few times (reconnoitering I believe it's called in military tactics), moved in close to Tristan and prepared for the head washing. She was a bit surprised to find no head where a head should be, but being a very adaptable cat she just started washing whatever bit of orange cat poked out. After a short while the spot on Tristan's back that was getting all the attention was actually soggy, and still Guinevere persisted in her washing, I think she thought if she washed him enough he might shrink and make room for her. Tristan kept his head burrowed down and endured the water torture heroically.

My ability to read while these invasion manoeuvres were waging over my right side was severely impeded but I did my best. Time passed and Tristan got soggier. The only sign that he was alive was that he tried burrowing closer and closer to my armpit, never raising his head while trying to conceal more of the rest of him. Guinevere feeling that she may have met her match at last, like the good general she is, changed tactics. She was wedged in under my right arm during the washing process and now moved around with maximum fussing, until she was sitting right on top of Tristan. This had the desired result and caused Tristan not only to raise his head in surprise but also caused his eyes to nearly pop out of his head. He gave me a “What in hell is going on here?” look and realised too late that his head was now exposed and being severely washed. Not only that, but he had a full grown cat (albeit a small, delicate one) sitting right on top of him. He was trapped. It was too late to try and burrow back down. Guinevere had cut off his retreat and he was toast, soggy toast, but toast none the less. He put up with the head washing as long as he could but he knew he was a beaten cat. Guinevere just kept washing away, occasionally stopping to check on her progress in annoying Tristan. As she noticed signs of impending surrender Guinevere increased the strength and speed of her washing until Tristan finally had had enough and began to retreat from the battlefield.

I felt sorry for the defeated puss and moved him over to my left side offering a consolation prize. Tristan graciously accepted the second prize and settled into the inferior territory, but Guinevere, now happily ensconced on my prime bit of real estate, was drunk with power (or a giant hairball) and draped herself over my body so she could continue her washing campaign. I pulled her back a couple of times but she was relentless in victory. Tristan finally removed himself from the region of my body altogether and settled on the end of the bed, a respectful distance from Lancelot who is not a Tristan fan. Guinevere, with a smug look on her face, settled down for a well earned sleep.

Tristan eventually snuck back to my left side and tried to settle down too, but to say he was twitchy barely describes his emotions. He tried to nap while keeping a wary eye on Guinevere and that just can't be done. You can either nap, or you can keep an eye on Guinevere, but you can't do both. Guinevere was dead to the world by this time and sleeping the sleep of the victorious. Lancelot, who had shown rare good sense and stayed out of it also slept, Tristan on the other hand jumped at soft noises and twitched from time to time if Guinevere so much as moved an ear.

And me? How was my rest going? I gave up any thought of having a real rest and tried to get back to my reading. Do you know how hard it is to read peacefully when you know your body has been used as a battlefield and my be used as one again any time soon?

Help Whether I Want It Or Not

Lancelot helping me take a photo of a quilt block.

I doubt you realise the difficult circumstances under which I post my blog entry each day. The older stories are from a file of stories I've written over the years and I simply cut and paste them into the draft window. I then read and edit the story to make sure it's easily understood by all. Other entries, like this one are typed as I go. With both types of entry I have more help than I really need.

Take now for example. Lancelot is lying, draped over my lap, head as close to the keyboard as he can get and regularly stretching a paw up to suggest a better key for me to click. I've learned to type around cats and dexterously remove paws as I go without missing a beat. From time to time Lancelot tires of just lying there and stretches his whole body. This always results in his head and upper torso ending up on the keyboard. Lancelot tends to create damage proportional to the importance of the text - the more important the text the greater the damage done.

"Why don't you put him off your lap?" you ask? Because he'll just jump right back on. It's no good suggesting I put him out of the room either. Our house is the open plan style and apart from locking him in the bedroom, where Graeme is still sleeping, he can always make his way back to me. Now let's just consider what would happen if I locked him in the bedroom with Graeme for a minute ... no, best not to I think about it. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

Actually, Lancelot's presence on my lap isn't the worst that happens while I type. I can cope with the wayward paws and head. I'm used to them. One thing I've never been able to adjust to is when one of the other cats decides to challenge Lancelot for my lap. It begins with Lancelot looking far too comfortable and either Guinevere or Tristan deciding that my lap is the place to be. Guinevere will then jump on the lounge near the computer; hop onto the CPU which is just inches from my lap and to the left and then tentatively bat Lancelot with a paw. Depending on Lancelot's humour at the time, he will either ignore the subtle hint to give someone else a turn or he'll growl a warning that he's not in the mood for any funny business. Neither reaction makes the her back off.

Guinevere will slowly climb onto my lap (via the keyboard) and move in behind Lancelot. She'll then begin washing him. Guinevere's usual strategy to get rid of a cat that's where she wants to be is to wash its head. She will wash that head until it's quite soggy, if the offending cat is stubborn enough to try to hold his ground. If Lancelot doesn't take the hint and hop off my lap, leaving Guinevere the sole possessor, she will begin moving closer and closer to him until she's just about pushed him off my lap. This is when I intervene. Past experience has shown me that I'll be the one to come off worst in this battle, as Lancelot digs his claws into any fleshy part of my body that comes to hand, or rather to paw, in order to get a better hold on his territory. A battle then begins with Lancelot batting Guinevere with one paw while holding his ground with claws in my leg with the other. In case you're wondering, I've stopped trying to type anything by this time. Both cats are put on the floor and I'm able to get back to work for a few minutes. Guinevere usually manages to be the one to hop back up first. Lancelot contents himself with sitting next to my chair and glaring at Guinevere who is blissfully unaware of her brother's feelings.

If Tristan is the one who wants to depose Lancelot, I get up pretty quickly and head him off at the pass. Lancelot and Tristan are sworn enemies and have been ever since Tristan arrived as a cute little ball of orange fluff three years ago. While Lancelot will put up with quite a bit from his sister, he will not tolerate Tristan even looking like he's contemplating deposing him from my lap. A battle to the death (or at least that's what it sounds like) results when Lancelot jumps down from my lap and fires the first shot. Tristan is no angel in these matters either. He loves nothing better than to taunt Lancelot and has even been known to begin an attack when Lancelot is peacefully sleeping somewhere (usually, but not always, on my lap).

So, now you understand. It's pretty much a miracle that you get to read anything of the happenings at Spring Rock.

Tristan also helping. He might look like he's just sitting there but take special note of that paw near the corner of the block. He kept dragging the block out of shape each time I tried to photograph it. I think Tristan was aiming for the artistic, abstract effect.