How To Spot A Psychopath

Tom’s Web page will be ten years old this year, and Tom himself is fifteen.

He’s still quite chirpy. Only about 6.5 kilograms, versus almost ten in his prime, as depicted in the famous kitten review. But that’s just as well, since Tom’s had arthritis and diabetes for a while now.

Neither complaint actually seems to have bothered him much. He’s always considered movement to be highly overrated.

Tom has a great enthusiasm for the tuft of lemongrass in my mother’s back yard. He’s never really figured out how to eat it without help, and all he ever does after eating it is throw up - sometimes practically immediately. But he seems to enjoy the whole experience enormously.

Here in Australia, we’re famous for giving things, places and creatures goofy names.

I mean, just pick one letter. Wagga Wagga. Wallabies. The Wollemi Pine. Wollongong.

(And when Monty Python did their sketch about the Bruces from the University of Woolloomooloo, Australia, the silly-named place they chose was actually not some tiny town in the boondocks, but a spot in the middle of Sydney.)

So, when a rather rotund bird I’d not previously seen showed up at our feeding table, I was optimistic.

Surely, this plump creature with its habit of thrusting out its neck comically would have a ridiculous name.

Could it, perhaps, be a Wonga Pigeon?

Wait - perhaps it was a Wompoo Fruit-Dove!

But then I found out that this white-headed pigeon is actually… a White-headed Pigeon.

Oh well. Can’t win ‘em all.

Our back deck ceased to be a restaurant for birds several months ago. I decided it was time to put out some seed again.

As usual, $US10,000 worth of brightly coloured beasties turned up shortly afterward.

Along with the usual Sulphur-cresteds and rosellas, this time we got a couple of galahs.

We’ve had a galah or two hanging around the seed before, but I never got any photos of them. They’re pretty birds, and relatively reserved when there are only a few around. Get a few hundred of them in one place, though, and they turn into one of the world’s premier sources of frivolity.

(”Galah” is also a somewhat archaic Australian colloquialism for a fool. The birds haven’t really earned that, but I believe the boobies deserve to have their complaint heard first.)

Galahs have a crest, but it’s not nearly as impressive as that of the Sulphur-crested. As with the big cockatoos, they raise the crest when excited.

These two got to spend quite a while with their crests up…

…because the bigger birds, as usual, insisted on pointlessly bullying them.

This sort of inter-species animosity is one of the reasons why conservationists don’t actually much like backyard bird feeders. An unnaturally large and reliable food source in one very small area forces different bird species to rub shoulders, and they never seem to enjoy that very much.

They never actually seem to come to blows, though. Even when the notoriously aggressive currawongs show up and start staring down the cats through the window, the other birds just give them a wide berth and come back later.

And now, I am pleased to present…

…a variable-geometry cockatoo.

When you throw a toy for a kitten, it’ll sometimes bring it back.

Most cats grow out of this behaviour when they reach adulthood.

Joey, though, is now getting on for three years old, and shows no signs whatsoever of losing interest in fetching.

Especially if you throw his favourite toy, a coiled-up pipe cleaner.

He also likes clothes baskets. And shoes.

Apropos of this post, my sister also has a shed-cat-whisker storage unit.

Hers is tougher than ours.

If you own one or more cats, you will occasionally find a shed whisker lying around.

Unlike the little delaminated bits of claw, dismayingly frequent piles of vomit and prodigious amount of ordinary hairs that cats also leave lying around, shed whiskers look as if they ought to be good for something.

Regrettably, the cat’s-whisker detector used in classic crystal radios does not use an actual cat whisker.

I’m also not a painter, so I don’t need a super-fine single bristle for putting highlights in eyes.

I do own a microscope, but have not recently needed to push any minuscule shells around on a slide.

And I have no interest in enraging a cricket.

So I am, at the moment, unable to think of anything to do with spare whiskers. Until such time as I do, I’ve chosen to store them.

Like so.

I welcome any suggestions regarding what to make and/or do with this impressive collection.

My little photo session for the Kittenwar book I just reviewed was somewhat delayed…

…because there were cats in the way.

Millie finds the photo tent quite cosy.

(The other one is Joey, who features in the sparky video here.)

Anne has told me that everybody in the world needs to see this.

So here it is.

(Actually, I’m given to understand the correct term is “leecking”.)

I am indebted to commenter Bruce for the information that I am currently Google’s number one hit in a search for “rough tongue bald pussy”. Which search you can perform, if you are not at work or if you work somewhere rather mellow, by clicking here. I await with enthusiasm the inevitable torrent of funny-smelling AdWords cash.

If you turn SafeSearch on, though, the results become much more disgusting, since they’re now mostly about bald spots on people’s tongues.

There. That ought to clear your palate again.

Here is Millie the cat, looking quite normal.

Change the angle, though, and…

Aaah! Baldy-cat!

(Those wrinkles are normal, by the way. I think every housecat has them when its ears are pointing forward, but they’re only noticeable when there’s no fur in the way. This confused me the first time I saw a Devon Rex; I thought he’d been shorn with a very coarse clipper, or something. Then I noticed all of the other wrinkles.)

How this happens is, Millie thwacks another cat, usually Mickey, on the head.

Or Mickey thwacks her.

They seem to take turns starting it.

Then they get into it a bit, usually in the completely-silent-except-for-the-thump-of-furry-bodies-on-the-floor way that means that nobody’s taking it too seriously.

And Millie, because she don’t take no crap, sticks with the wrestling and thwacking until Mickey gives up and wanders off.

The result, now and then, is a small claw injury on Millie’s head.

(Injuries on the head: Brave cat. Injuries on the bottom: Cowardly cat.)

This little scratch would heal perfectly normally, if left to itself. Cats can’t clean the tops of their heads very well, but you don’t often see an abscess developing elsewhere than around the ears either, even in cats that get in fights every night.

Joey, however, believes it is his duty to keep Millie’s head very very clean. Or he just likes the taste of scab, or something. Anyway, he comes along and grooms the living bejaysus out of Millie’s head, day after day after day. And his rough little tongue expands the injured area until Millie looks as if she head-butted a disc sander.

This has happened twice now.

After a week or two of the feline horror show - which does not appear to actually bother Millie at all unless you touch the ouchy bits - it all heals over and she’s just left with a bald spot, which gradually fills back in with fur.

(There could be a vicious circle thing here, too, in which Millie’s ouchy head causes her to be more aggressive when Mickey idly thwacks her on the head in passing, thus encouraging more injuries.)

Oh, and for the benefit of the search engines: Bald pussy.

Thank you.