WHAT MOGGIES GET UP TO!

A reasonable facsimile of "Squibbie"

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-22567526

This ingenious website above shows vividly the results of using wildlife tracking techniques (attached GPS and mini-cams) to see where cats go and what they do, as well as what they encounter from moths to foxes to each other.  Alan Beck made major breakthroughs in understanding urban dog packs by using wolf tracking techniques on dogs, though he didn’t have this miniature equipment to work with.  Sometimes the closest things to us -- like our families! -- are the creatures we know least about.  Cats weren’t all that surprising except that everyone was startled by their predator dimension.  Those who care react in the usual polarized way when anything about cats comes up.  Some seized on the info as an immediate reason to kill all cats.  Others were intrigued and gratified to know what goes on.    

The village of cats was in the county of Surrey, England, where mutt cats are called “moggies,” parallel to mutt dogs.  But someone, quoting what she called “the madhouse that is Wikipedia,” sent in this answer to a Yahoo Answers website:  “The origin of the word moggy is not a corruption of the word 'mongrel', as many believe. It was first recorded in 1911, and was possibly derived from maggie, margie or mog, all short forms of the female name Margaret. It is thought this was first used to describe an ungainly lumbering old cow, and it may even have been a minor rural English name for any cow; since 'moggy' was used in several 1800s English dialects as an 'affectionate name' for a cow. As rural people flocked to the cities during the latter part of the Industrial Revolution, it seems likely that the cow moggy became maggie, applied as a term of abuse for a dishevelled old woman or older prostitute. The word is often used in the North of England to apply to a female cat.”

My two formerly-female cats are old, fat, and devoted to naps. In their youth they did a little exploring but not a lot, partly because of Caspar, the big white cat across the street who in the years that this house was unoccupied had come to believe this was HER house.  When Squibs and Crackers were little, they got beaten up repeatedly until they learned Caspar’s schedule and avoided it.  When I intervened, Caspar offered to kneecap me, one menacing paw cocked and ready to swipe, until I began to carry a switch.  We finally reached a standoff.

Lately the problem has recurred because of a feral queen (the term for a fertile female cat) who dresses like a Supreme Court judge (black gown, little white fichu) and imposed her rules with tooth and claw.  A few days ago she attacked Squibs.  There’s a cat flap which Squibbie managed to get halfway through before discovering the fatal flaw of the escape route:  it left her rear end undefended for a few seconds.  The Black Queen bit her back legs bad enough to immobilize Squibbie for days.  Technically the Supreme Queen may not be a feral cat but rather a flatly “wild” cat that has never been a pet.  (Feral means once domestic, but then gone wild.)

Enough is enough so I ordered a live trap, assembled it, baited it, and set it in the back garage with the door open.  That evening there was a snap, a lot of thrashing and squalling, but when I went out to see:  no cat.  Must‘ve been a little ways out or backed out fast.  Maybe the latch didn’t catch.  Anyway, the result was that there’s been no sign of the Black Queen for a week.  This suits me,  since it relieves me of the problem of what to do with the cat.  There’s a second queen, a neat little white cat with colored stripe-patches, but she doesn’t make trouble.  If I catch her, I’ll just set her free.  I suspect she “belongs” to someone.

So for now the trap is wired open while I continue to bait it.  On the wire bottom I put newspaper that my cats had slept on, so it would smell like a good cat place.  If the Supreme Black Queen comes back, I’ll use extra good bait and make sure the latch is loose.  I notice that cats like to use an established cat nest or, in the case of my cats, either of my reading chairs.  I finally got a third chair so I’d have a place to sit.  It’s a strange weather year -- much wetter and cooler than usual -- and the Baptist church is being sided where it faces me, so even Caspar has not been using her fav places in the “cat jungle,” which is the tangle of brush and suckers around what used to be a wild plum tree.  

The back garage has a hole so that cats can catch mice.  A year ago the Black Queen had a winter batch of kittens in there, which I didn’t know until I found the remains of one in late spring when I cleared out a lot of stuff.  By then it was only a flat patch of yellow fur.  If I leave the rolling door up so that the interior is exposed, cats clear out. 

Just now I built myself a new flat screen TV stand out of scrap wood and when I rolled out the armoire that used to hold the big old-fashioned TV, there was a little black smudge that didn’t look like the usual dust bunny.  I wiped it up with a paper towel and then smoothed the paper out on a table to see what it was.  This mouse skull was in the tiny debris, complete with a maggot husk.

I warned the town office that I was setting a trap.  I know they get constant complaints about feral cats but also a steady stream of complaints that someone is shooting or poisoning cats.  In a rural community with a lot of older folks retired off farms, cats are not necessarily pets.  They are relentless about dogs, too, but more likely to be aware that they probably belong to someone and red-neck someones are likely to be more attached to their dog than to their wife.  You may remember the saga of the Lady Princess, the feral dog who was raising puppies under a derelict trailer.

When I reported my trapping failure at the town council meeting, I got an earful of stories about feral cats.  The village is small enough that people know individuals and sometimes have given them names.  One person finally closed up her cat flap to keep out a formidable feline home invader who even drove her dog off the front porch.  None had discovered a feral “cat” that was actually a baby raccoon as I did once.  

For a while the theory on trapped cats was that they should be spayed or neutered and then returned to occupy their niche, but that idea seems to be fading now.  Anyway, the niche this cat wants is already occupied.  I’m defending the territory.  After all, I’m the head moggie here.