Theo Meets a Tiger

      Theo's fascination with "big cats" begins while he's watching a documentary. He doesn't watch much TV, but when a tiger walks across the screen as he stalks his prey, Theo is mildly curious.

       "He's one of your ancestors." 

        The rule with Theo is to keep things simple. No elaborate stories. He doesn't have the patience. 

        Of the 38 species of cats on this planet, most are small cats. Theo doesn't realize it, but the tiger is the most similar to the small cats. They share about 95.6% of the same DNA, which is remarkable when you think about it. Or is it so remarkable?  

     

       There are differences. Size, of course. Small cats purr. A tiger roars, and his roar can be heard for 5 miles due to the specialized structure of his vocal chords. Tigers also love to be in the water and will often bathe in a stream or river to cool off. The shape and color of their eyes (tigers only have hazel or copper eyes) are different, too, but that's about it. 

        Is Theo really a miniature tiger in disguise?

        We set off for the zoo to see a tiger in person, up close and personal. An Amur tiger lives at the Philadelphia Zoo. As we approach, the tiger is doing what tigers tend to do--sleeping when they're not marking their territory. Tigers choose an area, then mark the perimeters with their scent by scratching their nails vertically across tree bark. It's their calling card. It's their way of saying this is where I live. If tigers share a territory with other animals, this helps the others know when it is safe to enter so there are no surprise encounters.   

         Tigers also follow a regular schedule for checking their area, to refresh their scent and/or patrol the grounds.

        "Look, Theo. He's doing what you do all the time."

         No comment.

         Theo stands watch at our patio door for any intruders onto the patio area. Squirrels, birds and especially other neighborhood cats. He'll literally pounce at the glass to scare them off, then run around the house, looking out of all the windows, to see where they run off to. 

         Tigers also like to perch in high places. They will climb a tree or a mountain to get a good view of the surrounding area. They want to be able to see everything. 

         Theo, Mico and Sienna do the same thing. They prefer to be up high--on the back of a chair, on a table, on top of a door--looking down, observing, getting the lay of the land. They particularly like looking out the upstair windows. They can see everything from their perch.

          "I don't know Theo. We're going to have to start calling you "Il Tigre," Italian for "the tiger."

         Theo doesn't think that's funny. 

         Tigers and cats both have 30 teeth. They groom their fur on a regular basis. Tiger cubs wrestle, bite, and paw each other. They stalk each other before pouncing in preparation for when they're adults.

         Theo fits the bill. He hides behind a chair and will jump out as Mico unsuspectingly saunters by. He'll jump over Mico and land right in front of him, just because he can. They'll race after each other, up the stairs, and when they get to the top, stand there and stare at each other. Sometimes they then groom each other. Sometimes they wrestle on the rug.

         I point out to Theo what I've observed. He shrugs. 

         Tigers also use the slow blink at each other. It's their way of calming the other tiger down or offering reassurance. 

         "I've seen you do that," I say to Theo. 

         I'm looking for a concession. I want Theo to admit he is more like a tiger than he thinks. But he won't go there.

         Finally, as we're leaving the exhibit, Theo comes face to face . . .  with a tiger? 

         He stops, crouches, and then blinks. Then he realizes the tiger isn't moving. It's a cardboard cutout of a tiger. Yeah, Theo goes over to sniff him just to make sure.

         That's as close as Theo will ever get to a real tiger. God willing. Because there's no doubt in my mind, if they ever did meet face to face, Theo would be just another tasty meal to a hungry tiger, ancestor or not.

          PS The tiger is an endangered species. Of all the "big cats," the tiger is the closest to extinction. Only 3,500 tigers remain in the wild. There are no wild tigers living in the United States. Approximately 5,000 tigers are captive in zoos, sanctuaries, and private facilities. 

          

          

        

        

The Giant Tortoise

        I must admit that I'm the cause of this obsession. Theo announces, after I  have spent too much time talking about them, that he has to see a turtle. Not just any turtle. He wants to see the kind of turtles that I remembered when I was a kid. At Turtle Back Zoo.

      "You could ride on their backs," I tell Theo one night when I'm reminiscing. "That's how big they are."

       We have a few photos, but a photo of a big turtle on your iPhone doesn't quite set the stage. You have to be there in person. You have to look a turtle in the eye, watch him crawl so slow he's almost standing still. And you have to watch him eat. 

         Theo does nothing slow. He zips around the house. He gallops like a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby. He wolfs down his food as if any minute his brother Mico will sneak up from behind and snatch it away.

