AfriCat

I have a weakness for adorable baby animals. (I mean, really, who doesn’t?) Kittens, in particular, are my kryptonite. They turn me into a cooing, fawning mess. It’s a little pathetic. So, when we rolled into Kigali and were confronted with a litter of kittens in a far-less-than-ideal situation, I knew I was in trouble. And, hence, we ended up with foster kittens abroad, for the second time.

If you’ve ever tried to pet three kittens at once, you know that it is not easy. Our first month in Rwanda was a tumult of fur, purring, and litterbox changing. But, things have slowed down now.

Of the litter of three, we have found happy, loving homes for the two males. Apparently, when you put up an ad for kittens, the males (who you originally didn’t want to part with) will be scooped up within 24 hours, leaving behind one ridiculous female kitten.

For better or worse (temporarily speaking), Lila is my little AfriCat. We spend a great deal of time together, which has made her incredibly attached to me. I think she is just about the most adorable critter ever. She alternates wildly between ball of cuddling, purring love and crazy mini-lion, climbing, chewing on, or trying to maul everything in sight. And some things that aren't in sight at all. And I love it.

* Credit for the word AfriCat goes entirely to Win. 

Furry Additions

Fish and bunnies aside, we have been very strong in our resolve about not getting pets while in Thailand. (To properly read that sentence, ‘we’ is pronounced ‘Win’ and ‘significant pets’ refers specifically to cats.) We don't want to get attached when our living situation is temporary. Our defenses, however, have been breached. We’ve thrown in the towel. Our white flag is a-wavin’ and I blame it on a bunch of elementary kids.

Sometime in July a lovely stray cat -- white with big, round patches of pale orange and grey -- took up residence in the pratom 5 and 6 (elementary) building on our campus. Shortly thereafter, we discovered that the very friendly stray cat was also very pregnant. Between students and teachers, when Mama Cat gave birth the kittens were moved to a safe place in the music room on the first floor. Mama Cat was free to come and go, students fed and watered her, and the kittens slept nestled away in a box (unless interrupted by screaming children or music class).

Unfortunately, two of the three kittens have died. The remaining kitten is tiny and frail, and the incessant attention from students is almost certainly not a health-positive situation (who knows where those hands have been?).

We tried to be stoic. We tried to be rational. We are going on vacation for a month, and we are leaving Thailand in the spring. But how can you look a kitten in the face and still say no? The kitten, with black-on-white, symmetrical inkblot coloring across its back, curled up in Mama’s protection, just washed away all rational arguments against taking them home. Someone has to feed our fish and water our plants while we’re gone, what’s the big deal if they feed the cats too?

The Thai teachers wasted no time once they saw the chink in our armor. Upon first sighting, Mama was wrangled by fifth graders and Baby put back safely in its box. An army of students trekked them across campus to our office, where they caused a stir with the high school kids. So, both Mama Cat and Baby Cat are in for some foreigner TLC.

Mama Cat is a bundle of purring and affection, despite being a stray cat. Baby Cat is possibly the most precious fuzz puff I have seen; too young to have developed proper motor function, it bobs and weaves after our feet, the tiniest of obstacles or disruptions sending it tumbling. Real names are still to come, but I am anticipating cat cuddles with the greatest of joy and the biggest of smiles.

Monks and Tigers

One of our favorite places in Thailand is Kanchanaburi. It’s like a little piece of northern Thailand, but only three hours outside of Bangkok by train or bus (unless you accidentally take the four and half hour local bus, which we have done). It was also a convenient weekend trip last semester when we were living in Ratchaburi, since we could hop on a yellow bus and be there in two hours. We know of a cheap riverfront guesthouse with good rooms, delicious 45 baht hamburgers (a real blessing when you’ve only had Thai food for months), and equally affordable beer. And, Kanchanaburi has plenty to entertain our inner tourist.

From the Bridge over the Rive Kwai and its accompanying Memorial Cemetery and Jeath Museum (one of the world’s most absurd assortments of antiques, poorly worded signage, and bizarrely positioned mannequins) to waterfalls and elephants, Kanchanaburi is a one-stop tourist destination. But, simply a notch above the rest, it also has the Tiger Temple.

