23 Bingley Talks about Rabbit and Kitty Boy

I told Bingley about "The Adventures of Rabbit and Kitty Boy" on kristydeetz.com. He asked me if "Kitty Boy" refers to him."Not exactly, thought the character in the paintings sometimes looks a little like you.""Did I inspire him, then?" he asked."Oh yes, absolutely.""Thank you," he said, pleased. "I'm glad I helped.""You're welcome. I couldn't have done the stories without you.""Do I get paid?"He's been asking me questions like that ever since I mentioned making a living."How much would you like?" I asked."More than usual."I told him you can't make "more" money when you don't already make money.He said, "Not money! More mmmao.""You always get plenty! You haven't missed a meal since you've been with us except when you were sick. I doubt you could eat much more than we give already.""We could try."I knew I wouldn't get anywhere by reasoning, so I just calmly looked him in the eye waiting for him to change the subject, which he doesn't do very readily.Finally he said, "Who's this Rabbit character, anyway?"I explained as well as I could.So he's not real, just imaginary. Am I real?""As real as anyone or anything can be.""But not Kitty Boy: he's not real.""He's just a fictional version of you, a character for stories.""Maybe I need to have more adventures so you can tell real stories about me.""Maybe. What adventures would you like to have?""Flying!""Flying? On a plane? Believe me, you wouldn't like it.""No, not on a plane: that sounds terrible. Just flying, like the birds!"So Bingley jumped into my lap and told me about how he wants to fly. Sometime I'll tell you that story, too.

22 Bingley on the La-Z-Boy

A couple months ago my wife got me a new lounge chair.It may be the best gift ever, better than Ralphie's Red Ryder BB Gun (I never wanted a bb gun). Whenever I fall into that chair, I sigh, and if I sit there for very long, I fall into a gentle, pleasant nap. Bingley likes it, too. Not long ago we stretched out napping in the chair. When I woke, Bingley had his eyes open, and he was looking right at me. "I'm more than just a cuddle lion," he said. Still a little fuzzy-headed from sleeping, I thought about that for just a moment and said, "I know." He nodded agreement. "I just wanted to make sure." I didn't say anything right away, so he went on. "I'm a house lion." "Yes, I understand. You've corrected me on that point." "I do all sorts of important jobs. Every morning, when we take our tour, I make sure you stop at every important spot. When you're gone, I patrol the house. I check every window and I listen at every door to make sure no one's out there causing trouble. At night, when you're sleeping, I'll stand at my window and keep watch." "Thank you," I said. "You're the best house lion ever." He closed his eyes and nodded contentedly. Bingley continued. "I also make sure you get some play time every day. Not just workout time: play time, so that you relax and we run around the house together. I clean my dish at mealtimes, I drink from my water bowls, and I keep clean: you know, the litter box and all that." "I know you do. You practice exemplary cleanliness." Again he closed his eyes and nodded. "Sometimes when you spill crumbs on the floor, I do my best to help you clean them up. But you don't let me." "They're usually not good for you, so I don't want you to eat them, but I appreciate your effort nonetheless." One more nod, but that time he didn't close his eyes: he stared at me intently. "You'd like a treat, wouldn't you?" I asked. "Treat!" he said, and he leaped off my lap and trundled off to the pantry, looking back only once to make sure I was following. A craftsman definitely deserves a reward for good work.

21 A Cool Drink

Some oenophiles prefer red wine, and some prefer white. Some like dry wines, and some like sweet. Some beer aficionados brew malty brown ales, and some go for hoppy IPAs. Some people stick to juices, soft drinks, or water, bubbly or still. Bingley's a water and milk kind of guy. He likes filtered water, and he prefers it cool: sometimes he'll even lick the icy condensation off the windows when the season changes and outside temperatures grow colder. Fortunately, from the time he joined us he was pretty good about drinking water. After a meal, he'd shift right over to his water bowl to wash it down with deft flicks of his tongue. More recently he's become a milk lover, too, enough that he sometimes neglects his water. After breakfast especially he'll saunter out to his special milk bowl in the dining room and stand there at attention waiting for me to pour. I try to get him to play first, but often he'll just stand there and stare at me as if to say, "You know what I want now." If I don't hop to it, he'll ask for it with a high-pitched "miiiilk" with a rising and then falling tone. If he won't play beforehand, he'll play afterwards: milk is now part of his routine, but preferably before play . I love the thoroughly happy sound  he makes as he drinks:  "laplaplaplaplap. "I must take care, though, in how I serve it. Bingley gets CatSip from a small blue box, and when we get to the bottom of the box and I try to pour the last half-ounce or so, I may get some bubbles in the milk. The first time that happened, he didn't drink. He just looked up at me. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Bubbles." "What's wrong with that." "I don't like the bubbles." "Oh."I picked up the milk and stirred it with my finger to remove the bubbles and then put the bowl back down. I could tell he wasn't happy with how I did it. He gave the milk a supercilious sniff, drank a little of it casually, and left the rest. Since then I've taken care not to leave bubbles when I pour. Once my wife did something even more terrible: hoping to improve his water intake, she mixed a little water with the milk. Bingley took one one look in the bowl, glared at her, and stalked away. Neither of us has made that mistake again. Some Scotch drinkers add a little water to bring out the flavor, I've heard, and I even read in a wine guide that some French people will add a little cold water to their Beaujolais in the summer. But some of us remain purists.* * * When the semester ended a few days ago, one of the students wrote a note at the end of her exam: "Tell Bing Lee I said 'Merry Christmas!'" I thought about the name. It suggests Bingley is a mixture of Bing Crosby and Bruce Lee. He does like to vocalize:  sometimes he'll stroll around the basement crooning "marooow rooow rooow ow, marooow rooow rooow ow": the sound echoes, and I think he finds that amusing. That must be the "Bing" part. And when he plays with one of his toy mice, he can get really quick with a snap of either left paw or right paw, and if he's in the right mood and we swing a toy above his head, he'll leap up and kick it with all four paws at once. That must be the "Lee" part. To describe Bingley accurately, though, you'd have to mix in someone really cuddly. I'm not the right person to guess if that was true of either Bing Crosby or Bruce Lee, admirable as they were in their very different ways. You'll find better singers and kickers, but you'll have a hard time besting the Bingley Cat for cuddly.

