Birding

Not a feather from any bird Tarquin caught. Still fun, though.

The old house on Wright Street was a magical place for Tarquin. Birds would miraculously appear in the wood-burning stove, whereupon Tarquin could practice his hunting skills. The first time we realized we had a bird ingress problem was when Lloyd spied Tarquin with a feather sticking out of his mouth. His little cat eyes were dancing—later we realized it was because the bird was in his mouth and probably tickling him. Amazingly enough, when Lloyd pried Tarquin’s mouth open, the bird was alive and intact and it took off. Some days one of the human inhabitants of the house would be home and hear the familiar metallic clinking in the stove and get the door shut fast. But the cat knew what was in there, and he’d sit there, worshipping the stove and channeling energy to open the door.

Tarquin was a mighty patient cat. He’d be in his reverential position by the stove when I left for work and he’d still be there when I got home. Catching birds turned out to be a much more difficult task for humans, whereas the cat showed how simple it could be. The humans would haul out the fishing dipnet, but the birds were generally too little and they’d fly through the holes in the net. Then Tarquin would take over and capture the bird.  He never killed them: just leaped up, grabbed them in midair, and carried them upstairs and put them under the bed. Sometimes they’d be a little damp with cat spit, but no worse for wear.  The clumsy humans later tried another tactic: Hold a big piece of clear plastic in front of the stove door, reach in the top of the stove with a bird poker (aka ruler, back scratcher, paint stirrer, whatever), flail around, wait for the bird to fly forward, and hope you could grab it with the plastic. Once in a while this approach would work. But usually it would be up to Tarquin to corral the wayward bird.

Bastet

It got so we referred to the stove as the Iron Cathedral, a high holy spot for Tarquin. And the cat had proof that his religion was for real: If he worshipped hard enough, a bird would fly out. That’s more than a lot of religions have to base their faith on! We always figured he channeled Bastet, the Egyptian goddess of fire, cats, the home, and pregnant women, and who was represented as a woman with the head of a domesticated cat.  It makes sense: just think of all the times a cat stops what they’re doing and stares into space at nothing or listens hard to nothing. They’re receiving instructions from Bastet. I figure Tarquin would beseech Bastet by wishing: “Oh Bastet, please send me a juicy bird,”

One night when I got home, Lloyd said "We have a situation here. Tarquin's committed murder, I think." It certainly looked like the scene of a crime. There were ashes all over in front of the wood-burning stove and there were lots of feathers at the top of the stairs. Lloyd, who fancies himself a cat whisperer, said he demanded that Tarquin tell him where he hid the body but that the cat wasn't talking. Evidently Lloyd was just having trouble with the cat accent, because the cat was really talking up a storm. As soon as he saw me, Tarquin came running down the stairs chattering his head off and ran back upstairs and stood by a low bookcase at the top of the stairs. Couldn’t be much clearer. Sure enough, I got a flashlight and flashed it behind the books and there was the bird, sitting behind the books on the bookcase--very much alive, yet seemingly a bit confused as it cocked its head and chirped its unhappiness with its current situation. This time Lloyd managed to snag the bird in midair with a dry cleaning bag.

Later that night, 2 more birds show up in the loft room upstairs. The humans, armed with a mop and a broom, race around, trying to get the birds to go toward the doors we've propped open. They’d go in the closet, on the stove, on the ledge in the kitchen, and then sit by and chirp. Finally Tarquin and the elderly lady cats were asked to have a go at bird catching. Tarquin quickly managed to find and catch one on the window over my computer, but in spite of Lucy and Brilly acting like there might be something behind the desk, there was no luck. In the morning as Lloyd was making coffee and he let out a whoop when he spied the bird. Tarquin arrived on the scene and caught the bird and brought it upstairs to me. Then he carried it into the spare bedroom and put it under the bed. Lots of flapping ensued, but Lloyd finally wrestled the bird away from Tarquin and set it free.

We asked the landlord to put a cap over the stovepipe—a request he of course ignored as his mantra was always: Don’t spend any money on the house…the value is in the land, not the house. We asked the cat to cut back on his stove worshipping a bit, as he was getting quite proficient at conjuring up birds. Lloyd always said with our luck we’d come home and there’d be turkeys roaming the house. I’m not sure whatever happened to that woodstove. The old house got torn down—being in the way of progress and an obstacle to yet another starter mansion to uglify our surroundings—and the stove and other salable items were hauled away. Where ever it ends up, I hope another follower of Bastet has as many religious experiences as Tarquin did when the old stove sat in the livingroom on Wright Street.