The Battle of Wits

My mother used to say the two hardest things are smart kids and smart dogs. She never had to deal with either, and I have had to deal with both. Except it wasn't a dog, it's a cat.

Nina is a purebred Ragdoll that came from a cattery in Ken Caryl about 5 years ago. Ragdolls are a fairly new breed out of California, founded about 1962. The stories of the legendary cat breeding lady who engineered this breed is shrouded in cat show lore. I fell in love with the breed from the claims of their friendly and charismatic personalities. Their fur is unlike any other breed, it's insidious and soft and is mostly free from tangles. They are large animals, with females weighing in around 12-18 lbs and the males can get upward of 20 lbs. They're big cats with big feet and they don't do well on uncarpeted surfaces because of the tufts of hair that stick out between their toes like Wolverine's knives. They can't get good traction and it's funny.

I found a local breeder who had 9 kittens to sell, part of a menagerie of 15 cats and an intact male. Good catteries will let you meet the parents, siblings and aunts. Females with the right characteristics, markings and come from good mothers are usually bred or sold for pet quality. Males who are not show quality or breeding quality will be neutered and also become pet quality animals. Meeting the parents and seeing how the family was raised indicates a healthy cattery and a better chance at a well adjusted kitten.

Nina is well adjusted, all right. She was indifferent when I came to the cattery, and was content to just be near the center of attention, which was me. I wanted a female kitten and she was the last one. I missed the chance to adopt her and her beloved sister by a few days, the sister went to a family that never saw her, and just placed an order for her. Soon, she was shipped to her new, unknown owners. The lady at the cattery said Nina cried for her sister for several days.

Nina's personality continues to be one of indifference. Until you go away for a few days. Panic. Until there is no food in the food bowl. Outrage. Until the litter box hasn't been cleaned in the last few hours. Rules.

Her favorite rule is that she gets the rocker. It's hers. We have a discussion daily about me getting my butt out of my chair so she can lay there. Seven, eight times a day, the rocker stalker is there. She furtively and systematically skulks and silently hops into the rocker as soon as I get up. Her Snoopy's vulture stare starts the rhythm practiced like a well rehearsed dance.

Ever watchful, ever beautiful, the rocker stalker is one smart cat. She has memorized my habits and waits patiently for my move. Even now, she is waiting...