A Condominium of Cats

Living in Spain I often envy my dog-owning neighbours - generally speaking they know where their companions are at any given time: either at the end of a leash, or steadfastly guarding their owner's property, or curled up by their master's feet gazing with adoration at the god-like being who feeds, loves and cares for them.

And there's the rub: how many cat-owners would describe their charges as companions? (in fact how many people believe they own their cats?). Much as I would love to know where any or all of our three moggies are from time-to-time; dearly as I would like to have a spot of adoration from any one of our uncertain-tempered charges; lovely as it would be to enjoy a little extra security from trained guard-cats in exchange for all the fish they guzzle it's not going to happen this millennium, or the next one.

Tango continues to make state visits from time-to-time. Born on a building site half a kilometer from here, and hating all other cats (her own included), we generally have to winkle her out of her ancestral home with fresh chicken and steamed fish if we want to see her on a regular basis.

Jaffa has the gift of omnipresence - whenever the fresh chicken or fish is brought out to tempt Tango to ... well, tango with us, Jaffa appears to give us his well-worn impression of a puir wee cat who hasn't been fed for a week.

Elvis comes closest of the three to a cat we can regularly find. This is mainly because he's guarding the food supply from any possible competition. If a burglar tries to steal his food he may be roused to fury but everything else is probably fair game. As the newest member of our family of cats he's the least domesticated and the most uncertain-tempered of the three: he's quite likely to swipe at you with open paws if you blink at the wrong rate. Unfortunately he has a nasty-sounding cold so we have to bundle him off to the vets before winter starts to bite.

To add to the complications involved in juggling three, territorial, picky, highly-strung cats we've now got temporary care of a small, injured black cat who's taken refuge in our communal garden. He (I guess it's a 'he') has an injured leg, probably from an encounter with a car, and hisses wildly when approached.

As reader's of this blog will be well aware the greatest danger to cats around here is the car. Maybe I'm being unkind to the Spanish but some appear to have a fairly cavalier approach to animal welfare: we've lost three cats to Spanish driving in less than eighteen months.

To make matters worse our cats, like most, haven't grasped the idea of road safety. They're happy to sit down in the middle of our (admittedly quiet) road and wash themselves or to lie at the road's edge enjoying the sunshine. Most frustrating of all is when they pause, halfway through our front gate and look left, right and left again (for any other cats in the vicinity) then, having exercised enough caution to satisfy the strictest lollipop lady, dash across the road without looking.

So, as the nights draw in and winter approaches we'll have to deal with three cats competing for the most comfortable spots in the house, the best food, and the warmest laps. My money's on Elvis: he's got the bulk to muscle the other two from the food bowls and the attitude of a psychotic teddy-bear which ensures we're going to be too scared to sift him off our laps before spring.