Cats will be cats

When you spend time with ecologists, biologists, and other “ologists,” you run across regular axioms. While most have to do with the complexity of nature, one of my favourites is that cats are cats are cats.

I’m not a cat person, for a whole host of reasons that are too long to write here (I started writing about it but after outlining the reason for my antipathy towards cats, I realized that it made this article at least 500 words too long).

That being said, and before I receive angry texts from readers about my anti-catness, I have recently been won over by our daughter Katrien and son-in-law Ben’s cats, much to my chagrin and their surprise, which demonstrates, contrary to the old adage, that leopards can indeed change their spots.

OK, enough about me, let’s get back to the main point of the story. There are several traits that cats possess no matter whether they are wild or domesticated, large or small, or live on the plains of Africa or in the far north. Behaviour is one of them.

Weirdly, as every cat owner knows, cats have a natural affinity for cardboard boxes. Even wild cats, as demonstrated by YouTube videos of bobcats, tigers, leopards etc. love playing in them. I suspect that if you left a fridge-sized cardboard box out on the Serengeti, you’d find a pride of lions sitting in it the next morning.

The second trait of note is that cat species look remarkably alike. They generally have round heads, and their snouts are short. Their gaits are pretty distinctive, and a running cat looks pretty much the same, whether you are watching a cheetah or a Siamese.

And then there is the famous aloofness of cats. Who hasn’t been ignored by Fluffy, queen of the house? They can also be hyper focused, making it very difficult to break their concentration when they are lasered in on some prey item, including humans from time to time. Cue the crouching tiger with twitching tail …

These characteristics are juxtaposed with dogs and their wild kin. Dogs have a bewildering array of skull shapes and sizes, from long-muzzled Afghans to short-faced bull dogs. They also have been bred for a wide range of purposes, with some annoying OCD-like behaviours, whether it’s the need to herd other animals as found in Australian shepherds, or the relentless urge for a blood hound to follow a scent, any scent. Good luck with training a cat to do either of these things.

Why all these cat musings, you may ask? This article was sparked by my observation of a lynx in early December, starting when I came across some fresh tracks going down the Central Trail in Riding Mountain National Park.

The conditions were great for tracking as the trail was covered by a couple of centimetres of fresh snow. Yet the snow cover was thin enough that I could still bicycle along the trail. This point is important, as I find trying to catch up to a wild animal while on foot is almost impossible.

As I say, upon coming across the lynx’s prints, I madly biked down the trail in pursuit. The track was easy to follow, and you could get a sense of the lynx moving through the landscape. At one point it caught and ate a small rodent, judging by the blood-stained snow and the small pile of intestines left behind.

Occasionally the lynx would make forays into the bush, and I would despair that all was lost (I’m basically too lazy to try to follow an animal through dense bush). What drew its attention off the trail, I’m not sure, perhaps it was following the scent of a squirrel or hare. Regardless, luckily the lynx always rejoined the trail and my chase continued.

After about 15 minutes of tracking, covering two kilometers, I cried ‘Bingo!’ There in the distance, perhaps 300 metres ahead of me, was the lynx. Its long legs and pure cat-like movement made identification easy, even without binoculars.

I followed at a distance, trying to remain off its radar. With the lynx so far ahead, I soon lost sight of it around a bend, its tracks the only sign that I was still hot on its trail. I cycled on. Suddenly, judging by the tracks, the lynx had galloped down the trail. Had it spotted me, despite my careful tailing? Had it seen something to eat up ahead and was giving chase?

Whatever the cause, the tracks veered off the trail and into a stand of spruce. I looked around carefully for signs that it had killed something. No luck. Once again I was pretty certain that I had seen the last of the cat, and unlike the song, it wasn’t coming back.

At the same time, I got a sense that something was watching me. I scanned the bushes, then looked up into the spruces. There it was, perched a couple of metres off the ground, resting on the spindliest of dead branches, its fur making it almost invisible against the grey of the tree trunk.

The lynx sat quietly, watching me through half closed eyes, like it was just about to fall asleep. To all appearances it was entirely relaxed, radiating aloofness like any imperious house cat. Taking the hint, I left the area, allowing the cat, in its apparent indifference, to its own devices.

» Ken Kingdon lives in the heart of the Riding Mountain Biosphere Reserve. Send him a text at 204-848-5020 if you have stories to share.