У хауса пятнистые.

я полностью согласен с неуместностью такого термина на русском языке в ЭТОМ контексте, но не совсем понятно, как переводить "derived" с английского. Этот гораздо больше подходит к ситуации с однотонной окраской. "Уклоняющийся"? - Тоже, вроде, не очень...

Красивый котенок очень!

Интересные статьи тех, кто содержит каракалов:

The caracal is one of my favorite exotic cat species. These small African cats are extremely intelligent, agile, and beautiful to look at. They are similar to servals in size and care requirements, although they are not quite as popular as pets. Their hiss is a form of communication, and this behavior can be alarming to people who are used to interpreting hissing strictly as a sign of aggression. It can be very difficult to find information on pet caracals, and much of it is contradictory. I have gotten descriptions of individual cats ranging from "nasty and downright malicious" to "the most affectionate animal I have ever known."

According to some accounts, they may have more of a "big cat" attitude because of their natural adaptation to hunting larger prey than many small felines. This translates into a certain boldness. The higher confidence level may be reflected in a more relaxed, less fearful, and more social cat. It may also be reflected in a pushier attitude that can be threatening to inexperienced owners, and some accounts say they are faster, smarter, and more active than comparable species.

I guess the best advice is to be prepared for a handful! I hope to add a caracal to my family in the future, at which point will hopefully be more qualified to comment on these amazing felines.

My home is more or less owned by a serval and a caracal. They share territory with each other and are kind enough to allow the humans in the family share it as well.

Coda, our male serval, came to us almost two years ago. (Much thanks to Lynn and Bart Culver.) He arrived healthy, full of energy and willing to accept humans as part of his environment. He quickly became friendly with the male domestic cat I was fostering for a friend. In his first year of life Coda learned to walk on a lead, come when we called his name, sit on command and play fetch. He chose my oldest child, Heather as his favorite human, tolerating being picked up by her, even when he indicated to me he was not in the mood. When my three human children would gather to play a game or watch TV, there he was, part of the gang. He would hop into the tub when they bathed, steal their water toys and hide them in my bed. He would take turns grooming them as they slept, at the end of the night he would find his place at my feet to sleep.

We had him neutered and de-clawed all around. He was intended to be a house pet and I wanted to make sure we took as many precautions possible to ensure his success. (Back up plan for outdoor caging was made in the event of any unforeseen problems socializing the cat.) I would call Lynn on a regular basis to keep her posted on his progress. Not too long before his first birthday she informed me there would be a litter of caracals available.

Shadow came to us just before Coda turned a year old. When I peeked into his travel crate for the first time, I was greeted with a hiss. We decided that unlike Coda, (who rode in my lap the whole way home when I picked him up as a kitten) we would wait until we were home to take Shadow out of the crate. Once home, I opened the crate, he hissed. I talked softly to him as I reached to the back of the crate to scoop him out. I pulled him in towards me with a gentle but firm hold. As he settled into my arms, he began to purr. I pet him in my lap as I fed him his bottle and the bonding began.

Coda handled the new arrival much the same way human children handle a new sibling. He sulked..... a lot. He refused to be pet, come when called or even play fetch. "Who was this fuzzy critter taking up '"Mommy's' time?" Even worse, " Why was she allowing it? After two days of full-blown displays of resentment by Coda, I decided to be drastic in my persistence to make everyone play nice. I kept the kitten in a cage in my bedroom, and had Coda and the male domestic shut into the same room, with of course me.From time to time I would have one of the kids pop into the room as well.

I remembered reading the primary reason most non-domestics are solitary, is to ensure they have adequate territory to sustain their dietary needs. Also some domestics will sometimes resent newcomers because they feel not only their food source threatened, but fear they will loose the affection of their humans. Addressing these concerns (and hoping to God those really were the reasons for the non acceptance of the new baby) I had decided we would all stay in the room together. Everyone would get fed together, and I would give affection in abundance to all in the presence of each other.

I also took into account the "scent factor." I would rotate toys and blankies from inside the cage to out and back again, allowing all to contribute their scent to the collective whole. The domestic, having already accepted Coda, came around quickly and began to groom the kitten when I held him on my lap. I would hold Shadow in my arms and talk sweetly to Coda inviting him to come say hello.... although it would be a week before he honored my request.