         I think that that's why Theo is so entranced. We stand outside an area where turtles roam, encircled by a fence, but Theo doesn't seem to mind. I assume he wants to ride one. (That will present a problem.)

         But, no, he is literally entranced just being there. 

         The turtles here are old. They're not prehistoric, but they look like they can be. Their skin is wrinkled. Their shells have lost the shine that you see on any supermarket fruit. If they were people, we'd suggest a diet to help slim down their fat, pudgy legs. But everything that we humans fight to avoid, turtles inhabit with glee. 

         There are four girl turtles here: Wilma, Betty, Tweedle Dee, and Tweedle Dum. Wilma and Betty are over 50 years old. The Tweedles are younger--in their early thirties. Each one weighs between 180 and 300 pounds. Officially, they are part of the "Aldabra Giant Tortoise" family. We do our research and discover the largest Aldabra Tortoise weighed close to 700 pounds. The Aldabras are some of the largest tortoises in the world. 

          Theo continues to stare. 

          Giant tortoises used to live on many of the western Indian Ocean islands and on Madagascar. Back in the day, they lived on every continent with the exception of Australia and Antarctica. By 1840, however, they're the only species of giant turtles to survive the overexploitation by European sailors. They are not endangered, but their existence is fragile.

           "Did you really ride one?" Theo asks.

           I nod, none too proud of what was allowed years ago. "But that isn't a good thing. They're not horses."

           Theo tilts his head, then actually moves closer to the fence, close enough so he can sniff them. I believe cats really never truly understand anything until they sniff it.

           I know little about giant tortoises. Suddenly one of the tortoises starts to amble towards Theo. I slowly back away.

           The journey to Theo is slow. Each foot lifts as if it is encased in cement. Eventually, he is standing within a few feet of my valiant gangster cat. 

           Theo presses his nose against the fence. The turtle looks up. He is quite beautiful in a wrinkly kind of way. 

           Nothing dramatic happens. Theo doesn't leap over the fence. The turtle doesn't clamor to get out. They just gaze at each other. I'm reminded of that phrase close encounters of the third kind, when two species coming together.

            Later I have to ask Theo, "Did you want to be friends?"

            Theo looks askance. 

            "You got up so close . . ."

            "I had to do it, see?" 

            

            

Animals in Danger

        We're on our way to the zoo. It's part of the payback for convincing Theo (our gangster cat) to help us during the missing Mico sink drainer incidents. Snacks were involved, of course. But a trip to the zoo to see the "special animals" is part of the deal, too. 

      The conversation went something like this:

      Theo: I want to see them, see. 

       Dan: Yes, of course. We'll take you to the zoo so you can see them face to face.  

       Theo: And save them.

       It's hard to know what's rolling around in the mind of a cat. Sometimes it's obvious--that plaintive meow usually means he wants a treat. Other times, his desire to save them makes no sense at the time. 

       We are within driving distance of the Philadelphia Zoo. It is one of my favorite places to go. I love animals. All kinds of animals--especially the big cats and the giraffes. And the monkeys.

        This time, however, we are going to see the "special animals." Or in adult speak, some of the endangered species. In danger of becoming non-existent. Whose habitat is threatened. 

         You have to go inside a building at the zoo to see them. You walk down a hallway which seems to me like you're walking down death's row. I am acutely aware of what these animals face. Their chances of survival. Theo is with us, but I'm not sure how much he understands. Dan has him in a special carrier so our curious and concerned cat can see these animals up close and personal. 

          We arrive at the first exhibit. The Pied Tamarin is described as being bald, beautiful and in trouble. They live in the forests of Brazil, in forests which are being destroyed. Species in Danger in red ink catches our attention. 

                   We try to explain to Theo that if the forest trees are knocked down, these little guys will have no place to live. He seems to understand. He's looking very intently.

             "Like the squirrels," I point out. He knows what squirrels are. 

          We move on. The Francois langur hails from China and Vietnam. A new baby Quy Bau was born in 2020 and has thrived. Baby Lei was born in 2021. Zoos help with breeding so endangered animals survive. We catch the family on video acting a lot like monkeys.

            Theo enjoys watching the langurs swing around in their cage, but as we move on, he gives me a soulful look. 

           The Rodrigues fruit bat is another species in danger. These bats roost together during the day, but during the night they disperse and seek out the juice of ripe fruit such as mangoes and figs. Contrary to popular folklore, they do not suck blood. They are also endangered, of course. 

           At first, they're difficult to spot, but I can tell the moment that Theo sees his first fruit bat. It is a sight to see as he slowly opens his large wings to stretch. 

