Scout's Birthday

I acquired Scout on 7 October last year, and she was between 10 and 14 days old at the time, so I’m going to arbitrarily choose today as Scout’s birthday. I invited Jordan and Blakey over this afternoon to celebrate. As you can see, I was the only one who got into the spirit. I made a special iTunes playlist with Cat Power, Cat Stevens and Cat Empire, and Scout peed on Blakey’s foot. Jordan felt ridiculous from the get-go. Scout ate her food stingily, jumped off the table, and spent the rest of her party shredding paper towels.  It was all to be expected.

Sorry for the short post today, but enjoy the photos. I hope you're well.

Hanging out on the power brick.

Laying in the lap.

First trip to the vet.

Imprisoned with Jenga blocks.

Grooming on Phil's back.

Solving puzzles of skill.

On the kitchen floor with favorite toy: toilet paper roll.

Today in front of the screen door.

Pets Are So Fun

I have a cat hair in my mouth. I haven’t been licking the cat; I think I inhaled it just now while I was laying on the couch. It’s stuck at the back of my throat, and I’m having trouble getting it out. I’ve had the cat for 11 months now, and she’s come to be a fixture in my Peace Corps experience. After spending the first year of my service alone in my house, it’s been quite pleasant having a companion to come home to. But she is a mess. And cleaning up after her is no easy task; particularly in the developing world.

Hair is a problem. With the heat and humidity so constant in this climate, Scout is a shedding machine. Even in these relatively cool months, I’ll pick her up for just a moment and immediately have 20 hairs stuck to my shirt. I remember having pet hair problems back in The States, which we commonly remedied using the vacuum cleaner or the Dustbuster. But here, I don’t have a vacuum. So I sweep. And I tend to wear shirts with a sprinkle of cat hair.

Going through the kitten phase has also been fun because she’s been an avid shredder. Neither my toilet paper nor my paper towels are mounted on the wall, and for a while there she was particularly skilled at finding whichever roll of paper, knocking it to the floor, and tearing it to shreds. Such paper products are not cheap in these parts, and it’s been really fun budgeting extra rations.

Then there’s the smattering of bodies the small-time-but-accomplished huntress leaves in her wake, which is almost fully comprised of geckos. She’ll bat at the occasional moth, and she likes nothing more than finding a dead cockroach to play with, but lizards are the only real kills for which she can take credit.

With her ever-improving jumping abilities, surfaces that used to be safe have become embattled territory. And since I have no cupboard doors, those shelves have been fair game almost since the beginning. I’ve had to resort to keeping dishes in Tupperware to keep the cat away from them.

I’m sure there will be some adjustment pains once we get back to America, but I’m optimistic that a place where vacuum bags, spray bottles, lint brushes, kitty litter, and wall-mounted paper rolls are readily available, cat maintenance will be easier.

Knock on wood.

I’m going to go clear my throat. I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Bowlful of cat.

I'm such a rebel. I turned in my Common Assessment Test scores to the Ministry of Education, Sports & Culture, but I abbreviated the Ministry's name. Quite the statement, right?

The Other Cat Problem

This time next week I’ll be in Hawaii. The two huge issues that need to be resolved between now and then are the computer CAT (i.e. the Common Assessment Test as discussed Wednesday) and the feline cat who lives in my house. On Wednesday I discussed the former issue, so today I figured we could talk about the latter. I have yet to line up a cat sitter, and time is running out.

Scout isn’t particularly high maintenance, but I’d prefer she be:

• Fed 3 times a day; and
  
• Kept inside.

Only two things. I’m fine with her staying at someone else’s house, or with someone else staying at my house. Nonetheless, my circle of contacts whom I’d trust with my cat and/or my house is limited, and I’m running out of candidates.

The Peace Corps provides a slew of possible sitters, but dates are a big problem. I planned my vacation dates poorly. I work at a Congregationalist school, and our break begins a week before the government schools’ break; this is the week I’ll be gone. Most (or all?) of group 82 works at government schools, as do a handful of 81s. So they’re all out. As far as finding a PCV from within the Congregationalist system, Phil has family coming and Koa is also heading off the island.

I’m fine going outside of the Peace Corps. I have before. My friend Ruane and her family watched the cat for 2 weeks after Christmas while I was in Sydney. My neighbor Maengi occasionally feeds the cat when I’ve left town for the weekend. Both of these arrangements worked out very well, but I fear I’d be asking too much from either. I’d rather spread out the cat responsibilities.

Let’s take a time out for a second. Part of me feels like this blog post is pointlessly dragging you through the minutiae of my life. But I also think this problem is uniquely difficult within the Peace Corps lifestyle. I’m well adapted to my job and my community. I have friends, and I’m on good terms with all of my neighbors. But even with being here a year and a half, I still feel like a bit of a stranger; or at least I feel like I’d have a lot more people in The States who I know well enough that I’d feel comfortable asking to watch my cat for a week.