20 Cat People

For my birthday a couple months ago Bingley got me a card--he's pretty good at that, though I think my wife helps.The card he got this year has a slightly miffed, slightly supercilious cat on the front saying, "There are two kinds of people in this world."The inside says, "Cat people and idiots." [Thanks to the folks at Chicago's PRGCO, who make wonderful cards on recycled paper.] When I read the card, Bingley was watching, and when I laughed, he made a sound something like "ff ff ff ff ff," which I think is his way of chuckling. He makes a sound something like that, more of a "FFFffff," when I use my reading glasses to cast lights on the floor and he's about to try to pounce on them. He has never caught the lights, but that doesn't deter him in the least. He pursues them with his full attention and energy, and I will usually stop the game before he gives up so that I can get a toy that he can catch. Once he has caught the toy, he'll brush it aside and wait for those lights, worthier game, to return, as if he's convinced that if I give him enough tries, he'll wrangle them and bring them under his control. If you are a cat person, I suspect you've played this game before--making the lights dance, that is, not pouncing on them. I don't know if dogs play a game like this one--I think they prefer toys they can catch and either retrieve or hold in their mouths indefinitely. I like dogs almost as much as cats. I asked Bingley once if he thinks someone can be both a cat person and a dog person. He gave me a look much like that of the cat on the front of the card, with the ears pointed back and the eyes just short of glaring. "Yeeess," he said, "but don't overdo it." He has told me before that he thinks dogs are cool, too. And as I've mentioned, he's a dog-cat himself, so his answer didn't surprise me. "They're not as good at cuddling," he said, jumping into my lap, settling in, and heaving a contented sigh.

19 Making a Living

As I was about to leave for work one day recently, a pretty typical conversation began. Bingley stopped me as I was putting on my coat, and he said "Don't go!" "Sorry:  I have to go." "Why?" "I have to go to work." "You did that yesterday." "Yes, I have to do that most days." "Why?" "I need to make a living." You can guess it:  I got the Mr. Spock look. "You're already living," Bingley said. "That's just a saying. 'I need to make a living' means I have to work to make money." "What do you need that for?" I was getting just a little exasperated, which finally got me to the point. "I need to make money so I can get your cat food." "You need it for food?" Bingley exclaimed. "Yes." He thought for just a moment." Better get going!" he said. "You don't want to be late!" Right. "Some of us eat to live," I said, "and some of us live to eat"--I'd forgotten I used that one before. "Live to eat," Bingley said with a smile. "Do I get a treat before you go?" ***Apologies to anyone who was hoping to keep up on Bingley's adventures: we've had a long hiatus, but we're back now. Bingley had a scary incident that I'm not ready to write about, and I've tumbled through a number of the ubiquitous computer problems. But if today's posts go up neatly, we're online again and eager to share more stories. Thanks for visiting us again!

18 Dreams

Bingley and I play lots of chasing games.  I pull a string under a towel or small rug, and he chases it.  I swing a stuffed mouse attached to a string through the air, and he leaps and runs after it.  I dash off to one end of the basement, and he follows, then he runs back, and I follow. Often as he sleeps in my lap he will twitch--dreaming, I assume.  Sometimes he'll make brief sounds, little barks or mews as he twitches.  Yesterday evening he was sleeping in my lap, and he started to twitch.  Shortly afterwards he woke, stretched, and looked at me. "Were you dreaming?" "Yes."  He yawned, his mouth open wide. "Chasing something?" "Yes." "What?" "A mouse." "Did you catch it?" "No.  Not worth the trouble.  Could have if I wanted to." Then he settled back down with a sigh and fell back to sleep.  After a time he twitched again.When he woke up, I asked him again what he was dreaming. "Chasing a cat," he said.  "Grey and white one.  It was in the yard, and I chased it out." "Were you angry?" "No, just going my job." Once more he fell back to sleep, and soon he was twitching vigorously, and he did so for a little while. He woke and looked up at me. "Yes?" he asked. "Chasing?" "Yes." "What?" "You." "Me!" "Yes." "Did you catch me?" "Of course." "What did you do then?" "Bit your leg." "You did?  You bit me?" "No.  Just kidding.  I jumped up on your shoulder and gave you a hug." Then he turned around, kneaded my belly a couple times, and threw his paws over my shoulder and gave me a hug. "Best buddies," he said. "Best buddies," I said. He settled down once more and fell into a still, quiet sleep. He may well have bit my leg in that dream, but sometimes that's what dreams are for--as long as you follow them with gentle, quiet sleep. 

