The Barefoot Kitchen Witch

The Birthday Kittens

 

I'm a few days late with this - Softie and Scratchy turned a year old on May 24th.

 

Here they are hanging out amid the chaos of the bedrooms-to-be.  Softie, in particular, likes to lounge in the part of the floor where part of the original door frame used to be - there's a gap - more like a cut-out area - in the hardwoods - and she likes to lie in this gap.  One day both of them were sort of squished in there together.  I suppose Scratchy didn't want to miss out on all the fun.

Softie, in Her Newest Spots

First, there was this...

  

Yes, it's an unused accordian file on the floor in our music/computer room.  Her hind legs are in the 23rd of the month, her left front leg is in, I'd guess, the 5th of the month. 

I have no idea why, except that she's a cat.  And that pretty much explains everything.

And then, there was this.  I was in the kitchen, rounding the corner to go put a flattened cereal box over in our overflowing recycle area, and this is what I saw:

Unilateral Discharge and Other Hilarity

Last fall sometime I brought Blur to the vet because she had a runny nose and she was sneezing.  You know how sometimes something just overtakes you and you sneeze multiple times in rapid succession?  That's the sort of sneezing she was doing.  She's pretty much never been ill in her life, so this was an unusual occurrance.  I figured maybe she caught some germ the kittens brought into the house with them and it had taken this long to manifest.

I saw a different vet - our usual Dr. C was off that day - a Dr. H.  He pointed out that the discharge was only one one side (mucus only coming from one nostril) and that could mean something more than just a cold, especially in older cats.  He ran his fingers gently along the front and sides of her face - a forwardness she did NOT appreciate at all - and looked in her mouth.  No abnormalities, which was good.  He prescribed an antibiotic and sent us home.  If the discharge didn't clear up, we'd maybe have to come back and have her head x-rayed or something.  You know, in case there was a tumor.  Great.

Fortunately the discharge cleared up by the time the round of antibiotics was completed, and that was that.

Until, of course, recently.

She's been sneezing again.  And she's been sounding kind of snuffly.  Congested.  It's especially pleasant when she sneezes on our heads in the middle of the night.  So not only have I had small children who don't think to RUN to get a tissue until AFTER the grossness is running down their faces post-sneeze, now I have a cat who sneezes grossness on our heads while we slumber. 

I didn't bring her to the vet at the first sneeze - or the second.  I didn't want to, truthfully.  I was hoping it would just subside.  My kids had been sick - heck, we've ALL been sick - and I was hoping - irrationally, perhaps - that with the warmer weather (HA!) and windows open and fresh air flowing throughout the house, all those ucky germs from the past couple of months would just BE GONE and we'd all be breathing clearly through two nostrils and not sneezing all over each other any more.

Well, that "not sneezing" part hasn't happened yet for Blur.  Oh, yeah, and the discharge is just coming out of one nostril again.

Yesterday morning I noticed that there was a tiny bit of blood on her fur right next to that runny left nostril.  Not a lot - just kind of a little smear.  I called the vet as soon as they opened and got an appointment for that afternoon.

Then I spent the day thinking the worst.  And looking up feline medical symptoms on the internet.  Because that's how I roll. 

I thought about...well, about how old she is.  She's eighteen now.  I've had her eighteen years, almost exactly.  She's had a very good life....on and on...that kind of thinking.  And to make it worse, she stayed next to me on the loveseat while I attempted to write up my Tuesdays with Dorie post.  I tend to read WAAAAAAAAAY too much into things like that, so in my mind, she was acknowledging that yes, it had been a long and good life, and she was content, despite her yucky nose.  She curled up in such a small and lightweight little ball beside my legs. 

Of course, the fact that she does this ANY time I'm sitting on the loveseat, typing on my laptop, meant nothing.  I was busy looking for signs. 

The other thing I thought about was the great WHAT IF possibility.  What if I had to make some sort of final decision TODAY?  I knew, if it was a question of her being in pain, or having a greatly diminished quality of life, I could do whatever was best for her.  Words like "dignity" and "peace" and the like were whispering in my mind.  I've had to make the decision before, and it's horrible.  Horrible.

Worse, though, was my worry that I'd have to go through that IN FRONT OF THE KIDS. 

Bill wasn't going to be home til after we'd left for the vet, so I couldn't leave the kids with him.  I thought about calling up my friend across the street and explaining the situation and asking her to watch the kids for the half hour or so til Bill got home, but that didn't pan out.  And besides, when they heard I was bringing Blur to the vet's, they wanted to come. 

