Sean P Durham

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Rescue Cats That Moved into My Home

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The first forty years of my life were cat-free. Until then, I wouldn’t have even noticed when a cat crossed my path. 

Until one day, I came across a kitten in the street. It was late at night, the kitten was in danger.

As I passed, I noticed that he kept his eyes on a group of wheely-bins where a tom cat waited to dart out and attack. The tom cat’s family meandered around the street as if waiting for the show to begin.

When the kitten saw me, he tried to wedge himself between my boots for protection. This made me stop and take notice. I made space for him and he shoved his tiny body between my boots. I looked down and noticed the top of his motor-oily head.

I felt his shoulders shrug and twitch as he attempted to make himself disappear between my feet. His body trembled, he was on full alert as he watched everything that moved in front of him.

I’d clearly already taken sides in the scenario. A street wise tom cat protecting his family with the brutality of natural instinct, and a small bundle of messy fur with big eyes that reflected the street lamps made my mind up; I was rooting for the little one — and I was sure he’d win the day. He now had me on his side.

Two strangers, from two different paths of life. No matter the difference in species, when strong and vulnerable paths cross, take responsibility and do the right thing. 

So now there was a kitten, an alpha tom cat, and a man, all standing on a dark street watching to see who makes the first move. They were all three strangers.

The Boss Tom kept an eye on everything that went down in his territory. He didn’t like a stranger trying to join his well organised family, so he sent warnings to the kitten. 

The kitten, maybe feeling a little safer with me, stepped back out into the street. He turned, sat down, and stared up at me. His eyes squinted, and his whiskers spread out as if he was expressing a moment of joy.

Like shots across the ship’s bow, the tom cat ran at the kitten and as he passed he rammed his shoulder into the kitten’s back. The kitten fell, legs and arms akimbo, then quickly up righted itself, he cried loudly and again looked up at me. His face had changed from a moment of joy to total fear.

He was ragged with tufts of oily hair, probably only six weeks old, and he was in danger of being killed by the tough looking tom cat who ruled this street. 

This family of cats had one large tom who was Boss. Two smaller tom cats were about a year old, and were still being schooled. They watched as Boss Tom made his passes, shouldering into the kitten, knocking him down, each pass became harder and more violent. 

The rest of the family, about ten or twelve, shifted around the lampposts and hedges waiting to see what would happen.

The smaller tom cats followed through with feigned passes, as if trying to scare the little one with their presence. Testing their own prowess in the field. 

On my side, the kitten huddled into the area between my ankles. He kept looking up at me, the street lights caught his blue eyes. Two orbs that reflected intelligence, wishes and desires, and big hopes that life could be better than the present moment.

And it seemed that I was there not by accident.  

It was midnight. A warm spring night, I had only wanted to walk and clear my thoughts. Trying to get to grips with future plans.

I hadn’t thought about taking a kitten home, but those eyes told me everything. Like a realisation of destiny. It occurred to me that a new friend would be a blessing in my life. A plan that would work well, me and a kitten that would one day grow up into a purring, or hissing, annoying lovely tom cat. And I would tell my partner all about it when she wakes in the morning to find a fluffy little panther plodding about the flat.

I picked up the kitten, he was light and easy to hold. He was healthy, apart from his motor oily fur, somebody had kept him for a couple of days, then dumped him among street cats.

I tucked him into my wool jacket. He rearranged himself so he could watch the street ahead as we carried on our evening walk together. Every so often, he’d look up and meow gently, his whiskers sprayed outwards and his light blue eyes smiled at me.

The street cats milled about on the corner and watched as we both disappear into a side street.

We had a wonderful relationship over the years, like two blokes hanging out together, arguing with each other, making up — always knowing that we are best buddies forever.

A Tom Cat Kitten in a Street with 17 Years of Good Fortune

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Recently, my Tom Cat, Balthy-Boy, passed on to the Great Hall of Kittens.

