Tioman, being a Malay area, i.e. I haven't seen any Chinese there who love their dogs, is therefore full of cats all over the place. They don't actually live there as pets, but they are always around, especially where there is food. Every restaurant has been taken over by a few of them, and they are very territorial: If a newbie tries to get in on the spoils, the older ones will quickly step in and chase them away. And then continue to make sure that you notice their presence by walking by, ensuring to brush against your leg or foot, or meow at you, demanding their rightful share of your food. You recognise the dons of the area right away, they are the ones that strut around well-fed, and have shinier fur than the others, while the newbies are usually skinny little things that try to sneak their way in from somewhere around the back. In the evening you would hear the occasional fight, and I've seen stacks of boxes fly through the air as a result of such quarrels, and I would never ever want to get in the middle of a real beach-cat fight. They mean business!
Cats are the kings of the place. Well, as long as no monkey comes along that sets them running. But until then, your place is theirs. The first morning I came out onto the veranda to meet my first roomie, an old lady, black and white, and constantly sleeping, preferably on the table. I sat on the chair next to her, she just opened one lazy eye, checked that I didn't appear to be dangerous or otherwise annoying, and went on sleeping, undisturbed by me putting my book and water bottle on the space left next to her. A little later my other roomie arrived, a young grey little male cat, very thin, but other than most of the older ones with shiny healthy fur, and no visible eczema. Since I had left the door open he just marched right in and investigated my things. Apparently nothing was interesting enough, because he joined me back on the veranda soon after, checked that I didn't have any food hidden on the table, and then rolled up on the doormat and took a nap.
These two I would see every day from now on. The old lady, except for one occasion where she sat on the railing with her eyes open, would always lie around somewhere on the veranda, fast asleep, just forcing a lid half-open every now and then when I made a noise. I've never once seen her walk onto the veranda, she would always just magically appear and be asleep already. One more thing was remarkable about her: She would sleep with her tongue out, as if she was making a face at me. It was a hilarious sight. The little one would come by, sit somewhere, clean himself by contorting his body in the most impossible ways to reach every spot, which actually looked as if he was doing yoga... maybe he was, cat yoga. If I had food he would make loudly clear that part of that was his share, and then munch it over the doormat, which I found quite clever, as the one time when he chewed on a crisp on the naked floorboard half of it fell through the gaps and landed underneath the veranda in the dirt. Since then he would always carry his precious treasures to the mat. And at last he would roll up, preferably also on the mat and pushed right into the doorstep, so that usually he would end up in comical positions while snoring lightly in the sunlight.
And then I would take out my book, put my feet up, and the three of us would relax to the sound of the waves lapping on the beach right in front of us.
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