If this is your first visit, be sure to check out the FAQ by clicking the link above. You may have to register before you can post: click the register link above to proceed. To start viewing messages, select the forum that you want to visit from the selection below. |
|
|
|
Thread Tools | Display Modes |
#1
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
Having lost the secret of signing on myself onto the cat page, and
having forgotten to get you to again show me how to do it while you were here, here is The Potjie News: Among my birthday prezzies was Potjie, Tish's thoughtful and very welcome replacement for Debussy, who had to be put down just before Christmas, having run through all nine lives in his 21 years. (How the hell do you divide 21 by 9 ? Cats must be able to do long division.) One must hasten to explain that he is a rescue job. Neither Tish nor I could ever hold our heads up again had we encouraged the breeding of such a travesty of cat genetics as he is by actually buying a kitten from a breeder, but the truth is that he is a pedigreed Exotic Shorthair. I doubt if even his mother thought him beautiful. We have heard of Faceless Men; he is their feline equivalent. From his eyes to the point of his chin is a straight, vertical plane. No nose, no muzzle, no face at all. Just big, yellow-orange eyes, lynx ears and everything around them a sort of black haze. He is also an undersized runt. He eats enough to bring on gross obesity in a hyperactive Kalahari lion but that only results in his litter-tray having to be cleaned out several times a day and my garden slowly disappearing beneath the prolific load of fertilising cat poo. If it makes plants grow, next Spring will see my place lost in dense thickets of forest-sized Petunias, etc. But there's no doubting that he's REAL cat - with MOODS. I, and everybody else for seven Shires around know when he is in a bad one and expresses himself. Hills have metres shaved off their tops and paddocks are bared of their topsoil when he bellows. It's like a maltreated banshee, but amplified beyond the wildest dreams of spotty louts with sound systems in their wheels. And an even bigger personality. He goes through phases of being aggressively affectionate, when he hurls himself at me and sticks what would be his face if he had one into mine. Or is pathetically affectionate and cries broken-heartedly when I go outside, following from one window to the next, telling the world what a brute I am and how he is deprived of even the most casual, fleeting and wholly inadequate attention and attention. And intellectually affectionate ("I'm not just a pretty face-that-isn't, you know") when I'm wrestling with something impossible on the computer and he dances on the keyboard. This has the measureless benefit of my then knowing at least one reason why it's impossible. Or warmly affectionate, when he sits on my lap and goes through his repertoire of Life's Good sounds - snuffles, grunts, wheezes, purrs on high and low notes, squeaks and whistles - a sort of Moog Moggie. Despite his deprived kittenhood (this is his seventh? home in his year of life and his physical underdevelopment indicates a slender menu in some of them) he is a bold beast. Dog Shima is an Akita. The Japanese bred them for bear hunting and now use them as baby-sitters. This is not a reflection on Japanese children, nor on their loving parents; they are affectionate, intelligent and reliably biddable dogs. When Shima came into the house as a very boisterous puppy eleven years ago, Debussy, a large British Shorthair with the firmly set ways and opinions of a ten-year old cat, firmly put her in her place and never forgave her for being a dog. Shima, thus, grew up keeping out of the way of cats. On his first day here, Potjie walked underneath her and flicked up his tail at just the right moment to tickle her tummy, Shima, who hadn't seen him coming, froze in shock and nearly levitated in horror. She still won't make any overtures, but politely suffers Potjie's nose-to-nose greetings, slumping down next to her on her blanket and retrieval of toys that he has flicked to her with a World Cup-winning pass. Shima has her daily walk and has her preferred routes. Tramping around the paddocks is all very well, but they lack the variety of news-telling smells one finds on the road. Potjie thinks walks are the best thing since sliced dry-food, but Boss Man (as he likes to style himself - har-bloody-har !) misgives his traffic-sense as well as the consequences of meeting neighbours' dogs. The compromise is that Potjie only comes on some walks, restricted to paddock-roaming, and stays home for the road expeditions. (Were Shima and I to get lost anywhere within an absolutely huge number of kilometres, we could simply home on the piercing racket of Potjie's protest at being left behind.) Potjie's boldness quails at some of the paddock perils encountered while he dashes off on side-trips of his own. "Surely goodness, mercy and Shima shall protect me all the days of my life" says Potjie, and gallops back to her, crouching beneath a very sorely puzzled dog. If Shima doesn't make it all go away very quickly, then Potjie turns to what I like to think he sees as higher authority, but probably only regards as the next-best thing, and comes to me. Cattle are NOT among the perils. From their better vantage, they can see him all the time and are greatly intrigued by this little black, bouncing ball, so come lumbering along to get a closer view and a good sniff. No probs. Potjie just skitters off into longer grass and Pop ! they disappear. Now, with the weather having broken, he has to work out the phenomenon of wet, cold rain. Yukkkk ! One remedy is to come inside and tell me, loudly and at length, that this is simply not good enough. (Thank goodness the solution only works indoors; the water-tank is filling up nicely and we may actually get an autumn break this year.) In short, Potjie has settled into his new home and imposed his ways on it very successfully. To my great pleasure. George |
