Thursday Daily Dose of Cute: Sylvester the Cat

He, Too, Likes to Ride Back and Forth on the Barn Gate

One of the best things about living on a farm? Having enough space so that you can say Of course! when somebody down the road calls you up and says, "Do you still want our cat, Sylvester? Because we can't keep him," right after you've adopted three cats from the animal shelter.

Sylvester is a super fluffy, almost two-year-old sweetheart who fell head over paws in love with Topaz the first time he laid eyes on her, and then spent the next several months following her around with a dreamy-eyed, goofy look on his face. Eventually he took the huge, hissing, claw-filled hints that his affections were most unrequited, stopped his embarrassing behavior, and set about claiming the territory around the sheep barn for himself and becoming a contented bachelor. He even has his own food bowl tucked up on a ledge in the feed room.


Annoyingly Cute

He prowls all over the farm and loves to hunt in the grass just beyond the kitchen garden, but his favorite spot this time of year is (much to my constant dismay) in the greenhouse, preferably curled up on a blanket that is supposed to be protecting my plants. I love Sylvester dearly, and he has become a great addition to the farm, but I can't believe he flattened my entire fall crop of arugula. And some other stuff.


Did I Do Something Wrong?

And of course every time you lose your temper and yell at him he rolls over and gives you this totally adorable, love-filled look that makes it completely impossible to stay mad at him. Until you want a salad.

Lately I've busted Topaz in the greenhouse along with Sylvester (a cat-proof greenhouse is very high on my wish list!), but at least she has the decency to lounge on one of my empty plant racks or cozy up in the wool cat bed I put in there rather than sprawl on the bravely struggling Swiss chard. I figure if you can't keep them out, you can at least try to lure them off the edible greenery (which she also doesn't seem to be eating anymore.) But so far Sylvester is refusing to play along.

Want to see more farm feline photos?
Topaz
Patchy Cat
Smudge
Sarah Kit Kat Kate
Mr. Midnight
J2
New Cat
Molly Doodlebug (aka The Doodle Monster)

Copyright 2009 FarmgirlFare.com, the foodie farm blog where it also helps to have an understanding hunky farmguy around who, despite being very allergic to cats, doesn't mind when you do things like agree to give Sylvester a home without consulting him first, or adopt three cats at the animal shelter instead of the agreed upon two (but of course that's to be expected when you let a cat crazy girl go to the shelter all by herself).

A Place To Meow: Rescued Pets are the Best

A new furry face on the farm

Many of you know that last June our magnificent New Cat died suddenly, most likely from a snake bite. And then a week later we lost Gretel, a sweetheart of a tabby cat who was my beloved companion for 20 years. What you don't know is that early last November we lost yet another cat, one you'd never met (she was very private). Twin was a beautiful Siamese mix who was Molly Doodlebug's half sister.

Their mother, an incredibly smart calico cat named Ollie, was one of the seven semi-feral felines that came with Windridge Farm. There were several litters of kittens born before I was finally able to get everyone caught up and spayed and neutered.

Twin was an outdoor cat who came to live in the house after she'd had her leg badly torn apart, probably by a coyote. I didn't think she would ever walk again, but with the help of Dr. Susan's Cat Repair Kit, I nursed her back to health (hydrogen peroxide is an amazing thing!), her leg healed up just fine, and she spent ten happy years amusing us in her own quiet way.

She didn't meow, she couldn't purr, and she pretty much stopped moving around once she realized that inaction was the best way to lose The Doodle Monster's constant interest in attacking her.

With both Twin and Gretel gone, only 12-year-old Molly was left in The Shack. The thought of being the 4-1/2 pound Doodle Monster's only potential indoor victim terrified Joe so much that, despite the fact that he happens to be extremely allergic to cats, he suggested we rescue a couple of cats from the always struggling, always overcrowded, and always underfunded no-kill shelter that we've been donating money to for years. Then he let me go there alone.

On December 1st, I visited the shelter and adopted the three adult cats who had been there the longest—because really, three cats is only one more than two. (My dear friend Beth kindly pointed out that three is actually a full 50% more than two, but I told her we weren't doing the math that way and to please keep that fact to herself.)

Topaz, who is pictured above, had been living at the shelter for 15 months. There was a big 'QUARANTINE' stamped on her paperwork because she had bitten a small boy and a teenage girl, and nobody wanted to risk adopting her.

She was curled up on the bed within an hour, and when I crawled in next to her later that night she ever-so-subtly shifted her body so that it was pressed against mine, gave my hand a lick, and began to purr. I started to cry. She's a total foodie, and her favorite place to be is on Joe's lap.

Panther-like Whiskers (who now goes by Mr. Midnight) and frisky little Sarah Kate had both been at the shelter for 8 months. These two are the best of friends, and if they ever stop chasing each other around the house I'll snap some pictures of them and introduce you.

