The biggest logistical hurdle of our move was easily the cats. Staying with my parents solved many of these issues as they didn't mind hosting the cats along with the rest of us while we look for a house and wait for our things to be shipped over from the States.
One minor hiccup there... my parents have a dog. A black labrador called Sam. Sam does not like cats. Meg and Trogdor don't like dogs. But the three of them are going to be under the same roof for a good month if not more.
So we planned:
The Set Up
- Before we left, I ordered a cat tree, cat food and a litter tray to be sent to my parents. They picked up some litter and an extra scratching post. I packed the cats' bowls, a couple of toys, disposable litter trays and a scratching mat.
- A house rule at my parents is that the dog isn't allowed upstairs, except at night when he sleeps next to my parents' bed. Because of this, Sam never goes into the two guest bedrooms.
- In my bedroom / bathroom (luckily, it's en suite), we set up the scratching post, the cats' bowls and a litter tray, giving Meg and Trog all their needs in an area the dog never goes.
- When we arrived, my Dad took Sam into the garden, while my Mum and I smuggled the cats upstairs and into my bedroom.
In a pinch, we could have left it at that. Kept the cats and the dog completely separated. But my cats are assertive and used to being free range. They get destructive if confined to a small area. So we didn't attempt to
keep them in the bedroom, but we did keep a careful eye on proceedings.
Evening 1: Casing the joint
Meg immediately began exploring and left the room within ten minutes. Trogdor dove under my bed and stayed there for half an hour until I checked on him.
Then he came out, but he restricted himself to eating, exploring the room, hiding under the bed at the slightest provocation and peering out of the window at this strange new world.
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| Yet to be convinced by this green and pleasant land. |
Meg calmly took herself downstairs and into the kitchen where she got her first glimpse of Sam. Luckily, Sam did not see her—instead he stared up at us in anxious confusion as we all told him 'no!' while Meg bushed up, backed out of the room and retreated upstairs.
Meg left her scent behind and this was how Sam discovered there was a cat in the house, five minutes later. He was... attentive.
Days 2-3: Enemy Encounters
Both cats and dog were now aware of each others' existence, but the cats were in for a second shock: That first morning, Meg ventured into the living room only to see a herd of cows on their daily stroll past the garden fence. So far as I know, Meg and Trog have never seen an animal larger than a human. For a moment, Meg froze, looking appalled as only a cat can. Then, for a second time in as many days, she bushed up, backed out of a room and retreated upstairs.
We missed Trog's first view of the cows—most likely it was from the children's bedroom window, but they were something the cats would have to figure out on their own. We were carefully supervising any encounters with Sam every time they came downstairs.
There was a learning curve for
us here. We kept telling Sam: "No!" to stop him from charging at the cats, but this left him with a complex: from his point of view, he was getting in trouble if a cat walked into the room. My parents also had a habit of talking to Meg and Trog in the same voice they addressed Sam with, which inevitably brought him running, looking for attention. We had to learn not to make exclamations over the cats and also to reassure the dog that he was a good boy.
Sam really is a good boy, fortunately, and very obedient to commands, even though he's getting on a bit at eight years old. All his life, he's charged cats whenever he sees them; the first two encounters with ours, he held his ground at a hand on his collar. The second two encounters, he held his ground at a spoken command.
We had one lapse, when Sam saw Trogdor come into the room before the rest of us did. Dog really charged at cat then, getting all the way to where Trog
had been standing before we reacted and yelled at him. I'm not sure if Sam stopped because of our reaction or of his own accord, but he didn't continue the chase.
The following morning, he made a momentary charge at Meg, but we scolded him instantly and he stopped almost before he got going. That was the last time, and since then he's shown them no aggression, though he does get anxious whenever they're in the same room.
The cats were considerably more anxious about Sam after those charges though, and Trog stopped coming downstairs altogether.
The First Week: Upstairs, Downstairs
The cats made the upstairs their domain, enjoying the variety of beds and a plethora of windowsills. We never had window sills in the States; now they had a house full of perches with fascinating views. Meg spent an hour on my parents' bed one evening, her gaze fixed on the cows in the field. There are rabbits in the field as well, and birds all over the place, while the windows at the front show the neighbours coming and going along with their dogs.
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| Studying the enemy for its weakness. |
Every evening, my parents brought Sam upstairs and Trog would leave whatever he was doing and go out onto the landing just to hiss at him. The same ritual would be repeated when Sam went down in the mornings, much to the dog's depression. Sam now looks both ways when crossing the upstairs hallway as if he's crossing a road.
Most mornings, Meg would come and sit downstairs with me before Sam came downstairs. It was the perfect time for her to sniff around, drink cheekily from his water bowl and sit in the conservatory to watch the birds having breakfast at Mum's feeders. One morning she sat with great attention watching an invading village cat; the invading cat was totally oblivious to Meg's spying as
it was sat with great attention at the foot of the feeder where mice hide in the stones.
What surprised me was how unworried the cats seemed about being kept inside. They've always been allowed to range outdoors and, historically, have got very distressed if denied access to the outside—particularly Trog. (Typical behaviour is making a toilet out of something other than a litter tray; crying loudly and scratching/plucking at doors and windows.) However, as they've got older, they don't range as far and spend more time inside. In this new place, the upstairs seemed enough for them to start with and none of their usual behaviour issues appeared.
