Training & Behavior

The first time she did it, nobody planned it. The cat, Mabel, had launched herself at a dangling toy and sailed straight through the ring my arms made without thinking, a furry missile with somewhere to be, and the kids shrieked 'the flying cat' like they'd witnessed a circus, which is roughly how a household trick is born, out of an accident nobody meant to repeat.

I decided to repeat it on purpose. Cats, people say, don't train like dogs, but Mabel's proof otherwise, she's food-motivated and proud, and a click and a treat turned the accident into a habit she now offers without being asked. I held my arms in a loose hoop, clicked the moment she moved through, fed the bit, and within a session she was threading the gap like it was the most natural thing a cat could do.

The shaping was the fun part. I didn't force it, I lifted the hoop a little smaller each time, clicked the tries that got closer, let the misses go without fuss, so she stayed keen because the game kept paying. Cats bail the second it stops being worth it, so the treat had to be real and the mood had to be light, and on the days she wasn't in the mood we didn't train, full stop, because a sulky cat learns nothing but resentment.

The kids christened her properly after that, the Flying Cat, and now neighbours' children come to the door asking to see the trick, which she performs with the composure of a seasoned professional, tail up, dismissive of the applause. She doesn't know she's famous on our street, she knows only that arms-in-a-ring means a chance at chicken, and the fame is our projection, not hers.

What I didn't expect was how much the training sharpened her. A cat with a job is a cat with fewer complaints, less midnight yowling, less shredding of the one chair she's not allowed on, because the clicker work burns the bright edge off her energy and gives the cleverness a place to go. She's the same cat, just a bit more settled, as if the trick organised something in her that had been rattling loose.

I've taught her a couple more since, a high-five she offers lazily, a spin she does for the smaller child, but the flying leap stays the favourite, because it started as joy and stayed joy, and you can't fake that with an animal. The kids learned something too, that patience and a treat beat shouting every time, a lesson that transferred neatly to the dog, who'd been getting the shouting and is now getting the clicks.

If you've a cat who thinks tricks are for dogs, start with one she'd do anyway and just name it. The leap was already in her, I only gave it a signal and a reward, and now the whole street knows the Flying Cat, who remains, underneath the legend, a slightly smug animal who's worked out that being impressive pays in chicken.

Training a cat sounds like a joke to people who've only yelled at one, but Mabel took to it the way she takes to most things, with suspicion first and then total commitment, and the clicker bridged the gap, marking the exact second she got it, which is the part a cat needs because a cat won't work for a maybe.

The kids are part of it now, taking turns with the treat, learning to time the click, and the younger one, who'd been scared of the cat's claws, now feeds her mid-leap and laughs, and the fear went the way of most fears, dissolved by doing the thing slowly with someone who knew how.

I keep the sessions short, three minutes, before she wanders off, because a cat trained past her interest is a cat trained to ignore you, and the Flying Cat performs on her terms, which is the only terms a cat has, and the street's come to accept that the trick happens when Mabel's ready, not when the audience is.

What the trick gave us wasn't fame, it was a language, a way to ask things of her she'd have refused if demanded, and now a click and a word move her through the day, onto the scale, into the carrier, off the counter, and the flying leap was just the first sentence in a conversation we're still having, one chicken-flavoured word at a time.

The Flying Cat has her own small fame now, and the younger child tells everyone she trained her, which is half true and wholly sweet, and Mabel, unbothered, takes the credit with a slow blink and another leap, because the trick was never the point, the conversation was, and we're still having it, daily, in clicks and treats and the particular joy of a cat who decided, on her own terms, to fly.