This is another facet of the difference in the way pets are treated in Samoa versus America. The idea of keeping a cat inside, picking up after her, and feeding her 3 meals of dedicated cat food per day is quite foreign to many of my Samoan friends, and imposing the cat on someone might be awkward for that person, or the cat, or both.

So I’m working my way through the Peace Corps. If I can’t find anyone, I’ll talk to the vet and see if they have any suggestions.

Or maybe I should just put it out on the blog. Anybody want to watch my cat for a week?

I hope you’re well. Picture below.

The small island of Apolima with "little" ferry in foreground.

Cultural Exploration 36: Pets

In America, the term “pet” has evolved over the past century from once meaning “domesti- cated animal” to now meaning “quadrupedal family member”. As the average nuclear family has shrunk from many children to 2.5, the need for companionship has increased, and pets have taken on that role. The pet industry has grown, the veterinarian workforce has expanded, and pet healthcare is becoming more and more of a sensible option. This trend hasn’t taken hold in Samoa as of yet, and so the difference in pet care can be pretty vast.

I remember one day in training, a member of Group 81 came back from lunch totally disgusted. The person’s host sister had kicked the family dog—this wasn’t a disciplinary tap on the nose or chastising the dog for being particularly swarthy or rambunctious. This was a run-of-the-mill kick to let the dog know who was boss, and it captures the head-butt of Samoan culture versus American. On the one hand, pets deserve our adoration; on the other, pets are consigned to their sub-human role.

This conundrum is fully visible in my host family’s dog, Rocky, in Fausaga. Rocky is the paradigm of Loyal Pet. He follows, waits, protects as necessary. And yet my host family gives him the mediocre treatment: table scraps, water where he can get it, a swift thwap! on the head when he needs disciplining. It’s a perplexing back-and-forth. One would expect a maltreated dog to act out, not embody the archetype of the loyal, protective pet. And yet Rocky abides.

This is a far cry from the American pet experience; no chew toys or leashed walks in the park, no visits to the vet or Milkbones, not even a pat on the head or even a makeshift dog house.

Being a pet owner is awkward at this intersection. I keep Scout inside, buy her canned cat food, and had cat toys sent from America. I’ve rarely seen host country nationals treat their pets this way. And yet Farmer Joe offers a wide variety of designated pet food, and Samoans who come to my house don’t think it’s strange the way I treat my cat.

When my student Amanda came to drop off my camera, she was accompanied by her two sisters, and the three played with Scout for a while. “Your cat plays a lot more than ours,” one sister said. It’s probably because Scout is still technically a kitten, but I think it could also be that I play with Scout a lot and she’s used to having a playful relationship with humans. Typical Samoan cats have a rougher life.

Dan 81 made a joke about the whole thing:

Two cats meet up, one fed by the merciless streets of Apia, the other from a well-fed Peace Corps-raised background. ‘So what do you eat most nights?’ the Peace Corps cat asks. 

 ‘Whatever we can find; chicken bones, rice that falls on the floor, maybe a papaya rind,’ the hardened cat replies. ‘How about you?’ 

The pampered cat replies, ‘Oh, I have a little mound of canned chicken with a side of jellymeat.’ 

There’s an awkward silence, and then the hardened cat eats the pampered one.

There’s a feral cat that hangs out on my porch occasionally. It’s missing part of an ear. Scout has run into this cat 2 or 3 times. I’ve pulled her out before there’s been any confrontation, but I’m pretty sure Scout wouldn’t fair well in that fight.

Tomorrow’s cultural exploration: Mt. Vaea.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Rocky is one of the best dogs I've ever met.

Scout laying in the warmth of fresh laundry.

A Tail with No End

There’s a gecko that hides out behind the Obama placard on my wall. He’s relatively big, and when he runs out from under the placard, the rhythm of his feet on the hollow drywall sounds like thunder. Right now, it’s a cozy Sunday evening, and I may be anthropomorphizing a little, but it looks like he’s got a lady over. In fact, his mojo just set off a fascinating chain of events. The whole thing started when he let out a mating call, and then chased his uo teine under his Obamaroof.

Gecko thunder drives the cat wild. In this case, she comes running out from under one of the chairs, and then perches at the corner end of the wall, trying to find the source.

“Up, Scout. Up,” I say from the couch, pointing to the placard. The cat turns and looks at me. “Up! Up!” She walks around the corner, leaving my sight.

“Fine. Dummy,” I mutter. I go back to what I’m doing, amused by my housemates.

A bigger clatter in the dining room. First the sound of gecko thunder, and then empty thud of the cat slamming into the drywall under her own unchecked momentum. From my spot on the couch, it only takes a slight lean to get a direct line of sight on the cat. She’s clearly in predator mode. I squint. “Did you catch one?!” I ask.