Within 48 hours of Shadows arrival, Coda was himself again, except of course when Shadow was being held. Between the second and sixth day, all the humans in the family went out of their way to pay special attention to Coda. Extra games, extra petting, extra bathtub time was allotted.

On the seventh day, God rested, and decided to give me a break too. I was sitting on my bed feeding Shadow a bottle; Coda sat not more than two feet away from me. With his back towards me, he put in extra effort to actively ignore me. It was then, I heard him make a sound I had never heard him make before or since. (Or hopefully ever again, since the very thought tears at my heart.) It sounded like a child whimpering. I felt a lump in my throat as I requested once again for Coda to come see the baby.

Shadow was in my lap, drinking with his eyes closed. My arm sheltered most of his body. Coda made his way over. By the time the kitten opened his eyes, Coda was heavily involved in the process of grooming him. Unfortunately all Shadow had known of Coda was a very big cat who hissed at Him through bars. Now they were nose to nose and Shadow hissed at Coda. I can only imagine Coda was offended by this, he promptly bopped Shadow on the head and removed himself from the immediate area.

The fostered domestic has since left. My two boys quickly became friends, and remain so as of present. Where one goes, the other is seconds behind. I have watched them hide on each other, waiting for the other to come looking. They play tag together taking turns being "predator" and "prey." (I have given up hope of ever taking the Lennox back out of the boxes to place on my shelves.) At the end of the night they will take turns grooming the humans and each other, but ultimately seek to cuddle up with one another for the purpose of sleeping. The loss of my nightly foot warmer was the trade off for peace in a home with multiple cats, three human children, and now, two adults, sharing territories.

At some point this will turn into a coherent article or two, but in the meantime I offer my unedited notes and ramblings on caracals as pets should they be useful to anyone.
Caracals have had a special hold on me since I first saw a group of them in the San Diego Zoo. I was touring the cat section, and while I saw many beautiful and rare cats, the caracal was the most captivating of all. Grouped together in their cage, these felines with the most spectacular ears I had ever seen didn't look much bigger than housecats. They were lounging in the sun, grooming themselves and licking each other affectionately, reminding me of my own domestic cats.

That one memorable experience started me on the long path that has led to my owning a serval, becoming a licenced educational exhibitor, and running two exotic cat websites.

Years later I was bored and decided to look up caracals on the internet. That's when I found to my astonishment that people actually kept these magnificent animals as pets. At first I wasn't quite sure I approved of such a thing, but after doing a little research I realized that it wasn't any different ethically from keeping a domestic cat as a pet or housing one of these animals in a zoo.

I kept reading, at first without even considering actually getting an exotic cat. As my interest grew stronger, I noticed that many caracal breeders also had servals, and it didn't take me long to realize that there was a lot more information available on servals and many more breeders. I started emailing breeders with questions about servals, caracals, and exotic cat ownership in general.

I got a lot of conflicting information about caracals, their personality, and their suitability as pets. Many people seemed to feel that servals were a better choice. I was still more drawn to the caracals, but I didn't want to make an uninformed decision based on conflicting information and end up doing something I would regret. As these thoughts were forming, I realized that something had changed. A part of me was actually contemplating getting an exotic cat.

I began calling breeders in search of more information, and spoke to a number of very knowledgable and dedicated people who spent hours on the phone answering my questions. However, the caracal information still conflicted.

One breeder told me that all of her caracal kittens stopped using the litterbox shortly after going to their new homes, and seemed to be missing the "pee in the litterbox" gene. Another told me that the caracals she had sold were almost all good at using the litterbox, and the servals were far more likely to have litter problems.

One told me that caracals were more timid and far less social than servals. Another breeder said that caracals were tamer, more stable, and more outgoing than servals.

I got descriptions of individual cats ranging from "nasty and downright malicious" to "the most affectionate animal I have ever known."

One thing that everyone made clear to me from the beginning is that inexperienced people are more likely to be intimidated by caracals because of misreading their unique body language. Caracals communicate a wide range of emotions though hissing and positioning their ears, messages that mean only one thing to a domestic cat owner: aggression. A caracal, on the other hand, may hiss if it is interested, excited, nervous, etc. And when those impressive ears add to the mix, a caracal can be hard to read. I wonder how many caracal owners have problems based simply on intimidation and inability to read their cat's body language correctly.