So, for better or for worse, the kids came along.

I was already gearing up mentally for worse.  I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing to do, but habits are hard to break and I've had this habit for a long, long time.  I suppose it's a control thing.  If I imagine all the ways something could turn out, and gear up for the very worst of them, then I will be able to handle whatever comes my way without embarrassing myself.  It's a lovely theory, isn't it?

I told the kids that they would need to be VERY GOOD while we were at the vet.  It wasn't the zoo - they needed to just SIT DOWN and WAIT PATIENTLY until it was our turn to go into one of the exam rooms.

Yeah, that worked.  Well, it worked with Alex.  Julia?  Not so much.  We walked into the office and right in front of us in the waiting area was a man with a dog on a leash.  The dog looked kind of like a beagle, but bigger and longer, and more like the size of a bassett hound, only without the bassett face.  The man was apparently waiting for something or someone.  I turned the cat carrier so that Blur wouldn't see the dog and freak out, and so that the dog wouldn't see Blur and freak out.  I sat on one of the benches and told the kids to sit with me.

Remember my daughter, Julia?  Yeah.  She obediently sat, hands folded in her lap, and waited quietly until our appointment.  Hahahahahaha!  No, she ran some kind of fake-out play, meandering over to the two fish tanks across from us but then crossing quickly and purposefully to the man with the dog.  "May I pet your dog?"  she asked first, and when he said yes, that was it.  She wasn't sitting on any bench anywhere any time soon.  She was busy. 

And okay, fine.  No harm in that.  I need to relax about her sometimes.  She wasn't doing any harm, she wasn't causing any sort of disruption, she was just saying hi.  She and the dog became buddies, and then a few minutes later ANOTHER dog came out, dragging our vet along for the ride.  The two dogs were almost identical.  Julia was overjoyed.  "Ohh!!!!" she chortled, "you've got TWINS???"  The man chuckled and said they weren't even brothers, but yes, they do look a lot alike.  Then he turned to discuss dog #2's condition (or lack thereof, from what I could hear) while Julia introduced herself to the other dog.  

And then we were summoned into room number three.  Come on kids, time for fun.

OH - I forgot this part.  (It's twenty past three in the morning - I don't know why I'm awake, but I am, or at least I was.  I seem to be a third asleep now.)  On the ride to the vet I casually but pointedly reminded the kids that Blur was pretty old and so MAYBE and HOPEFULLY this was just a cold, but we needed to bring her to the vet to find out for sure.

And Alex said "I hope she doesn't have leukemia!" 

Yikes.  He's very aware of this now because of the Pasta for Pennies fundraiser at his school earlier this month. 

Julia asked what leukemia was, and Alex sort of explained to her what it was, mainly by listing symptoms...you get a lot of bruises...your bones break easily...you're tired.  And he also told her that "when you take the medicine for this sickness, it makes your hair fall out."

We all agreed we hoped Blur didn't have leukemia. 

So back to the vet's. 

First in was the tech, a nice girl who may be relatively new there, as I haven't seen her before.  She was a loud talker, a trait she'd probably developed to be heard over barking and yowling dogs. 

I told the kids to SIT in the two chairs while I put the cat carrier on the exam table and opened the little door.  Loud-talker-tech peeked in and oohed at Blur and was incredulous when I confirmed that Blur was eighteen.  "She doesn't look eighteen!  She doesn't have an old lady face!"  Nope, just a bloody, drippy nose. 

We got Blur out of the carrier, and the first order of business was to check all her vitals.  Starting with her temperature.  Out cane the little jar of vaseline, the thermometer, and, as I held Blur and Loud-talker-tech did the deed, out came the sound of my kids' horrified voices.  "EEEEW!!!" 

And then Alex:  "You put that RIGHT IN HER BUTTOCKS!!"

Loud-talker-tech and I both attempted to hold our breath and then gave up and burst out laughing.  Yep, that's where she put it.  Right in Blur's buttocks.  Thanks, Forrest.

The kids kept up a commentary through the rest of that preliminary exam.  They didn't stay in their seats, either (the thermometer incident pulled them to their feet pretty fast), and Julia in particular was all over the place, first on one side of the exam table, then on the other ("what's THAT?"  it's vaseline.  "can I smell it?"  um NO.), while I tried to have a conversation without actually saying THE MAIN WORDS of the topic.  Loud-talker-tech and I managed just fine, with nods and eye contact and words that danced on the outskirts of unpleasant paragraphs.  She knew I knew what MIGHT be happening.