Cats are big into leaving dead animals in prominent places as a means of showing off their work and, in their minds, making the owner proud. Sometimes to amuse myself, I tell the cat I think she’s great, but what I really want is a dead lizard on my chest when I wake up in the morning. Yes. I live alone, and I talk to my cat. Hooray for the Peace Corps lifestyle.

In any case, the geckos in my house are wily, and the poor cat seldom sees action. But from across the room I make out four reptilian claws hanging from her mouth.

Scout’s still technically a kitten, and she seems unsure what to do next. She shakes the gecko a little, but not violently. Finally, she drops him on the floor.

The lizard, thanking his lucky stars, takes off, darting toward the floorboards near the bathroom. The cat, who I admit could use more practice chasing the laser dot, takes off after him.

At this point, they run out of my sight. I grab the camera and run out to the kitchen. At first I’m confused by what I find. Scout definitely has something wriggling in her mouth, but it’s far too small to be the gecko. Whatever it is, she spits it on the floor, where it continues to writhe and squirm.

“What is that?” I ask her. She too is baffled, staring intently at it, cocking her head to the side.

And then I realize what it is: the gecko’s tail. When a gecko’s in a bind, it can detach its tail without being harmed. Sure enough, I spot Scout’s prey motionless on the floor, 6 inches from her.

He isn’t in much danger though because the oblivious cat is transfixed by the wriggling tail. I have to hand it to the gecko—the mere ditching his tail is certainly an evolutionary innovation, but it would have all been for naught without the wriggle. The wriggle mesmerizes the cat.

When the time is right, the gecko takes off across the bathroom floor. Scout loses again.

Now I’m back on the couch, and I can still hear strange noises coming from under the Obama placard.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

When I arrived on Friday afternoon, I sat down to a tea party with Akanese and Keleme.

Akanese is starting to read. She's taken over my responsibility as reader of the bible during evening prayer. It's amazing how good she is, but I guess it's amazing how much easier it is to read a phonetic language. Stupid English.

Me with Naku and her daughter.

Naku has quite the sense of humor, and posed for the camera with a rock on her head.

Asolima after the All Clear.

Cat Picture Sunday: Whenever I wash dishes, Scout comes and sits on the shelf underneath the sink, periodically poking her head out.

Scout

On October 7 of last year—the same day Group 82 arrived in Samoa—just after their ’Ava ceremony, I was hanging out in the Resource Room in the Peace Corps office when Rosie 79 asked if I wanted a kitten. As it turned out, Hannah 79 (who is a veterinarian) acquired a kitten that had been rejected by its mother. It was less than 2 weeks old and would need to be bottle fed every 3 hours until it could eat on its own. So took in a kitten. She was only supposed to be here for the 3 to 5 weeks of bottle-feeding, and once she was eating on her own she would be adopted by a more permanent owner.

As the first order of business, I gave her a name. I’m a big fan of literature-inspired names, and so I decided on “Scout” as in Finch. Now, I tend to prefer dogs as pets, but as Scout slowly grew into her name and her personality, it became increasingly clear that she was here to stay.

She was an immediate hit among the slow-but-steady stream of guests that come through my house. Cute, cuddly, and cautiously friendly, kittens have a fairly easy time winning over hearts and minds. Except for the whole potty-training thing. For a while there she was using the corner of the living room as an impromptu litter box, but she’s gotten better about that.

It’s nice to have companion. She usually greets me at the door when I come home, and I feel slightly less crazy talking to her than I did talking to myself. She has a feisty, slightly abusive streak and enjoys wrestling my hand, and she’s got a terrible habit of attacking the back of your leg when you walk through the house. She plays with damn near everything. Once she started playing with power cords and wires too much, I asked my family in The States to send some actual cat toys. Among other things, they sent a laser pointer, which provides hours of entertainment for both me and the cat.

I’m not used to having a dependent. I try and get out to the host village once a month, and I’ve been trying to get out to Savai’i more often. Briony 80 has fed the cat on a number of occasions, but twice the cat has made the ferry ride and bus trip out to Phil’s house. Samoans look at me like I’m crazy carrying a cardboard box with crudely cut air holes. Whatev.

The tentative plan is Scout will return to The States with me at the end of my Peace Corps service. I’m still not exactly sure on how this will work and what company I need to go through. From what I hear, it’s pretty easy getting an animal out of Samoa because there are actually fewer diseases here than in The States because of the isolation inherent in an island. There’s no rabies here.

But I haven’t started worrying about that yet. And for the cat, the big concern right now is chasing that damn red dot.

There. That’s my big secret. The cat’s out of the bag.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Scout just after she moved in.

For a brief time there, Scout had a love affair with the warmth of my laptop's power brick.

Grading papers with Cale.

Napping on Paul's lap in the Savai'i office.

Cat and mouse.

Scout when she first moved in resting in my flipflop.

Scout tonight sitting next to same flipflops.