Catac
So it's cats again, is it? About time, too; I don't write nearly enough cat posts. The following bit of random cat-related musing is actually a prelude to a more serious entry about evolution of domestic cats. (Sad to say, I'm still recovering from a killer spring semester, so I have to ease myself back into writing for fun.)
Siamese cats were an indispensable part of our household while I was growing up. When I was about six, I noticed that our cats adopted one of two postures when they wanted to sit down but not relax so far as to lie down. One was compact, with head low and elbows sticking out to the side-sort of the feline version of parade rest (Plate 1). I called this configuration the "Short Mur Section": Mur in imitation of a cat's sound, and Section because I didn't know a better word for posture. (Not a great picture, I admit. Yuki and Altair are both young enough that it is virtually impossible to snap a photo of them at rest. If we approach them with a camera, they immediately get up and mark the strange black device as theirs.)
The other was more relaxed, belly and elbows on the floor (Plate 2). Naturally, to mark the contrast I named it the "Long Mur Section." It was more variable than the Short Mur Section: the latter absolutely required the front feet together and the protruding elbows, whereas the former allowed any configuration of the forelegs, as long as the elbows were relaxed. Shown here is my favorite variation, with the forepaws tucked under-"Wheel Arms," in my little kid's vocabulary.
(My analytical scientist's mind broke through at a very early age. Barely in kindergarten and already with the classification.)
One blistering afternoon during our first summer in Utah, I drew careful diagrams of the Short Mur Section and Long Mur Section (in crayon, of course) on our grandparents' back porch, and proudly presented them to my grandfather. I knew he'd appreciate them because his ancient Siamese, Sesue, was the mother of the cat I'd sketched, who in turn was several years older than I. He gave me a quizzical look instead of the instant recognition and praise my excellent drawings clearly deserved. I'll admit that my kindergartener's balloon cats were probably barely identifiable as mammals, but I'd clearly labeled each configuration, and I knew my handwriting was legible. How could the concept of the Short Mur Section and Long Mur Section fail to make his heart burst with delight? It was Dad who saved me from terminal disappointment and Grandpa from acute embarrassment. I distinctly recall Dad's stage whisper: "'Section' really means 'position'." Thus enlightened, Grandpa could deliver the expected praise.
We'd just moved from Seattle. I really, really didn't understand hot weather until that summer. The day I scribbled my pictorial treatise on sitting cats, we accidentally left the crayons outside on the porch, and by dinnertime they'd melted into a shiny, technicolor puddle.
Most owners know that the domestic cat, Felis sylvestris catus, is a ferocious hunter. In Plate 3, a female F. s. catus, having invested several hours in silently approaching a juvenile harbor seal (Phoca vitulina) from behind, leaps to deliver a fatal bite to the jugular.
After a valiant struggle, far too gruesome to reproduce here, the fearsome predator stalks off with her kill (Plate 4).
Our cats have only one official name each, but it's amazing how quickly the "pet" names we actually use proliferate and evolve.
For example, we gave the tuxedo cat pictured the name Yuki, for reasons I've talked about before. Her (almost certainly half-) sister is Altair. We intended at first to give them both names of celestial bodies, but considering how rough a time they had it their first few months, "Yuki" was just too good to pass up.
Before we even got our new kittens home, Yuki acquired a Japanese diminutive and became "Yuki-chan." Altair, the adolescent, also received an appropriate honorific: "Altair-kun."
We soon dropped the second syllables and began calling them "the Yuke" and "the Alt" (with a short a).
Yuki has been saddled with the bulk of the cutesy names. After all, she bonded primarily with me, and I'm definitely the driving force with talking to the cats. For a while I called her "My Little Peapod" in honor of a dish that Mom used to serve us for dinner, Pea Pod Chow Yuk.
This distinguished posture I have yclept "The Duchess of Yuke" (Plate 5). I snapped this photo a couple months after we adopted them. They were both still recovering from the myriad respiratory infections they were suffering from when we adopted them-hence the eye crusties.
You know how cats love to rub the side of their face against you? You may think they're being friendly, but really they're marking you as theirs with the scent glands at the corners of their mouths. Both of our cats mark with a vengeance. Yuki will do twenty minutes back and forth, back and forth across my chest in the morning, just before I was going to get up anyway. She will do the same thing in greeting when I get home from work, but since I'm actually awake I take a more active role in the display of ownership/affection. I'll stroke her back from neck to tail with one hand, and then the other, as I greet her: "Yuuuuuuuki-chan!" In return, she'll mark the stroking forearm, changing directions with each stroke: maaaark [about-face] maaaark....
This led me to condense her name all the way down to "the Yu"-a versatile monosyllable, rife with poetic possibilities. Here's a philosophical quatrain:
Hey, you,
Are you a Yu?
Someone's a Yu
And I'll bet it's you!
And, to wind up: one morning, Kathy caught me addressing Yuki-chan like this (cf. the song from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang):
You're my lit-tle Yuki-face,
My Yuki-dookie-Yuki-dookie Yuki-face,
&c.
