Animal talk

Those of us who share an abode with a furry companion (no, the dust bunnies under your bed doesn't count) or perhaps more correctly, serve as staff for an animal companion will know all about animal communication.

I don't mean crystal-channeling, incense-inhaling channeling of your familiar. Rather, that collection of dqueaks, grumbles, sighs, claws and stinky-breathed yawns that make up the more usual repertoire of non-human communication.

Over the past few years I have become quite fluent in tri-colour cat-speak - a specialty discipline where the feline in question's mood ranges from miffed to 'bemoerd' (an Afrikaans term that finds a rather lackluster cousin in the English 'F'd off') and all the shades in between, much like their coats. Savannah also has the added weaponry of her infamous yellow-glare; known to give spine-chills at a distance 10 paces or more. Tri-colours are known to be among the more verbal moggies around, and any owner will very soon learn the difference between 'nice-to-see-you-where's-my-food' and 'oh-what-is-this-before-me-an-empty-bowl-I-am-starving-ergh-ergh-ergh' accompanied by dramatics that would put the Royal Shakespearean Company to shame. Said tri-colour is by no means starving (stop dialling the SPCA number!) as evidenced by her rather rotund shape which she still manages to tuck away somehow when doing her starving-kitty impression. Said tri-colour is the brains of my little feline tribe; if you look carefully at those scenes where the evil genius is stroking a white cat, there's a tri-colour in the background trying to hide the puppet-strings attached to her claws.

Last night I arrived home to find yet another expression of cat dissatisfaction. It'd been a long day away from home, and with the encroaching darkness, howling winds and icy rain the cats had no doubt decided that dinner was going to be late. Unacceptably late, regardless of whether mom might be lying in a ditch next to the road somewhere. So the tabby huntress of my little tribe decided to send out for food; I arrived just in time to see her crouched on the rim of the bath-tub - a sure sign that something rather interesting was lurking at the bottom. Step 1, evict all cats from the bathroom and close the door firmly. Step 2, gingerly lift the cooler-bag that was left in the tub for cleaning to discover.... a rodent! A nice plump one at that; and I can't help but wonder whether she was going to give it a quick rinse before serving it up.

The dog also has her say, usually leaving me paw-printed notes in the garden in the shape of holes you can hide a horse in. The number and depth of holes can be directly related to how badly she feels in need of a walk outside the yard.

Then again.... maybe fat-cat has bribed her into body-disposal duty, and I just happened to come along at the wrong time.

Hmmm.....