When I first moved to Serafina, NM, 20 odd years ago, it was a place of raw magic. Coyotes, foxes, bobcats and mountain lions carried on their business as they had for millennia, and eagles and hawks shared the skies with ravens and crows. The ghosts of history crowded the night shadows: the priests and weavers of the ancient Pecos pueblo, the settlers backed into a desperate siege atop Starvation Peak, the desperadoes escaping the laws of the Royal Spanish Crown or the United States marshals... all was whipped by a relentless Westerly wind into an electromagnetic haze of magical aura that radiated up through the hard red clay and tenacious prairie grasses.
That's what it was like when I bought an old stone house built in 1918 by legendary stoneworker Miguel Ortiz, and his now-famous musician son, Cleofiz, together with the St. Claire family, settlers from the East who did not last a generation in the harsh environment, the family scattering after the father was killed by a fall from a horse. I met descendants of both families in the area, where history just hung about like a cloud that thickened, never dispersing.
The house had been abandoned for over a decade, and not terribly well tended for a decade before that, and was in an advanced state of disrepair. The story of transforming that forlorn and abandoned place into a warm and gentle home has formed a great chapter of my life, and one that I shared with my family. But this is not that story.
When I first spent a night in the house, it became immediately clear that rodent control was the problem in need of most immediate attention. Traps, live or otherwise, require tending, and the magnitude of the infestation was beyond management. Poison was out of the question... both on grounds of introducing an unnecessary toxin into the environment, and the problem that mice who have eaten poison tend to die in inaccessible locations, from which they will broadcast the shame of their assassination with relentless olfactory assaults.
I felt the best solution was to begin acquiring cats.
I went to an animal shelter and adopted a tabby and a big furry dark-haired cat that resembled a Norwegian forest cat. I had been reading the marvelous Skywater, by Melinda Worth Popham, about a clan of coyotes living in the Southwest. The elderly couple in this wonderful novel give whimsical names to their coyote friends that come from brand names they see on litter that blows through their Sonoran desert home: Kodak, Doublemint, Brand X. Inspired by the book and my frequent lengthy sojourns down the endless New Mexico highways, I decided to begin naming my cats after the state mottoes on license plates. So my first cat, the Norwegian, was named First in Flight, after the Nebraska plate, or “Firsty” for short. The tabby, with a brick-red nose, I named Famous Potatoes.
For several weeks, Firsty and Potatoes were in cat-heaven, spending every night hunting mice and gophers, and I endured the sounds of crunching bones late into the night. Although both were indefatigable hunters, it became clear that they would need help. In Santa Fe, I adopted a long-haired gray mother with her kittens, a few weeks old and still nursing. I named the mother Constitution State (Consty), the female kitten Vacationland (Vacey), and the boys Ten Thousand Lakes (Tenny) and Great Lake State (Grady; after my home state). I brought them home, but was dismayed that Firsty and Potatoes were extremely unhappy about having a new mother in their home. They were very tolerant of the kittens, but Potatoes ruthlessly terrorized the mother, who spent her days hiding in the basement, but came up nights to nurse her kittens.
In those days, I believed that a short, free life was better than a long, captive one, so I let the cats in and out at will, even though I knew the surrounding areas were filled with wild dangers for a domestic animal. It was Consty who first chose that path. She waited until her kittens were fully weaned, then headed out into the wilderness, and I never saw her again. Some time later, Firsty followed suit, and Potatoes and Consty's young offspring had the run of the house. By this time, Vacey, Tenny, and Grady had grown into feisty young hunters in their own right, and the rodent population of the immediate environs of the house had dwindled to endangered status, for which I was not sorry.
When the young siblings were just over a year old, I began to plan to have them spayed and neutered. Serafina already has a terrible problem with abandoned pets, and I certainly did not want to contribute to that epidemic. But some muse of nature whispered in my ear: “don't spay the female just yet. Let her have one litter, and raise them all here together.” I followed that muse, and did not have to wait for Vacey's second birthday before she was sauntering around the house with a belly full of growing kittens. There is no mistaking the pride in her walk and the pleasure and satisfaction that she felt, basking in the sun, feeling the young lives wiggling around inside her. She loved to show off her belly, and enjoyed inviting me to feel the life within her. When she was ready to give birth, she climbed right on top of my bed in the morning, and I considered the price I would have to pay for new blankets, and decided it would be worth it. Vacey gave birth to five kittens right there on my bed. Each was a tremendous, helpless, messy miracle that sat bewildered, then unerringly dragged itself toward mother's breast. The last came out and did not start breathing. I had been braced for tragedy, and held my breath along with the motionless kitten. Then with a start and a sigh, the last kitten begin a labored respiration, and crawled with the others toward her mother's breast. Four girls: The Natural State (Natchy). The Garden State (Gardy, but later changed to Zsa-zsa for her poofy white hair and vanity). The Land of Lincoln (Linky). And the one whose state-name I have forgotten, because her later antics led me to begin calling her (for reasons difficult to explain) “Splodgy.” Then there was the boy: The Show-Me State (Shomes).