           "Are bats like birds?" he asks.

           The easy answer is best. "Well, they can fly like birds."

 

       We figure one more "special animal," before we move on. All the White Faced Saki Monkeys don't have white faces, only the boy monkeys. They are usually calm and quiet until they aren't. They can puff up their fur and bounce up and down on branches when they're doing their territorial call. They live in South America.  

              

           It's time to go and we begin to head toward the door, but Theo squirms in Dan's arms and manages to drop to the floor.  

 

           "Theo, what is it?"

           Theo is a cat of few meows. He looks over at the White Faced Saki Monkeys. "We need to save them, see?"

           Now I get it. He thinks these Saki Monkeys are literally the last ones . . . I turn to Dan and squinch up my face. How do you explain to Theo that the problem of endangered species is much bigger than saving one family of White Faced Saki Monkeys? 

           As we ponder our dilemma, Theo moves over to their cage. He cases the joint, looking for a way to jump up. He sniffs every nook and cranny. 

           "These monkey are safe," we say. "But other Saki monkeys need some help."

  

           He shoots us that look, the kind that teenagers give their parents when they think they're full of it. I expect him to meow, "Whatever."

          "We can send food." (Make a donation.)

          Dan hoists Theo up so he can get closer, and he presses his face against the glass. 

          We leave the building with mixed feelings. On the one hand we're so proud that our furry boy cares. On the other hand, the three of us wish we could do more.

           Later, back at home, I wax philosophical at Theo. "We know what's going on. Now we can let other people know."

           "It's not fair, see?"

           And Theo is absolutely right.

           

             

Chuck or Mico--Be Still My Heart

     Okay. I'm not crazy. I know that my beloved Chuck, the official rascal cat of this blog, passed away a few months ago. He had an inoperable tumor. I was there when they put him to sleep. There are so many moments when I remember those final weeks and months. He wasn't his usual self. He had trouble climbing the stairs. He slept more than usual. He was eating less. All signs that he was slowly getting weaker. 

Chuck in his better days

     I've lived with a lot of cats. They each had a different personality. Like people, some are more lovable than others. When I adopted Chuck (and his sister Ella), he was my first orange and white cat. Big personality. Mischievous. Eternally curious. 

     I remember one day when he disappeared for close to an hour. He was in the backyard one minute and gone the next. Ella waited for his return by the patio door. Patiently. I was about to send out the search party (ie. look for him myself) when he scampered back into the yard. 

     Before I could react, Ella marched up and smacked him across the face. She angrily meowed. Chuck hung his head in shame. Later I found out he'd discovered a catmint garden a few houses down. Let's just say he came back slightly buzzed. 

     But that was Chuck.

     All of this is a necessary or unnecessary preamble to what I'm about to report. Of course, losing Chuck hit me hard. He was a one of a kind cat. Or so I thought.

     Imagine a cool morning sunrise. I stumble out of bed and make my way downstairs to feed the cats. There, sleeping on a blue blanket on my sofa, is Chuck. He's curled up and looking so cute. For a moment I forget that Chuck is gone. I am in a blissful non aware state. Until his eyes open. Golden brown eyes stare at me.

      Reality hits me. They're not Chuck's eyes. 

       It's Michelangelo. Mico for short. Barely a year old. Sometimes it seems as if Chuck has been reincarnated into my orange and white Mico. He has so many of the same mannerisms--playful, big personality, curious, active, mischievous . . . 

Chuck 

      

Mico - Can you tell the difference?

       But there's a difference. I lived with Chuck for fourteen years. I could sweep him into my arms, hug him to death, kiss his face and he tolerated all of it. When he settled into my lap, it felt like heaven. 

My darling boy

       Mico has only lived here for a few months. Because he was once feral, he has a hard time trusting. I can hold him for, maybe, ten seconds before he squirms to get away. if I try to kiss his face, he reacts as if I'm about to smother him to death. 

       I can hear what you're thinking. Life moves on. Change happens. Chuck is gone but you're really lucky to have Mico. I know all of this. 

       But still, in the quiet of the morning, I'd love to wake up and find that nothing has changed. Chuck is still there--wandering in a circle, waiting for his breakfast, waiting to be let outside on the patio so he can hear the bluejays squawk and watch the squirrels take suicidal leaps from one branch to the next. 

       All I'm saying is that I'd love to have Chuck back again . . . if only for a day. 

