Now and again I stop to marvel at how effectively animals and people can communicate, especially considering that we don't share a spoken language. Fig is no slouch in the communciation department, and he doesn't even use feline verbal language, except on very rare occasions. His primary voice is the silent meow, a breathless "hah" to signal that he wants attention - usually food or to be let out onto the porch. He uses his plumed tail to beckon - if he wants to be fed, he will find the nearest available human, walk up to them, and combine his silent meow with a soulful look. Then he will turn around and head for the kitchen, slightly twitching his tail and stopping at the doorway to be sure he is being followed. When he engaged in this behavior with a houseguest, she told me that Fig was trying to "take her out." Not knowing the context of her remark, at first I thought she worried that he was going to attack and kill her. Too many gangster movies, I guess. When I understood what she meant, I was impressed yet again by Fig's cross-species communication savvy.
Fig also knows how to galvanize people (namely me) into action. As his kidney disease has progressed, he has the occasional "accident," sending me scurrying for the cleaning solution and an armload of paper towels. Now, if I am a few hours behind on the litterbox cleaning schedule, he will saunter over to a bookcase or other spot and begin sniffing intently, with one ear cocked back, all the better to hear when I've gotten his message, grabbed the scoop, and headed for the litter box.
My cat, Athena, will lead me into different rooms. When I am in the bathroom, she will sometimes stand in the doorway, squeak, and head to the bedroom. If I don't follow her, she returns, does the same thing, approaches me slightly, and when I reach out to touch her, she scampers toward the bedroom, as if to say, "Hey, Dummy, don't you understand what I want?"
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