Teaching Cats To Hunt

The following story is mostly true; the names of the lazy have been changed to protect me, should they ever learn to read.)

I really wish that cats could talk. I could get answers to questions that have bothered me ever since cats became a part of my existence way back when my dear wife decided that having cats around the house was the perfect compliment to our lovely home and idyllic marriage. And while the union remains strong, if a tad tense when the topic of discussion is cats, the home is no longer lovely.

After all, cats are not—contrary to their reputation—neat creatures. Do they put away their toys when they’re down playing with them? Never. Do they clean up the mess they leave around their food and water dishes? Of course not. So does the term “lovely” apply to our home? Not while the feline pests spend their time grooming themselves and expect me to do the tidying up!

But back to talking cats: I would ask the feline trio who infect my home what they think of the very expensive kitty treats my dear wife buys for them. I would ask them point-blank if they have any idea how much money is spent on feeding them. And I would demand that they contribute in some way to their own upkeep.

The latest over-priced tidbits are shaped like itsy-bitsy mice. This is apparently supposed to make the cat feel it has accomplished something when it is handed one of these little treats. I suppose that the shape is designed to create the illusion for the cat that it has stalked and killed a mouse in the long tradition of the species.

But with the three lazy fur balls which depend on the largess of my wife for everything, and on me for keeping their home neat, simply open their fat mouths and wait to be fed, without a thought or care about the cost.

These three are so lazy, I am convinced that should a mouse enter the house they would communicate this fact to my wife in much the same way Lassie used to inform Timmy’s mother and father in that old TV series. You remember: The collie would bark a couple of times and turn around as if chasing her tail, then bark once more and Timmy’s worried parents would say, “Timmy fell down a hole and can’t get out, over by the old Smith farm, even though it’s posted ‘No Trespassing—is that what you’re telling us, girl?” And Lassie would shake her head up and down, which meant, “Yes, you idiot—why didn’t you teach the boy to read so he could have avoided this mess.”

After the same fashion, the cats would race into the kitchen, gather excitedly around my dear wife and meow and howl and whine as only cats can do, and my otherwise unflappable wife would get excited with them and begin to quiz them:

“Monet, are you saying that there’s a mouse downstairs?” (Meow … Mee-ow … ooww) “And it’s bothering you?” (Me-ow!) “And you want me to kill it for you?” (Meow and Meow)

With that, down she would go to the basement, armed only with a broom stick and determination, and within minutes, the offending rodent would be flushed out into the open, cornered and captured.

They do not do a thing. They sit in windows all day long, watching the world go by, without a hint of interest in joining the passing parade. One fine summer morning, all three cats were sitting in the windows of our bedroom, blocking the sunrise—they are quite large cats. Getting up to shoo them away—stopped in my tracks by my dear wife’s comment that they weren’t doing anything, so leave them alone—I was struck by the fact that these fat, furry freeloaders might actually be able to learn, having noted that all three reluctantly learned to crawl through our newly-installed cat door.

And I had the perfect lesson for them. I would teach them to imitate the feeding activities of the birds they watch so intently in the yard. These ambitious and self-sufficient creatures scour our lawn for worms and insects. True, they’ll utilize bird feeders, but that is an option. Hunting for food on the ground is what birds do naturally to feed themselves.

If the cats which clutter my home aren’t fed and watered on a regular and frequent basis, they offer up a chorus of howls, moans, and mews that moves even me to feed them, just to shut them up.

But think of the possibilities if these three freeloaders could be let out into the yard to find their own food. Silence would be the immediate benefit. No howls of hunger. No scratching to get my attention. And such a relief on the household budget. Cat food is not cheap, especially the gourmet treat lavished upon the tubby tabby trio residing in my once-neat home.

The trick here will be getting these three timid beasts out of the house and into the wilds of the neighborhood to hunt.

Supposedly related to the King of the Jungle, there is no evidence of a grander lineage here, however. These aren’t the offspring of the Lion King; I am surrounded by ‘fraidy cats named for artists—Cézanne, Monet, and Vincent Van Gogh. Going outdoors and away from the comforts of home is too much to expect, I am sadly aware.

Still, I’d be willing to teach them how to rustle up their own grub. After all, I learned to feed myself, and quite well, as my girth proves. And since cats, according to my wife, are smarter that humans, just catching a few mice should be no problem. No cooking involved—a simple sushi for kitties in the great outdoors, just as nature intended.