17 Thinking about Fish

Bingley and I were talking, hanging over the back of the couch and looking outside. "When fish swim," Bingley asked, "do they feel like they're flying?" "I don't know," I answered.  "What do you think?" He moved his paws in a few dog-paddle motions, then shuddered a little. "I don't think so," he said.   "At least not exactly.  A little bit, maybe." "Some of them can swim pretty fast," I offered, "and they float easily enough." "Birds always have the air, even when they're sitting or walking, and fish always have the water--unless someone takes them out." He sighed and thought for a moment. "You like to eat fish, don't you?" "Yes," I said. "Better than chicken," he added. "Yes.  But you don't like fish as well, do you?" "Take it or leave it," Bingley said.  "I like chicken better.  Tuna's good when you don't get chicken.  Do you feel bad about taking the fish out of the water to eat them?" That made me think.  "A little," I said.  "Yes, a little." I didn't want to ask him his feelings about eating chicken or fish, since by nature he must be a carnivore, while I have some choice.  But I could see his eyes moving back and forth, so I could tell he was thinking about it.  Then he looked at me out of the corner of his eye." I don't feel bad about it when I'm hungry or eating, but it does cross my mind after.  I'd eat more plants if you'd let me. "Sometimes Bingley will get into one of the plants, and he'll eat so much of it that it will make him feel sick or clog his intestines--that's more than you wanted to know, I'm sure.  We still get him catnip, which he nibbles, but seldom do we get the cat grass anymore, because he gorges on it. "I know.  I'm sorry.  You get sick if you get too much." "'Sokay.  I'm happier with the chicken anyway."  He thought again for a bit.  "Can you swim like a fish?" he asked. "I can swim a little, but not like a fish. "He gave me his Mr. Spock "fascinating . . ." look.  "So a fish can do that, but you can't." "Right."  I didn't mention that the very idea of getting soaked appalls him.  "They've evolved for swimming.  I've evolved for walking or running on the ground.  But I can row."  Bingley understands rowing because I have a rower in the basement that I use for exercise.  I explained how it works on top of the water, how someone can row a kayak or canoe or rowboat. "I see," he said.  Then he gave me the sidelong glance again. "What would you call a machine designed to move a kayak?" he asked. I thought about that, and the answer hit me. "A row-bot," I said. "Hss-hss-hss-ha-ha-hmmm."  He nodded, and his belly shook as he laughed.Then I could tell that his thoughts changed direction. "Tuna?" he said.  "Getting hungry.  Time for mmao?" "Not quite time yet, but I'll see if we have some of your tuna." "Frank you," he said, licking his lips. Just then a couple goldfinches landed in the yard, bounced around after each other for a bit, then flew off. "Or maybe chicken," Bingley said.  "I can't decide." 

16 Chapped Paws

You may recall that I mentioned how my wife has always admired Bingley's smooth, pink paw-pads. Last week we noticed for the first time since he's come to live with us that the pads looked dry and cracked and uncomfortable. Bingley was walking on the tile floor of the sun room, and when he set a paw down, his leg would shake just a little. So we looked at the paws and saw how damaged they looked.  I asked him if his paws hurt. "No," he said. "Are you telling me the truth?" I asked. "No," he said. "What can we do to make your feet feel better?" I asked. "I don't know," he answered.  "I just keep cleaning them. "He hasn't shown evidence of allergies before, but I suppose if his feet feel dry and itchy, even more cleaning would just make them worse. So we looked online for possible remedies.  We read about coconut oil and olive oil or aloe massages, about fish oil taken orally, about changes in diet or habits or environmental factors that may have caused the problem.  Nothing looked quite convincing. At first opportunity I called the vet, who suggested fish oil and benadryl doses.  She said they tend to lick off anything one puts on their paws--and, yes, more licking can make them worse.  We confirmed that we hadn't employed a new litter, nor had we got anything new for the house, though we had given the tile floors a good cleaning (with an environmentally friendly cleaning agent).  No, he hasn't been outside, but there's always the possibility that we unwittingly brought something in on our shoes or feet or clothes. We started the fish oil at his next meal:  sometimes that gets inside, and sometimes it doesn't.   We haven't been able to make the benadryl work yet:  Bingley is notoriously difficult to pill. If you have any ideas, please let me know. Two evenings ago I was sitting on the couch reading and, once again, out of the corner of my eye, saw something moving through the air at a little more than waist high.  I'm still not sure what that was, but if it was Bingley, staying off the floor or ground is a sure way to keep pressure off one's feet.  I'll get back to you on that one. 

15 Bingley at Play

Bingley loves to play.  He'll chase a string pulled under a blanket.  He'll leap through the air to catch a tossed mouse.  He'll dash back and forth the length of the basement trying to catch my foot.  He'll go round and round trying to stop a light that's shining on a wall or on the floor.  If he's up on his catwalk and you sit below him and try to toss a fuzzy ball over his head, he'll repeatedly reject it, like an NBA center swatting away lay-ups. He also loves word play, not for its brilliance, but just for the fun of it. We were sitting like tree leopards, draped over the back of the couch looking outside at the sunshine on the grass and listening to the birds. "What kind of beer does a duck drink?" Bingley asked. "Beer?" I said.  "I have no idea." "Mallard High-Life," he said, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. "Got it," I said.  I sat up straight so I could listen better, knowing he had more. "What kind of beer does an owl drink?" "I don't know." "Bird-wiser." "Ah-ha." "What kind of beer does a sparrow drink?" "Couldn't say." "Bawd-ingtons." That's a better joke than you may think:  I'd told him how in the Middle Ages people thought sparrows especially lecherous animals. "What kind of drink does mourning dove drink?" "Tell me." "Coos light." "Right." "Mmph-hss-sss-sss."  I didn't blame him for laughing at his own jokes. "You know," I said, "that some authorities on English language and literature consider puns the lowest form of wit." "Well," he said, "what do you expect?  It's not my first language." "Of course," I said.  "Quite right.  Sorry." "No prob'em."  He was starting to look sleepy and jumped down into my lap. "Cuddles now," he said. "Yeh."