I was getting a far clearer picture of the personality and behavior of servals than I was of caracals, partly because there were so many more serval breeders and owners I could talk to. I was torn because despite the flashy beauty of the servals, I had never met one in person, and I knew I loved caracals. But I didn't want to make a bad choice for one of those incredible felines.

Finally one breeder offered an opinion and a perspective that made good sense to me. She explained that caracals could make excellent pets, but they were a "higher ocatane" cat that fared better with someone who had some exotic cat experience. She suggested that I get a serval, as she felt that they were the easiest exotic cat for a novice to work with but would still present quite a challenge. She advised that if I got a serval and was able to handle that successfully and integrate him into my household, and if I still felt confident about having a serval after the first couple of years, then I could at that point probably handle the additional challenge of a caracal.

Her advice rung true, and within a few months I welcomed a tiny spotted bundle of fur named Sirocco into my life. My fears that I would see a serval as merely a surrogate caracal melted away as I fell completely in love with the little kitten who was to launch my obsession with exotic cats. Sirocco has tried my patience, drained my finances, and taken up countless hours of my time. Yet he is one of the best things to happen in my life, and now, two and a half years after we met, I'm starting to wonder about the possibility of adding a caracal to the family. I have a feeling that if that happens, it'll be a matter of adopting an unwanted cat rather than purchasing a kitten. For now, I'm keeping my ears open, waiting to hear of that nice young caracal that needs a new home with a serval buddy.

I've never regretted my choice to get a serval. Sirocco has been a delight but also a huge challenge, and I'm glad I didn't try to take on a more challenging cat first (although I'm not entirely convinced that caracals are harder to handle than servals). Now that I've had some experience and been in contact with more exotic cat owners, I feel pretty confident in my ability to raise and live with a caracal should the opportunity arise.

I've also had the opportunity to meet two caracals without the bars of a zoo seperating us. I'll share these experiences, should they be useful to someone trying to make a decision.

The first was an adult male caracal named Nairobi housed in a exotic cat sanctuary. He had been well cared for, raised by an experienced exotic cat person who had a change of circumstances and had to place him in the sanctuary. The original owner reportedly described him as a "nasty cat" and was herself unable to handle him, even though she had raised him from kittenhood. The owners of the sanctuary were able to enter his enclosure but not touch him.
During a visit to the sanctuary, the owners allowed me to enter his enclosure with a camera to take pictures, and I was able to hang out in his enclosure alone for a while. He greeted my approach and entry with fierce hissing and ears pinned back (and believe me, those ears make such a display quite impressive!). However, he soon relaxed when I didn't attempt to approach him, and quickly became interested in the long, flexible wand I had brought as a cat toy. He jumped to a platform in the enclosure and started to toy with the stick I was holding as I stood perhaps four or five feet away.
As time passed the hissing decreased dramatically and finally disappared as I slowly ventured closer, within touching distance. I saw him relaxing as I spoke to him. He laid down and started closing his eyes contentedly. The behavior I was witnessing, as a complete stranger meeting this cat for the first time, seemed completely at odds with what I had heard of this "nasty cat." It had never been my intention to attempt to touch him, but by this point his body language seemed to be almost inviting it.
His paws were stretched out towards me, and I carefully placed a hand next to him on the flatform, only a few inches away. He was aware of the move, but barely opened his eyes. I began to gently stroke his paw (while snapping photos!), and to my astonishment he pushed his paws firmly into my hand, a remarkable gesture of trust and affection from a "wild" creature. I didn't attempt to handle him any further, not wishing to spoil what had taken place.

After I left the enclosure, I found the owner of the sanctuary and showed her the digital photos on my camera screen as I explained what had happened. If it weren't for the photos, I'm not sure she would have believed me!

The second was a hand-raised, 6-week-old kitten that attended the FCF convention in Las Vegas with his breeder. This little guy was well socialized and comfortable around people, but often turned into a little spitfire when he didn't want to be held.

At one point I was holding him, and after considerable squirming he decided to get serious. He looked me in the face, pinned his ears back, gave a throaty if small snarl, hissed, and finally took a firm swipe at my face with one paw. Quite a fierceome display, but the remarkable thing was that his claws were sheathed. He made no mark on my face, and he did not attempt to bite. For someone accostomed to domestic cats, this is pretty remarkable. If a domestic cat is hissing and snarling at you with its ears pinned back, and if you are unwise enough to be holding that cat at the time, you are guaranteed some bloody scratches and a set of teeth imbedded in your flesh. Watching people handle him was an interesting excercise in observation. People who didn't own exotics would try to hold him too long and too firmly, prompting an intimidating flurry of spits and flying claws, which was usually quite successful in getting them to let go!
More experienced people would provoke those displays less often, and were not the least bit fazed by them. I even saw one woman kiss him on the top of the head as he hissed and spat; the result: he calmed down and started purring!

