Elvis has left the building!

Elvis has finally left the building in a cat box. To be taken to the vets.

We finally decided to crate up our fat boy and take him to the vets to get their expert opinion on a nasty cough he'd been perfecting for the past few months. He'd also been packing on the weight for the last few months with enthusiasm, and now could hardly be bothered to keep himself clean. 

He also had an ear problem and kept clawing wildly at both ears and shaking his head violently: Wifie and I assumed it was mites, a problem that would be cleared up with a quick swab of the ears which would render an entire colony of mites homeless. In the mean time, the natural corollary of front end and rear end problems was that he was staring to stink the place up. When he climbed up onto our sofa we could smell him from two metres distance.

Getting Elvis in the cat box for the trip to the vets was easier than we dared hope: a bowl of crunchies pushed in the back of the box and in he went. Unfortunately his back legs were sticking out the back of the box and when I tried to push his fat butt in to close the box he struggled out again.

Eventually he did insert all of himself into the box and I slammed the door shut to take an outraged cat to the vets. After giving Monika, our local vet, dire warnings of how quick-tempered he was, once he was on the table he was quickly cowed into submission, examined, injected (twice) and shoved back in his box. We were given drops to put into his ears twice a day for the next ten days.

It turns out Elvis has a chronic infection, common to street cats round here, which will shorten his life and help drain our bank balance. His teeth and gums are in such a dreadful state that the vet's talking about extraction. She's also considering taking a cast of his teeth as an illustration of how bad things can get in a cat's mouth; I suppose that's some sort of notoriety ...

And then there were four ...

And four is the magic number. There's a sort of cosmic, karmic balance to this post. In a previous post I was mourning the loss of yet another of our adopted charges: Tia, Cheeky's mum, who we'd befriended, fed and neutered, and who went missing - probably due to Spanish driving - about six months ago.

Another, almost identical, Tia has been turning up on our windowsill over the last few weeks. She's a dead ringer for Tia except, presumably, she's not been neutered. The only difference between Prima (Spanish for 'cousin' - she must be closely related to Tia) and Tia is that Tia's belly hair never regrew after her sterilization.

I'm posting this from London, so I've no access to pictures but next post I'll try to allow readers to compare and contrast the two cats.

Sadly, after I took the little injured black cat to the vets a week or so ago we decided he had to be put down. Sue and I, and our neighbour and good friend Anna had fed and cared for him for a couple of weeks before the inevitable trip to the vets. The vets confirmed that he was in a dreadful state, probably diseased and could hardly walk so it was probably the best course to take. Still and all, there's a feeling of guilt at taking away a life. However, we all made sure that he didn't go hungry during his last couple of weeks and he had the pick of dried food, terinne, fresh fish, and cream.

So, at present, Sue's restoring the delicate balance of intra-cat relationships disturbed by our recent holiday. Elvis has to be tamed all over again, Tango has to be fetched from hiding on a daily basis and Jaffa, well he hardly noticed we'd gone; his bowl was regularly filled and there was a lap (Anna again) to sit on so he wasn't moping for us.

The holiday took us to Gozo for a week and Malta for the last three days of our nine-day trip. As before I was hugely impressed by the efforts taken by the city council in Sliema to deal with street cats: they live in a park between the promenade and the sea; they're regularly fed and most have been sterilised. They even have little covered cat houses with bedding.

All the cats looked healthy and most were friendly enough to jump on your lap for a quick scratch or a more liesurely lie down on an accomodating lap. As our luggage was overweight for the return flight we had decided to ditch our aging beach towels and we could think of no better place to leave them than folded up as additional bedding in a couple of the cat casitas.

So, we're back to four cats and a balance is restored, if not to the universe at least to Residencial Bellamar.

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.

Street Cat Roulette

In my last post, in which I was grieving for our lost cat Cheeky, I was consoled by the presence of her mum, Tia, and her dad, Elvis. Tia had settled in our tiny back terrace, under a table, and would regularly visit for food and affection.



Sadly Tia disappeared a couple of months ago. We can tell ourselves that she might come back because cats often disappear for extended periods for no good reason but that's unlikely: a street cat never moves far from a steady supply of food. We've put down Tia's disappearance to yet another encounter with a car - sadly far too common round here.

That's one of the hardest things to accept about living with cats, especially cats which started off their lives on the street. You can try to protect them, but you don't own them, and you can't box them in. Street cats come and go on a whim - at least ours do. Jaffa may sleep most hot Summer days in our bathroom but after dark he's a solitary hunter, guarding his territory.

Tango, who started our love affair with street cats, seems to be street-smart enough to avoid the traffic. Now three years' old she's reached the average lifespan for a street cat. But, much as we want to protect her, we have to let her roam as she wishes. And since she was born about half a kilometer from here, that's where she keeps returning to.

This, despite the fact that over the last three years the piece of waste ground where she was probably born is now a large complex of holiday flats, doesn't stop her from wandering off there every day.


The only cat who sticks to us like glue is Elvis. We recently had him castrated (ouch!) and he's sublimated his urge to fight other cats (most notably our Spanish neighbour's ugly and aggressive male) with the urge to clear any food bowl he can reach. He's a more successful eater than fighter, and he's getting fatter by the week.

