THE PRIDE OF MILTON

SCORPIUS

We rescued our first barn cats almost six year ago. The first two we took home were a black male, named Sirius, and a gray female. We named her Fleur. Dobby followed the next year. Last year we closed out the brood by taking Scorpius. Along the way we also adopted a dog, Tessie. A barn cat’s life is hard. Disease and weather kill many. So do dogs and coyotes. I’m sure cows and farm machinery add a few deaths. And if the cat population ever gets too plentiful the farmer takes matters into his own hands. In short, a barn cat’s life is short. Do our cats ever show gratitude that we saved their lives? I like to think they do. In fact, I like to think they feel many emotions that humans do,  ranging from happiness to fear. The one emotion, however, they seem to lack is remorse. My cats never seem to feel guilty for the bad things they do. Why not?

The jury seems divided about cats and emotions. Some researchers and others do not think cats have real emotions. Others do think cats feel. But this group is divided over what kinds of emotions. In an online article “Do Cats Have Emotions?” published on April 10, 2009 on a website called “Cats@suite101”by Jennifer Copley, I found the following statement: “Humans can engage in metacognition because they have a level of self-consciousness that cats do not possess, which enables them to think about the meaning of their emotions as well as their current and future implications.” I understood this to mean that as a human i can question my motives and behavior in a way that my cats can’t. Armed with this knowledge, I felt more comfortable studying my cats’ behavior.

Sirius is the king of the bunch. Everything that happens in the cat world must get his approval. When healthy, he weighs close to fifteen pounds. That’s big. Sirius has black fur, with a small tuft of white tucked under his chin. In spring his fur seems tinged with a blue luster. He looks like a jaguar. The summer sun tinges his coat with chestnut highlights. Sirius has almond greenish yellow eyes. Standard equipment. Part of his right ear is missing. Sirius loves to go on walks with me and Tessie. So do the other cats. Unlike them, he will go for a walk in any weather, including snowstorms and torrential downpours. He will also go anywhere with us. He’s a great companion. The problem with Sirius is that he gets into fights. His behavior has cost me plenty, and has made me short tempered whenever I hear the familiar cat wails, hisses, and screams outside. Whenever I open to door, there is Sirius, with his fur standing on end. I yell at him, “Bad cat! Get in here!” He doesn’t care for my opinion. Nor does he look sheepish. He just comes in and goes over to the cat bowl. 

I am convinced that Dobby is part alien. Either that or the antibiotics we fed him as a kitten to ward off a severe respiratory infection altered his brain chemistry. But he is goofy and lovable. He purrs constantly. He shares Sirius’ coloring but not his bulk. And he does not seem remotely kingly, or even princely. Dobby loves to curl up on my legs and take a nap whenever I am watching TV or lying down in bed. If he sees me petting another cat, he comes right over. It’s not out of jealousy. He just wants a piece of the attention that’s going around. Dobby’s sweet spot for my legs is fine when I am sitting. But he can become entangled in my feet when I walking along. This can be a nuisance. His behavior can also be dangerous. One morning as I was groggily walking down the stairs to make the breakfast coffee, Dobby was insistent on following closely along. Too closely. I lost my balance and fell hard down the steps. I hurt my back. Getting to my feet was difficult. Dobby sauntered by.He seemed curious but not in the least remorseful. “Stupid cat!” I yelled. He just purred sweetly, and happily sprang down the rest of the stairs.

Scorpius looks like a cat that ancient Egyptians would worship. He is sleek and beautiful. His gray fur shines. His form is perfect. His mind seems pure cat-like. Being just a kitten he loves to play at every opportunity. The other cats often find him annoying. He doesn’t care. He pounces on them anyway. Scorpius doesn’t mind anyone’s swats or hisses. He never backs down. Unlike the other cats, Scorpius isn’t attached to human affection. Sure, he’ll sit to be petted, if you ask him to. But he’s got other more mysterious things on his mind. Don’t ask me what. My wife is a gardener. In one corner of the living room, she’s set up a small plant nursery. When the plants get bigger and the nights stay warm enough, she’ll plant the plants outside. Anne is hoping for a bumper pea crop this year. There’s just one problem: Scorpius loves to dig the small plants up out of their little pots. We find them uprooted and lying on the floor. They look like dead soldiers on a battlefield. Whenever i am upstairs and I hear Anne’s screams from below, I know what has just happened. I race downstairs just in time to see a silver streak romp past me and go into hiding until things calm. Scorpius certainly looks fearful. But I also detect a slight smirk on his face. He’s won again. I try to tell Anne that he’s not being malicious, he’s just doing what cats do. Scorpius can’t feel guilty about his actions. If anything, I feel guilty. I’m the one who rescued him.

I call Fleur, the assassin. She’s a great stalker and an acrobatic tree climber. I know she’s killed a bird or two. And lots of moles and chipmunks. In terms of the pride, Fleur is the lone female. She defers to the others. She lets them eat first. She waits for them to enter or leave the house before she does. Fluer is light gray, and sort of marbled with white streaks. She is lightweight and super fast. Unlike the other three, she does not like to be held. One day when I came home from school, I noticed all the cats outside together. This was unusual. Fleur lurks, she does not join in. But here she was, sitting by a bush with the others. I soon saw the reason. Fleur had cornered a chipmunk. Her eyes and tail twitched nervously. She and the other were waiting for the chipmunk to tire and fall from its branch. Nothing doing, I thought. I’m saving this poor little animal (are chipmunks rodents?) So I threw stones and yelled like a banshee. Reluctantly, but not guiltily, the cats gave up their posts. Looking closer at the chipmunk, I saw that it was bleeding. One of its eyes dangled on its cheek. In the battle that ensued between me and my cats, which they finally won, the cats never gave up on their prey. Even when I upped the ante and threw a shovel at Dobby, the cats continued to pace and swarm. I guess it was their version of being on the Serengeti. Lions don’t feel sad about killing their prey. Why should my cats? 

The next morning when I went outside, I found a present the cats had left for me on the  doormat: the head of a chipmunk. In a weird way, I felt proud at their prowess. But then I quickly felt guilty. Cats and humans share many emotions. Remorse is not one of them.