Speaking of Wildlife
April Fools!
Meet Bourbon
the Common Housecat
by Jamie Proctor
For the second year in a row, you have been April Fool’d! This column is NOT about native Ontario wildlife this issue!
Welcome to the twenty-sixth column introducing the residents of Speaking of Wildlife: Ontario animals that can’t be released back into the wilderness due to permanent injuries or over-habituation to humans. Today’s animal is NOT from Ontario, should NEVER be in the wilderness, and is EXPECTED to be over-habituated to humans: Bourbon, the housecat!
According to a fair amount of rigorous genetic testing, the domesticated housecat seems to have originated from the African wildcat in the Near East a VERY long time ago. The oldest significant signs of cat and human bones being purposefully associated is a Cyprus burial dating back at least ten thousand years (younger but very well-established evidence can also be found in ancient Egypt, where cats famously acquired well-deserved admiration). Latecomers compared to the domestication of the dog, but who isn’t?
From there they’ve spread to much of the planet, and in many places – sad to say – feral cats have become ruinous to local wildlife, as few organisms the size of a cat are more effective at killing small vertebrates, a trait historically beloved by anyone in possession of both grain and rodents, even in times and places where cats were unjustly disliked. Cats and small island-dwelling birds, to name one example, is a very old and tragic story at this point.
Physically speaking, cats possess excellent night vision coupled with a transparent nictating membrane that lets them blink without even shutting their eyes; are extremely fast and strong for their size; and can quick-flip themselves to land on their feet from any fall of 90 centimetres or higher. They are also so flexible that their collar bones aren’t actually attached directly to the rest of their skeleton, which explains why your cat can sort of wriggle their way through any opening big enough to fit their skull through (not quite octopus-grade escape artistism, but very good for a vertebrate).
Respect this mighty array of weaponry attached to a self-replicating autodidactic hypercarnivorous supercomputer and keep your cat indoors: it will live longer due to a greatly reduced rate of injuries, infections, and surprise great horned owls, and the local small vertebrate populations – especially birds – will stay much higher.
Bourbon, Speaking of Wildlife’s officially-appointed office cat, was knighted to her post when a change of living situation left her former designated-human unable to keep her anymore and in need of a new cat-home. It was a perfect combination: Bourbon would have a new place to live, and Speaking of Wildlife would have a persistent area denial against incursions by small rodents in the winter (not to be confused with HABITATION by small rodents; see: Cargo, our chipmunk) and stray bugs in the summer.
Bourbon has half-failed this duty magnificently; on the single occasion she witnessed a (juvenile, inept, lost) mouse, her attitude of general bewilderment and confusion rendered her total and completely useless. On the other hand, she has been witnessed capturing and consuming at least one bug. We couldn’t be more proud.
Instead of guarding the office, immediately after concluding her mandatory brief adjustment period of cat emotional crisis, Bourbon has decided her time is better spent furiously love-bombing any and all humans that step inside the premises. As long as you are polite and permit her to come to you, it’s very hard to escape the premises without being headbonked, climbed on top of, or simply rubbed against while purring, all accompanied by a series of exceptionally small and squeaky meows. There have been tentative theories raised of Siamese in Bourbon’s family tree based on her head shape, and that was BEFORE the hypothesizer in question knew about her talky tendencies, or her friendliness.
My own relationship with Bourbon occurred in two phases. First – for approximately one week – I was profoundly evil and frightening and should be cowered from and bravely hissed at from a great distance. Secondly and ongoing, I was deemed a perfectly acceptable napping surface and a good place to rub a little round head all over while making biscuits with the paws and rumbles with the purrbox (nontechnical term). I do not know what precipitated this change in opinion but profoundly appreciate it, except when I am trying to eat my sandwich with a round furry body trying to fill all space between my lap and my chin.
She is on a diet. This is greatly and loudly lamented, as we are reliably informed every hour that Bourbon has in fact never once been fed in her life.
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