She left to go get Dr. C., and while I had the chance I directed the kids back to their seats and asked them to please SHHHHHH when I was talking to the vet.

A few moments later Dr. C came in and we had another of those conversations without having a conversation, and she checked Blur out...listening to her heart and her breathing...running her fingers over Blur's face to feel for any lumps or bumps that hadn't been there before...checking her teeth and inside her mouth, too, for those bad lumps or bumps.  Nothing.  So maybe there's something else in Blur's nasal passage that is getting irritated and infected and causing the drainage.  Hard to tell.  For now, we agreed on antibiotics (a two week dose) to see where that got us.  And then, after that, we'd play it by ear.

Blur happily went back into her carrier and pretty soon we were on our way home. 

It's kind of funny - once we were home, Blur became a little more active than she usually is.  She ate some food...wandered around the kitchen sniffing things...explored the dining room...ate a bit more...maybe she was just glad to be home.  Maybe she was energized by her little adventure, such as it was. 

Maybe she thought that by appearing extra perky she could avoid another incidence of that greasy thermometer in her buttocks. 

Let's hope so.

Pest

 

I'm trying to take pictures of several different foods for several differnent upcoming posts. 

I'm using the dining room table because of the lighting and I like the green tablecloth as a background.

I'm arranging and moving things and taking away and replacing.

And when I get too close to the table, someone grabs at my leg, at my shirt, and peeks up from her hiding spot.

 

Mine

 

 

A Cat and His Boy, Guitars and Crayons, Pennies and Quarters

 

I love this picture. 

Alex is always on alert for cute cat photo opportunities.  While I was making dinner he yelled "MOM!  YOU'VE GOTTA SEE THIS!"

I yelled down something dull and stodgy like "I've got my hand in a chicken cavity - I can't go anywhere right now!"