#2
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
How delightful!! How entertaining!! Such a wonderful life for George,
Potjie and Shima. Now how well we know the neighborhood. Please let us hear more as time goes by. -- Charleen Mr. Pumpkin Aggie Marble Victor Velcro "Tish Silberbauer" wrote in message ... Having lost the secret of signing on myself onto the cat page, and having forgotten to get you to again show me how to do it while you were here, here is The Potjie News: Among my birthday prezzies was Potjie, Tish's thoughtful and very welcome replacement for Debussy, who had to be put down just before Christmas, having run through all nine lives in his 21 years. (How the hell do you divide 21 by 9 ? Cats must be able to do long division.) One must hasten to explain that he is a rescue job. Neither Tish nor I could ever hold our heads up again had we encouraged the breeding of such a travesty of cat genetics as he is by actually buying a kitten from a breeder, but the truth is that he is a pedigreed Exotic Shorthair. I doubt if even his mother thought him beautiful. We have heard of Faceless Men; he is their feline equivalent. From his eyes to the point of his chin is a straight, vertical plane. No nose, no muzzle, no face at all. Just big, yellow-orange eyes, lynx ears and everything around them a sort of black haze. He is also an undersized runt. He eats enough to bring on gross obesity in a hyperactive Kalahari lion but that only results in his litter-tray having to be cleaned out several times a day and my garden slowly disappearing beneath the prolific load of fertilising cat poo. If it makes plants grow, next Spring will see my place lost in dense thickets of forest-sized Petunias, etc. But there's no doubting that he's REAL cat - with MOODS. I, and everybody else for seven Shires around know when he is in a bad one and expresses himself. Hills have metres shaved off their tops and paddocks are bared of their topsoil when he bellows. It's like a maltreated banshee, but amplified beyond the wildest dreams of spotty louts with sound systems in their wheels. And an even bigger personality. He goes through phases of being aggressively affectionate, when he hurls himself at me and sticks what would be his face if he had one into mine. Or is pathetically affectionate and cries broken-heartedly when I go outside, following from one window to the next, telling the world what a brute I am and how he is deprived of even the most casual, fleeting and wholly inadequate attention and attention. And intellectually affectionate ("I'm not just a pretty face-that-isn't, you know") when I'm wrestling with something impossible on the computer and he dances on the keyboard. This has the measureless benefit of my then knowing at least one reason why it's impossible. Or warmly affectionate, when he sits on my lap and goes through his repertoire of Life's Good sounds - snuffles, grunts, wheezes, purrs on high and low notes, squeaks and whistles - a sort of Moog Moggie. Despite his deprived kittenhood (this is his seventh? home in his year of life and his physical underdevelopment indicates a slender menu in some of them) he is a bold beast. Dog Shima is an Akita. The Japanese bred them for bear hunting and now use them as baby-sitters. This is not a reflection on Japanese children, nor on their loving parents; they are affectionate, intelligent and reliably biddable dogs. When Shima came into the house as a very boisterous puppy eleven years ago, Debussy, a large British Shorthair with the firmly set ways and opinions of a ten-year old cat, firmly put her in her place and never forgave her for being a dog. Shima, thus, grew up keeping out of the way of cats. On his first day here, Potjie walked underneath her and flicked up his tail at just the right moment to tickle her tummy, Shima, who hadn't seen him coming, froze in shock and nearly levitated in horror. She still won't make any overtures, but politely suffers Potjie's nose-to-nose greetings, slumping down next to her on her blanket and retrieval of toys that he has flicked to her with a World Cup-winning pass. Shima has her daily walk and has her preferred routes. Tramping around the paddocks is all very well, but they lack the variety of news-telling smells one finds on the road. Potjie thinks walks are the best thing since sliced dry-food, but Boss Man (as he likes to style himself - har-bloody-har !) misgives his traffic-sense as well as the consequences of meeting neighbours' dogs. The compromise is that Potjie