It's been a long time since I've lived with young cats, and adopting this instant family has been way too much fun. I forgot how much energy two-year-old cats have! It's been quite a change going from animals that lay still for so long you have to check to make sure they're still breathing to crazy critters who start their day by doing top-speed laps around the bedroom and bouncing across the bed to wake you up.


Settling Into Life On The Farm

Adopting a pet from a shelter is a win-win situation for everyone. As shelters go, ours is very nice and the animals are treated well. But it isn't home. I'm so glad we could finally give these wonderful, loving cats a real one.

February 2011 update: Topaz is doing great and (for three seasons a year) has turned into quite the farm cat. You'll find lots more photos of her here. You can meet Mr. Midnight here and Sarah Kit Kat Kate here. They're both doing really well, too.

© 2008 FarmgirlFare.com, the fur covered foodie farm blog where life is full of laughs and there's always plenty of fresh cream for the cats.

Farm Photo 10/19/07: New Face In The Cat Cabin

Leave It To Patchy Cat

Many of you know that last June our beloved New Cat died suddenly, most likely from a poisonous snake bite. And while my heart still aches for him, no one was more brokenhearted by New Cat's death than J2, who was his constant companion. I've never known two cats who were better friends. The two of them lived together in The Cat Cabin, and each night they curled up on their pink wool bed.

It was over a week after New Cat's death before I finally saw J2 come out of The Cat Cabin, and I was worried about him. In this June 16th update I wrote:

I explained to J2 that I understand how lonely he is and assured him that a new feline friend would be bunking with him soon. I have no doubt that another cat in need of a home will find us. They always do.

In the meantime, the height of snake season is not when you want to bring a new cat onto a farm. Enter Patchy Cat. Leave it to our efficient Farm Boss to spot not only a fellow feline in desperate need of a pal, but an available spot on a cozy wool bed as well. In seven years, The Cat Cabin is about the only place on the farm I hadn't ever seen Patchy Cat. J2 is thrilled that he's moved in.

Want to see more?
You'll find plenty of farm cat photos & cat stories here.

© 2007 FarmgirlFare.com, the feline loving foodie farm blog where Farmgirl Susan shares stories & photos of her crazy country life on 240 remote acres—and you can never have too many cats.

Farm Photo: 6/16/07

Heading Out Of The Heat

We're in the middle of a scorching heatwave, also known as summer, and farm cats can be counted on to find the coolest places around. In this case that means under the 100+ year-old half of The Shack. If we had a basement I'd be sleeping in it every night until at least the middle of September.

Heatwave or not, I'm just happy J2 was out and about. Today was the first time I'd seen him leave the cat cabin since his pal New Cat died unexpectedly last week. I was afraid J2 would go off in search of his buddy, but instead he's been staying in the cat cabin so he wouldn't miss New Cat's return.

I miss New Cat something fierce, but my loss is nothing compared to J2's. Those two were the best of friends who spent nearly every waking moment together, then slept curled up side by side each night on their silly pink wool bed. Tell me animals don't have real feelings, and I'll show you a heartbroken cat.

"It's a bad time of year to chuck a kitten in there with him," Joe said the other day when I mentioned how bad I felt for J2. He meant that in the kindest possible way, but sometimes the things that guy says crack me up. He was right, though. Life on a farm is risky enough for a cat, and snake season is especially dangerous if you're an innocent kitten.



J2 is a friendly guy, but because he was so close to New Cat he didn't want much attention from us. Now several times a day he jumps over to his feeding perch in the cat cabin and cries out for affection. This afternoon I was out in the yard hanging laundry on the line and was thrilled to see him heading toward me and loudly meowing hello. I could hear his purr box running on high from several feet away.

As I pet and he purred, I explained to J2 that I understand how lonely he is and assured him that a new feline friend would be bunking with him soon. I have no doubt that another cat in need of a home will find us. They always do.

Farm Photo: 6/14/07

Saying Another Goodbye


The Wild Roses Are In Bloom

"How many cat years are in a human year?" Joe asked me as we lay in bed yesterday morning. He knew I was thinking about Gretel.

"Some people say seven, but there are plenty of cats who live to be at least 20, so some people say five."

"Well even at five years, that would make Gretel, wow, really old."

About an hour later, with a little cry of goodbye, the last of my four transplanted California cats passed away. She was 20 years old. Her death wasn't entirely unexpected, though I didn't think I'd be out in the garden digging another grave less than a week after the sudden loss of New Cat.

Apart from being periodically terrorized by the 4-1/2 pound Doodle Monster during the past decade, I don't think Gretel could have asked for a better cat life.

She spent her last day laying in the shade on the front step, taking in the fresh air and the farm. She waited for me to wake up the next morning and was wrapped in my arms when she took her final breath.

We were gone much of yesterday, and when I opened the front door late last night I caught myself automatically checking Gretel's favorite spots to see where she was, to make sure she was okay. I was surprised her absence hit me so hard. A little while later I realized that I've lived with Gretel longer than I've lived with anyone else in the world--more than half my life.

I'm not sad for Gretel, but a hundred years is a long time to be together. It's no wonder my heart and my home feel so empty. The memories, of course, will live on as long as I do, and for that I will always be grateful.

