Buch lesen: «The Secret Language Of Cats»

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MY FIRST CATS

Humans and cats: two different species with a common language that bridges the divide between them—is such a thing even possible? Up until now, science has not been able to provide an answer. Yet many cat owners are already persuaded that their own cats can speak. As a cat fancier, I am completely convinced and insist: of course they can speak! But there is also the scientist in me, and she says: I am going to investigate! So it is hardly surprising that I started to examine the thesis “cats have a language” using the scientific method and tools of my discipline, phonetics.

My scientific interest is admittedly directed toward the verbal expressions of cats. Are there “words” that all cats have in common? Can we even call them words? And is there a language that we as humans can understand independently from a cat’s other behavior, something that we as humans can study, understand and apply?

But before we start our scientific investigations, let us get to know our five “subjects,” the five cats with whom my husband and I share our home: Donna, Rocky, Turbo, Vimsan and Kompis. They are the source of our happiness and the reason for my scientific interest.

I am an early riser. Even if I am still sleepy, I get out of bed and make breakfast for the cats. This morning ritual is the first chance every day to talk to my cats and see how they are doing. Like any other ritual, the breakfast ceremony has a structure.

First, I greet Vimsan, who usually sleeps on the couch in our guest room. While I fill her bowl with food, she hurries toward me, her tail held high, nuzzles and rubs against my legs, jumps onto the sink and mews softly, as though she wants to say “Good morning, It’s nice that you are up already. I am hungry.”

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I say. Most of the time, she leaps for joy, nudges my hand with her head and trills. Brrrt. “Thank you.”

The triplets—Turbo, Rocky and Donna—are up next. They stand expectantly in front of the kitchen door and greet me with soft trills. Again, brrrt, but this time in the sense of “Good morning!” Turbo, our gourmand, who is always up for a treat or a meal, jumps straight onto the counter in the kitchen, trills, purrs and rubs his head against my hand while I prepare his food. I speak softly to all three: “Hi, my darlings. It’s great that you are up already. Breakfast will be ready in a second.”

Rocky stands on his hind legs, and lifts himself up with his front paws against my knees, where he drawls a me-aw, which I take to mean “Oh, that smells good, I want some, too!”

Donna springs gracefully onto a kitchen chair, looks at me expectantly and finally produces an impatient, demanding mrhrnaaauuu-hi! Finally, all three of them are in their places and chew eagerly, dedicated to their task.

Kompis has spent the night on his favorite blanket on the footstool in the hall. He stretches and expands to his considerable size, which stands in stark contrast to his bright (with acoustically high resonances) baby meow, mmeeeheee. “Don’t forget about me, I am hungry, too!” When I put his bowl in its place, he rubs his head against my leg and trills softly, “Thanks!” “You’re welcome, my friend,” I answer and gently pet his neck.

Then I go out into the garden, where one of the neighbor’s cats, Graywhite, resides in her new basket in front of the kitchen window. “Good morning, Gray- white,” I say. “Did you sleep well?” When she sees me, she stretches slowly and casually climbs the woodpile with the reasonable expectation that I will put her breakfast on top of it. Graywhite is still very reserved in her behavior with me. I approach her with the necessary caution and try to pet her gently on the forehead. She protests immediately, Mee, mee! “No, I do not want that today.” “Okay, sorry, I just wanted to say good morning,” I say, and go back into the house, where the other cats are waiting for me. The ritual is concluded. All of the cats are satisfied. My day can begin.

The morning ritual with my cats is always interesting. It puts me in a good mood and makes my day more relaxed. Our exchanges, our way of saying “good morning” to one another and of having breakfast together is simply the best way of beginning the day. Even if the procedure always follows the same pattern, the cats continue to surprise me with slight variations. It is always a mixture of friendly and cheerful sounds which vary in their nuances. By now, I can interpret them really well. As a result, I understand my cats better and better.

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

You have surely figured it out already. I am a fan of cats—a kattatant, as we say in my language, Swedish. I cannot imagine life without cats. And it has been that way for as long as I can remember.

So I have always looked for, and found, opportunities to get to know cats better, to observe them and to study them. Because I am a phonetician by profession, that is to say, I study the sounds of human speech for a living, I have primarily studied the verbal expressions— the vocalizations—of cats when they interact with other cats as well as with people. The great diversity of different sounds and their nuances is astonishing and differs from cat to cat. The study of this diversity is unending.

And yet there are general patterns in the sounds of almost all the cats I have met. My experience and my discoveries are summarized here and may serve as a kind of phrase book for other cat fanciers. It might help them understand their cats better.

When we understand what our cats are saying better because we are able to listen more precisely, our mutual understanding will be greater. Our relationship to our cats and their relationship to us will be more intense. We will be able to understand and fulfill their needs better and more quickly.

I have loved cats for as long as I can remember. Although we did not have cats at home when I was a child, I asked for one every year, both for Christmas and for my birthday, though I only ever got stuffed animals…

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I was able to invite real, living cats into my home. I got my first feline companions from friends and relatives, who either did not want to or could not keep them anymore.

That is how I made the acquaintance of the friendly black-and-white and slightly stiff-legged tomcat Fox, often referred to as “Fox the Hyper” by his previous owner. His nickname was no coincidence. He was always getting agitated about the smallest little things. But as soon as he arrived at my place and left his carrier to probe the terrain of my two-bedroom apartment, he was friendly, gentle and curious. He purred, tried out the food I had put in his new food bowl, made himself comfortable on my bed—and fell asleep.

It was love at first sight, and we lived happily together for many years. When the day that all animal lovers fear came, I had to take a last trip with my old and very sick friend and have him put to sleep. Although I suffered, a life without cats was unthinkable for me. So my husband, Lars, and I took in “vacation cats” and played cat sitters while the cats’ owners were away.

Among our favorite guests were the Birman females,

Ludmilla and Estrella, who were as elegant as they were distant, as well as the graceful and highly intelligent gray tabby, Kisseson.

The somewhat fearful but very social beautiful fat black male cat Vincent stayed with us two or three times a year for a few years. Because I liked him so much (and because he hated car rides and carriers so much), we often extended his stays with us in that I returned him to his owners much later than planned.

After a few years, he was finally able to come live with us as our roommate. For seven years, we lived together, loved him, took care of him daily, fed him according to dietary recommendations, and injected him with insulin (he had come down with diabetes) twice a day. The closer he came to his end, the more medicine he needed. At the end we had to give him nine different pills twice a day. He hated it. We needed all of our creativity to convince him to swallow them. The trick that finally did it was the treat afterward.

With Vincent sleeping next to me on his blanket on my desk, I studied linguistics and phonetics, and wrote my doctoral thesis. When he passed away in 2010, we were in despair. I suffered as I had years earlier when Fox passed on. My husband, who is also a great cat fancier, swore, “No more cats. Never again.”

Three Cat Kids

“Never again?” Just a few months after Vincent left us, the longing was there again. I started to coax the two neighbor cats—who often passed through our backyard— into our house and fed them treats. I looked at ads for cats that were available for adoption almost every day, and stumbled on a post online about three young black siblings that needed a new home.