only comes on some walks, restricted to paddock-roaming, and stays home for the road expeditions. (Were Shima and I to get lost anywhere within an absolutely huge number of kilometres, we could simply home on the piercing racket of Potjie's protest at being left behind.) Potjie's boldness quails at some of the paddock perils encountered while he dashes off on side-trips of his own. "Surely goodness, mercy and Shima shall protect me all the days of my life" says Potjie, and gallops back to her, crouching beneath a very sorely puzzled dog. If Shima doesn't make it all go away very quickly, then Potjie turns to what I like to think he sees as higher authority, but probably only regards as the next-best thing, and comes to me. Cattle are NOT among the perils. From their better vantage, they can see him all the time and are greatly intrigued by this little black, bouncing ball, so come lumbering along to get a closer view and a good sniff. No probs. Potjie just skitters off into longer grass and Pop ! they disappear. Now, with the weather having broken, he has to work out the phenomenon of wet, cold rain. Yukkkk ! One remedy is to come inside and tell me, loudly and at length, that this is simply not good enough. (Thank goodness the solution only works indoors; the water-tank is filling up nicely and we may actually get an autumn break this year.) In short, Potjie has settled into his new home and imposed his ways on it very successfully. To my great pleasure. George |
#3
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
Tish Silberbauer wrote:
snip In short, Potjie has settled into his new home and imposed his ways on it very successfully. To my great pleasure. What a wonderful update! There seems to be no doubt about who is running the household. ;o) -- Marina, Miranda and Caliban. In loving memory of Frank and Nikki. marina (dot) kurten (at) iki (dot) fi Stories and pics at http://koti.welho.com/mkurten/ Pics at http://uk.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/frankiennikki/ and http://community.webshots.com/user/frankiennikki |
#4
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
What a lovely (and obviously) adoring post!
|
#5
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
snip
In short, Potjie has settled into his new home and imposed his ways on it very successfully. To my great pleasure. George Thanks for the update, George, it's good to know that Potjie has you and the d thing well trained. ;-) -- Adrian (Owned by Snoopy and Bagheera) Cats leave pawprints on your heart. http://community.webshots.com/user/clowderuk |
#6
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
What a wonderful writer you are, George. Thank you for the update on Potjie.
Lily & her mama -- Irulan from the stars we come to the stars we return from now until the end of time "Tish Silberbauer" wrote in message ... Having lost the secret of signing on myself onto the cat page, and having forgotten to get you to again show me how to do it while you were here, here is The Potjie News: Among my birthday prezzies was Potjie, Tish's thoughtful and very welcome replacement for Debussy, who had to be put down just before Christmas, having run through all nine lives in his 21 years. (How the hell do you divide 21 by 9 ? Cats must be able to do long division.) One must hasten to explain that he is a rescue job. Neither Tish nor I could ever hold our heads up again had we encouraged the breeding of such a travesty of cat genetics as he is by actually buying a kitten from a breeder, but the truth is that he is a pedigreed Exotic Shorthair. I doubt if even his mother thought him beautiful. We have heard of Faceless Men; he is their feline equivalent. From his eyes to the point of his chin is a straight, vertical plane. No nose, no muzzle, no face at all. Just big, yellow-orange eyes, lynx ears and everything around them a sort of black haze. He is also an undersized runt. He eats enough to bring on gross obesity in a hyperactive Kalahari lion but that only results in his litter-tray having to be cleaned out several times a day and my garden slowly disappearing beneath the prolific load of fertilising cat poo. If it makes plants grow, next Spring will see my place lost in dense thickets of forest-sized Petunias, etc. But there's no doubting that he's REAL cat - with MOODS. I, and everybody else for seven Shires around know when he is in a bad one and expresses himself. Hills have metres shaved off their tops and paddocks are bared of their topsoil when he bellows. It's like a maltreated banshee, but amplified beyond the wildest dreams of spotty louts with sound systems in their wheels. And an even bigger personality. He goes through phases of being aggressively affectionate, when he hurls himself at me and sticks what would be his face if he had one into mine. Or is pathetically affectionate and cries broken-heartedly when I go outside, following from one window to the next, telling the world what a brute I am and how he is deprived of even the most casual, fleeting and wholly inadequate attention and attention. And intellectually affectionate ("I'm not just a pretty face-that-isn't, you know") when I'm wrestling with something impossible on the computer and he dances on the keyboard. This has the measureless benefit of my