Balthus The Tom Cat 2022, Berlin, Sean P. Durham, Copyright

He and I spent 17 years together, day in and day out. We had a relationship of blokes together, guys who sit at the kitchen table early mornings. I’d drink coffee, he’d sup the juice in his meat bowl, then a few cat biscuits. He’d then deftly spring up onto my lap and enjoy the morning sunshine. I’d be pinned down by him for the next hour. I’d write my notes, and he’d snooze.

I have two cats, so sometimes, two cats would negotiate for space on my lap.

Balthy-Boy’s demise happened quickly.

He began to walk slowly, no more galloping through the apartment, or springing up onto my lap. He wasn’t settled when he laid down for a snooze, he’d just stare into space.

Something was wrong. And as much as we trusted each other, and enjoyed tom cat lad-hood in love together, he could never tell me where it hurt.

Animals are sensitive, and they are driven by deep rooted instincts. They don’t howl and whine when they are seriously sick, they often keep it to themselves.

Step on a cats tail, and it’ll yelp. But when they are sick, and weak, they will do everything to hide it; an instinct that protects them from predators in the wild. Lie low, stay quiet, and suffer. Maybe it’ll pass.

We have to keep a keen eye on our animal friends. Always on the lookout for a change in behaviour that might indicate that something’s up in a cat’s world.

The vet came and told us that his kidneys had failed. There was nothing to be done for him. So we did the best, and hardest thing to do, helped him find his peace.

I have another cat. She is 15 years old, Stubbs. She’s the easy-going, live and let live type of cat. But always the soul of the party.

Stubbs loved Balthy-Boy too. And we both miss him, I watch her as she walks around the apartment checking all the favourite places where Balthy-Boy would snooze.

When she can’t find him, she stands in the middle of the room and stares at me. A big question mark in her gaze.

When I move from one room to the next, I still look out for Balthy Boy, checking he isn’t under my feet.

Sometimes, at night in bed, I hear the sound of a cat jump from a table and land on the wood floor. Stubbs is cuddled up next to me. I wait in anticipation to hear the sounds of a cat playing, a fluffy toy bouncing around in the darkness.

Stubbs — an absolute party animal.
Stubbs — an absolute party animal.

Sometimes, he’d be in his little cottage, a cardboard packing box that we made into a small house. The cats love it in winter. It’s a one bedroom cat cottage on a desirable piece of land next to the heater. Always, first come, first served.

Stubbs will use it this winter, so I’ll make sure it’s full of the amenities. A warm blanket, a toy mouse, and I’ll put Balthy-Boy’s favourite fluffy toy, Lion, in there too.

Balthy-Boy Checking the Winter Weather from his Cottage
Balthy-Boy Checking the Winter Weather from his Cottage

I first met Balthy-Boy on the warm streets of Sevilla, Spain. Late one night, I walked along a street named Porvenir. The word Porvenir means destiny or fortune, in more eloquent or poetical, Spanish.

Somebody had dumped him among street cats; the street cats didn’t like him, so the chief tom cat of the street gang dive bombed him, and banged into him, every few minutes.

Tom cats are boss on the street, and they don’t want more male cats in their families, so they control the head count in a brutal way. If I’d left him there, he wouldn’t have survived the night.

It was midnight, spring time. It was only when a muscle-bound tom cat whizzed past me, and hit something small and fluffy, that I realized a kitten was close to me. I looked down, he looked up at me; all I saw were those big blue eyes pleading for help. He was a domestic kitten, dumped and scared, out on the mean streets of Sevilla.

I’ve seen some powerful looking cats on the streets of Sevilla. The cat population is large. If you are ever there, just take a look in the parks, or along a roadside, and you’ll surely see a family of cats. It’s a robust population all controlled and checked by some pretty tough alphas.

I once saw a tom cat with neck muscles so broad and powerful, I reckon his mum was a South American panther. He stared at me with burning yellow eyes, dark slits for pupils, and the sort of serious confidence that could knock down a building. I stayed clear of him. A real alley cat. They ain’t all sweet and fluffy.

Balthy_Boy Tom Cat. Image copyright; Sean P. Durham, Berlin, 2020
Balthy Boy at 16 years old.

When Balthy Boy was a kitten we gave him a fluffy toy. Lion. He took it, played with it all day, and we laughed when he wouldn’t leave it alone. Late at night, we could hear him playing in the dark, lion being thrown about the room.

