Darlinghurst Blog: Animal Life: Ralf the Cat

I've been a bit quiet on the blogging front recently and that's mainly because I've been feeling a bit blurgh. I've wasted far too much time watching television series on my laptop and being generally unproductive and uninspired. Adding to this general malaise is the fact that my muse appears to have left the neighbourhood.

I first met Ralf the cat in 2010 when I moved back to Darlinghurst and set up house in Royston Street. I didn't know his name for a long time, but would often stop with him to pat and chat.

It seemed that every time I went outside, Ralf was hanging about somewhere, a regular presence in the street.

You didn't have to search hard to find him: just look for the sunniest, warmest spot in the street and Ralf would be there. 

During the day Ralf would sleep in whatever sunny pocket he could find, whether it was on a car, in a garden bed or even in the middle of the road. 

But cars were a particular favourite, especially when the motor was still warm. 

I once watched as a driver returned to their car to find Ralf asleep on the bonnet. The driver sat behind the wheel and started the engine, but Ralf didn't move. He simply woke slowly from his slumber, looked at the driver and sat there staring.

One time I saw Ralf taunting Digger the dog on Craigend Street. (Digger was also a regular street character, but moved out of the area earlier this year after nipping one of the children in his house.)

Digger was madly barking behind his fence at the cheeky cat who would dare come near his home. Ralf strolled by, barely giving the dog a glance. 

I admired this about Ralf, his carefree, fearless, don't give a damn attitude and often wished I could be the same.

If Ralf was crossing the road and a car came along, he wouldn't run to get out of the way, but just continue sauntering on with his tail in the air.

If you stopped and gave him pats and he purred and you thought that you had won him over for life, he would then completely ignore you the next day.

He just had that way about him. And because he was so difficult to win over, it made me even more determined to be his friend.

So no matter where I was going, or even if I was running late, I always made sure to stop and say hello to Ralf, give him a rub under his neck and pat the dust and malting fur off his back. 

During these days of wooing him, I often wondered where Ralf lived. 

Once I had seen him jump out the ground floor bathroom window of a neighbouring apartment block. Another time, I saw him go into the building of the man with the umbrella, who lives in my street. 

Other times I spotted Ralf loitering around on Craigend Street and as far away as the little park on Nimrod Street. So he may not have lived in Royston Street at all.

Ralf soon became familiar with my attentions and the way I would call out, 'Ralf!' in a sort of loud, breathy whisper when I saw him. And it seemed his attitude towards me started to soften.

One night, while coming home late, I saw him sitting on the bonnet of a large 4WD and just by habit called out his name: 'Ralf!'

Ralf leapt off the car and ran towards me where he was greeted by his usual pats. 

Then as I said goodbye and walked towards my home, he followed me, right inside the door, up the stairs and into my apartment.

He soon became a regular guest.

I'd see him on the street, call out 'Ralf!' and he'd trot along with me to my door.

Once I called out 'Ralf!' and he followed me all the way across Craigend Street and down to Ward Avenue, about 500m away.

In my apartment, I would place a dish on the kitchen floor and feed him cheese and ham and milk and whatever I could find of interest to him in the fridge. 

I eventually started buying little packets of Dine cat food from the supermarket and always made sure I had ample supply in case Ralf should visit.

He was rather picky about what he ate and would occasionally refuse to eat the new Dine flavour I had bought him, such as Turkey in a Delicious Gravy or Country Chicken. 

When that happened he would just sit in the kitchen expecting me to dish something else up.

I refused to pander to this behaviour and would just ignore him. 

But it didn't happen often, as Ralf mostly had a ferocious appetite - which only added to the mystery of his living arrangements. 

Did anyone feed him regularly? Where did he go when he wasn't in the street? 

Yet despite his apparent independence, he was always wearing a different new fashionable collar, strung with a metal circle engraved with his name. So clearly he had a home somewhere.

Once he had eaten his fill, Ralf would stand by my front door, waiting to be let back out into the street.

At first, the visits didn't last long.

But soon, Ralf began to make himself at home. 

Instead of standing at the front door when he finished eating, he would stay awhile and keep me company.

I'll never forget the day when I was lying on my bed reading and he climbed onto my back, padded around to make himself comfortable and then fell asleep.

It was a rather uncomfortable 10 minutes, but his presence was still a comfort to me nonetheless.

One day I saw the man with an umbrella talking to Ralf, so I went up and asked him if he was his owner. 

The man said "No, Ralf just comes up to eat sometimes. He visits a few different people in the street." 

"I think he lives in that apartment over there," the man said, waving to the place where I'd seen Ralf emerge from the bathroom window. 