then knowing at least one reason why it's impossible. Or warmly affectionate, when he sits on my lap and goes through his repertoire of Life's Good sounds - snuffles, grunts, wheezes, purrs on high and low notes, squeaks and whistles - a sort of Moog Moggie. Despite his deprived kittenhood (this is his seventh? home in his year of life and his physical underdevelopment indicates a slender menu in some of them) he is a bold beast. Dog Shima is an Akita. The Japanese bred them for bear hunting and now use them as baby-sitters. This is not a reflection on Japanese children, nor on their loving parents; they are affectionate, intelligent and reliably biddable dogs. When Shima came into the house as a very boisterous puppy eleven years ago, Debussy, a large British Shorthair with the firmly set ways and opinions of a ten-year old cat, firmly put her in her place and never forgave her for being a dog. Shima, thus, grew up keeping out of the way of cats. On his first day here, Potjie walked underneath her and flicked up his tail at just the right moment to tickle her tummy, Shima, who hadn't seen him coming, froze in shock and nearly levitated in horror. She still won't make any overtures, but politely suffers Potjie's nose-to-nose greetings, slumping down next to her on her blanket and retrieval of toys that he has flicked to her with a World Cup-winning pass. Shima has her daily walk and has her preferred routes. Tramping around the paddocks is all very well, but they lack the variety of news-telling smells one finds on the road. Potjie thinks walks are the best thing since sliced dry-food, but Boss Man (as he likes to style himself - har-bloody-har !) misgives his traffic-sense as well as the consequences of meeting neighbours' dogs. The compromise is that Potjie only comes on some walks, restricted to paddock-roaming, and stays home for the road expeditions. (Were Shima and I to get lost anywhere within an absolutely huge number of kilometres, we could simply home on the piercing racket of Potjie's protest at being left behind.) Potjie's boldness quails at some of the paddock perils encountered while he dashes off on side-trips of his own. "Surely goodness, mercy and Shima shall protect me all the days of my life" says Potjie, and gallops back to her, crouching beneath a very sorely puzzled dog. If Shima doesn't make it all go away very quickly, then Potjie turns to what I like to think he sees as higher authority, but probably only regards as the next-best thing, and comes to me. Cattle are NOT among the perils. From their better vantage, they can see him all the time and are greatly intrigued by this little black, bouncing ball, so come lumbering along to get a closer view and a good sniff. No probs. Potjie just skitters off into longer grass and Pop ! they disappear. Now, with the weather having broken, he has to work out the phenomenon of wet, cold rain. Yukkkk ! One remedy is to come inside and tell me, loudly and at length, that this is simply not good enough. (Thank goodness the solution only works indoors; the water-tank is filling up nicely and we may actually get an autumn break this year.) In short, Potjie has settled into his new home and imposed his ways on it very successfully. To my great pleasure. George |
#7
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
A wonderful and eloquent relating of Potjie's integration into your
home. Thanks for sharing. -- Sam, closely supervised by Mistletoe |
#8
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
Thanks so much. George has a wonderfully evocative and wry writing
style! And Potjie has clearly found a worthy worshipper. On 2006-04-15, Tish Silberbauer penned: Having lost the secret of signing on myself onto the cat page, and having forgotten to get you to again show me how to do it while you were here, here is The Potjie News: Among my birthday prezzies was Potjie, Tish's thoughtful and very welcome replacement for Debussy, who had to be put down just before Christmas, having run through all nine lives in his 21 years. (How the hell do you divide 21 by 9 ? Cats must be able to do long division.) One must hasten to explain that he is a rescue job. Neither Tish nor I could ever hold our heads up again had we encouraged the breeding of such a travesty of cat genetics as he is by actually buying a kitten from a breeder, but the truth is that he is a pedigreed Exotic Shorthair. I doubt if even his mother thought him beautiful. We have heard of Faceless Men; he is their feline equivalent. From his eyes to the point of his chin is a straight, vertical plane. No nose, no muzzle, no face at all. Just big, yellow-orange eyes, lynx ears and everything around them a sort of black haze. He is also an undersized runt. He eats enough to bring on gross obesity in a hyperactive Kalahari lion but that only results in his litter-tray having to be cleaned out several times a day and my garden slowly disappearing beneath the prolific load of fertilising cat poo. If it makes plants grow, next Spring will see my place lost in dense thickets of forest-sized Petunias, etc. But there's no doubting that he's REAL cat - with MOODS. I, and everybody else for seven Shires around know when he is in a bad one and expresses himself. Hills have metres shaved off their tops and paddocks