The kittens grew up with their mother, their two uncles, Potatoes (who only just tolerated the invaders, but knew that she was outnumbered), and me. It was the presence of this extended family of cats who all grew up together, along with my personal solitude at that time of my life, that afforded me a unique window into the inner world of cats. Their family dynamics revealed an incredible complexity and range of emotion and relationship. I am forever grateful for what I learned from having the chance to watch them grow up together, and grew quite a bit myself through them.
As the cats grew, they explored and became comfortable with the vast and wild semi-arid world around them. The older generation were the uncles Grady and Tenny, and of course Vacey the mom, all of whom were very close in appearance to their mother: long-haired dark gray cats, though Tenny sported a tiny splash of white on his chest. Of the younger generation Linky, Zsa-zsa, and Natchy shared their mother's long hair, and Shomes and Splodgy took their mother's uniformly gray coat. But another genetic influence was clearly at work: Zsa-zsa and Natchy were gray and white, Linky was black and white, and Shomes and Splodgy both had short hair.
I was surprised at how far from home these cats would wander. I would often spy Potatoes off hunting, not alone, but with the neighbor's cat, Sox. Because of the absence of shrubbery or tall grass, I could see Potatoes and Sox hunting together a good half mile away, up on a small rise. Potatoes and Sox had become inseparable friends, but Sox would never come over to my house. Rather, Potatoes would spend her lazy days loafing around my house, but when she felt adventurous, would go over to the neighbors' and, according to the reports of the neighbor, loudly announce her presence until Sox came out. Then the two of them would head off to their favorite hunting ground together, not coming home until late evening.
I would often go for walks on the hot dry days, meandering over the surrounding fields, not worrying about the local ranchers who owned them, since they were seldom about. I would explore the deep arroyos that channeled dozens of yards deep into the otherwise flat plain beneath the mesa. They were an endless maze of high red-clay walls with sandy bottoms, lined with stunted Juniper trees and Pinones. Tenny, now a mature and confident hunter, loved to follow me on these walks. At first I was very concerned. He would follow me well over a mile from the house. He would become obviously thirsty and tired, resting and panting often under juniper trees. I would carefully plan my path to skirt by areas where I knew there would be surface water, since I worried about my long-haired companion becoming dehydrated under the hot sun. But he displayed no interest in the water, and only wanted to follow me wherever I went. I found this attachment deeply touching, and felt very connected to my devoted little friend.
As the cats matured together I was witness to several events that elucidated a rich world of family dynamics that I had never known existed among cats. One of the first such events was when I saw Tenny teaching his nephew and nieces about the art of hunting. I was sitting in the house near a large window, and happened to notice all the young ones outside in a circle around Tenny, who was the center of their riveted attention. I saw that Tenny had a mouse, and as I watched, he tossed the mouse up into the air, caught it in his claws, and bit the back of its neck. He did this several times, all the while conscientiously making eye contact with each of the young ones who were watching.
When a cat catches a mouse to share with the clan, the victorious hunter brings the mouse to the feeding area, calls out loudly in a distinctive voice that brings everyone running, then brags, and eats his or her favorite parts (each cat had a favorite part of the kill – for which reason Zsa-zsa also carried the nick-name “head-eater”) while selfishly guarding the kill from everyone else with aggressive, full-mouthed growls. But after this brief bragging session, the hunter shares with everyone. Even Potatoes, the out-clan, was welcome to a share.
But the session I was watching through the window was different. There was no dinner-call, no bragging, not even any eating. It was a demonstration. Tenny was teaching. Like a good teacher, he held center stage and modeled the lesson, all the while making sure all the pupils were paying attention. There was no mistaking what was going on. I feel very privileged to have witnessed what I think few have seen: A domestic cat deliberately teaching a learned skill to the next generation.
