Ginger the cat

 

Ginger was a cat of surprises. The first surprise was bringing him home—we had just gone to "look" at kittens. But how do you just "look" at kittens when they're only thirty dollars?!

 

 

 

Indulge me while I remember how tiny he was. Because eventually he was surprisingly large—nearly twenty pounds—and surprisingly feisty. Everyone was always surprised, too, to find out he wasn't orange. 

 

But what would be the fun of naming an orange cat Ginger?

 

Surprise doesn't even begin to describe how I felt when the vet called, after I dropped him off to be spayed, that the cat I thought was a she—for five months!—was a he. 

Ginger's life ended in surprise too. I did not expect the vet's bad diagnosis on March 9, 2017. 

Though he scared a lot of people off with his "saucy man" act, to quote the vet, I knew the real Ginger. He was lively, spunky, and friendly to me—loved to snooze by the fire and cuddle on my chest, purring and head-butting my nose and glasses. He knew how to make up for being an embarrassing menace in front of guests, once everyone had gone, and I found it flattering to be loved so exclusively by a creature. 

 

 

He was also silly, a sucker for cardboard boxes, surprise attacks, ninja jumps, seeing how far he could climb up door frames, opening doors, battling the vacuum cleaner, and playing with dogs. 

 

 

 

He liked a serious board game every now and then, too.

 

 

And he appreciated the finer things of life, like beautiful music...

 

 

...and books in any stage of the production process...

 

...and a quality snuggle spot. 

 

Lest he sound too angelic in the past tense, let me say that he could be a truly awful cat, especially in his first year, and drove me to tears more than once. He laughed in the face of discipline and couldn't have cared less about any principles we had about keeping cats off counters or...well, I can't even remember our other principles because they were pretty quickly replaced with Ginger's Laws of the Land. I always thought this picture pretty adequately sums up his tyranny, and our submission to it: 

 

I will not miss sweeping up the fountains of litter he sprayed all over the floor, despite an enclosed litter box. Or miss watching him tear our nice couches to shreds though we hand-built him a super sweet cat tower and scratching post. 

 

But. None of that really mattered because he was my friend. It sounds cheesy, but it's true. It is surprising how much a pet can become a pal.

 

 

The triumph of the oatmeal box

Now that June is older, more reliable with basic commands, not going to the bathroom at night, and vaccinated, we've gotten into a good routine with her. In the morning, Tim takes her over to the barn and does sheep chores, and then takes her to work with him. Most days, she plays with Pepper and Molly, his employers' dogs, and explores on a long lead while he works. Lunchtime, they come back, and in the afternoon she's with me—much more boring than work with Tim, though by that time she needs a good long nap punctuated by a trip or two outside to walk the trail, chill by the river, or play fetch. 

 

 

Evenings, we are all usually home and when she was little-little, I found it difficult to get non-puppy things done, because she needed supervision and/or a playmate (especially when the kitty, a.k.a puppysitter, was not in the entertaining mood). 

But recently we have discovered the best evening activity, thanks to this great book I found on border collies. The author suggests introducing a game in which you hide a toy under a cup, add a few other cups, mix them up, and have the dog guess what cup the toy is under. The first time I tried it, it went way over June's head. She stood very politely, head cocked to one side, and did not know what to do. 

 

So we scaled way down to the basics: defining a yogurt cup. First I put her favorite toy, a tennis ball, in the yogurt cup upside right on the floor. The first night, the cup got stuck on her nose when she reached in for it, and for the rest of the night the cup was a Big Scary Thing. But by the next night, she was snatching toys out of yogurt cups right and left. 

We moved to one upside-down cup, with the toy hidden beneath. This took a number of nights for her to crack. She'd lie down right next to the cup and stare at it for long minutes at a time, then stand and take a paw swipe at it. If that didn't work, she'd lie down again and think a bit longer. But finally, she seemed to consistently understand the science of knocking over yogurt cups. We introduced another yogurt cup, the decoy, and then another and another until—

 

Just kidding. This was only once. Tim's doing! Amazingly, she persevered and, with some elimination help, did find the ball. 

Now, when I'm making dinner or washing dishes, out come the yogurt cups and tennis ball. She'll usually sit and think for a good few minutes before starting to knock them over, and sometimes she'll knock the right one over immediately. Then she brings the ball, gets the long-awaited ball toss, and we start again when she brings it back. 

The other night, while we were playing a board game, we introduced the next level—hide and seek. We'd take her down the hall, tell her to sit and stay, hide the ball around the house, and then tell her to find it. She was a pretty bad looker at first; she'd glance one way and then another, and then sit down and give up. But after a few easy obvious hides, she started to understand how to poke around with her eyes and nose until she found the ball—on a chair, between our feet, tucked into the wood bin. She must be able to smell it, because she can find it even when she can't see it, like when it's under an overturned oatmeal box—the next level beyond yogurt cups. 

This box is a Costco Quaker Oats one, at least a foot tall and half a foot wide, fairly stable on its feet and bulky for a little pup. It's been the puzzle for the last few nights, and she has pursued it with serious dedication. I've been amazed at her attention span: she'll decide the ball is beneath it and then spend the next half hour alternately sitting next to it quietly with only her tail moving (lashing back and forth, like a cat's), pushing at it with her nose, swatting at it with her paw, and giving up for a minute or two to bother the cat. But she will always return to the box and try again. 

Tim wonders if we're teaching her to be destructive, but I say critical thinking skills. It helps that she's totally ball crazy...I mean, out of her mind. Bring out that ball, and she becomes fixated, please throw that ball now, do not delay or try to trick me, this is a Very Serious Matter. 

Anyway, tonight she finally did it, twice! It was cause for much celebration. Ideas for the next level of the tennis ball game?