Happy cat

By Fayza Hassan
Several of my friends collect antiques. It fulfils their need for beauty. I would have loved to belong to their league but somehow, half way through I lose interest and often stop seeing handsome objects that have come my way at different points in my life. After the initial enthusiasm of discovery and acquisition, I am invariably struck by total indifference for my purchase. Because I am convinced that collecting is an important human activity, which provides the collector with roots and a reassuring sense of permanence, I tried for a while to accumulate plants, but found them unreliable. Few flourished as expected; besides, they never talked to me, aware maybe of my unconcern for their slow progress -- or lack thereof.
Finally, and independently of a conscious decision or master plan, I found myself collecting stray cats. In truth, I do not favour cats over dogs. It is the stray quality that appeals to whatever feelings of compassion are left after a very busy day. Since cats are better suited to life in an apartment, the feline had to triumph over the canine for purely practical reasons.
"But are they happy?" asked one of the objectors who, not wanting to be bothered by the hassle of having to care for a pet, advocate the notion that stray animals are having a wonderful time in the wild. "Certainly they're safer," I answered haughtily, as someone who is not afraid to go out of her way to shelter the unprotected.
The question annoyed me, however, and I found myself observing my 14 inmates more closely. There is no doubt that they are pampered and indulged in their every dietary whim. We have the raw meat eaters and the boiled chicken fanatics. Some do not mind sharing the same large dish while others demand their very own little plate. Some will accept plastic tableware; others find it beneath their new status to bury their noses in such cheap implements. Those are given their own stainless steel saucers.
My daughter's favourite cat will refuse to touch his meal if another cat so much as sniffs it in passing. He sits near it and whimpers until we give in and remove the offending item. The same goes for the litter, with a gregarious bunch not minding a shared pail while a couple will not tolerate the smell of others. They object in a rather messy way, spilling the contents of the container all over the place.
Tom is a cat hater, who growls at his own image reflected in a glass pane or a mirror and has to live in solitary confinement. I visit him whenever I have a free quarter of an hour and sit with him, give him a cuddle and explain that he is not being reasonable. After all, he is depriving us of our main living room. I am sure that he understands, because when I have finished my tirade, he snaps at my ankles in warning, as if to say: "Don't give me this rubbish. Get out, I think I hate you too." He is extremely interested in our comings and goings nevertheless, and meows commandingly whenever he sees me through the glass door: "Come here at once and keep me company," is what I believe he is saying. "He is not a domestic cat, he is feral," says my daughter, who has the scars to show what Tom can do when provoked in the slightest. Maybe Tom will be happier in the wild (and so would we); but it would be unfair to unleash him on a defenceless feline population. He is a cat killer. Besides, he really seems to enjoy sleeping on the sofa -- the one with goose down pillows.
Halib, on the other hand, was born to an unprivileged family. As a street kitten, curious about the world around him, he wandered into a shopping centre where got his paw caught in the escalator. My daughter found him on the footpath, dragging his bloody limb behind him, but still ready to show his good temper. "He just sat there smiling at me," she said. "I could not leave him. He had suffered enough." She took him and had his wound attended to. Halib seems to have learned early on that he should be grateful for any good fortune that comes his way. He makes it a point to get along with the other cats. He lets them share the ball of wool he plays with. He does not mind plastic dishes or a common kitty litter. He is starved for affection and education (he preferably sleeps on books) and loves music, with a marked predilection for opera. As soon as he hears Pavarotti's voice, he dashes into my bedroom and stretches full length on the pillows to enjoy the piece. When the CD is over, he shakes himself dreamily and departs, looking for other pleasures such as a good magazine to continue his nap on. From his life as a stray, he has only retained a taste for cucumbers and tomatoes.
Abduh was definitely the filthiest kitten that we ever picked up. He had sparse orange fur, greasy and matted, and generally looked like a dirty rag. Now he is more like a miniature Collie, and knows that he is beautiful. He is also versed in the art of attracting attention. He sips our coffee, puts his paws in full ashtrays and delights in jumping on keyboards while we work -- that is when he is not busy sending perfume bottles and soap dishes crashing to the floor in the bathroom.
One can argue, of course, that by adopting these cats and giving them an easy life, we have harmed them psychologically. They no longer behave like animals but like spoiled children. Unlike humans, though, they will not infuriate their employers and make their spouses miserable when they grow up. Meanwhile, they entertain us with their antics and bestow much affection on us, which we return gladly. Would they have been happier scavenging for survival until they were run over by a speeding car? All I can say is that they have not yet expressed the desire to return to their former ways.
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