I have no shame when it comes to singing to my cats.
Siamese cats were an indispensable part of our household while I was growing up. When I was about six, I noticed that our cats adopted one of two postures when they wanted to sit down but not relax so far as to lie down. One was compact, with head low and elbows sticking out to the side-sort of the feline version of parade rest (Plate 1). I called this configuration the "Short Mur Section": Mur in imitation of a cat's sound, and Section because I didn't know a better word for posture. (Not a great picture, I admit. Yuki and Altair are both young enough that it is virtually impossible to snap a photo of them at rest. If we approach them with a camera, they immediately get up and mark the strange black device as theirs.)
The other was more relaxed, belly and elbows on the floor (Plate 2). Naturally, to mark the contrast I named it the "Long Mur Section." It was more variable than the Short Mur Section: the latter absolutely required the front feet together and the protruding elbows, whereas the former allowed any configuration of the forelegs, as long as the elbows were relaxed. Shown here is my favorite variation, with the forepaws tucked under-"Wheel Arms," in my little kid's vocabulary.
(My analytical scientist's mind broke through at a very early age. Barely in kindergarten and already with the classification.)
One blistering afternoon during our first summer in Utah, I drew careful diagrams of the Short Mur Section and Long Mur Section (in crayon, of course) on our grandparents' back porch, and proudly presented them to my grandfather. I knew he'd appreciate them because his ancient Siamese, Sesue, was the mother of the cat I'd sketched, who in turn was several years older than I. He gave me a quizzical look instead of the instant recognition and praise my excellent drawings clearly deserved. I'll admit that my kindergartener's balloon cats were probably barely identifiable as mammals, but I'd clearly labeled each configuration, and I knew my handwriting was legible. How could the concept of the Short Mur Section and Long Mur Section fail to make his heart burst with delight? It was Dad who saved me from terminal disappointment and Grandpa from acute embarrassment. I distinctly recall Dad's stage whisper: "'Section' really means 'position'." Thus enlightened, Grandpa could deliver the expected praise.
We'd just moved from Seattle. I really, really didn't understand hot weather until that summer. The day I scribbled my pictorial treatise on sitting cats, we accidentally left the crayons outside on the porch, and by dinnertime they'd melted into a shiny, technicolor puddle.
Most owners know that the domestic cat, Felis sylvestris catus, is a ferocious hunter. In Plate 3, a female F. s. catus, having invested several hours in silently approaching a juvenile harbor seal (Phoca vitulina) from behind, leaps to deliver a fatal bite to the jugular.
After a valiant struggle, far too gruesome to reproduce here, the fearsome predator stalks off with her kill (Plate 4).
Our cats have only one official name each, but it's amazing how quickly the "pet" names we actually use proliferate and evolve.
For example, we gave the tuxedo cat pictured the name Yuki, for reasons I've talked about before. Her (almost certainly half-) sister is Altair. We intended at first to give them both names of celestial bodies, but considering how rough a time they had it their first few months, "Yuki" was just too good to pass up.
Before we even got our new kittens home, Yuki acquired a Japanese diminutive and became "Yuki-chan." Altair, the adolescent, also received an appropriate honorific: "Altair-kun."
We soon dropped the second syllables and began calling them "the Yuke" and "the Alt" (with a short a).
Yuki has been saddled with the bulk of the cutesy names. After all, she bonded primarily with me, and I'm definitely the driving force with talking to the cats. For a while I called her "My Little Peapod" in honor of a dish that Mom used to serve us for dinner, Pea Pod Chow Yuk.
This distinguished posture I have yclept "The Duchess of Yuke" (Plate 5). I snapped this photo a couple months after we adopted them. They were both still recovering from the myriad respiratory infections they were suffering from when we adopted them-hence the eye crusties.
You know how cats love to rub the side of their face against you? You may think they're being friendly, but really they're marking you as theirs with the scent glands at the corners of their mouths. Both of our cats mark with a vengeance. Yuki will do twenty minutes back and forth, back and forth across my chest in the morning, just before I was going to get up anyway. She will do the same thing in greeting when I get home from work, but since I'm actually awake I take a more active role in the display of ownership/affection. I'll stroke her back from neck to tail with one hand, and then the other, as I greet her: "Yuuuuuuuki-chan!" In return, she'll mark the stroking forearm, changing directions with each stroke: maaaark [about-face] maaaark....
This led me to condense her name all the way down to "the Yu"-a versatile monosyllable, rife with poetic possibilities. Here's a philosophical quatrain:
Hey, you,
Are you a Yu?
Someone's a Yu
And I'll bet it's you!
And, to wind up: one morning, Kathy caught me addressing Yuki-chan like this (cf. the song from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang):
You're my lit-tle Yuki-face,
My Yuki-dookie-Yuki-dookie Yuki-face,
&c.
I have no shame when it comes to singing to my cats.