And then Bill somehow quietly yelled to me "He's on the couch with the cat" so I washed off my hands and raced halfway down the stairs to peek.  Sure enough, Alex was on the couch with Scratchy.  So I ran back up to the kitchen, grabbed my camera, and took too pictures before Scratchy, fed up with the flash, departed.

~~~~~

Keeping Company

 

I have a little nook where I've set up my sewing stuff recently.  It's just a banquet table that's now nearly covered with a shelving unit left over from an old second-hand computer desk we had a while back, and my sewing machine, containers of yarn and ribbon and needles and other assorted bits and pieces of my stabs at creativity.  There's also, in the corner, a red pillow from our living room that split along the seam and needs to be closed up.  The only problem with that - now - is that Softie and Scratchy have claimed it for their own.

You can see a bit of it at the bottom of the picture above.  Right under Scratchy.  The two kittens (well, catolescents, I guess) have taken turns napping on that pillow so much that it's now mostly gray with fur and dented in the shape of curled-up-cat.

When we got back from our little trip last week, Scratchy, in particular, was insanely glad to see us and has been extra clingy to me ever since.  So when I set up my laptop on the tiny bit of remaning space of the sewing table, he was right there with me. 

 

He's really a sweet cat.  Still doesn't like to be picked up - although of all of us, Alex has the most success at it.  But Scratchy is a very companionable cat. 

He's good company.

While We Were Away...

The cats were left to fend for themselves.

Softie, recovering nicely from her surgery a couple of weeks ago, brought down this enormous pink circus horse for all to feast upon. 

Softie, Schmoftie.  I've always known she was the REAL hunter in the group.

 

 

 

 

It's nice to know we can leave town and not have to worry about the pets.

That Softie - She's A Funny One

This morning Alex showed up beside my bed at about quarter to four.

"Well, it's two things, Mom," he began in his no-big-rush sort of way.

His covers had all fallen off the bed, and Softie had gotten into the bedroom and was purring around his head and "disturving" him.

In fact, as he was telling me this, I could hear the deafening motor that is Softie-when-happy purring from somewhere near his feet.  She didn't want him out of her sight.

I have no idea why she has latched onto him like that - could be because he's always been very gentle with her (and every animal).  Could be some sort of cross-species crush she has.  Who knows.  But whenever he's in bed, if she has the opportunity to hop up on his bed and march around on his pillow, rubbing up against his head and purring loudly, she grabs it with all 200 claws.

Anyway, I took care of both situations A and B and Alex went back to sleep.  I didn't.  So I've been up since then.  Not doing much - reading a bit of a book, catching up on other blogs - drinking hot cocoa.  Real exciting stuff.

But back to Softie.  Her tummy wound continues to heal nicely, and she seems totally oblivious to it.  She does all her usual stuff - stalking her monstrous brother (Scratchy is a BIG cat) or staring, unblinking, at the lizard from TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT, hopping up onto the counter by the sink and making little coughing "ack-ack" predatory noises at the birds, scratching the furniture when she can get away with it, and, as mentioned before, snuggling with Alex's head.

Last night before dinner I had been working on some little projects in my tiny corner workshop/sewing area in my bedroom.  (Alex has had enough of me making dolls - he wants a triceratops.  "You need a challenge, Mom.")  I was on my way out of the room for some reason, and there was Softie.  Sitting in this red case/storage thing I got a while back.  I think it's meant for either CDs/DVDs (i'm awfully fond of the back slash this morning, huh?) or videotapes but I think mine has old tee shirts Alex has outgrown in it.  For some future as-yet undetermined project.  Anyway, last night, as I walked by, this is what I saw:

 

To me, that doesn't look at all comfortable.  But what do I know?  I'm not a cat.

Her Turn

Softie was spayed on Tuesday of this week. 

So Monday night I had to throw her into the bathroom (where I'd set up a private litterbox for her) and shut the door and leave there so she wouldn't be able to consume any food or water.

Her little mews were heartwrenching.

Scratchy, the sweet, wonderful big lug that he is, spent most of the night outside the bathroom door, lending quiet support.

We dropped her off at the vet's at 8 in the morning and picked her up around quarter to four.  The kids came along.  They love going to the vet.  Probably because nothing bad ever happens to THEM there.

The tech went over the whole post-op care checklist with me; nothing new - we went through this a couple months ago with Scratchy - the only difference, really, being that Scratchy's surgery was a lot less invasive than Softie's.  I know - my husband and any other male out there would cross his legs and disagree with me, but still.  Come on guys.  His incision was WAAAAAAAAAY smaller than Softie's. 

Anyway.  So we brought home little Softie in the carrier.  She was, of course, wearing the same ridiculous "Elizabethan collar" that Scratchy had worn.  Oh, joy.