Behind the Scenes - A Birthday Surprise

     I first spot them conniving (?) discussing something in hushed meow whispers on the landing outside our bedroom. There-huddled-they seem from a distance to be engaged in deep plotting. Theo is surrounded by Mico and Sienna. As I move closer, they disburse, immediately involved in other pursuits. Sienna stretches on one of the smaller cat trees in the hall. Mico wanders, devil may care, into the guest room. Theo is the only one who stands his ground.

      At that moment I don't know that Theo even knows how to read a calendar or even what a calendar was. He's a gangster cat of few words and the word calendar in English or Italian (yes, we speak a lot of Italian in our house) never springs from his lips.

       So, how does he know that a certain birthday is on the horizon? Is he pretending to be asleep but really eavesdropping on conversations?

        Birthdays are pretty special at our house. We plan an event. We go out to dinner. Sometimes we stretch the day to a weekend and call it a Birthday Weekend Celebration. 

        But, even so, I'm not particularly suspicious. Usually when the three of them gather on the landing, it's because they're hoping to crack us. Theo meows, a soft pitiful cry, that will convince anyone to do anything. SNACKS. That's what the cry is all about. Yeah, he may be a ruthless gangster cat who struts around on little cat feet with a swagger, but he can't live without his snacks. And the landing is directly outside the guest room, which the three of them have taken over and made the cat room. They know where the snacks are. They know three small glass bowls wait empty near the cat tree. 

        "It's only ten o'clock," I announce, "in the morning. You just had breakfast. You know the rule."

       But, honestly, there is no rule. The giving of snacks in our house is arbitrary. Dan is an easy target. He will cave to Theo's first meow. I'm tougher. Well, a little tougher.  So, I'm fooled initially. 

        Here is the video of that encounter. You tell me if they don't look oh so innocent.

       Only later do I notice something odd happening. On any given day the house is scattered with toys. Cat toys. Mice and anything else that even resembles cat prey are in every room, on every floor, in every doorway. They litter the stairs. They are on the master bed. They are even on bathroom counters. 

        Slowly, but surely, they start to disappear. Sure, I pick them up and return them to the cat basket. This disappearance of cat toys is different. It's done stealthily. If you blink, a toy will disappear. 

         You might think I'm exaggerating, but I'm a verified eye witness to the cat toy disappearance. Notice Sienna, the spy like way she's hiding herself under the drape, the tell-tale paw and the toy object before it disappears.

         

          What's going on? 

          Days slip by and more and more cat toys disappear. I'll catch Mico posed next to one of his favorite toys, and then nothing. Mico poses alone.

          I ask Dan, "What do you think is going on?"

          He looks at me as if I'm the crazy one. "Going on?"

          "Where are all the cat toys?"

          But he's busy reading his article for Italian class or practicing Bach on the piano. "Do we even have cat toys?" he finally asks.

          I resort to desperate measures. Interrogation of the third degree. I use the flashlight on my iPhone and shine it directly into the eyes of the gang of three. "Where are the toys?" 

          The three fur babies stand firm.

          Finally, in a gush of desperation, I peer under the guest bed with my flashlight. There carefully piled into an old basket, like some offering to the gods, are all the toys that no longer litter our house. 

         "Hey, what's this?" I ask Theo. Then Sienna. Then Mico. 

          My three rapscallions circle around, but no one says a meow. I'm on my stomach with the light from my cell phone. Gosh, now I see it. A bow drapes triumphantly across the basket of toys reading Celebration.

          A birthday surprise gift of all the fake mice they carry around and pretend to annihilate? Or are they just cleaning up the house to make mom happy? 

          I'll never know.

           

Theo versus the Rooster

       How do I even begin to tell this story?

     Gangster cat versus Rooster. Theo, our adorable gangster cat is king of the household. His meow is final. And that was even before he met up with Bad Boy JoJo at the baby shower. Although Mico and Sienna can be terrors at times, they know that when Theo meows, the fun is over. He can't be ignored. They stop what they're doing. 

       But out in the real world, would Theo continue to reign supreme?

       A few weeks ago, when Theo came with me and my three sisters to visit my other sister--who lives in a former Amish home that she's been renovating for the past year in Virginia--Theo had two goals. To meet JoJo (which he did) and to meet a rooster face to face.

       This was totally my fault. I happened to mention that my sister Caroline had chickens and a rooster. 

       The inside house tour came first. We oohed and ahhed as we walked through her house, marveling that she and her husband had installed walls, added electricity and water, heating and cooling, and literally transformed the space into a work of art.  My sister Caroline loves plants, and they lined the windows. She had clippings in a specially designed wall hanging.

