Return of the hunter

A domestic cat shares 95.6 percent of its genes with a tiger.  Whatever its behavioral adaptations, the house cat has changed little from its feral ancestors (its most direct ancestor being the wildcat), which in turn are closely related to other members of the Felidae family.  All are carnivorous.  All are predators.

All that being true, it's impressive that so many humans -- those worth knowing -- are capable of bonding so closely to Felis catus.  

My two black panthers turn eleven months old next week.  From rambunctious kittens back in August, when I acquired them, they have become sleek, well-built nearly-adult cats, athletic and intelligent, with wry senses of humor.  And more than any other cats I've ever "owned," they pride themselves on their predatory skills.

For a while, they were proudly bringing their conquests into the house -- up to my bedroom, even -- to seek my approval.  A few weeks ago, we had a little dispute when one of them brought a live young rabbit upstairs after I'd dropped off to sleep.  I woke up, spoke intemperately, carried the cat downstairs, rabbit-in-mouth, and thrust him onto the back deck.  In shock, he dropped the rabbit, which, thanking its lucky stars, escaped apparently unscathed.  Physically, if not mentally.

They seem to have decided between themselves that I've proved myself unworthy of their displays, and have since discreetly seized and dismembered small mammals and birds out of my sight.  They are predators, and it comes naturally, although -- as I say -- the five cats I've had before these two jokers were far less bloodthirsty.  They preferred to eat indoors, and they preferred kibble.

All of this is prelude to my telling you that Castor wandered off about dinner time Wednesday night, and hadn't returned by the time I went to bed.  This wasn't unprecedented, and I thought nothing about it.  I began to worry the next morning, when he still hadn't returned  home.  By Thursday night, I was panicking, especially since I'm leaving for Maine on Monday, and need both cats to be secured inside when I leave.  

I pored over relevant internet information.  I was told that indoor-outdoor cats like mine often disappear for a day or two, having got interested in something they came upon -- something potentially edible, usually -- and lose track of the time.  Don't worry if your cat goes missing for a day or even a couple of days, the experts said.  In fact, persons with missing cats say that the median time the cat is gone before returning is five days.  Of course, the experts remark, darkly, the cats don't always return.

If they don't return, the writers cooed, don't beat yourself up.  You gave your cat a good life, and, hey, life's a jungle.  "No, no," I was yelling.  Yelling at least mentally.  "Castor isn't even a year old.  He hasn't had a "good life."  He hasn't even had a good year yet!"

Thursday night, last night, I went to bed, disconsolate.  I woke up at midnight, and decided to give the house one more check.  Pollux was asleep on top of the cat ladder, where he always hangs out.  I stroked him, and was startled at how silky  his fur was.  Just like Castor's.  

And of course it was Castor.  He was so sleepy he wouldn't even open his eyes, let alone give an accounting of his behavior over the past couple of days.  By this morning, he was feeling more chipper, but no more talkative.

But neither he nor Pollux has shown any interest in going outside, even while I was out reading on the deck.  Something probably happened.  As many a parent has told himself, "It's just as well that I don't know the details."  

And as many a parent has also told himself, "I could kill him for scaring me."  And then I fed him extra kitty treats as a reward for coming home.