So Ralf really did have a home. And I wasn't his only friend.

Still, I liked to think that Ralf preferred me best, especially when I returned home one day and found him waiting for me in the pot plant outside my door, showing off his latest collar.

The last time Ralf came to my apartment was on 23 March this year. 

It was a Saturday night and I had a friend over and Ralf joined us for dinner. 

He didn't visit long, despite us imploring him to stay. He just stood by the front door and waited for me to let him out.

About a week after that I saw him on Nimrod Street at night, walking towards the little park that opens on to Caldwell Street. I called 'Ralf!' but he didn't respond and I had the feeling that he didn't want to chat or be patted. In fact, he practically scampered off, as if he didn't know me.

I shrugged my shoulders and went home alone. 

I didn't know then that it would be the last time I saw him.

It has been two months now and there has been no sign of Ralf. 

There's no cat lounging on bonnets or lurking in bushes. No cat to pat and chat, no cat to call out to, and no cat to follow me home.

Royston Street just isn't the same, it almost feels dead without his presence.

At first I thought he had maybe gone on a short trip away, as his disappearance coincided with the school holidays. I would arrive home in hope, expecting to see his furry face.

But I have now accepted that he is gone for good.

I often wonder about him and where he is living. 

Is he out exploring a new neighbourhood? Or is he trapped in an apartment, with no outside access? 

Is he well fed? Is he happy? Has he made new friends?

I may never know, but I'll always keep a small packet of Dine in the cupboard in case he returns.

Darlinghurst Blog: Animal Life: Minky the Street Cat

Feeling restless one recent steamy Darlinghurst night, I decided to go on an evening slink around the neighbourhood; to wander the backstreets, tire myself out with the Burton Street hill and hopefully come across something interesting. It didn't take long.

Pasted up on a telegraph pole on Farrell Avenue was a letter to the 'residents and carers of our dear street cat'. 

Minky the street cat - a fine looking feline - is apparently Farrell Avenue's own version of Ralf, (except that Royston Street's Ralf does have an 'owner' and his own Facebook account).

So I was saddened to read about Minky the Street Cat's recent brush with an unleashed, aggressive dog.

The letter read:

"Minky was badly mauled by a nasty Staffordshire bull terrier (which was NOT on a leash) last Saturday (5/1/13) in the park where she sleeps.

"She would have died but for our quick attention to her plight.

"Our wonderful Rose Bay vet saved her life that night. To date she has not incurred any infection. Her 'will to live' was undiminished despite some horrible injuries. She has had two surgical procedures to get her back on her wobbly feet.

"I know many of you have been worried about her welfare for a long time and I hope it will be better safeguarded in future. 

"With the more recent proliferation of dogs in the vicinity (especially of unleashed aggressive dogs) she needs to be protected henceforth.

"If you want any further information about her, please feel free to give me a call on 0417 294 014, Darryl."

Awwww, poor little Minky! 

But good on Darryl for taking her to the vet and ensuring she was OK. 

I wonder now what they will do to introduce her back to the little park on Farrell Avenue. 

I might take her a little care package, with an assortment of Ralf's favourite Dines, and leave it at the foot of the telegraph pole.

Long live Minky!

Darlinghurst Blog: Lost and Found: Lost Tot

"LOST. Have you seen my cat, Tot? He was last seen in front of my home in Berwick Lane, Darlinghurst, 11am, Sunday the 23rd of December 2012. 

"He is grey all over with a white chest and socks. Needs medication as he is 19-years-old. 

"Wasn't wearing collar as he is an indoor cat.

"REWARD if returned. Please call if you have seen Tot. 

"Dearly missed and fretted after. Owner heartbroken. Call 0405 178 509."

Oh, poor Tot. And poor Tot's owner. I feel so sorry for them. I would be devastated if Ralf ever disappeared. Please keep an eye out for Tot!

Darlinghurst Blog: Detritus: Darlinghurst December Daze

Tomatoes. Rich red, ripe tomatoes. I spotted these lovely, shiny, big red tomatoes at Harris Farm Markets in Kings Cross last week and I couldn't help but think of Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodovar. He loves a good tomato and the fruit features prominently in many of his films. 

I visit the cinema about once a year and it is usually to see Almodovar films. His latest, The Skin I Live In, was released last week, but I haven't seen it yet and I suppose I haven't done much of anything recently, except work, mooch around the neighbourhood and dream.

There was a sunny day earlier this month sometime: the sky was a brilliant Sydney blue, the temperature made it up into the mid-20s and I felt like jumping into the fountain at Kings Cross.
But I didn't.
I regret that now.