       

          Theo ho-hummed his way through the first and second floors. He exchanged pleasantries with his two cat cousins, but he seemed unusually interested in her small sitting area. The pillows had the imprint of roosters. That's all Theo needed to see. 

         He was eager to get outside. He wanted to meet the Rooster. 

         I continue to marvel at how Theo knows so much about things he's never before encountered. Where we live in New Jersey, not too many people have chickens in their back yard. Few have a rooster. So why was he so determined to meet a Rooster? Was this destined to be an all out struggle for species dominance?

         So I did my research. Modern Farmer did a wonderful expose on the difference between a hen and a rooster. 

        A hen lays eggs. A rooster doesn't. A rooster has a larger wattle, that elongated fleshy skin that hangs under the beak. A rooster also has a more pronounced comb, that fleshy red crest on top of a chicken's head. A rooster has larger and pointier neck feathers called hackle feathers. So far I'm not concerned, but the contrast soon becomes alarming.

       Roosters are stronger and have more stamina than hens. They are more assertive. Bossy. Their legs are thicker. Some roosters develop pointed sharp spurs on their legs which they can use to defend themselves.

       "Where is this rooster anyway?" I ask my sister Caroline.

       "What do you mean? He's with the hens."

        "In a fenced in area?" I ask. I hope.

        She laughs. "Oh, yeah. If he wasn't fenced in, he'd probably run away."

        I glance over at Theo. He's swaggering with us across her gigantic yard (she has acres and acres of land). Is this a good idea? Should I give in to this crazy idea that he has to meet a Rooster?

        Suddenly, Theo spots a groundhog running along the edge of my sister's property. The little guy is running around 100 miles an hour. I half pray that Theo takes off after him. Theo is fast, but not that fast. Maybe then he'll lose interest in the rooster.

        But no such luck. Theo is interested, but he's no fool. He shrugs his shoulders and turns his sights to one thing and one thing only--the chicken coop. The rooster.

        I feel like we're at the OK Corral and this is going to be a showdown. 

        As we move closer, we hear the tell-tale cock-a doodle-do. And he's loud. All riled up about something. His rooster call is deafening.

         Finally, we're there. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the fence. But then I see the Rooster . . .

        

       who has puffed himself up, as if ready for a life and death encounter. Theo oh so casually moves closer to the fence. 

         Is Theo safe? "Don't get any closer," I almost cry out. But I don't. Theo goes nose to beak with the rooster and begins to sniff. The rooster stops squawking. 

         Then Theo walks away. 

         That's it? No life and death struggle? 

         Don't tell me that this is another example of inter-species communication. Cats and Roosters? 

         "I had to do it, see?" Theo explains when we're safely back in New Jersey. No chickens. No roosters. But seriously, who is this cat anyway?

  

Three Rapscallions And the Partial Eclipse

    I'm a big fan of eclipses. I've never yet seen a total eclipse--where the world around you turns totally dark--but I never miss the chance to see what I can see when the fateful moon lands in front of the heavenly sun. The area you're standing in darkens. You look up and that usually round sun is no longer round--now it has taken on the properties of a partial moon--that tiny sliver that sits so confidently in the sky.

     It's exciting. It's magical. Even though I know it's science, pure and simple. Back in the day my dad, an electrical engineer, ran a company to market his products, his inventions. Some of those electrical trancells and diodes ended up on NASA rocket ships. I have a fond memory of sitting in our living room, staring at the tiny television screen, when Neil Armstrong, an American astronaut, landed on the moon. I felt proud. My dad was helping make that possible.

     So I've always been infatuated with the planets, the moon and those things we strive to understand more about. And, yeah, I guess I did my fair share of talking about the eclipse.

     The three rapscallions, who usually only seem to be listening when there is talk of a snack, must have been tuned in. Because . . . just as the eclipse was launching a show, the three of them lined up at the patio door to look outside. Theo, Mico, and Sienna, the three rapscallions.

      I'd warned them they weren't going to see a full eclipse. I told them that New Jersey was not in the pathway that ran from Texas to Maine.  Still . . .

      Was it pure coincidence that they were lined up as if I were giving out snacks, patiently waiting, looking out over our patio and then up . . . 

       Clouds rolled in, but they didn't obscure the beauty of the moment. You could see the sun--that unusual sliver of the sun--as it fought to maintain its presence in the sky. The moon continued to move in front of it, but the sun fought valiantly to shine through. And then it faded from sight.

        

       Later, when the sun reappeared, I asked Theo why they wanted to see a partial eclipse. He's a pure tabby of few words. First, he jumped onto a table and glanced out the window. "I had to do it, see?"

        I understood exactly what he meant.