Elvis now spends long periods of time asleep in our (small) front garden. I'm hoping he can replace his need to hunt with a guaranteed full bowl of cat crunchies whenever he's hungry. We've got an albino praying mantis living in a patch of succulents and a couple of lizards which scuttle up and down the garden walls and into and out of our plant pots but I'm not too hopeful for their long-term safety: just yesterday Elvis spotted one of the adolescent hares which live in the small park opposite our house and he was off like a bolt from an arrow to try and catch it (good luck with that).

So, at present, we're a three-cat family: Tango, la madre, Jaffa, the sulky teenager and Elvis, the latest addition. Let's see how that goes.

A New Beginnng

It's now been almost a month since our beloved Cheeky died. It helps that summer is almost on top of us: in the cold, bleak, grey days of winter (and even in Spain the winters are cold, bleak and grey) our misery would have been intensified.

But new life is everywhere at present. Our neighbour's cat is about to present her with a litter of kittens and we will have to be careful not to be seduced into adopting one; Tango and Jaffa are adapting quite happily to a house which does not hold the threat of a sudden attack by a highly territorial Cheeky. Neither would be happy if they had to make room for a new family member regardless of how cute, fluffy, and playful it would be.

Meanwhile Cheeky's mum continues to live under our terrace table out of the back, and Cheeky's dad visits or five times a day for food and affection. I'm happy to indulge him because he reminds me so strongly of Cheeky. However he's a magnet for ticks: almost everyday I find one or two engorged ticks sticking to his neck or his back. There is a sensation of visceral disgust as you grab and pluck a fat tick hanging on by its teeth from an animal's back; however this is counterbalanced by the sense of achievement when you squash the disgusting insect.

So now we have two cats of our own, and two street cats to take care of. As we are off to Palma for a couple of days, we've delegated the task of taking care of our menagerie to our friends, Rod and Anna. They've passed the cat-identification test with flying colours and they'll ensure that the inside cats are allowed inside, and the outside cats stay outside. So we can enjoy two days of holiday without worrying about our cats.

Life After Cheeky

Well, it´s been a few weeks since Cheeky died, yet another of our cats who has fallen victim to Spanish driving. Despite the problems she caused we both miss her more than we can say.

The problems arose because, as soon as she reached one year old, she started flexing her muscles and assumed the role of Alpha Cat in our household. She soon succeeded in driving our other two cats out of the living room - often out of the house - and the only place they felt relatively safe from attack was behind closed doors in each of our bedrooms. If they walked through the lounge, Cheeky would launch an attack like a fuzzy guided missile from ´her´sofa and cow Tango or Jaffa into submission.

Now that Cheeky´s no longer around our remaining two cats are starting to re-colonize the house. Tango´s still, at heart, a street cat, and we often have to go searching for her if we want her to spend the night indoors but she´s slowly losing the hunted look she assumed whenever she entered Cheeky´s territory - i.e. any part of our house or garden. Jaffa has started climbing on to the sofa for the occasional cuddle between trips to the food bowl and excursions to decimate the local squeaking and chirping wildlife.

And theoretically getting cat-sitters should be an easier task: no longer will they have to sit the compulsory cat identification test and learn to maintain a delicate balance through feline apartheid. Now there´s only Tango and Jaffa ... and Tia and Elvis.

Cheeky´s mum was Tia and, unless I´m very mistaken - because he´s the spit of Cheeky - Elvis was the dad. As a slightly bizarre memorial to Cheeky, Tia lives under the table on our rear terrace (she has her own chair and towel) and Elvis is often found in our front garden, where his creaky mieow means ´feed me please´. So we´re now taking care of both of Cheeky´s parents.

God knows what we´ll do when we move house - as we plan to do in the next few years. I can see us returning here once a day to find Tango and feed Tia and Elvis.

So, a bit of a rambling post today. I need to tone up my blogging muscles and focus on writing something acerca de cats on a more regular basis. For now Tango and Jaffa are asleep, safely away from the road and consequently I´m happy.

In Loving Memory

It's been a long time since my last post. The original idea was to chronicle the fun and frustration of domesticating street cats in Spain. Starting with one cat, Tango, She brought two, unexpected kittens into our lives: Jaffa and Minnie.

Sadly, last August, Minnie came staggering into our kitchen and collapsed. She'd been hit by one of the cars which drives far too quickly down our supposedly quiet road. We rushed her to the vets, but she didn't survive an operation to try and mend her.

We felt as if the stuffing had been knocked out of us, and the idea of continuing to blog about our cats was thrown out of the window.

Just before Minnie died we'd been adopted by another kitten: Cheeky came into our lives after we started feeding the three-quarter's starved offspring of Tia, the local matriarch. We had Cheeky - a female - sterilised and while she was recuperating in our house she made the decision to stay.

Two weeks ago Cheeky disappeared. She'd disappeared once before, for five days, when she'd received a glancing blow from a car. She'd gone to ground to recover. When she disappeared this time we were worried but kept hoping she'd turn up eventually, with another of her nine lives gone.

One of our neighbours found her body a week ago. She'd obviously been dead a long time. Our hearts were broken, especially as it seemed as if she'd fallen victim to a driver again.

So we've lost two of our sweet cats in eight months. This on what should be a quiet road. There's a kids' playground across the road and we don't live on a main road, so I'm cursing all car drivers who carelessly whizz past our house.

In another blog I'll tell you about why she was such a lovely cat and why 'Cheeky' was such an apt name if I can bear to do so. At present I still feel very raw, as any pet owner who's lost a beloved animal in such an arbitrary way will understand.

Bye bye Cheeky, you were a lovely cat.