Joy and tragedy of testosterone
The Mousinator and I send you this column from a boulder on the hill above Pondok Paleis in the Camdeboo.
It has been a tumultuous two weeks here in my thimble, but my mind keeps returning to the baron’s balls. Yes, me’lud teen tomcat, the time has come where I tell the vet: “Off with his testicles!” But, like many a man, we balk, nay, we quiver and trill silently at the very thought.
Our four-billion or so years of life on Earth has, on this issue, evolved to a terrible twinge in the crotch when the topic is raised.
It is vital to have cats sterilised. Hundreds of thousands, probably millions of these awesome but unwanted felines are “put down”, euthanised, or killed, same thing, all around the world because their guardians, custodians, and cat daddies like me just did not care enough to do the responsible thing, and have their cats neutered or spayed.
It’s a beautiful day! The mist has lifted, the sun is warming the yellowed grasses of the Camdeboo plains, buds are forming on the apricot trees, it is windless, a bee buzzes, Spring is here.
The little booi (in my mind) has leapt onto the couch and is smurgling (kneading), blepping (tongue peeps out) and purring. He has become such a mouseslayer that last night I thought I did not have to feed him supper.
I had wondered what these raw cats do with their prey after they have battered and tortured them to the end. I got my answer when I saw just the tail of a sizeable mouse dangling out of my cat’s mouth!
There is an alarming growl that my tom emits when he is doing his evolutionary thing, but to my surprise, a few seconds later he bustles into the porzie, tail up high in the happy question mark position and mewls like a child for his supper!
Who is he? I do know that the intensity of the hunt seems matched by the passion of his purr. Cat people know our relationship with our kitty is mostly on their terms, but we have duties to dispose of.
The issue really is that this cat is having the time of his life. From the electric-blanket-warmed lair of my tent, to the thrilling tunnels under the fallen zinc roofing of the farmhouse ruin, the prolific jungle of my mutant carrots and scrambling up the Camdeboo wit stinkhout where he flushed a large eagle, the dumbo, he is rolling, leaping, and leopard crawling. He is fearless.
When I was digging a hole to bury my biodegradable waste (all plastic packaging is strapped to Delores and driven back to the store which gave it to me), he threw himself into the trench, and he wages endless battles against the broom, which once having swept, sweeps on — with a cat clinging to the stick with teeth and claws.
There is such a distinct distance between us. Despite being so imprinted on me that he will go on a 700m walk around the field, no typical house cat petting and stroking is allowed. He will never sit on my chest, but will always be lurking by my hip. This is his unique cat personality, but sometimes, if the Covid isolation scourge gets me down,
I gently pick him up, hold him gently but firmly to my chest, stroke his head and plant a big kiss on his silky fur. He endures it for a few seconds and then starts biting, playfully, then seriously.
Wild things can be conditioned, “tamed”, cowed, and that is a truth. I have to get this insanely beautiful creature, with his huge, piercing eyes, onto a raucous KLR motorcycle so I can take him to the vet. This sounds like a terrible idea, but with bubble-windowed cat backpacks, it is possible.
I am starting with a harness and lead. I hit the hand-held clicker, immediately offer him his jackpot mince, and then put on the harness and lead. Every time I feed him. It works. This is for his safety for when he is out of his territory and we are on the road, me, the baron and Delores.
I have a ways to go. I need to get a cat backpack, then get him to live in it, and finally to take him on short outrides where there will be a jackpot at the end of the road. One day, only one of many days, will there be a vet at road’s end. But not yet. The okie is just having such a great, raw cat time. His mojo is flying high. I guess reducing his testosterone with neutering might make him a more pliable, cuddly, fat, domesticated, pussy cat.
Would it be the death of a wild soul? Then there would be all those girl cats out there, sirens putting out their call and pheromones. The heat. My guy will go, he will cross fields, veld and rivers to plant his seed. And if there are unwanted litters, will I not be to blame for their deaths?
So hell, sorry boykie, those little fertility balls are going to have to go.
But not today.
The okie is just having such a great, raw cat time. His mojo is flying high ... Would it be the death of a wild soul?