He carried Lion all over the place with him, and of course, late at night as he climbed into bed, he’d be carrying Lion in his mouth. Always gently holding him by his red mane, never carelessly biting his neck.

I’m certain he thought of Lion as his own kitten, and he was going to make sure Lion had all the protection in the world.

When my partner and I took Balthy Boy home that night, he was exhausted. He’d stayed vigilant while he was on the street, attacked by tom cats, rejected, and probably staving off feelings that his destiny was doomed to a bitter ending between the teeth of an alpha cat.

When he finally found peace on the sofa in our front salon, he slept for three days. Most of the time, like a baby, he lay on Deborah’s chest, her heart beat giving him strength. He simply nestled into Deborah’s warmth.

He finally got up after three days, ate a little, and explored his new home. When he realised that his luck had changed, he did what kittens do — played, and played. And with so much joy.

His future changed when I met him, so did ours. For 17 years we lived together, he occasionally showed me that he was the alpha cat in our home. When my partner, Deborah, stayed with us, he’d act like I was a nobody. I got the feeling he’d be happy if I packed my bags and left, so he and she could live together, happily ever after. Tom cats and favourites, special affinities.

When he and I were alone together, we were like best buddies. Shoulder to ankle throughout the day, paw to hand in front of the T.V.

We’d greet the morning together with coffee and cat food, and an hour’s lap time.

The photo below was the night before he died. He and Lion together, Balthy Boy, tired and weak, but always watching out for Lion. One hell of a cat, and a beautiful friend who I’ll always miss.

Balthy Boy and Lion in their 17th year together
Balthy Boy and Lion in their 17th year together

Sick Cats, Vets, and We Staff

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Living with a cat or any pet is an exceptional experience. Cats don’t do anything you tell them, they don’t even take suggestions. In the photo below is Stubbs and I.

I live with three cats. Recently, Stubbs became very sick, I didn’t notice at first. I just thought she was tired and wanted to spend a little time resting, or be alone on the bed. But when I took a good look at her, I saw that she wasn’t closing her eyes, and it appeared as if she was suffering.

Stubbs and I hanging out together. Copyright, Sean P. Durham , Berlin, 2021
Stubbs and I hanging out together.

Often, animals won’t show you that they are in pain. They don’t moan about pain, or howl and bicker the whole time.

I’m pretty sure that’s an instinct. If a cat was in the wild living in a herd, or family of cats, it would have to be strong and able, all of the time. Animals have to survive, so they form packs and hunt or forage for food.

If a cat was injured or sick, it might attract other predators, or slow the pack down. The whole pack can’t risk survival for a weak animal.

In spite of that, cats and other domestic animals are able to adapt. That means they learn about their environment and make use of the resources they find. I know mine do. They use my bed as theirs, they think the sofa is a cat tree, and I am nothing but a useful heater in the winter. It’s always my job to warm the bed before they decide to settle down for the night.

When I get up in the morning, I get coffee, sit at the kitchen table, and one after the other they trot into the kitchen and check the food bowl – just to be sure I’ve freshened it up.

Then, each cat will take turns in getting an ear rub, back massage, followed by a lot of praise from me.

Stubbs was sick, so I took her to a vet. The first vet looked her over quickly, and pointed out that she couldn’t walk, not even stand up. I told him that I knew this, that’s why I brought her to him. It didn’t take long for him to start talking about her quality of life, and that she might be better off if we ‘put her to sleep’. He was flippant. I’m not an animal expert, but I know that anybody who just looks at an animal and starts talking about ending things for her, isn’t interested in his job.

I took her back home. She didn’t improve, and it was obvious that she was getting worse. So, I found another vet.

It’s always amazing when you meet a person, and they show you that they are the sort of human being who cares about life. This vet certainly did. She checked Stubbs’ vital signs, reflexes, heart and lungs, and everything else that has to do with staying alive. Then she gave her a pain killer, some vitamins, and went to work on trying to clear Stubbs’ large intestine with strong massages. That didn’t work, but the vet finally managed to get Stubbs to empty her bladder. An enema got the large intestine moving and Stubbs felt a hell of lot better, for sure.