Well, we got her home, and the kids went downstairs to play.  Old hands at this, they weren't all that interested in watching Softie emerge from her carrier.  It's just as well.  It took her a while.  Instead of trying to come out, she spent her time and energy trying to get that rid of the collar.  I had to keep reaching in and pulling one paw or the other out of the collar...at one point she got the edge of it jammed in her mouth.  And she wouldn't let me pull her out of the carrier, either.  She'd retreat (such as it was) to the opposite end as much as possible.  Maybe she was embarrassed to be seen in such a ridiculous get-up, and didn't want to make her entrance until she'd ripped it off.

Well, eventually she did emerge, with the stupid collar still on.  And she stumbled drunkenly around the house, shaking her head and pawing at the plastic annoyance.

 

She hated it.  Not just a "This thing's a pain!  Oh well, I'll eat some food"  kind of hate.  No.  It was a fiery, raging, angry red "DEATH TO ELIZABETHAN COLLARS EVERYWHERE!!!!" kind of animosity.

 

That's all she did - grabbed at it with her front paws, trying to rip it off her body, rolling and flipping around across the floor. 

   

And the thing is - she got it off.  And once she did, she calmed right down.

But, mindful of the post-op instructions to keep that thing on so she wouldn't lick her wound and rip out the stitches and spill her innards all over the floor, I caught her (carefully) and slipped the collar back over her head and tied the gauze snugly but not too tight. 

Immediately she was back to staggering around, bumping into things.  She managed to get herself caged in between the four legs of a dining room chair and there she sat for a little while, looking around and getting her bearings.  And no doubt plotting her next escape.

She had a tough time figuring out how to eat with that thing on.  At one point she looked up and flipped cat food in the air, startling herself.  Not a good time.

Of course, the worst part for her was my fault.  I was roasting chicken at a high temperature (crispy skin, less moisture loss) and when I opened the oven door at one point to check on it, our ultra sensitive smoke alarm went off.  Softie had been sitting in the dining room at that point, and when the alarm began so shriek, she basically leaped into the air in five directions at once and raced around the main floor in a circle or two and then vanished.

I was busy grabbing a chair to climb onto so I could take the battery out of the alarm and shut the hideous thing off, so I didn't see where she'd gone.  I checked all around the nearby rooms, under and behind furniture, but no cat.  I called down to the kids to see if she'd gone down there, but no, they hadn't seen her.  So I sent Alex and Julia upstairs to search the bedrooms and the bathroom up there.

They went up, spent oh, thirty seconds doing who knows what, and came down to report that they couldn't find her.  Uh-huh.  Thanks, kids.

I shut off the not-yet-boiling pasta water and went upstairs myself.  The light was on in the kids' bedroom, so I knew where they had looked, if you can call it that.  But I noticed Scratchy sitting on the floor beside the bed in my room, and I knew.  I peeked under the bed and sure enough, there she was.  Huddled between some under-the-bed storage containers, there she crouched, stupid collar still on, her eyes wide.  "It's okay," I crooned, and left her in peace.  I shut the bathroom door and the kids' bedroom door and went back downstairs.

Some time later Softie appeared again, minus the collar.  I found it by the bed, put it back on her, and went back to making dinner.  She crept around the edges of the rooms, waiting for some other horrible noise to sound.  And then, a bit later, she had the collar off again.

This was going to be a fun recuperation, I could tell.

 

 

 

 

In the end, she won.  The collar has stayed off.  Short of strangling her with the gauze strip, I can't see how we're going to keep the thing on.  So I am monitoring her suture wound multiple times a day, and so far, it's just fine.  I think she's far less stressed without the collar, and less stress is good for us all.

At the moment, she is on the table where the lizard tank sits, staring at a cricket that the lizard hasn't eaten yet.  Her tail is lashing from side to side in a predatorial frenzy.

She's just fine.

Claws of Death

And lest you think Scratchy is the only wacko feline we have, here's what I caught this morning:

 

I was moving some things around to make room on this table for some of Bill's beer-making stuff...and this cable to my laptop dipped between the pie safe and the table.  Look there, to the left of the pinecone.  See something gray...that's not metallic?

 

Ah, that's better.  It's Softy.  Trying to capture the cable.

 

I'm telling you, there's no end to the excitement around here.

Action Shots

One night I was lying awake, trying to fall asleep, and listening to the occasional random noises from the house.  The clicking of the baseboard heater...Alex or Julia snoring softly in their bedroom...and then, from downstairs...some other sound.

A sort of scraping sound, though for a time I couldn't figure out what was scraping or why.

At last, it dawned on me what was going on. 

 

Scratchy was pushing the water dish around the floor with his head.

I don't know why.  There was plenty of water, not only in the reservoir but also in the dish part. 

But now he does it often.  Not always, but often enough. 

Softie is watching, and following him around, probably wondering what the heck her brother's problem is.

 

And all the while, Pinky the Flattened Elephant hovers on the sidelines.

Scrutiny

 

The kittens loooooove to watch the wildlife.  Thing is, they keep hopping up onto the kitchen counter so they can see the birds and squirrels we feed, and they're really not supposed to be on there.

But when a photo op such as this presents itself, I let the rules slide a bit.

 