© 2007 FarmgirlFare.com, the award-winning blog where Farmgirl Susan shares photos & stories of her crazy country life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Farm Life, Farm Love, Farm Loss

New Cat was huddled in a dark corner of the cat cabin crying. Something was very wrong.

My guess is that he was bitten by a snake. The farm is thick with copperheads, and a bite to a small animal is deadly.

"He's not gonna make it, honey," Joe said softly.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"He had a good run."

"Yes he did."

"He left a place where he obviously wasn't happy and came to live with us. That was what, five years ago?"

New Cat appeared one day out beyond the hayfield, but it was nearly a week before he made his way up to the house, having apparently decided that life here looked pretty good.




He moved into the cat cabin with J2, who had shown up years ago at Windridge Farm in much the same way, and the two quickly became inseparable. I've never known two cats who were better friends.

In the 17 years that Joe has lived on this farm, which is miles from the nearest neighbor, he is the only cat to have simply turned up. New cat.

He wore a gorgeous superfluff suit each winter and shed it for a sleek look in summer. New cat.




He was terrified of Bear and Robin and spent most of his life above dog level. He seldom allowed me to pet him, and I can't remember ever picking him up.

"He may not have been all that friendly," said Joe, "but it sure was nice to look around the farm and see him."

My most recent memory of New Cat is from a week or so ago. It was early evening and he was in the garden, presiding over a large rabbit he had obviously just caught.

My favorite memory of New Cat took place one morning a few years ago. He and J2 were hanging out in the sunshine next to the cat cabin on a little table that Joe had once slapped together from scraps of wood. J2 was grooming himself, and New Cat wanted to play. He kept rolling around on the table, batting at J2 and trying to get his attention, but J2 ignored him. New Cat wouldn't give up, though, and after a couple minutes J2 stopped what he was doing, lifted his two front paws high in the air, and tackled New Cat with a massive hug.

New Cat died very early this morning while I slept fitfully next to him, my hand resting on the side of his curled-up body. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted him to know he wasn't alone. And this cat who rarely liked to be touched would start to cry if I took my hand away.

I buried New Cat in the garden next to Hansel cat and Lindy The Chicken, not far from the spot where he caught that rabbit. In early spring I planted a small clump of spiderwort there, and it has flourished. Today I addded some more.

He was a magnificent creature who was a joy to watch and photograph. He was our New Cat. He left us in his prime, but he had a good run. He is already missed.

More about Whitey and her new brood soon. The circle of farm life always continues.


© 2007 FarmgirlFare.com, the full on, fur loving foodie farm blog where Farmgirl Susan shares recipes, stories, and photos from her crazy country life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Weekend Cat Blogging #50 (Wow!)

Somebody Is A Very Baaaaaaad Influence



It's A Little Late To Try & Hide Your Identities

Attention Cat Lovers! This Is Weekend Cat Blogging #50!
See cute cat photos & discover yummy new food blogs. Visit my pal Clare & her crazy Cat Kiri at Eat Stuff in Australia for all the links to this week's kitties. For more frolicking felines, catch the traveling Carnival Of The Cats each Sunday night. And the weekly Friday Ark boards dozens of cats plus all kinds of other critters.

Warning: This Tea May Disrupt Your Sleep

Innocent (this time) But Useless

I awoke with a start. I could hear water. Moving. Next to my head. Not good.

"Mol-LY!" I hissed. Silence.

Four-and-a-half-pound Molly Doodlebug (aka The Doodle Monster) is able to daintily slip into places larger cats cannot. And she has an annoying habit of slinking onto my nightstand in the middle of the night, poking her tiny, furry face into the tall glass of water I always set there, and Thud! knocking it over. Glug, glug, glug.

Last night I took a tall, half-empty mug of Celestial Seasonings Honey Vanilla Chamomile Tea with me to bed instead of water. I figured I had slept through the thud. I sleepily pictured tea all over the floor.

More water sounds.

"Molly!"

I fumbled around for my itty bitty flashlight and pointed it toward the mug. Still upright. No Doodle. Splish-splash! Splish-splash! I leaned over and peered into the mug. A half-submerged mouse stared up at me. Oh brother.

I grabbed the mug, cupped one hand over the top so the mouse couldn't leap out, and padded to the front door, all the while thinking that I really should deposit the mouse very far from the house. I opened the front door, stepped onto the cement stoop, and dumped out the mug.

You'd think with seven cats around, a mouse wouldn't stand a chance here. And it doesn't--as long as it's outdoors. The outside cats regularly catch mice and voles and birds and lizards and giant scary moths. I once looked out onto the covered porch off the kitchen and saw Patchy Cat sitting there with a huge packrat tail hanging out of his mouth. In two seconds he had slurped it up like a piece of spaghetti. The inside cats catch naps.

I filled up a fresh glass with water and stumbled back to bed. Never a dull moment. At least I learned that you can catch more mice with honey. . .