I was somewhere between the two. My experiences with Sirocco had taught me that an exotic cat can be remarkably gentle while looking extremely threatening, and I knew about the caracal's general hissiness. Nevertheless, I found this behavior somewhat off-putting. I studied him carefully and realized that although his body language was saying something like "Die, evil human die!" to me, what the cat was actually thinking was something along the lines of "Listen, lady, I've really had it with being held. Please, in the name of all that is holy, just let me go!"

When he wasn't upset at being held, little Buckwheat would play, investigate things, and fall asleep in people's arms. He was remarkably unfazed at being the center of attention in busy conference rooms bustling with strange people.

I would venture say that a caracal would not be a good choice for someone easily threatened by animals, or who's ego would be bruised by being hissed at, or who would consider such behavior a personal challenge. This is a creature you can make friends with and develop a loving relationship with, but not subjegate or overpower.

At the convention, someone explained that caracals are sort of like turbo-servals; faster, stronger, smarter, bolder, more sensitive in ways, fiercer, and more affectionate. That seems to agree with my limited hands-on experience.

The first time I remember seeing a caracal was at the Carnivore Preservation Trust in 1993. I had only recently found out that places like an exotic animal sanctuary or breeding facility even existed, and I was so excited to be able to visit. On the day I was first scheduled to volunteer it was pouring rain. I went out anyway. I ended up getting a solo tour in the rain, but that was fine with me. One of CPT’s founders, Kay Reames, showed me around the facility and introduced me to some of the many animals on site. We slogged through ankle deep mud while I met tigers, leopards, jaguars, ocelots, servals, binturongs, kinkajou, sunbear, and caracals.

Quite honestly, the caracals didn’t stand out on the tour. My head was too full of tigers and those weird binturongs (Asian bearcats). Many of the flashier small cats and been more eye-catching.

Then we went into the house and I met the other founder, Michael Bleyman. He was a bit gruff in the tired way people get when there’s too much going on all the time. He was sitting alone in the kitchen with his hands full of bottles and kittens. Kittens with spots. And more with florets. And others with tiny ear tufts. He had me wash up, sat me on the floor with a bottle, and stuffed a kitten into my hands. “Here, hold it this way, and feed it this way. Good.”

I was in heaven. The five day-old baby serval was happy to eat and burp and eat and fall asleep. I had a hard time relinquishing him, but they traded him for another, a caracal. Her little pointy ears were still folded down. I sat on the floor in one spot until both legs went to sleep, but I really didn’t mind at all. I was hooked.

I began volunteering doing construction, watering, feeding, cage cleaning—anything they would let me learn. I brought my best friend Gina out and she got hooked, too.

The facility was very successful in breeding its animals. Eventually kittens and cubs overran the house and they began to foster them out to experienced volunteers. Gina came home with two caracal kittens. Michael liked to name them, but he was running low on names after such a busy season. He looked in the newspaper and saw it was Studs Terkel’s birthday, so the two became Studs and Terkel. I swore to myself while I babysat these angels on occasion that if I ever got babies to foster I would come armed with name suggestions.

Shortly, I did get to foster my own animals. When a nasty virus began to affect the animals on site, the highest priority was to protect the infants. I got three 5 day-old caracal kittens and a quick lesson on subcutaneous shots in the same day, then was told not to bring them back until the virus was gone from the site. Since I was a teacher then, I had the summer free to spend with the cats. They had their own room in the house and I probably spent 6 hours a day with them. It was very hard to take them back when it was time. Michael didn’t name them, but my fiance did—Nenya, Scylla and Anatoly. They taught me many things: that caracals more then 5 weeks old can poop by themselves, that they will eat kitty litter if given the option, that catnip does not mix well with caracals helping you cook, and that the bonds infants forge with their caregivers set the tone for their relationships with people for the rest of their lives.

