March 4, 2005

• More news of the cats at Felony Flats

  
  

  First, some backstory for new readers. Felony Flats is the name that locals have given to the strip of cabins and storage units where I reside and run a flea-market stand during the summer.(It is so-named because of the number of neer-do-wells and violent drunks and felons who live there.  The landlord is a great guy, a responsible family man and former Iditarod musher, but the laws here favor  tenants–even  deadbeats and drunks and dopers.  Still, the landlord has done a great job of weeding out the worst elements, even going to court at his own expense to do so.  But I digress.)  Winter, it serves as a base for my trips to gun shows and holiday bazaars.

  
  

  I share a 10×12 cabin with Silky, the momcat, and her three male kittens–Dingus, Pinky, and Hohner.  I have no use for most people but I do have a soft spot for critters. 

  
  

  There are a few feral cats down by my stand, like Smoky and Spooky (they are Silky’s sisters–some rotten so and so dumped them off at the flats last summer), and I put out food and water for them.  I haven’t seen Smoky for weeks–word is, she has a litter of kittens stashed somewhere–but Spooky still  comes round regularly. 

  
  

  The other day, I found out where the expression “the fur flies” came from.  Marmalade–this huge fluffy orange cat–and Blackie–a skinny black cat–were into it, and the fur was literally flying. By the time the two combatants had pooped out, there were scraps of fur of both colors here and there over a ten square-yard area.  The fur was flying, indeed.

  
  

   I keep food and water out on the porch of my cabin for  itinerant felines.  The word has gotten out and various strays come by for a snack–some stay long enough to get a name.  Like Bigfoot, a polydactyl tabby  who came around last winter.  And Springfield, a big furry guy who is sort of silvery gray, but is so wild he won’t let me pet him.  And Boris, a big multi-colored furrball who not only let me pet him, but head-butted me the first time we met. Then there is Frankie, a sweet cross-eyed, blue-eyed Siamese mix–recently, she has taken to poking her head into the cabin.  Now Silky is VERY territorial, but for some reason, she has not driven off Frankie.  As a rule, she goes postal when other cats even come onto the porch.

  
  

  This morning, Frankie came around, and I left the cabin door open–it wasn’t too cold.  And she came in and had some water.  Then she moseyed around the cabin, poking  her little nose here and there. At one point,  Hohner arched his back but didn’t hiss, and Silky actaully strolled out of the cabin for a few minutes, leaving me and Frankie alone with the  kids.  Frankie even ate some of the special chow I put down for the cabin cats–canned food mixed with kibble.  Finally, it was getting time for me to go, and the cabin cats seemed to be getting  a tad anxious, so I asked Frankie to leave.

  
  

  She was cool about it. 

  
  

  What’s more, she seems to be great with kittens.  I don’t know what will happen next. 

  
  

  I do know that the more time I spend around these critters, the better I like them, which is more than I can say for most of the domesticated primate denizens of the flats.  Actually, most people, period.  I am an equal opportunity curmudgeon.

  • 2:51 pm
  • 6 Comments