I have learnt to speak fluent cat
In our house, the cat doesn’t do much in the way of meowing or mewling or mewing. He doesn’t trill or chitter or chat. He doesn’t growl or hiss or spit. What he does is badger. From first thing in the morning he is at it, relentlessly emitting his badgersome noises, badgering around, on the badgery prowl for something to fill his stomach.
Apart, that is, from the 23-and-a-half hours a day when he is making his other noise: snoring. Or at least that was what I always thought, until I happened across the work of an American vet called Gary Weitzman. He reckons domestic cats are capable of making 30 different sounds, including up to 19 variations on the simple meow, of which at least a dozen will be unique to each individual. And all of it, every mew and meow, every throaty rumble, every yowl and howl, is replete with feline meaning.
This is a sophisticated communications system. To help owners pick their way through the complexities of such a cipher for things they wouldn’t otherwise say, turning ever-more adult in his apparent preoccupations as they grew up. “Yeah,” they would latterly have him saying, “just seen that tabby that’s moved over the road. She’s dead fit. Fancy her. Or I would if you hadn’t taken me down the vet when I were a kitten.”
Linguistic analysis
Now here is Weitzman suggesting they were not being altogether fanciful. There is, clearly, more depth to our cat’s noises than I initially assumed. So, armed with Weitzman’s book, I have spent the past couple of days in close linguistic analysis of our mog’s utterances to see if I can pick my way through his meaning. And here is my conclusion.
A badgery noise (uttered at any time of day or night, with relentless, remorseless focus): I want food and I want it now. A more disdainful badgery noise (uttered the moment said food has been served up on his plate): Call this food? I don’t really care if the packaging does claim its scientifically devised antioxidant formula provides balanced nutrients essential to the support of healthy cardiac function. It tastes like sawdust. Well, it smells as if it would taste like sawdust. I’ve not actually deigned to taste it. Snortingly disdainful badgering: Take it away and replace it with whatever it is you are about to eat. Especially if that’s tuna. Sniffily superior badgering: No point leaving it there. Frankly, you and I both know the longer you leave it out, the less likely I am to eat it. Inquisitive badgering: Oh, you’re in here? Right, well I’m going to sit in the corner, pretending I’m not really bothered you are in here, that I’m just here by coincidence, before getting up when you leave the room and following you out.
Slightly higher-pitched badgering, executed as he jumps in your lap: Actually I want to go to sleep here. On this armchair. The one you’re sitting in. Low, rumbly badgering: I’ve made it quite clear what it is that I want and what you have to do. So I will continue to knead my claws into your thigh until such point as you surrender the armchair entirely to me.
Grumbly badgering: Why haven’t you got up yet? Annoyed badgering: OK, have it your way. See that new carpet you’ve just put on the stairs? Perfect for sharpening claws. Triumphant badgering: Got a little present for you. Even more triumphant badgering: Left it on the duvet in the spare room. Yet more triumphant badgering: Word of advice - when you go up to see what it is, might be best to take a pair of Marigolds with you. Needy badgering: What’s that you’re doing? Very needy badgering: Why didn’t you tell me you’re opening a tin of tuna?
Disdainful badgering: The nice old lady next door gives me king prawns and all I get here is the lid of a tuna tin to lick. Rest assured, soon as I’ve finished, I’m moving in next door. Pleading badgering: Any more in that tin?