Calvin is a city cat. Nine years ago, Calvin came into our lives via an
inner-city pub, where she was discovered by Mr. S. drinking beer out of
an ashtray (Calvin, not Mr. S), and obviously abandoned. Mr. S. was
celebrating the Swans first win following a 22 match losing streak.
Much overdue at home, Mr. S decided that Calvin would be his peace offering to me, and thus he perpetrated the perfect catnap.
I opened the front door to discover Mr. S, glassy-eyed, swaying
slightly, with a sooty bundle of fluff in his jacket pocket. Joy
was confined. I suppose it was better than a half-dead bunch of
carnies, or a meat-tray, but not much.
Mr. S. wanted to call her Plugger, after the hero of the hour, but
morning revealed Calvin curled up on a small stuffed tiger, and because
we are both addicted to the Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip (in which
Hobbes is a small stuffed tiger while adults are in the room, and an
honest-to-goodness walking, talking tiger when he is out and about with
Calvin, his young, scruffy, human pal), Calvin she became.
The careful reader will have gathered by now that our knowledge of
feline anatomy is non-existent. It took a visit to the vet to
confirm that Calvin was - indeed, still is - a girl, and by then it was
too late.
She's been Calvin ever since, which might explain her dyspeptic
temperament. Now the size of a Shetland pony, she is a formidable
sight - solid black, long-haired, eyes the colour of amber, she's a
splendid looking creature with a heart of pure malice.
Calvin's a biter. Such an unattractive character trait, and no
amount of remonstrating on our part will cause her to desist. She
refuses to be picked up, and the only expression of affection she will
tolerate from us is to grudgingly submit to having the top of her head
scratched.
I think she likes us, although it can be hard to tell. She is
quite companionable, and always wants to be where we are, but only on
her own terms.
Calvin hates car travel, and the move to the country was traumatic for
her. She howled and wailed all the way up in the truck, and
refused to speak to us for several days afterwards.
Eventually, she began to venture outside, where, suitably belled, she
began to encounter the local wildlife. Given Calvin's
enthusiastic attempts to devour her owners, we had always assumed her
to be a carnivore. Thus far the birds appear to have nothing to
fear. Calvin has quickly perfected that basilisk, middle distance
stare that refuses to recognize anything that might be a challenge to
her dignity. The wood ducks in particular are at eyeball level,
and happily grub around in the garden for hours right under her nose.
Her first snow-fall was a revelation. 5cm of fresh snow, and
there was Calvin, tip-toeing through the garden, looking like an ageing
duchess valiantly hitching up her skirts, as she endeavoured to find a
solid surface.
Poor Calvin - she'd probably rather be at the pub.
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Change of Life 