The Tiger Temple remains, among all the things we have done and seen, a completely unique experience. It’s no wonder that with friends visiting we figured it was a good touristy experience for them as well. I mean, how often do you get to pet one tiger, let alone a dozen of them?

A chartered sangthaew (pickup truck with benches and a covered back) carried us seven New Mexicans to the Tiger Temple outside of the main town. For the admission fee (“donation”) of 600 baht, approximately 20 dollars, we get about two hours of tiger fun and a bunch of “free” photographs. By Thai standards, this is a pretty absurdly high price – the equivalent of about 20 meals, between 12 and 15 beers from 7-eleven, or a 12 hour first class bus ride – but they are using it to feed about forty tigers, and I can’t imagine they are light eaters.

The Tiger Temple is a Buddhist monastery-turned animal refuge. Originally graced with injured tigers only, the temple now breeds the greater portion of its striped inhabitants. This has made them the target of some controversy, as they are accused of swapping tigers with other temples in Laos and Burma in order to prevent inbreeding. I have to say that there are worse things you could be doing, and that seems like the right reason to break international law if you’re gonna do it.

According to their staff, around 95-percent of the tigers have been born at the Tiger Temple, and have been constantly in contact with humans. There are programs where, for the right price, you can bottle-feed tiny cubs, play with four-month old tigers using a gigantic version of a cat toy (think fishing pole), and participate in various feedings and walks throughout the day.

When you enter, the tigers are lazing about in the shade, about a dozen females around eight-months old (and still plenty big) and six or seven full-sized males. Tigers, like many small housecats, spend a vast majority of their day in various states of repose, jumbo cat naps if you will, especially during the day while it’s hot. So, contrary to much of the controversy about the temple and the comments about our photos, the tigers aren’t drugged; they are sleepy.

Even though they are napping, the tigers do wear a chain around their neck, to prevent any unintentional bolting. In the process of becoming a full-blown animal sanctuary, deer, horses, pigs, buffalo, and an assorted menagerie roaming about, a tempting snack to even a sleepy tiger.

The staff members lead you around by the hand, always having you remove any purses or bags first, and walking you around the backs of all the tigers as the front is the dangerous end. You sit there and pet the tiger while another staff member takes pictures with your camera. Then you stand up and go pet another one of the big cats.

To see the monks interact with the tigers, you would think they were, in fact, common housecats. The monks will sit on the backs of the full-grown males massaging and pounding on their backs. The monks and staff alike reposition them as needed, pull on their tails and ears, ruffle their fur, entice them with sticks and strings to chase, thump them on the nose, and occasionally stuff their entire hand in their mouths. It’s like they are playing with kittens. Very big kittens.

This time, we got some bonus tiger time. While walking around to where some of the younger cubs are kept, we happened upon a monk towel-drying a tiger cub, treating it exactly as if it were a small child who had just gotten out of a hot bath. The monk told us to pet the tiger while he leaned back to smoke. The tiger cub, let’s call him Stripy, was wearing a dog leash attached to nothing and just sat there chilling with the monk. The monk pushed on Stripy’s back until he lay down, and then gestured to us once again. Pet. Take Pictures.

Now, one of their big rules at the Tiger Temple is that you never, ever pet them above the middle of their back. What if they decide to turn around and bite you? This monk, cigarette in hand, tattoos (okay, holy tattoos) on display, couldn’t have cared less about the rules. And he just kept pushing it farther. Pet him. Sit down with him. Lay down. One by one, which each of us, he just kept having us go one step farther.

My turn came. Kiss him, the monk says. I just stared blankly. The monk pointed at a spot on top of his head. Kiss. And when one kiss wasn’t enough, or wasn’t romantic enough I suppose, he said, Kiss again… slow. Oh, yes sir, I kissed Stripy. Right on top of his fuzzy little head.

I always knew that tigers were beautiful, but something about seeing them up close, and maybe doing it twice, made me realized just how incredibly gorgeous the animals are. Their soft underbelly with its lighter fur, how muscular and solid their long, sleek tails are (although, they feel like a baseball bat when they hit you, trust me), their deep orange eyes almost matching their stripes, the large, white spots affixed to the back of all their ears, it borders on surreal.