14 Bingley's Translation of Catullus

A couple evenings ago I went into my study--that is, Bingley's room--to write.  He was stretched out in his bed with a book open in front of him.  He had his eyes closed and looked to be napping.  So I got quietly to my work.Then I heard a sound--something like "hss sss sss mmm."  I looked around, and Bingley had his eyes open and a smile on his face.  His tale was flicking back and forth.  He didn't say anything, just looked up at me, and then he closed his eyes and settled his chin back down on the edge of his bed. I thought I heard the sound of a page turning, but didn't look back until a few minutes later I heard that sound again:  "hss sss sss mmm." There he was again with a smile on his face.  His tale executed a couple of flourishes. "What are you thinking about?" I asked. "Reading Catullus," he said. I hadn't looked at the book in front of him.  I assumed it was something my wife had got out to check a reference and that she had left it there to go back to it.  I asked if I might see the book, and there it was, a collection of Catullus' poems. "Cat-like?" I asked. "Not really," he said.  "But funny." I had been trying to write something for National Poetry Month and had not made much progress.  So I asked Bingley, "Would you like to write something for National Poetry Month?" "Yes!" he said, and he got up and jumped into my lap to look at the screen.  "Translation okay?" "Sure." So he dictated, and I typed.  Here's Bingley's translation, from Latin, of Catullus' Carmen 86, one of his favorites.  Qunitia, "So shapely!" say the many. For me, too, so white, so tall, so straight she stands. And I confess the glories of these qualities, each alone. But I deny that's beauty: no charm, no grain of grace dwells in so great a body. Lesbia, there's a total beauty: she has stolen Venus' glories. Every one!  Though Bingley has, as Jonson said of Shakespeare, small Latin and less Greek, having read that poem I think his Latin much better than mine. From Bingley to you for National Poetry Month:  best wishes, and enjoy!

13 Bingley on Politics

One evening we were trying to watch the news, and I got so disgusted with the horrific, mud-slinging politics that I turned it off. I asked Bingley, "Do you think about politics?" "No." "Why not?" "Disgusting," he said with a sniff. "Yes," I agreed.  "Do cats have politics?" "Some." "Like what?" "Make sure everyone has food and a place to sleep.  Share toys.  Don't go too far into someone else's territory, or you deserve to get scratched, unless you're really really hungry.  Don't jump on anyone who's sleeping, unless it's your brother and he's just done that to you, or unless it's your buddy and you want to cuddle."  He smiled at that last one, because he does it sometimes. "All that makes pretty good sense." "Mm--hmm." "What if someone makes you mad?" "Stare at him." "What if that doesn't work?" "Hiss at him." "And if that doesn't work?" "Growl, and make your fur stand up so you look as big as you can.  If you have to, take a swipe at him.  If nothing else works, pee on him." I thought about that for a minute. "Sounds just like human politics," I said. "Mm-hmm.  Not as mean, though.  I'm glad you turned it off."  He turned around in my lap a couple times and then settled in with a sigh.  Then he opened one eye.  "Can you open the window?  It's nice out this evening.  We can listen to the birds." "Mm-hmm." I opened the window, and right away we could hear several different kinds of birds.  A crow cawed once loudly, and two goldfinches zoomed by, one chasing the other.  A cardinal sat in one of the maple trees pinging.  I was going to ask Bingley about bird politics, but was breathing slowly and deeply and had fallen asleep.

12 More about Ducks and Flying

Bingley and I were sitting together, draped over the back of the couch, hanging out like two leopards perched on tree limbs. Two ducks, a male and a female, dropped into the back yard flapping and squealing. "How do they do that?" he asked. "Do what?" "Fly--fly so high." "They're built for it:  the feathered wings, lighter body than you'd think, the confidence to try--not self-reflective enough to think they can't." He turned and gave me his Mr. Spock look. "I'll bet I could do that," he said, musing and looking back as the ducks spotted us and flew off. "Maybe," I said.  I thought he was joking and expected him to burst out laughing, but he didn't. Once, when we were trying to catch a fly, I saw him leap after the fashion of his tiger jump.  He sprung off the couch, more out than up, extended a paw, and swatted the fly.  He must have covered about five or six feet in the air.  That may have given him ideas, though he was younger and thinner then. Later I was sitting on the couch reading with my feet up. I'm not sure about this part, but I thought I saw out of the corner of my eye an object, about cat-sized, flying through the living room at about waist height.  It covered the length of the room and disappeared quickly into the hallway. I hopped over to look and saw nothing more, so I went into Bingley's room, and there he stood bathing himself. "Did you just see something?" I asked. "What?" "Oh, something flying by, maybe down the hallway?" "You feeling all right?" he asked. "Yes, fine, thanks. So you didn't see anything?" "I didn't say that." "So you're not telling." He smiled and continued bathing. "Test flight?" I asked. He turned to me and said, blank-faced and deadpan, "You never know." He's pretty much right.  I very seldom know.  Maybe sometimes.  Maybe. 