Yet while they didn't seem distressed, it couldn't be said they were behaving as usual either. Our cats are typically very social, demandingly so. Now their environment was more isolated, a storey removed from the living area and household activities. Meg and Trog became more tolerant of each other than they had for years, often napping on the same bed. The children sometimes read or played on their iPads upstairs, and the cats would join them on the bed for that too. Yet they weren't talking to us as they normally did, and Trog wasn't giving his trademark headbutts. They didn't seem
happy.
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| This is probably one of the portents of the apocalypse... |
Downstairs, we had the back door open a lot, because the weather was so warm, but only when somebody was sat next to it, monitoring for cats. Both Meg and Trog did have a moment where they came down and ventured to the threshold with great interest, but neither put up a fight when we removed them and closed the door.
Then on Sunday, Meg walked to the front door and began asking to be let out. We ignored her, but she slipped through when the kids set out to the local playground and they had to catch her. So we went to the pet store and got new tags for both cats with my parents' number on. Whether or not we were letting them outside, Meg at least was now a flight risk.
July and the Great Outdoors
Along with asking to be let out, Meg abruptly began coming downstairs more and being a little bolder around Sam. This was key, since I wouldn't let her out if she would be reluctant to come back. On Monday morning, my daughter and I took the opportunity of Sam's walk to open the back door for Meg and let her go outside.
We took it in turns trailing her around the garden, trying to make sure she didn't venture outside of it (not really enforceable when it comes to cats). She had a great time as my parents' garden is really more cat-friendly than dog-friendly, with lots of little nooks and crannies and different levels of wall to climb.
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| Meg becomes a fan of the English country garden. |
After about twenty minutes, Meg asked to be let back into the kitchen door... Sam came in to the other end of the kitchen moments later and we had a small standoff, before I hoisted Meg onto the bench at the breakfast table and walled her in slightly with a cushion. She hissed at Sam but he was able to walk past her without any interaction between them or intercession from us.
It can't be said that Sam was happy when Meg settled down comfortably against her cushion. He wanted to go outside, to get away from this miserable presence in his kitchen, but we kept him in. We wanted to prove to him he was allowed in the room even if one of the cats were there.
So Sam lay down on the doormat and Meg lay on her bench and both sulked. My son tried to give Meg a love and nearly got his eye taken out, which was unusually cranky even by Meg's standards. But she stayed there.
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| Every accent pillow needs a cat glowering from it. |
It was the turning point for Meg. She returned downstairs at will for the rest of the day and the next, and she went out at every opportunity—once she had shown herself willing to come downstairs in spite of Sam, I was no longer worried that she wouldn't return home. On her second trip, she managed to get out of the garden and next door, returning ten minutes later, well pleased with herself, but overall, she's preferred to stay in the security of my parents' garden.
On one memorable occasion, she was sat behind the pond under the fence to the field when the whole herd of cows went by. Meg froze, her eyes wide with horror. She didn't dare look directly at the cows, but instead flicked her gaze between us in the conservatory window and the reflection of the cows in the dining room window. Once the last cow had passed, I called to her and she cautiously crept around the pond and back inside... the moment she was through the door, she bolted to the living room, before turning around and glaring fiercely at the now safely-distant field.
While Meg's continued to go out frequently, she's become a more consistent presence inside the house. She'll still retreat upstairs for a more peaceful nap, but she's often seen downstairs now: she keeps a close eye on the dog and hisses at him mercilessly, but she has no problem being on the floor at the same time as him, and his presence will not deter her from claiming our attention. She's back to her usual self.
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| Success also looks surprisingly like the apocalypse |
Trog, on the other hand... not so much.
This Week: Applying... Persuasion.
Trog remained upstairs, to our increasing concern, so we gave things a nudge on Wednesday. I brought him down in the morning while Sam was upstairs, and he stayed with me for perhaps ten minutes before creeping upstairs again (Meg asked to be let out, and he did attempt to follow her, but I kept him inside. I don't trust him to return of his own accord.)
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| One cat down; one to go. |
We repeated this when Sam went for his walk. After lunch, I took Sam for his walk and my Mum brought him down this time. When he crept back upstairs, she followed him. He had stopped halfway up, so she took him back and finally he settled down on the armchair and
stayed.
When I came back, I sent Sam through to the garden where Trog could see him. He watched him attentively for a few minutes and then relaxed again. When Sam eventually came back inside (via the kitchen), Trog lifted his head, clearly listening, but he didn't attempt to move, even when Sam came into the conservatory and stood next to his chair.
It took Sam a while to notice Trog, but when he did, he simply looked back at us, dejected. We loved him, assured him he was a good boy and eventually suggested he curl up on his bed in the sitting room where he could see us but not the terrible, terrible cat.
Trog hissed at Sam, but held his ground, either too wary to move or too stubborn to give up the chair now he'd got comfortable—notably, he never so much as changed his paw position. I slow-blinked at him a few times (a cat signal for "all's safe; you can trust me") until he relaxed again. He stayed on that chair for at least another hour.
I'm still not willing to let Trog outside, but he's not asking yet either. The reassuring thing is that he's shown himself able to stay downstairs with us again, and we're going to keep encouraging that. What I'm waiting for is the moment when he jumps up next to me on the sofa and proceeds to headbutt me and my laptop to oblivion, purring at top volume all the while. That's when I'll know I have my Trog back.
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| There are not nearly enough pictures of Sam in this blog, but he is the Best Boy and we will take him on All The Walks. |