Certainly an experience worth twenty dollars. Even the second time. 

Cat Cat Cat Cat Cat

Living in Thailand there have been many things that I miss from home. Good beer, the knowledge that, yes, there will be toilet paper and soap in a public restroom, cheese, the non-existence of squat toilets, drinkable tap water, speaking the same language, vegetables. And what I wouldn’t give for an everything bagel with cream cheese. But also, I miss my cats.

Thailand is full of stray animals just ripe for the petting. But with the exception of two local strays, you will not see me petting a stray dog. Devoid of much in the way of personality or affection, stray dogs do little to pique my interest. They bark. They eat. They sleep a lot. Sometimes people put collars on them. End of story. Cats, however, are another matter entirely.

Fewer in number (although possibly just smaller than dogs), stray cats have become my Thailand hobby. As far as I can tell, the Thais don’t seem to pet cats; cats are merely a nuisance. Even the ones who appear to live in one place with one family do not get what I would consider pet treatment. Where is the love? Where is the anthropomorphizing? Why no cuddling? Clearly, in my two-minute love fest with each and every stray cat, it is my job to give them the lifetime of affection that they have been lacking. I’m sure I often look like the tourist equivalent to a crazy cat lady. 

I pet them all. The resident Petchaburi guesthouse feline is welcome to lounge on the vacant chair at our table as we drink our beer with ice and plan the next day’s events. I moon over the pathetic kitten in Laos, mangled stub tail all akimbo, singed fur covered in street grime, purring in my lap as I eat my meal. And let’s not forget Koh Tao’s dolled-up “ladycat,” stunning blue eyebrows and vibrant rouged cheeks courtesy of the bored ladyboys working at 7-eleven. But no Thai cat has caused me as much strife as Kitten.

Kitten. Tiny, starving Kitten. Originally part of a trio of cats that congregated in our backyard around meal times looking for leftovers --- Momma Cat, Daddy Cat, and Kitten --- Kitten remained behind as the other two moved on. Three cats had been good, but I was satisfied with only one. And Kitten looked like she needed an extra helping of love. Unfortunately, Kitten was an asshole.

We fed kitten daily. Put a little pile of food on the wall surrounding our yard whenever kitten was around. Put out a bowl of water.

What was our reward?

Nothing.

Kitten was loud and whiny. She would scream and hiss if we walked into the backyard. The slightest movement evoked low, guttural meows and additional hissing. Once our backs were turned she would slink over to wolf down the food, not stopping to chew, before retreating back to the farthest reaches of the yard. We even realized as Kitten got older that she is, in fact, a boy. But applying a masculine pronoun to such a whiny creature felt wrong, so Kitten is still a “she” to us. 

Aside from the devil cat trapped in our neighbors’ backyard, which once a month would climb the chain link fence, claws hooked, to stare out at us and make the terrifying sounds of a wailing banshee, the neighborhood was lacking in alternatives.  Kitten had to pass as my Thai pet. Four months and we could only get within a foot of Kitten. This is supposed to be progress.

But then, it started raining cats.

First came Orange Cat. Tiny, striped face peering down at us over the neighbor’s rain gutter, she gingerly spoke up. Kitten gave Orange Cat the royal treatment previously reserved only for her human feeding machines, but Orange Cat was unfazed. On a mission for love, food, and possibly a place to give birth, she marched straight past Kitten’s defiant yowls and showered us with affection.

The next day, Daddy Cat, lured back from wafting aromas as we made Cup O Noodles at our outdoor, single-burner stove, boldly sauntered straight through the backdoor and into the kitchen.

The message has dot-dashed its way along the feline wires: The farang teachers feed cats. Kitten lounges on the wall at a safe distance. Daddy Cat sniffs his way around the yard. Orange Cat curls around her round belly waiting for us realize that this is her new home. Even Banshee makes the occasional, blood-curdling appearance, screaming in heat at confused Daddy Cat. And with the shake of a bag, my Thai pets come running.