I Guess It Was A Rental

Tux is no longer with us. He's passed on. He hasn't joined the choir invisible just yet, but he's just made it abundantly clear that he wants absolutely no part of us, the farm, or, for all intents and purposes, most of Southern Manitoba.

When we first got Tux, we fixed him up a nice place in the garage. He had food in abundance, a nice warm bed, and a litter box placed conveniently nearby. I knocked out a board at the bottom of the door so that he could come and go as he pleased. Apparently, he pleased to go, because he wasted no time booking it down the road to the neighbor's house.

That evening, he came back, crying. Hungry and tired, he ate ravenously and fell asleep on my lap while I petted him. In order to prevent him leaving again during the night, I put the board back on the door and we locked him in the garage overnight.

(Note: Tux does not like being locked up. He yowls. But not just any sort of yowl; these are anguished cries of abject suffering and agony. To hear him cry, one would have thought that we were torturing him, or that the Apocalypse was upon us, or that Montana's was no longer offering their delicious Antojitos. Yes, he really sounded that upset.)

The next day, we let him out again. Without even looking back over his shoulder to offer a consoling tail-flick in our direction, he headed straight for the road and marched resolutely off in the direction of the neighbor's. I followed him, picked him up, brought him back. He let me pet him for a few minutes, before setting off again down the road, yowling all the way.

On the advice of the neighbor, we decided that the best way to get Tux to stay would be to lock him up in the garage for a few days. She assured us that he wouldn't try to leave again after he was sufficiently used to his surroundings.

Thinking that it was for his betterment, we steeled ourselves to his crying and kept him locked up for three days, allowing him outside only when supervised and leashed. During this time, I petted him, brushed him, and even took him out on a leash. Friendly as ever, he enjoyed the petting, yowled pitifully at the injustice of it all, and nearly choked himself trying to get down the road to the neighbor's.

After three days of careful pampering, I thought it might be time to take him off of the leash. We've done everything imaginable for him, I reasoned. Surely he'll stay.

Apparently, Tux didn't appreciate any of the effort, time, or care that we offered. As soon as the leash was off, he headed straight down the driveway, turned left, and kept on going. The only difference this time was an added note of urgency in his gait. I guess he was pining for the fjords.

All to say, we are again in the market for a cat. Hopefully, the next one will perhaps be a bit more appreciative, and a bit less transient.

Tux

Here are the promised pictures of Tux. He's wearing a make-shift leash, because he keeps trying to leave. We suspect he'll settle down once he's used to his surroundings, though.

Mrs. Katzadowski and Tux

Winter in Canada isn't particularly kind to cats, even the wild, crazy ones that Bobchi* keeps around.

Of course, she didn't really "keep" them in any sense of the word; it was more like she offered them a corner of the shop to sleep in when they were in the neighborhood. Mangy, beat up, and unkempt, you never saw them most of the time; they were far too busy off in the bush having kittens and fighting with the other cats. Even when one of them did come wandering in, it would display, for all intents and purposes, the noncomittal attitude that it was his idea in the first place.

They'd never, ever let you get near them -- not that you'd really want to. All the fighting didn't do much for their looks; most of them limped, one was missing an eye, and they were all scratched up pretty badly. Imagine a mangey crew of cat pirates, and you'd have Bobchi's cats. It was no real surprise, then, that none of them made it through the viciously cold winter.

Once spring came, Bobchi set about restocking her supply of mousers. First, she called her nephew, Donald. He has a whole raft of wild, crazy cats like she used to have, but they turned out to be too wild and crazy for him to catch. Then a neighbor told her about an older couple who had found a stray cat that they were hoping to find a home for.

It arrived Thursday morning, personally chauffeured in a black satchel like a visiting dignitary. He's a sleek black and white tomcat, and is nothing like his predecessors. They were crazy and mean, he is gentile and friendly. They hissed and spat when they saw you, but scratch him behind his cheeks, and he purrs like a tractor engine.

"We didn't name him," the couple told us. "You'll have to think of something." After some deliberation, Julie suggested "Tux".

Tux took an instant shine to the farm, and especially Shiloh. He spent the afternoon following us around hoping to be petted, playing with Shiloh, and relaxing luxuriously under the trees.

We've fixed a temporary place in the garage for him, and we'll be thinking of a way to keep him warm and dry this winter. Here's hoping he lasts a lot longer than the others.

*We recently decided that we had too many grandmas (Mrs. Fiddler and her mother both answered to "Grandma"), and thought it would be a good idea to start calling them different names. Since Katherine Komadowski is Polish, we've started calling her "Bobchi", which is Polish for "Grandmother".

p.s. I'll post pictures of Tux later today.