That's Scratchy on the left, Softie on the right, in case you were wondering about the cats.

As far as the rodent goes, it's either Squirly or Squirlio, according to my kids.  Doesn't matter if there are more than two squirrels around - those are their names.

You know, it's kind of pleasant to be so easily entertained. 

At the Window

 

The cats are watching seagulls circle above our house.  I'd finally tossed out the remaining cookies from Christmas - threw them onto the ice-encrusted snow in our back yard, and as I was doing so, a crow, high in a tree several houses down from ours, notified every large bird in a ten mile radius.

Soon the gulls arrived, circling above the house, then above the yard, and finally, a few at a time, dropping down to grab pieces of lebkuchen (I made waaaaaaaaaaay too many), sugar cookies, and crusts of stale bread.

While that was going on behind the house, the kittens and Alex enjoyed the air show at the front of the house.

 

 

Well, the cats were enjoying it until the gulls landed in the yard and weren't circling any more.  After that things weren't as exciting for them.

 

Alex loves the cats.  He's the only one who can hold Scratchy for more than a few seconds without Scratchy struggling to escape. 

But it's not THAT much more than a few seconds.

 

And by the way, Alex's smile just cracks me up.  He's got several adult teeth in various stages of growing in, two that grew in last year, and the rest are baby teeth. 

He's six and a half. 

That can't be possible.

Where He Ought Not Be

I am contributing to the delinquency of oh, all the young creatures in our home.  Except the lizard.  He had gone over to the dark side long before he joined our little family.

But what I mean about me encouraging less than stellar behavior...I have a habit now of catching one of them in the act of doing something they shouldn't be doing...like Julia coloring her nails with marker...or...oh...Scratchy lounging on top of the tank cover that protects Alex's betta.

He loves to perch up there - the little light (for the fish) makes it all warm and cozy, and he (Scratchy) has a good view of the lizard tank as well.

When Bill catches him up there, he tries to nudge him off - and Scratchy basically pushes back against Bill's hand.  He doesn't want to leave and does his best to become extra heavy and immobile.  It's kind of funny. 

So here's what I happened upon last night.  And rather than remove him from his perch, I tiptoed into the kitchen to get my camera.

   

 

 

As you can see, he was immediately guilt-ridden and scampered away.

 

I left the room and put my camera away and told no one what I had seen.

Until now.

Who's a Handsome Boy?

Adoration

 

In the mornings, when I come down the stairs, he hurries down beside me, then at the last moment, dashes ahead so he can jump up onto the loveseat and look impressive and ferocious yet loving and devoted.  Then, as I round the turn into the living room from the stairs, he dashes ahead to the little cardboard scratching thing on the floor, where he scratches violently as I go by.  Then he dashes past me into the kitchen to mew and purr and - very occasionally - rise up on his hind legs, ducking his head in an invitation to me to scratch behind his ears if I want - PLEASE! 

Even Bill has noticed it.  "He loves you," he has told me, amused.  And it's true.  Scratchy is devoted to me in a way neither of the other cats are - or ever will be. 

I firmly believe it's because of how I talked to him in his little cardboard box on the day we brought the kittens home from the grain and feed store.  He was terrified (as evidenced by the torn flesh of the store employee who had to handle him) and so I talked to him in my low soothing help-a-kitten-not-feel-so-afraid voice throughout the ride home and kept letting him sniff my fingers through the rough-cut holes in the cardboard.  And honestly - without intending to sound smug, though I know that's how I sound - I really think that's where and how and when it began. 

He's a big mushpot.  Still doesn't like to be picked up or held for very long, but in his own way, he is the most affectionate of all three cats.  He's kind of like a big, slobbery dog.  Only without the slobbery part.

Story Time

 

I took this one about a week ago.  Softie was in her favorite napping spot by the window.  And Julia, in one of her maternal moods, provided a pillow, a "blanket" (that tiny yellow square thing on Softie's lower body), and - a story.  It's a baby book called "Faces."  Julia brought in a chair from the dining room, sat down and read the book to Softie who, as you can see, was entranced.

Bath Time

 

"A little privacy would be nice."

Understatedly Festive

 

Twisted Cat Pose

Holiday Season Indignity

  

"Is this really necessary? 

 

Elegance

 

If you ain't got elegance, you can never, ever carry it off.

Softie's Sleeping Spot

It's actually a plant stand that Bill's mom had in one of the bedrooms of her house.  We tried using at as a plant stand here, but it was too easily accessed by Blur, and she'd eat the plants in it.

 

Last year I used the top part for storing the kids' school/daycare projects - it became basically a big junk heap of stuff I eventually had to sort through and put somewhere else.  I used the bottom shelf for bins for everyone's shoes and boots.

 

This year, about a month ago, I decided I didn't want to keep cramming papers in the top - it looked awful and I'm really trying to keep all that stuff OUT of the kitchen, at least most of it.  so I'm using the top for hats and scarves and mittens, with the bottom still used for bins of shoes.

 

Alex's things are at the left end of the bin, Bill's and mine are in the middle, and Julia's are at the right end.

 