Stubbs’ intestines weren’t doing their job of shifting the waste down the right passages, and out the right door. Things were just sitting and building up into a clot that hardened over time, and wouldn’t shift for love or money.

I had to bring Stubbs back to the vet several times for check ups, to see if she was improving. Unfortunately, each time proved that she wasn’t getting better. She stopped eating, and she was still in pain unless she was given pain killers.

Stubbs couldn’t walk, nor stand up. She wouldn’t eat, or go to the cat litter box. I had to empty her bowels for her each day, a couple of times. This meant holding her under the armpits with one hand, then literally squeezing the bladder downwards until it opened, then she emptied her bladder.

Finally, after the vet tried everything, she decided that the clot of faeces that had built up inside had to be removed through an operation. No cut, just a rear entry job, and get it out.

The vet worked for a couple of hours on Stubbs’ rear end, and finally cleared the barrels. After that, firing could commence as soon as Stubbs regained consciousness. She was under general anaesthetic, out like a light – she looked so calm and peaceful while sleeping.

Astonishingly, when Stubbs woke up, she stood up, wobbled on her hind quarters, and began to walk through the apartment. I say walk, she moved her rear legs as if she was riding a bicycle, spinning them along as she navigated her way into the kitchen.

This was a glorious moment. The Best thing that had happened for a long time. To see Stubbs up and about, showing interest in her food, she sniffed it, attempted to take a biscuit in her mouth, then dropped it on the floor. A good start for a cat that had been dangerously close to the gallows.

Walking around didn’t stop, she became stronger and stopped cycling her legs. It looked like she was having fun trying out her new strength.

Since then, Stubbs has improved tremendously. She needs close attention all the time. Wants me to carry her around in my arms all day. She allows me to sit and write one handed while I hold her like a baby in my other arm.

Throughout all this, I observed how the vet who saved her life was a never-give-up person. She just wouldn’t let go of the idea that there must be some way to find out what Stubbs’ real problem was.

Animals communicate with each other just fine, but we have problems reading their body language. Cats use their eyes to communicate things. Their body language is fine, each small movement sends a message.

Living with cats requires that we learn a thing or two about their language.

But humans are loud gabby animals who have unlearned the subtleties of body language. We probably once used the skills of body language to survive in the wilds. Then we invented money and guns, so we binned the idea of subtlety, and lost many of the real skills of peaceful survival.

Stubbs is now well on the way to becoming fit again. She’s firing on all four cylinders each morning, eats like a bodybuilder, and makes sure she gets first in line for massages, cuddles, and ear rubs.

Stubbs the Cat- Image copyright; Sean P. Durham, Berlin, 2020


Stubbs

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Cats — The Great Manipulators

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“In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.” — Terry Pratchett

Stubbs the Cat- Image copyright; Sean P. Durham, Berlin, 2020
Stubbs

I live with three cats. I love them, and I have good reason to love them. They are demanding, sometimes needy, sometimes not needy. Cats are social animals, and after my observations, based on the driving curiosity I have for everything that surrounds me, I’m certain that cats have the ability to plan, manipulate, and generally get anything they want. Especially when they live with a person who loves them. They are highly intelligent.

My cats play games, do daft things like walk along the bookshelves elegantly, and fall off. Then stand up, shake their head and act as if they meant to do that. Of course, they did.

They offer me warmth and comfort which is friendly and chummy. Sometimes they want to climb up into my arms, snuggle down and sleep — while I’m writing. That never works, but it’s always a temptation to give them five minutes of my time.

My 17-year-old tom cat acts like a kitten. He owns about ten variations of mouse, hedgehog, stuffed elephant, a shaggy looking sheep, a mousey toy stuffed with cat-nip, and most importantly, the very first stuffed toy he received after being rescued from under the hood of a Porsche Targa 911. “Lion” a small but impressive looking lion that he treats with the utmost respect. Lion is his best friend, playmate, and ersatz kitten. At night, Balthus, searches the apartment for Lion and takes him to bed with him, he checks on him regularly and makes sure he hasn’t fallen out of bed. Once, Lion accidentally fell off the window sill and into a patio, Balthus sprang out of the window and saved Lion from the ravishes of the big-outdoors.