More animals came and went in my foster care: binturongs, servals, ocelots, and caracals. I think I was happiest when I had two binturongs and two caracals at home at the same time. What an amazing and wild time that was!! With more than 25 servals, 20 ocelots, 2 pairs of snow leopards, 55 binturongs, 25 kinkajous and 40 caracals breeding away at the facility, it was a busy time.

I learned so much from these babies. Because I had such strong guidance from Michael and Kay and later from Sharon Ziegler, the then-curator, no babies got very ill or died in my care in the first year. I learned how to adjust the formulas slightly for desired health results, how to unstop plugged up babies, how to give shots and fluids and how to check for sharp bones in slurry. I learned how caracals speak by flicking their ears, what an ocelot grumble means by the pitch of it, how fast a serval can strike when it’s really excited. I thought I was doing OK on the learning curve.

The second year I lost a premature serval with underdeveloped lungs, who had never really stood a chance. That didn’t stop us from trying, but it was a sad thing when we lost him after only one a day. I had named him Quark because of his size.

I knew Quark’s death wasn’t my fault, but I still was a bit sensitive when I got my next caracal kittens. Asha and Gabriel were the gentlest of souls caught up in manic little caracal bodies. They were wonderful and eager to live and I had no idea the ordeals I would go through with them. First, they tried to eat EVERYTHING. I had gradually baby-proofed my house so the animals I was fostering could have full run instead of being limited to a single room. Apparently my baby-proofing was not adequate. I found Gabriel under the sink trying to eat cleaners. Asha had the toilet brush. Then Gabriel had a box of mint cookies he somehow got out of the upper kitchen cabinets. Then Asha was crunching moths at the windowsill at night. Then Gabriel wanted coffee and any old beer bottles he could find in the garbage can.

Then one day when Asha was only about four weeks old, we had returned to the facility to day camp with other cats and get checked by the curator. She noticed a small tear in Asha’s neck. I was devastated I hadn’t seen it—how could I have overlooked it? We started antibiotics, and I agreed to watch it closely and keep the babies separated, since it was possible he had caused the damage or would make it worse. Gabe played in the house while poor Asha watched, dismayed, from a playpen with a lid. The winter holiday break was just starting for me, so I had some extra time to spend with them and planned to alternate their times out and about.

The next morning, the tear was almost an inch long. I was horrified. I flew to the vet’s office and she jokingly offered me a sedative while she looked at Asha. There was no sign of infection. The skin had separated from the muscles, ligaments and esophagus, with no apparent damage to the tissue beneath the skin. The vet scratched her head and observed the spot for a while. Baby skin tears so easily, I was afraid it would just continue to separate. The vet said it looked to her to be a deep hole, but she couldn’t see why it would continue to expand. She gave me my first lesson on flushing wounds, and sent me home with a pile of fluids, drugs, huge syringes and other gear.

For three days I flushed the wound several times a day. Asha was actually rather pleasant about it, which just fed my fears that she was dreadfully ill. I was so focused on her that I had to do a double-take at Gabriel one morning when he showed up entirely gray.

Not dirty-gray, but actually gray. He had lost his gold overcoat overnight. All that was left was a lovely thick gray undercoat. He had no other odd symptoms, but I called Sharon anyway to ask what I should do. She was bewildered. She asked about his nutrition, what he had gotten into lately, what toys he was playing with. The only change we had made, which I finally thought of after several minutes of relentless questioning, was bringing the banana tree into the house that week to protect it from the cold. Sharon sighed, and explained to me that these trees are toxic to cats. When I checked the tree, I saw that Gabe had been climbing up and down the trunk, and then apparently cleaning his feet. I felt like an idiot, and sheepishly moved the tree.

That night as I flushed the quarter-sized hole in poor Asha’s neck, a strange small chunk of what looked like tendon or gristle came up out of the skin along her neck. It was the size of an eraser on a pencil. I collected it and took it to Sharon, who stared at for a while before shrugging and tossing it out. “Maybe that was it,” she said. She was right. After that, the hole closed itself in a matter of days.

Gabriel and Asha were happily reunited and continued to crash through the house together. I returned them to CPT to join the rest of the mob of kittens on site getting ready to day camp. I went back to work, and resumed normal life for more than a week.