11 Cat Toys

At the animal shelters I've seen cats playing with nearly anything--they seem so eager for interaction.  All the standard cat toys work splendidly.One they get home with you, it's a different story.  They get choosier.  My wife got Bingley a toy that has a wand with a long, thick string attached and a big white feather on the end:  perfect for jumping and catching. Bingley won't touch it, even when we swing the feather right over his head. When he first came home with us, we got him a soft, brown mouse about four inches long.  He loved it and would play with it all the time.  When I'd stop tossing it in the air for him to catch, he'd toss it and catch it himself:  wasn't sure at the time why a flying mouse was so interesting, but the why isn't as important as the fact that it kept him interested and active.  Bingley named the mouse Horace, after the Roman poet, he told me as soon as he began to talk.  I'm pretty sure the folks at the shelter didn't have books of Roman poets for the pets in lock-up to read, so it must have been one of the first books he got into on the shelves in his room here. Later some friends of ours got him a flat mouse with what looks and feels (and smells) like real fur on it.  That became his new favorite once Horace got too old and chewed up to fly anymore.  He named that one Lucretius. He also took a liking to strings.  I remember reading a medieval treatise that claimed cats are useful to have around because they chase mice, rats, and snakes.  I assume the writer meant small snakes.  That would explain their interest in strings. My mother-in-law thoughtfully sent us Bingley's next round of favorites:  a small, firm fuzzy ball that has just enough heft to roll the length of the living room floor--perfect for pawing and chasing--and a small, soft mouse maybe two inches long.  We tie that one to the end of a string:  best of both worlds, because he can tiger-jump after the string-end (which has frayed into a tassel) on one side or the mouse-end on the other side.  Perfect also for pulling under one side of a towel and out the other side . . .Once when he was sitting on top of the couch I tossed him the fuzzy ball--green, red, and yellow thread--and it bonked him right on the forehead.  He gave me a puzzled look, then motioned for me to try that again.  I tossed it.  He caught it with one paw, put it in his mouth, jumped off the couch, and dropped the ball by my feet.  "Is that what you wanted?" he asked. The color of the toy also seems to matter:  he likes green, red, and yellow ones better than any other, though we put a grey mouse on the end of a black string, and that works pretty well, too.  I read somewhere that current thinking on cat vision suggests that they can see green, red, and yellow (and of course black and white and grey). My wife got Bingley a little stuffed tiger-cat:  it's about seven inches long and about four inches high and has jade-green eyes like Bingley's.  The first time he saw it he looked at us as if we had brought an intruder into the house.  We offered it to him, pushing it toward him as he sat looking a little miffed.  His ears went back, and he went right for the stuffed cat's throat.  He gave me a look as though he might just come after my foot next.  That cat now sits quietly by one of his scratching posts.  It's still in one piece, but he doesn't play with it much.  I asked him if it has a name.  He called it Catullus--fine reading for a cat! We have a Turbo Scratch, a large plastic circle with a channel with a white ball to spin around and a cardboard center for scratching.  For a time he liked to bat at the ball as it swung around the circle, but it has little effect on him now:  he worked out the science and gave up on it.  He has a long, stuffed zebra that he will sometimes bite to get aggressions out.  He likes to try to catch the fringe on my scarf in the winter time, though I try to tell him that's not a toy--a difficult point to make to a creature for whom everything is potentially a toy. Just now I turned to ask him what he considers his favorite toy:  he's sitting in his bed in front of the bookshelves as I write.  He looked at me, and his ears went back. "You," he said, and he trained his eyes on my foot as his tale began to swing back and forth menacingly.  No more blog for now. 

10 Tennis, Anyone?

Watching tennis on tv has never especially grabbed me, though I like to play it or even to watch, in person, good players play.Bingley loves to watch tennis on tv.  It's the only tv he watches except for his favorite period dramas. He's more of a music kind of guy, NPR especially:  string quartets if he's feeling sleepy, jazz if he wants to watch the birds outside, acoustic guitar when he wants to play, choirs or folk vocalists around the holidays, wind ensembles when the weather's nice and symphonies when it snows.  His tail sways back and forth with the music. But he will watch his tennis intently.  He follows the ball so closely that he won't talk with me while a match is going on.  The rest of the world disappears for him.  He often sighs after double-faults, and he'll sometimes mew for winners. I asked him if he has a favorite player. "Nadal," he said nonchalantly.  "For now." "Why?" "Catlike," he said. "Is he your all-time favorite?" "No." "Who?" "Navratilova."  Ah:  too much ESPN Classic again. "Why?" "Even more catlike." Once we were watching a younger player who had hit a bad spell and couldn't seem to get any shots in. I always feel bad for good players when they play badly, so I was going to change the channel. "No!" Bingley said. "All right."  I put down the remote.  "I wonder what's wrong with her today?" "Forehand and backhand," Bingley said.  "Rhythm's off." Well, he does listen to lots of music. "Oh?" I asked.  "How can you tell?" He turned toward me and looked me in the eye.  "Forehand should go like this."  He swiped a paw--no claws--across my cheek.  "You see?" "Hey!" "And backhand should go like this."  He whipped his paw back across my cheek the other way. "Understand now?  Rhythm."  He looked me right in the eyes. "Yes, yes, I understand now.  Thank you very much." "Welcome," he said. After a bit, the young player was doing a little better, though she didn't win her match.  Her opponent was too tough. "Williams sisters are cool," he said. "Catlike?" I asked. "Catlike," he said, and he smiled and closed his eyes.