are bared of their topsoil when he bellows. It's like a maltreated banshee, but amplified beyond the wildest dreams of spotty louts with sound systems in their wheels. And an even bigger personality. He goes through phases of being aggressively affectionate, when he hurls himself at me and sticks what would be his face if he had one into mine. Or is pathetically affectionate and cries broken-heartedly when I go outside, following from one window to the next, telling the world what a brute I am and how he is deprived of even the most casual, fleeting and wholly inadequate attention and attention. And intellectually affectionate ("I'm not just a pretty face-that-isn't, you know") when I'm wrestling with something impossible on the computer and he dances on the keyboard. This has the measureless benefit of my then knowing at least one reason why it's impossible. Or warmly affectionate, when he sits on my lap and goes through his repertoire of Life's Good sounds - snuffles, grunts, wheezes, purrs on high and low notes, squeaks and whistles - a sort of Moog Moggie. Despite his deprived kittenhood (this is his seventh? home in his year of life and his physical underdevelopment indicates a slender menu in some of them) he is a bold beast. Dog Shima is an Akita. The Japanese bred them for bear hunting and now use them as baby-sitters. This is not a reflection on Japanese children, nor on their loving parents; they are affectionate, intelligent and reliably biddable dogs. When Shima came into the house as a very boisterous puppy eleven years ago, Debussy, a large British Shorthair with the firmly set ways and opinions of a ten-year old cat, firmly put her in her place and never forgave her for being a dog. Shima, thus, grew up keeping out of the way of cats. On his first day here, Potjie walked underneath her and flicked up his tail at just the right moment to tickle her tummy, Shima, who hadn't seen him coming, froze in shock and nearly levitated in horror. She still won't make any overtures, but politely suffers Potjie's nose-to-nose greetings, slumping down next to her on her blanket and retrieval of toys that he has flicked to her with a World Cup-winning pass. Shima has her daily walk and has her preferred routes. Tramping around the paddocks is all very well, but they lack the variety of news-telling smells one finds on the road. Potjie thinks walks are the best thing since sliced dry-food, but Boss Man (as he likes to style himself - har-bloody-har !) misgives his traffic-sense as well as the consequences of meeting neighbours' dogs. The compromise is that Potjie only comes on some walks, restricted to paddock-roaming, and stays home for the road expeditions. (Were Shima and I to get lost anywhere within an absolutely huge number of kilometres, we could simply home on the piercing racket of Potjie's protest at being left behind.) Potjie's boldness quails at some of the paddock perils encountered while he dashes off on side-trips of his own. "Surely goodness, mercy and Shima shall protect me all the days of my life" says Potjie, and gallops back to her, crouching beneath a very sorely puzzled dog. If Shima doesn't make it all go away very quickly, then Potjie turns to what I like to think he sees as higher authority, but probably only regards as the next-best thing, and comes to me. Cattle are NOT among the perils. From their better vantage, they can see him all the time and are greatly intrigued by this little black, bouncing ball, so come lumbering along to get a closer view and a good sniff. No probs. Potjie just skitters off into longer grass and Pop ! they disappear. Now, with the weather having broken, he has to work out the phenomenon of wet, cold rain. Yukkkk ! One remedy is to come inside and tell me, loudly and at length, that this is simply not good enough. (Thank goodness the solution only works indoors; the water-tank is filling up nicely and we may actually get an autumn break this year.) In short, Potjie has settled into his new home and imposed his ways on it very successfully. To my great pleasure. George -- monique, who spoils Oscar unmercifully pictures: http://www.bounceswoosh.org/rpca |
#9
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
On Sat, 15 Apr 2006 11:40:43 +1000, Tish Silberbauer
wrote: In short, Potjie has settled into his new home and imposed his ways on it very successfully. To my great pleasure. George What a great writer you are! You and Potjie and Shima seem to be meant for each other. I am looking forward to more stories. -- CATherine |
#10
|
|||
|
|||
The Potjie News (long)
Wow! Tish your Dad is a wonderful writer. Its really great reading about
such a happy ending. Suz&Spicey |
|
Thread Tools | |
Display Modes | |
|
|
Similar Threads | ||||
Thread | Thread Starter | Forum | Replies | Last Post |
Vet Tech Journals 17 (long) | Mischief | Cat anecdotes | 8 | December 5th 04 12:07 AM |
The Chronicles of Frank II (LONG AGAIN) | Marina | Cat anecdotes | 65 | September 21st 04 03:58 AM |
Touchstone feline news (long) | Steve Touchstone | Cat anecdotes | 10 | May 17th 04 12:34 AM |
Good News and Bad News (a foster update). | Kalyahna | Cat health & behaviour | 4 | November 8th 03 06:03 AM |
Callisto's retirement news (long) | dsh-diva | Cat anecdotes | 4 | August 25th 03 10:48 PM |