The youths of the clan were quick studies. Within a few months, there was not a rodent to be found within a mile of the house. Working in teams, the cats also killed gophers, which are a tough adversary. I once saw two of the cats corner a gopher, and were in the process of killing it, and I took pity on the wounded gopher and decided to rescue it. Confronted by two adult cats, the gopher was bleeding from the face, but otherwise strong, and ready to fight to the finish. I got a shoebox and put on some welding gloves, and moved in to rescue the prey. Far from grateful, or even intimidated by my much greater size, the gopher went into full attack mode and tried to bite my hand off! I was most impressed by his strength, quickness, and ruthlessness, and grateful that I had thought in advance to put on the thick gloves. I took the gopher to the shelter of a woodpile, but I never knew if he survived the night. In later years, when I took to keeping the cats indoors, I came to realize how great a role my cats had been playing in gopher-control, and how much damage a family of gophers can do to a delicate landscape.
But for all their skills, the youth were still inexperienced and given to excess of excitement. One of the most stunning displays of coordinated hunting I have ever seen took place outside my northern window, around a pool of water in the driveway. The summer rains had brought a small bird to bathe and drink in a pool that still persisted in the afternoon sun, and the little bird felt confident of his safety in the open area that provided no cover for predators for several yards around the pool. Any attacker would give ample warning for the bird to simply fly up into nearby trees. But this little bird was unprepared for the intelligence and cunning of the talented Vacey and her daughter, Linky. As the bird bathed, I noticed the two of them closing in from downwind, from paths at right angles to one another. Their coordination was marvelous. When the bird nervously looked in Linky's direction, Linky froze and Vacey took a step forward. Seeing nothing moving, the bird would resume bathing, glancing in Vacey's direction. then Vacey would freeze, and Linky would advance a single step. They proceded in this way for a good fifteen minutes, until both cats were, amazingly, within two feet of the bird, on completely open ground with no cover, in broad daylight, the bird entirely unaware of their presence (though I must say, acting a bit nervous). It was then that youthful exuberance overcame the patience of the master hunter. Young Linky could no longer stand the tension. She pounced suddenly at the bird. But the distance was still too great, and the bird escaped Linky's grasp, flying unharmed, but shaken, into the tree.
Although the prowess and teamwork displayed by this hunting duo was astounding, I was even more amazed by what transpired next. Young Linky, having enjoyed the hunt despite her failure, trotted up happily to her mom for a kiss. Instead, Vacey smacked Linky on the head and turned her back and walked away. Linky sat morose for a little while, then walked off on her own way. The humanity of this interaction was captivating. Having worked hard as a team, Young Linky had blown the hunt at the last minute, and gotten a swat and a scolding from mom. The mom's anger, the daughter's sadness at the reproach... these were not mere anthropomorphism, this was a view of a complex interaction not just at the core of being human, but at the core of being alive in this world of challenges, victories, and woes. It was scene that could have transpired in any home anywhere.
These were events that reflected relationships and a shared culture, but more than that, there were relationships that evolved and deepened over time. Some were simple: Linky loved her Uncle Tenny more than anything. She would follow him around, and wherever he would plop down for a nap, Linky would plop right down next to, or on top of, her favorite uncle. But this affection did not entirely go both ways. Tenny, the champion hunter and master of his domain, preferred to nap alone, or on my chest. So as soon as Linky settled down next to or on top of him, Tenny would get up and find some other lonely spot to relax. But Linky would just get up and follow him, and this slow-motion chase would continue all day long, until Tenny finally tired of moving around and suffered his niece to lie next to him. Finally they would both fall asleep, and seldom would I find Tenny asleep without his devoted tag-along right there next to him.
The most complicated relationship was with Dad. Dad hadn't abandoned his family once the kittens were born. I often would see a huge tomcat hanging around – not too near the house, he wasn't very domestic – whose short, black and white hair precisely matched the genetic variation of Vacey's litter. I learned from neighbors that the tomcat was well-known in the neighborhood as a vagabond and opportunist, taking meals and shelter where it pleased him, and, as I later learned, maintaining his territory against all intruders with incomparable tenacity. I also learned that he had been given a name by the locals, and his name was Pete. Pete the Jazzman.
I always knew when Pete paid his occasional nocturnal visits to the house. Every cat in the family had a distinct relationship with Pete, and his presence changed the dynamics entirely. Tenny despised Pete as a rival male and as his sister's paramour, and sometimes quarreled with him. but Tenny knew a losing game when he saw one, and seldom endured more than a few light scratches before throwing in the towel and beating a noble retreat. Shomes, however, had serious issues with Poppa. As the only male child in the family, and the largest cat in our clan, perhaps it was inevitable that Shomes should be destined to be locked in a lifelong Oedipal rivalry with his father, the undisputed lord of his dominion. Like Tenny, Shomes was no match for Pete, and could do little to defend himself against the huge aggressive tom. But unlike Tenny, Shomes was unable to relinquish the confrontation. Again and again he would go up against his father, as if he were Luke Skywalker and Pete were his Vader, and the howls and curses could be heard for miles. On the morning of every night that Pete visited, poor Shomes would have torn up ears and a bruised and bloodied face that often required medical attention.