9 Close Encounters of the Bird Kind

Watching Bingley is a study in evolution. I've mentioned that he's a dog-cat (by behavior, Felis canis) and a house lion (by preference, Felis leo domesticus).

But attentive watching over time shows the innate or potential or "ghost" presence of a number of other animals. Once a moth got into the house, and in pursuit of it he called to mind a ferret--same thing with flies. As a rather full-figured fella, he sometimes gives the impression of a raccoon. When he's taking his morning tour on my shoulder, if he decides he hasn't quite finished his breakfast yet and wants to get down now, he'll twist and squirm like an otter. From one angle, looking at his face from below, the shape of his jaw and nose will call to mind, of all creatures, a dolphin. While he takes no special interest in rabbits--I think, like me, he has a distaste for them--he seems to have an empathy for squirrels: he likes to watch them scramble up the crabapple tree. My wife says that when his ears perk up and he looks like he's ready to stalk, he shows bobcat features. Sometimes when he curls up to sleep, he looks almost human--no offense intended to our feline friends. In his moments of wise reflection with his eyes wide open and glowing, he may even call an owl to mind.

But he has other moments when no one could mistake him for anything but a cat. He loves to watch birds out the window: he admires their speed in flight. But his reaction to them shows instinctive response. Last spring we opened the window in his room so he could get a better look at the garden. Out from behind the evergreens popped a good-sized duck, quacking and angry that we'd disturbed her in her hiding place. As the duck ambled off, complaining, Bingley looked at me before she could get too far away and asked, "Room in the freezer?"

A couple summers back we were looking out the back window at the trumpet vine with its large, inverted-vase flowers. Bingley was standing on the window sill, and right up to screen flew a hummingbird. It held its position right in front of Bingley's eyes for a few moments, then dashed off. "Wow!" Bingley said. A face to face encounter!

Earlier this week, before the new snows hit, we were looking out front when a mourning dove dropped suddenly onto the railing. In the midst of her second coo she got sight of Bingley staring out at her, stifled her complaint, and nearly fell off backwards before catching her balance and zooming away. He didn't even have time to do his bird imitation for her. He had a sad look on his face and said only "Mmaooo. . . ." experiencing, I think, a sense of loss.

Once a small bird, a finch, I think, did a header into one of the big windows in the sun room and nearly knocked itself out. Bingley insisted I go outside to check if it was all right. I kneeled by it, and it managed to stand up and hop away. Shortly after that it flew off. That seemed to please him. It's not all about food, you see. His interest is ornithological, not simply gustatory. Maybe he has just a bit--just a bit--of bird in his genetic material, too. We're all family in the ecosystem.

We remember those encounters and talk about them occasionally. He thinks fondly of them and hopes for more. "Cultural exchange," he says.

8 Characters

Bingley likes to sit in my lap when I work at the computer.  Since my study is really his room, he takes that as his right.  I once wrote nearly a whole book with Bingley stretched out along my left arm, which means I typed it with my right hand only.  The manuscript took about two times as long to write as it should have; I had a persistent cramp in my arm, but a very happy cat buddy.Not long ago I was working on a new book, and Bingley was once again in my lap, but since I was editing rather than composing, his presence there caused me little slowdown.  Usually he sleeps, but that day he was staring at the screen, following along as I went through the pages.  At one point he uttered "Nice. . . ."  The story includes a heroic dog, and Bingley, being a dog-cat, had just read about her and found that character quite fitting.So I asked him a question.  "Besides Mr. Bingley and Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice, who are your favorite literary characters?"  We have a varied and interesting little collection of books in the study, and one can find many books, especially those in the public domain, online anymore.He thought for a minute.  "Captain Ahab and Milton's Satan," he said.I admit I was surprised.  Then he gave me that look out of the corner of his eyes, and I knew I'd been had."C'mon," I said.  "Your favorites.""You have favorites?" he asked."Lots," I said, and I told him a few of them."Hmm," he said, and he looked left and then right, then back to the screen.  "I like Cassie the dog in your new story," he said.  "Hmmm.  Favorites.  Manfred and Bertha Rochester.  And Old Deuteronomy, of course."Again he looked at me out of the corner of his eyes, and we both guffawed.Then he started to get a little more serious."Opus the penguin," he said."For me, too," I replied."And Calvin and Hobbes," he said."Absolutely.""They go adventuring, like us," he said, and he purred and snuggled up and closed his eyes."Which one are you?" I asked.  "Calvin or Hobbes?""Calvin," he said, opening eye one.  And he smiled."I always have liked tuna sandwiches," I said."Me, too," he said.He slipped off to sleep, and I kept editing.  A short while later he was twitching and mewing gently in his sleep.I wonder what adventures we were having. 