The other toys are for battles, throwing around the room, placing on the bookcase, and general fun activities like practising the instinctive behaviour observed in real Lions and big cats, grabbing the prey by the throat, and using the back feet claws to tear the stomach out before sitting down to eat them. He looks so sweet when he does this.

My three cats are beautiful, but I always like to remember that they are also hunter predators. Projecting wild-assed ideas about cartoon characters onto them doesn’t help me understand their real needs. And bearing in mind that cats are the only domestic animal that domesticated itself, I better respect its intelligence in survival techniques. We build homes, cats move in. That was their first plan. It worked.

Have you ever come across a kitten in the street, apparently lost, separated from its mother, or dumped by some muther?

The kitten has an in-built instinct in how to manipulate you. Firstly, you start to speculate on how it ended up in the street, it will mimic your facial expressions of sadness, and your watery eyes, and reflect all that back at you.

If you are normal, you can’t resist. I’m convinced that cats mimic our behaviour to test out various methods of control. How to get food when they want, how to get warmth and how to make you stop and massage their tired backs, rub their ears, and generally praise them to the heavens for being such sweet innocent companions.

You really want to leave, go to work, go shopping, or whatever it was you were really going to do. But the lost kitten has got you by the short-and-curlies, already.

You lift her up, look at her belly and discover it might be a he, or you can’t tell. The kitten’s face is close to yours now, so it knows it can put part-two of the plan into action and do close-up manipulations.

Quick successive squeaks of a baby that needs feeding, intermingled with hot kitten breath in your face causes you to draw her close to your chest. You cuddle her, and the kitten now knows that you are more or less committed to looking after her for the next 18–20 years. No big deal.

This happened to me three times, many years ago. I don’t regret making the decision to take the little blighters home, I did a good thing; they remind me of that each day.

Felinologists and zoologists, know that cats are nocturnal predators, their eyes have evolved into night vision goggles that put modern technology to shame. They can see your every movement as you get up in the night, wander into the kitchen and get yourself a chocolate biscuit and a drink. Nothing escapes a cat in the dark.

Cats adapt to human behaviour. I have experienced how my three cats have changed their routines to sleeping at night with occasional breaks to wander around the apartment knocking books off shelves, investigating the trash bags, or staring out the window and watching drunks stagger home at night.

Miss Dickens, my posh cat, loves to watch people passing on the street below. Her small head bobs about, she squeaks, stretches forwards to get a better look, as if she’s horrified at the behaviour of some of the passing bipeds.

Stubbs, the youngest at 14 years old, can sleep all night, next to me on the bed, then get up and follow me into the kitchen where I want to make coffee and generally wake up. I stop making coffee and do what she wants, make her a bowl of food, some biscuits, try to get on with making coffee, but now she needs a morning cuddle, so at some point later, I finally do get some lukewarm coffee.

I said that I don’t “cartoonize” my cats with silliness, that’s true. But I do see their characters, how they really are, and I can’t resist adding a little narrative to their nutty behaviour, sometimes.

Miss Dickens loves the bookshelves, she wanders along, stopping next to Shakespeare, or a large sized book about Picasso or Pissarro. She has a liking for art, loves to swish around in fine dress materials, conducts herself with elegance and pride. Sometimes, I wake in the morning to find she has organized my notes. Maybe even done a good edit. Scratch marks across passages, several sheets of ideas thrown to the floor — often, everything on the floor. Obviously an opinion about my ideas.

Balthus and Stubbs are both easy going cats. They want nothing more than to be pampered, fed when they say so, food changed when demanded — even when the bowl is still a quarter full, it’s not full. Back rubs regularly, ear rubs all the time, and if you have been sitting in a chair, warmed it up with your body, and you get up and go to the kitchen, then return and it’s been taken, tough luck. You move, you lose.

Cats are beautiful, fun and full of surprises. They work hard at educating humans.

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