Also this month I spotted a flier taped to the light-pole on the corner of Craigend Street and Darlinghurst Road advertising a room available for a "working person or student" for $130 week and no bills. I fit the criteria and briefly considered moving in with Peter and saving a motza on rent, but then I changed my mind and decided I like living alone after all.

With that decision made, but also a desire to save money on rent, I thought about buying this doll-house from the Surry Hills Markets.  My grand vision was to set the house up under some bushes in the little no-name park on the corner of Nimrod and Craigend streets. 

I would plant a little garden around it and build a path made of pebbles leading to the front door. 

All I had to do was shrink myself and my belongings. 

That is when my great idea came unstuck.

Another day I saw a massive cloud of smoke outside my kitchen window and thought to myself, "for once those Darlinghurst firies have a real fire on their books". 

But I never heard any sirens. And when I looked out the window one hour later, there was no more smoke. For days afterwards I wondered who put that fire out.

On the night of the blood moon I ended up with some friends down at the East Sydney Hotel - the one with no pokies. We sat there for hours, drinking beer and staring at the moon.
There were loads of French chaps also staring at the moon and then a woman with a guitar arrived and sat down with us and started playing the instrument and we all sang along.
It was a beautiful, romantic moment until I spotted a man wearing the most bizarre triangular-shaped bag on his back. I pointed it out to my friend and asked her if she knew what the hell it was. She said she didn't know. And so I continue to wonder.

For one brief moment I had another brilliant idea: to buy a new and expensive camera so that the photographs on my blog would look half-decent. This idea came to me as I was walking past the Leica shop on Clarence Street in the CBD, so I wandered in to have a look and left about one hour later after being talked through the new Leica, the latest Canon and this sexy little Nikon. 

It was all very interesting but I decided I didn't need a new camera after all. 

I also spent about one hour perusing the shelves at the dollar shop, KX Giftland, in the Kings Cross Shopping Centre, beneath the Coca-Cola sign.
The shop is one of the most fascinating in the neighbourhood and sells everything imaginable, from silicon rings to fry eggs in, towelling hoods for drying your hair, as well as a vast range of costumes, including a "Night Before Christmas" bikini set for just $12.50.
It's a strange little stocking filler and - although I'm yet to be convinced - apparently "One size fits most".

One Tuesday night I went to the Flinders Hotel to see some bands.
They were supposed to start at 9pm, but the first act didn't go on until about 10.30pm, by which time I had consumed a quantity of beer that was not conducive to live-music listening and so I - and many others in the pub - became those annoying people who continue to have loud conversations while a poor, struggling musician tries to play their songs.
I'm still ashamed about that now.

One Sunday I walked past my favourite big fat Greek cafe, Ithaka Kafeneion at Llankelly Place, and there was a man cooking souvlaki on a barbecue out the front. For the next week I couldn't stop thinking about that souvlaki and how it might taste. 

A week later I convinced a friend to come with me to Ithaka Kafeneion, but when we arrived I realised I was pretty close to broke and the souvlaki cost $20 a plate. My friend was also broke so we decided to buy one serve and split it down the middle. 

It was delicious. The lamb was marinated and tender and lived up to my expectations. 

When I have some money I think I will go back and have a whole serve to myself.

Just the other night, the day before pay day, my friend invited me to his birthday drinks at Love Tilly Devine, hidden down Crown Lane in the Darlinghurst flatlands. 

It was quite a balmy evening so I put on an ankle-length summer frock and some ridiculously stupid heels and walked down the hill from home. 

It took a long time because the heels were kind of clunky. 

When I finally arrived, it felt good to see my friend on his birthday but he is a wine buff so the waitress kept on recommending bottles from France that cost about $85 each. 

It was a bit expensive for me. Also, in the back of my mind was the pinata I had promised to make for Christmas Day. I knew that if I didn't go home and behave myself and make some glue there would be no bloody pinata, so I bid farewell after just two glasses and set off home to get stuck into some paper mache magic. 

On the way home I spotted the cat that hangs about my street, Ralf, loitering on the corner of Nimrod Street, quite a distance - in cat terms - from his home. 

I called his name and unexpectedly, he followed me all the way down the street to my front door, inside, up the stairs and into my apartment. 

Once inside, he ran straight for the refrigerator and started making really loud meowing noises that I had never heard him make before. 

I went over to him and he looked at me, meowed, looked at the fridge and meowed again. 

It didn't take a genius to realise what he wanted. 

I haven't done much food shopping recently. 

I always have coffee and porridge but I had a feeling human breakfast food wouldn't go down for old Ralfie. He's not a dog.