Vacey's relationship with Pete was less competitive, but no less passionate. It was through Vacey that I always first became aware that Pete was in town. By a sixth sense, she detected his presence, and was out the door like a shot. Soon the pandemonium of repressed rivalries and passions would erupt across the whole clan, and after the fighting and the caterwauling died down, would come the lovemaking. And oh, such lovemaking! The passion of Vacey (who was a tiny cat all her life) and Pete could be heard well into the next county, and they would be at it all night long. In the morning, an exhausted, but somehow calmer and happier Vacey, would laze around the house, looking wistful and a little cross-eyed, her hair a mess and not a care in her soul for food, mice, or anyone or anything. I never saw what happened between the two of them, but whatever it was, it took a lot out of her, and gave a lot back to her as well. I knew it must have been on such a night, now years ago, that the younger generation had been conceived, and the result of such a night that had led Vacey to proudly parade about the house with her bulging belly, and leave five tiny gifts in my bed.
But the member of the clan with the healthiest relationship with her father was Natchy. After all the fighting and lovemaking and crying and bravado, if I would wake up late in the night and steal a look out the window on the night of Pete's visit, I would infallibly see Pete and Natchy sitting together on the porch. They would always sit together like that, silently, right next to each other, just touching, and gazing over the moonlit fields. What feelings they shared we can only imagine, but it was plain to see that they enjoyed being close together, being quiet together, and never an aggressive look or sound passed between them.
One of my neighbors killed Pete the Jazzman. She boasted of it to me, not knowing that he was the father of my kittens and a dynamo in my clan. I never told her, either. The neighbor said that she had seen Pete out in the yard, murdering her kittens. She said he had already murdered others of her kittens, and now she had caught him in the act, and captured him alive, and taken him to Starvation Peak and abandoned him there. It was a cruel and cowardly act. But I could not deny that Pete was capable of such atrocity, and had no reason to believe the neighbor was lying. She was very upset about the murders, and I did not want to complicate matters – and wasn't even sure I understood the matter. It was too much for me, and I was silent. The neighbor said that by abandoning him, she had given him a chance to live and create a new life for himself somewhere else. But he was never seen again, and I knew that dumping Pete in a strange land, where he did not know where the water was, where the food and shelter were, what were the habits of the predators, and whose territory was whose, was a death sentence. She knew it, too.
Can I blame her? Can I blame him? Pete beat up his son, intimidated his brothers-in-law, had a love-hate relationship with Vacey. He murdered kittens, who were probably offspring of his rivals, just as male lions do. I don't think he was an abusive father or a draconian tyrant. He was cat father, and a ruler of a feline territory. I judge neither Pete, who was defending his own line, nor the neighbor, who was protecting her own kittens.
A few years after Pete's death, we came to understand how hard he must have fought, and against what adversaries, to maintain his territory. During the Reign of Pete the Jazzman, we never saw a stray cat anywhere near our house. After his death, strangers began to haunt the area – big, tough feral males with gigantic heads and barrel chests. These were the rivals he had kept at bay. But for all their ferocious appearance, we found these strays to be unagressive. They had no romantic interest in our ladies, and did not fight with our lads. But they would sometimes come in the house and help themselves to the food bowl. By then my family lived with me in the Serafina house, and we named the newcomers, who had become fond occasional visitors: Roberto and Buster.
One year a feline plague broke out across our area. Many cats died, and many of ours disappeared. Also, heavy rains brought an abundance of rabbits and roadrunners, and these brought a population boom among predators: coyotes and mountain lions who boldly marched into the domesticated world. We began to see the wisdom of keeping our cats confined indoors for their protection. To our surprise, they did not protest much. Most of these cats lived fifteen or sixteen years, and the oldest, Natchy, we brought with us when we left New Mexico and came to the Northeast. She spent her last days in our apartment there, and quietly passed away under a bookcase.
So now the clan headed by the matriarch Consty, that learned so much and endured so much together, are only a memory for us who survive them. And the raw magic that once held sway over the land of Serafina is diluted a little. But the glimpse these creatures offered, into a complex world of rivalry, devotion, passion, contentment, joy, and family dynamics remains a cornerstone of my human experience. They are always part of me, and I hope to offer others a view into the tribal world of cats.