Then I got a phone call that I should come to CPT immediately. Asha had been a bit depressed that morning and over the day had gotten progressively less responsive. Sharon had filled her with antibiotics and fluids, but she was warm and limp when I arrived. I was devastated. She picked her head up a little to look at me from the carrier where she had been placed so she’d be separate from the others. Her ears flicked a bit in greeting and she made a soft chirp. She couldn’t even stand. IN an hour she was limp and unresponsive. I cried and held her, knowing she was going to die. Finally, my friends there made me leave her and go get dinner with them. We all knew she’d be dead when we returned, though no one said it out loud.

I jogged back into the house after being gone for a little over a half-hour. I expected to lift the towel over the crate doorway and see her little body. I lifted the towel and Asha sat up and trilled at me. Then she promptly began biting the door in an attempt to get out. When we let her out, she greeted me casually and them marched to the refrigerator. She leaped up at the handle, knowing there was caracal food inside. We fed her. She ate. She lived.

It’s been more than eight years since that day, but I am still overwhelmed by how I felt then. I picked her up to hug her and she struggled with that “Put me down, Mom, I wanna play” attitude all healthy babies have. She put up with a few kisses before insisting she get down.

Asha and Gabriel grew and thrived. Asha got in trouble a few times as a teenager for beating up her roommate, but she was only telling us she wanted a cute boyfriend. Gabriel grew into a handsome blonde male with huge ear tufts. They grew so long and thick they actually caused his ears to flip and hang down at the tips. All the local girl caracals called out to him. I knew he was going to have a good life.

Eventually I got too comfortable. I think some part of me believed life could continue forever this way. Such amazing babies coming and going in my life, and such a luxury to be able to watch them grow up and become adults and have their own babies.

Life changes. Michael Bleyman, CPT’s founder died of cancer, and not long after, his beloved Kay left the facility. The political changes that accompany the loss of a charismatic leader can have a devastating effect on the people who are tied to such a place. Many of us had gone there because we didn’t deal with people as well as we did animals, and we weren’t able to cope well with all the change. Oh, many of us stuck it out for a while because we loved the animals. I even went to work there for a year or so. But, eventually there was an almost complete change of the staff and volunteers. I fought with the director until I was fired.

I spent a couple of months in shock at the sudden separation for the animals I had dedicated my life to. It felt like all 270 of my children had died at once. In the end, I decided that if I really felt this committed to these species and to conservation work, I should continue to work with these animals in different circumstances. I found others who wanted to start a place with me. So we did. It is called the Conservators’ Center, Inc (CCI).

I was working on the side at a small area zoo, and I agreed to foster two caracal kittens. I fell in love. I knew better than to do that. I was willing to part with them to a good home, but the first person who seriously inquired about buying one of them wanted to raise one with his baby mandrill. Doug Evans, my partner and co-founder of CCI, took out a personal loan to buy them from the zoo. It just felt too much like losing the almost 30 animals I had fostered before and had to leave behind, and it was in my power this time to stop it.

Charlie and Aretha were ours. Within a few weeks, Charlie had developed horrible seizure symptoms. He soon died of a heritable type of cardiomyopathy. We knew then that we could never breed Aretha, as she would possibly pass on this trait. We incorporated CCI as a non-profit and Aretha became our first cat of many. She didn’t qualify as a breeder, and she certainly wasn’t a rescue. We call her a resident.

And she was. She lived in our house at night for almost a year, day-camping outside in the good weather and even some snow, which she disdained. She had never been a dependent cat, but beginning shortly after Charlie’s death she climbed in the bed at night and demanded a finger to suck on. I let her, happy she wasn’t peeing in the bed instead (which she also occasionally did).

Today Aretha lives pretty happily with a neutered male caracal we took in as a placement when his owner had to move to Georgia, where exotic cat pets are illegal. She trills to me when I walk by, or when she thinks its dinnertime. She and Taz hunt our dogs and the nearby songbirds, coordinating their creeping and bursts of speed with ear flicking. When I go in to visit and sit with her, she greets me by tasting each finger and making her little special noises to me. Sometimes when all is quiet in the compound she will sit with me on the swing and suck my thumb, still.

Just a couple of weeks ago I went back to my roots at CPT, an invited guest. I marveled at the kindness of the volunteers and the maintenance staff, the cleanliness of the facility grounds, the abundance of cats I remembered. My Asha’s name had been changed to Sandy by adoptive parents while I had still been there. She was not on the tour route, and I am unsure if she is still at the site. I did see Gabriel, though. He is happy and healthy and has a girlfriend named Marchella, one of my favorite other caracals from when I had worked there. He still has the biggest ear tufts I have ever seen. When I called hello he ran to the fence to greet me, even after almost seven years. He rubbed the fence and trilled to me, sounding a lot like Aretha.