7 Another Perspective on Bingley

My wife said that I should write down her thoughts about Bingley.  She has moments of ambivalence, I know, but he's her House Lion, too.  So here's what she says. When she wants to give him a hug, he sometimes plays hard to get and skitters under the kitchen table.  If she walks away, a few minutes later he'll come out and run over to jump in her lap.  He loves his cuddle time, but he wants to be the one to initiate it.  When she holds him up, he'll place his head gently between her neck and shoulder and nuzzle against her skin.  He goes limp in her arms like a Rag Doll cat (I don't think he is one, though who can know for sure?). He obsesses over plants, at least some of them.  Any new plant must get an immediate inspection.  Once he ate so much of a ponytail palm before we realized what he was doing that he clogged his intestine, and we had to take him to the vet.  That wasn't fun for any of us. For a cat who spent some time in the Wild and who has been on earth for around ten years now, he still has remarkably pristine pink paw pads.  He also has what my wife calls "baby-butt pink skin" under his thick fur.  When we first got him, we also got a couple donut-shaped beds for him to sleep in.  He avoided them for about three years, even though we'd place toys or treats in them or pat them on the inside to show they were safe.  Then, one evening, he casually strolled over, stepped into one, did a few circles, and settled in for a nap.  Everything in its season. He loves blankets:  sitting on them, in them, or under them.  We have quite a number placed strategically around the house so he can slide in and be a cave kitty whenever he wants to.  Sometimes he will stand beside a blanket and call to one of us to come over and tuck him in.  Jeeves, I say, Jeeves! My wife has taught him a trick that she calls "Up up, kiss kiss."  She goes over to the little mantle by the doorway and pats her hand on top and says those words.  Bingley will jump up and give her a kiss on the nose.  He then gets some treats.  I've taught him "Slide into third base."  I place a string under a small blanket or towel several feet in front of him with most of it visible from the side closer to him.  Then I pull the string under the towel.  He runs toward the towel, leaps in the air, and slides head-first under the towel to catch the string.  He'll do that one with or without treats.  Other than that he's not a big baseball fan.  He prefers tennis. He loves for us to hold him and sing to him.  At least in the case of my singing (not my wife's), that means you can't account for musical taste even in cats.  I think he takes gentle singing to mean we're purring, which he likes.  He prefers soft, low tones, and for lyrics he especially likes anything that praises what a good cat he is.  Who could blame him for that? For treats he will sometimes say "thank you," but mostly he'll come over and give a head butt instead. We're both all right with that.

6 A Slip of the Tongue

Bingley has always liked to catch a string--I've told you about the tiger-jump.  Whether I pull it under a blanket or towel so that he has to dig underneath to get it or just run along so he can catch up and grab it, catching the string has always been one of his favorite games.  He likes when I position the string just beyond the edge of his view, around a corner or underneath a piece of furniture.  If he can see it, it's no fun to catch, and if I hide it too well,  he figures it's not worth the energy to pursue.  Hints fascinate him more than facts.Once, after he had pursued and caught the string a few times and we were taking a break, he picked up one end of the string in his mouth and walked out of the room, stopping just on the other side of the door.  He left the frayed end that he enjoys catching so much just visible to me around the corner.  After a few seconds, he peaked stealthily around the corner to see if I was just about to jump over to catch it.  Only then did I get what he wanted.  When he saw me still sitting where I'd been, he looked at me, and his eyes said, "Come on, man, you've got to try this game.  It's really fun.  I can tell you from experience."One morning we'd been playing games for about an hour when I realized time was slipping away from me.  "Sorry:  have to go to work now," I told Bingley."No!" he said."Really:  I'm sorry, but I have to go now.  Got to get to work.""Don't go!"  He ran over and grasped my foot in both front paws and put his face against my ankle.  The claws sunk into my skin just a little."I know.  I don't want to go.  I have to go.""Why?"  The claws sunk in a little deeper."That's how I make a living.  I need to go to work so I can pay for things.  I'd rather stay and play.""Stay and play!" he said, and the claws got deep enough to cause pain.I pried myself free at the expense of getting a nip on the ankle.  Then I made my big mistake."I have to work to make money to buy mmao."  I did my best to say his word for food."Mmmao?"  He said.  "Mmao now?  Mmaooo!" he called out, and he ran for the pantry where we keep his food.I was stuck then.  I had to give him something, or he'd panic all day while I was gone.  So I gave him a few nibblies and hurried out to work.When I got home, he was waiting, standing by his bowl in cat stance giving me his Mr. Spock look.You know how Spock will raise one eyebrow, glance pointedly, and say "Fascinating."  Bingley can do almost that look, but instead of an eyebrow raising, one of his ears lowers to about half mast.  The corner of his eye curls up just a bit, too.I knew I was in trouble."Mmao.""Yes, I know." I said.  "And I'm glad to see you, too."So I got him his dinner.  After he ate, he jumped up in my lap (didn't trouble him that I was trying to eat dinner, too), took two turns around, settled in, sighed loudly, and went to sleep.I was glad to be forgiven, even if finishing my dinner was a little more difficult while balancing a (large) sleeping cat in my lap.Ever since, I have taken great care not to say the "m-word" except when I really mean it, because it is sacred, and one doesn't use such words lightly.In the morning I try to keep him playing long enough so that when I leave for work, he's ready for a nap and so, for a time, not thinking about food.  Now where did I leave that string?   

