Smart Animals

Animals are more resourceful than we imagine

Cat Colony SYEDA BOKHARI

We live in a first-floor apartment and below our balcony is a low wall, with jagged pieces of broken glass fixed to the top of it.

Back in 2008, a tabby cat with a black head and brown patches brought her newborn kittens into our home via our balcony. She climbed the dangerous wall below, bringing the three kittens in one by one. We then made the mistake of allowing the young family to live in our storeroom for a few weeks until the kittens were mature. We felt we could not have sent them away as they were very weak and helpless and probably would not have survived on the streets.

But no matter how cute, their shrill meows and squeaks would get incredibly annoying, not to mention the mother cat, who we named Amman (mother). She was often found nosing around in places she was not allowed to go, namely the kitchen.

As the weeks passed, we saw the kittens grow up and the family eventually left their sanctuary. However, after about eight months, Amman came back and gave birth to another litter of three tiny fur balls, this time on our balcony. We ignored the disadvantages and once again allowed the family to make themselves at home.

Amman gave birth one more time, again granting us the honour of hosting her and her kittens. She then passed on the secret behind her success at producing an entire separate population of cats comprising of just her own

offspring. And a couple of months later, we found ourselves hosting the family of one of her daughters, who made herself at home.

This has been going on ever since. Generation after generation, our home is now the official birthplace and temporary living quarters for the children and grandchildren of the famous old tabby, Amman.

Presently, our balcony is the residence of a male descendant, who of course spends most of his day on the balcony sleeping.

A Songbird and a Shepherd at Christmastime DANIELLE HAIGH

It was Christmas 1989 and I was newly married and living in Margaret River, which back then was just a small Western Australian town – and five hours’ drive from my family and friends.

I was heartbroken when Ross, my ‘Bah Humbug’ husband, rushed out to go surfing without even a “Merry Christmas” to acknowledge the day.

As I sat outside, crying, homesick and close to driving back to the people who understood me, a magpie flew into the garden. He walked right up to me and stood at my feet, only a centimetre or two from my toes, looked into my face and began warbling a song.

I was so surprised I couldn’t help smiling. After it finished its greeting song, the bird turned and flew away.

Moments later, a big, furry-coated German Shepherd dog walking along our quiet rural street turned into our driveway, walked up to me, nuzzled my hands, then sat beside me and let me pat his back.

After a while, the dog looked up at me, licked my hand, then strolled off the property to continue his walk, never to be seen again.

I laughed in amazement at these two encounters that had cleared my heartache, revitalised my Christmas spirit and allowed me the breathing space to keep working at understanding the differences between my husband and myself.

Thirty years later we are still married, in part because of those moments with a magpie and a dog that took time out of their day to provide comfort.