We can’t go home again, but we can take the best parts with us wherever we go.

(c) http://exoticcatz.com

У меня уже есть статья о каракале, но сейчас пытаюсь написать объёмную статью с подродбностями. Не знаю, хватит ли нервов, в последнее время статьи не пишутся. Вот начало статьи, только начал:

Каракал (Caracal caracal) - представитель семейства кошачьих (Felidae), подсемейства малых кошек (Felinae), единственный представитель рода каракалов (Caracal). Его иногда называют степной рысью за внешнее сходство с рысями, однако последние представляют собой отдельный род рысей (Lynx), в который входят четыре современных вида). Филогенетические связи каракала с рыси до конца не выяснены. Имея некоторое внешнее сходство с рысями каракал всё-таки сильно отличается от них анатомически и морфологически - однотонная окраска, илённая пятнистости даже в ювенильном возрасте, более удлинённый череп, классическая зубная формула кошачьих - 30 зубов (у рысей их 28), более удлинённое тело, более длинный хвост и т.п. На данный момент нет никаких сомнений в том, что каракал представляет собой отдельный монотипичный род Caracal. Хотя, вполне возможно, что каракал находится с рысями в более тесном родстве, нежели другие кошачьи.
Голова каракала довольно крупная, заметно вытянутая, лицевая часть черепа удлинённая. Слухоые барабаны относительно неелеки, расстояние между ними больше ширины передней части межкрыловидной впадины. Носовые выступы межчелюстной и лобной костей соприкасаются соприкасаются или почти соприкасаются. Уши крупные, узкие и заострённые, оканчивающиеся длинными кисточками (длиннее, чем у рыси). В целом это среднего размера грациозная кошка довольно лёшкого склада, однако очень атлетичная и мускулистая. Туловище с ногами почти вписывается в квадрат. Конечонсти сильные, хотя и суховатые. Задние конечности длиннее передних.
Когти крепкие и острые, светлоокрашенные. Когти на передних лапах сильно сжаты с боков и круто серповидно изогнуты, задние более широкие и менее изогнутые. Межпальцевые перепонки, особенно на задних конечностях сильно сокращены, и лапа очень сходна с лапой гепарда.
Зимний мех короткий, ровный по всему телу. Шерсть мягкая (хотя несколько грубее, чем у большинства представителей кошачьих), плотно прилегающая, не шелкоистная. На брюхе и груди она мягче и несколько удлинена, однако реже. На спине на один квадратный сантиметр приходится около 2500 волос, на брюхе - менее 1000. На один кроющий волос приходится 4-5 пуховых. Длина пуха на спине примерно 28 см, толщина 47 мк, на брюхе - 36 мм и 28 мк соотвественно. Волосы на вершине уха (кисточки) грубые и упругие, длина которых достигает 6 см.
Летний мех значительно реже, грубее и короче зимнего, хотя контраст не так велик как у большинства других кошек, даже южных. Каракал даже в зимнем мехе - самая короткошёрстная кошка на постсоветском пространстве.

Да, каракал - очень красивая кошка.



Вот здесь - несколько снимков.
Felis caracal (Каракал)
http://zoohuman.ru/index.php?id=83


А на сервала похожа (по окраске и размерам) еще одна кошка - оцелот.
Felis serval (Сервал)   
http://zoohuman.ru/index.php?id=92
 
Felis pardalis (Оцелот) 
http://zoohuman.ru/index.php?id=90

Отредактировано zoohuman (01 July 2011 19:41:04)

Сервал и каракал родственные виды, но по поведению сильно различаются. По крайней мере в зоопарке. Сервалы спокойнее, менее агрессивны, не ссорятся, не шипят на соседей и посетителей.

У нас в зоопарке сервал тоже шипит. В плане приручения эти звери примерно равны и относительно хорошо приручаются. Полегче чем оцелоты (которые тоже не самые "злые" среди кошачьих).

Что-то странное пишут: наш сервал (самка), как пишут, была рождена в природе 14-го апреля 2006 года. Откуда они интересно это знают? Такую точную дату?

Домашний сервалчик:
http://www.fishki.net/commentall.php?id=83826

Маленький, но уже показывает свою самостоятельность - мешает маме его вылизывать.