5 Ways to Communicate

Bingley may decide that dinner time has arrived even when it hasn't.If he thinks I'm napping at dinner time, he'll jump up onto my chest then down on the floor then back up on my chest and down again, springboarding each time.  No way to nap through that. If I'm reading, he'll jump onto my chest, push my book aside, and begin kneading my pecks while wearing a friendly look on his face.  If I tell him it isn't time yet, he'll move down a little to knead my stomach; his expression gets more intent.  If that doesn't work, he'll move down farther and knead harder:  with his claws out.  His face gets more pointed, and his look grows almost menacing.  I may not give in to an early supper, but by that time his message has got poignant, and I get up and find something else to do until dinner time officially comes along. If only I could get him to knead my back that way, I could save on chiropractic bills. This morning he had a brief chat with a female cardinal that was sitting in the burning bush--which isn't doing much burning at this time of year.  But what a blessing that the weather was warm enough that we could sit in the window box with the pane open!  After sizing up each other, the bird said "beep!" and Bingley replied with a soft "mow."  Again the bird said "beep!" and Bingley answered with another quick "mow."  After two more exchanges the bird flew off.  Bingley's tail swung energetically through the whole exchange and for a time after the bird left.  I got the feeling that they understood each other from the beginning. You can probably think of times when you got someone just the right present.  This past week my wife had a bad cold, and on Saturday I come home with a dozen red roses.  That was the right gift.  Last summer I came back one day from the Petsmart with a tall cat-tower, about five feet high with four levels.  I rubbed a little catnip into each level just to make it a little more enticing. I don't think I needed the catnip.  The moment he saw it, Bingley jumped right up and climbed to the third level.  He embraced the post and gave his new toy a big hug, then stretched out and purred loud enough to wake Rip Van Winkle.  Getting to the fourth level himself is a little tricky, but if I place him there, he'll sigh, settle in, and nap contentedly:  he's at the top of the world.  That was the right gift, too. He loves to munch on plants, but the large ones don't do well in his digestive system, so we try to keep him away from them (yes, of course we check first to make sure they're safe before we bring them home).  Every now and then we bring home a new batch of catnip or cat grass.  He dabbles in the catnip, sampling, but he loves the cat grass.  As soon as we get in the door with it, he runs over and begs to taste it.  As soon as we put it down, he starts munching away.  Then he'll turn back toward us with his eyes spinning around in opposite directions.  Then we put it up on top of the cupboards for a couple days.  I wouldn't have guessed that cat grass is a hallucinogen. In the morning when we play, I'll ask him to do his tiger jump. We have a string with a soft toy mouse tied on the end, and I'll flip the mouse up in the air over his head.  He launches himself up with all four feet in the air to catch the mouse.  Then he gets an appreciative "good kitty!" and a nice bowl of Cat-Sip. Yes, most of the time we communicate pretty well, whether he feels in the mood to talk or not.

4 His Manservant

Bingley is a student of languages. One sunny afternoon, when I was sitting here at my desk writing, I heard an odd sound.  The window was open, and Bingley was sitting in the window box looking out through the screen.  A small bird was hopping around on the ground just below, among the evergreens. Bingley made a series of rapid clicking sounds, with a mini-mew in the middle.  I think it was his attempt to communicate with the bird.  I took him to mean, "Wouldn't you like to come in for lunch?" Once, when we had someone working out in our front lawn, Bingley began to pace the living room floor and growl, like a dog, then periodically jump on the back of the couch and stare out.  He'd make an abrupt sound that sounded like a cross begin a "ruff" and a "mew."  He had watched the neighbor's dog across the back yard do that (except for the mew):  I had stood there with Bingley watching that dog. The first time I heard Bingley say anything complicated, I was so startled that I didn't quite believe what I had heard.  Not the content:  that was likely enough.  The manner, though, surprised me.  I was sitting on the couch reading, and Bingley was sitting on the floor not far away cleaning his paws.  Then I heard this:  "I say, Jeeves, can you just get me a couple of those nice chicken treats?" The voice drew me from my reading, in which I was deeply engaged. Bingley was the only other one in the room besides me, and the intent and expectant look on his face matched the request. I had already come to realize that he thought of me partly as a friend, partly as a brother, and partly--maybe mostly--as his butler. Most of the time I'm all right with that.  And I remembered that on the lowest of the bookshelves in Bingley's room among the novels and reference books sit copies of P. G. Wodehouse's Carry On, Jeeves and Very Good, Jeeves. I got Bingley his treats, and he seemed very happy with that.  He finished his bath and jumped up in my lap, nudging my book over a little to make some room to sit down. A couple times I've caught him, when I'd been writing and had got up to take a break, standing on my chair with his front paws up on the desk, looking at the screen where I'd been working.  At first I'd thought he was just attracted to the light or wondering what I could have found so fascinating there.  Once I asked him what he thought of what he'd seen on the screen.  He shrugged, tipped his head once to the right, and once to the left, and returned to look out the window again. Every now and then my wife and I will stop at one of the animal shelters to look at the inmates.  We may pet a few or give them some treats or make a small donation of money or blankets.  We often think about whether we should get Bingley a buddy, or if he would find having a new creature here troubling or even traumatic.  Today I had to stop at the Petsmart to get him some food and litter, and so I looked in at the cats there. One of the cats, jet black with brilliant yellow eyes, came walking toward the front of his cage looking right at me. Then he hissed. Then he put his head against the bars for petting.  I went over and scratched his ears and petted his forehead for five or ten minutes. I turned to go, and I was leaving, I looked back to see what the cat was doing.  He hissed again, then began rubbing his head and shoulders against the bars. So I went back and petted him some more. Finally I had to go.  I looked back one more time, and the cat made kind of a mini-hiss and began cleaning his paws.  Then he scrunched his eyes at me and mewed as if to say, "Thank you.  Please come by to visit again." Very nice cat, just, I think, with a bit of a language problem. Or maybe I had the language problem:  maybe hisses don't always mean what you think they mean, any more than kisses do. I'll have to ask Bingley.