So I opened the fridge door and Ralf tried to climb into it - I had to hold him back with one hand while I rustled about inside with the other. 

I found some cold meat that was only about three days old and as I pulled it out of the fridge and out of its wrapping, Ralf meowed like a mad cat.

I put the meat down on the floor on top of some paper towel, so he wouldn't make a mess, and he set to work while I cleaned my teeth and prepared for bed. I was too exhausted for pinata.

When I walked back into the kitchen Ralf was gone and so was the meat. 

I went back into the main room and there was Ralf, standing at the front door, ready to leave.

I walked him back outside and bid farewell, but he just ran off into the street and didn't even acknowledge me. 

The following night I turned down all offers of drinks and dutifully went home to make the pinata. Making the glue was the easy bit. I then had to blow up a balloon and make cones out of cardboard, which I sticky-taped to the balloon to create a star. 

On the first attempt, the balloon popped. 

I blew a smaller balloon for the second attempt.

I ran some newspaper strips through the glue and smoothed them all over the balloon and cardboard cones in lots of layers.

It has now been 24 hours since I covered the balloon and it shows no signs of drying. 

I fear the pinata will not be ready for Christmas Day and will instead hang around in a quiet corner of my apartment for the next two months until I decide I really must do something with it and the only thing for a pinata is a South American-style party. 

I will probably think about that idea for a week or so and perhaps even plan a Mexican-inspired menu. But then it will all just become too hard, I suppose. 

The margaritas would be easy, but I don't really like the idea of making mini-burritos and -tacos for finger food. That would take forever.

Instead, for now, I will just concentrate on Christmas Day and try and come up with some kind of invention, which I will call a pinata, but which won't really be a pinata because the real pinata never dried on time. 

I'm thinking of just filling balloons with lollies, hanging them from a tree and letting the blind-folded family children loose with sticks. 

If they have blind-folds on, they'll never know the difference.

I hope it's a success and I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas Day too, surrounded by friends, family and a good, cheap beer. 

Warmest wishes, Violet. xxx

Darlinghurst: Animal Life: Rats

Rats (Rattus) are a much maligned member of the rodent family and I must admit, I am no fan of the rat. I really did not think about rats one way or another until quite recently when Darlinghurst was hit by a plague of the buggers. At first I saw them in nearby Nimrod Street, where on my night time wanderings I had spotted them darting in to drainage tunnels and on one day time ramble discovered the perfect specimen (above) lying dead in the gutter. 

But then Rattus decided to move closer to my home where there was an ample supply of leftover food for them to nibble on.

This collection of bins forms a kind of turning circle in Royston Street. Some clever council person has built an arced gazebo to cover the bins and then planted some lovely flowering Wisteria to grow all over it and perhaps mask the scent of garbage.

But their attempts at beautification don't quite mask the fact that this is one ugly bin monster. I personally only use the bins on the exterior because I couldn't bear to walk inside as the design intended. The design also makes it easy for people to just throw their garbage bags in to the centre and hope for the best, which often leads to spillage and trails of rotten food. The bin monster is also a magnet for unwanted mattresses, cupboards and clothes.

So it's unsurprising Rattus have decided to make the bin monster their new home. 

And they are brazen little rodents too. One evening, before the sun had even set, I saw half a dozen rats dancing around on the tops of bins like they were characters in a Disney musical.

The photograph above illustrates just one of the many holes the rats have burrowed in the ground around the bin monster. I can only imagine the horrors that lie inside those holes. 

Attempts to capture the critters on camera have proved difficult, as they tend to scamper off on my approach:

But this dead one could not escape my prying lens:

And this one just stood there:

So what to do about the rats? Well, the other night when I was leaving my home, I was very pleased to see the Naughty Cat trotting up the path with a frolic in his step, his tail in the air and a rat in his mouth. He looked very happy with himself too, although I don't think his owner would have been too keen to find a mangled rat on their doorstep. 

I didn't want to talk to the cat while the rat was in his mouth, but the next day I went outside for a little chat. I told the cat how impressed I was by his rat catching skills and asked, if he pleased, could he perhaps catch and kill some more rats? 

The cat said that was all very well, he didn't have much else to do, but would I please refrain from calling him the Naughty Cat and instead use his real name. 

I was so embarrassed. I felt terrible. I apologised and asked him his name. 

''Ralf,'' he said. 

''Ralf?''

''Yes, Ralf,'' he said. ''Don't laugh. I can't help it.''

I said Ralf was a fine name for a cat and he should be very proud.

And from now on, the cat formerly known as Naughty, will now be known as Ralf the Rat Catcher.

Ralf the Rat Catcher in Egyptian Pose.