Around a week ago, Softie discovered that Julia's winter hats made a nice little bed.

 

She doesn't seem to fit particularly well, at least to my silly human eyes, but what do I know?

 

Not much.

 

But that's okay.  Julia understands.

Head Shots

 

 

Peace on Earth - or at Least in the Living Room

 

This was yesterday afternoon.  Alex summoned me from the living room so I could see the miracle of Softie and Blur THIS CLOSE to each other, and no one was hissing or batting at the other.

 

'Tis the season, right?

What?

Baby Guy

 

I was sitting here on the loveseat by the window a couple of mornings ago, and Scratchy joined me.

 

I didn't want to get up to get my camera, because I'd have to move my arm.  And Scratchy was already purring loudly.  So Bill got the camera for me.  He is used to this sort of thing.

 

I've shared my space with both female and male cats over the years.  And while yes, I love both genders, or, rather, I have loved each feline for his or her own unique personality...I have to be honest here, and say that there's just something about male cats.

I don't know what it is...maybe it's the neutering - who knows...but they've all been super affectionate and smushy and, okay, absolutely smitten with me.  To the point where walking from room to room or up and down the stairs becomes dangerous, what with the nudging and tapping and weaving in-and-around ankles that goes on.

 

Scratchy is no different from the others.  Sometimes I wonder if we bonded back on that very first day, when he rode in a little cardboard box from his former home in Attleboro to his new home here.  He seemed more stressed than his sister did - why else would he have ripped a gash in that man's thumb? - and needed to feel safe.  Or at least reassured that, after the car ride, things would be just fine.

 

He mewed pitifully (don't they all?) in that box, and I kept peeking through the makeshift window at him and talking to him in my specifically designed Soothing Voice.  It's the one I use when my kids need to calm down and stop gulping for air when they are upset about something.  And it's the one I use to let kittens (or puppies, or any other creatures) know that I am safe and kind and will provide food and shelter and love.

 

He doesn't scratch much now.  Well, okay, let me amend that.  He doesn't lash out at people now.  He scratches his little cardboard scratching thing...and the scratching post in the basement...and the loveseat (under the slipcover, though) when he thinks no one's looking.  But he is more relaxed, more settled than that frazzled little kitten we brought home months ago.  And that settling in happened before the neutering, so it's not just the lack of hormonal influence.  I think he just feels home.

 

Of course, home comes with a price. 

Around here, we call that price "Julia."

 

Julia doesn't like to see anyone - cat or person - sitting around in a state of contented relaxation.  Not ever.  She must poke.  Or tap.  And Scratchy has accepted this as part of the package.

 

If he puts up with it a bit, eventually it will stop and he can go back to just sitting.  In peace.  Content once again.

 

Until the next round.

 

Julia loves his nose. 

 

And his soft, soft fur.

 

And Scratchy loves the attention.

He hasn't stopped purring.

Loudly.

Flying Birds and Falling Leaves

 

Payback

 

When the kittens were younger (which is all relative, because they're not even six months old yet), it seemed to Bill that Scratchy was always picking on Softie. 

It was kind of cute - Bill had never experienced kitten behavior before and didn't know that this was normal play. 

Sometimes he'd separate the two while they were playing/wrestling because he worried the occasional little yelp meant Softie was getting hurt by her bullying older brother. 

 

I tried to point out that Softie was just as aggressive as Scratchy when she wanted to be.

 

Bill didn't believe me for a while, because he never saw the times when Softie was the attacker.

 

Softie was sneakier, not as obvious as Scratchy about her plans.

 

She was so tiny and cute, after all.  So sweet.  So innocent.

 

She wouldn't actually be sneaky and sly...

 

Would she?

Free of His Butler Collar

 

 

 

 

"Yes, I'm quite content.  Now could you please go away?  I'm trying to snooze here."

Convalescing

 

 

Or, as is typical of other males in this household, soaking up all the sympathy he can...

 

Fyi, for those of you keeping track of Scratchy's post-neuter recovery, I removed his collar last night.  He had come upstairs with his collar encrusted (yet again) with litterbox debris (yeah) and I decided I'd pretty much had enough of cleaning THAT stuff off it.  So I got scissors, snipped the gauze, and pulled the collar off.  I'll keep it around, just in case, but for now, he is free. 

And he was extremely grateful, I think.  He sat down in the very spot where I'd just removed the collar and began to groom himself enthusiastically.  For a good ten minutes.

Travails with Scratchy

The kids and I brought Scratchy to the vet for his 8:00 pre-op check in on Tuesday. 

I didn't really tell them what EXACTLY was going to be done to him.  They're 6 and 4, my son and daughter, and I wasn't sure how technical and specific I wanted - or needed - to be about his impending...ahem...procedure.

So I told them that he was going in to have a little operation that boy cats have to keep them from wanting to pee on the walls.

Go on and laugh, if you want, but the prevention of peeing on the walls was, in my opinion, much more easily explained and accepted than something like "Well, we're going to remove his testicles.  Testicles?  You know, Alex, those little ball-things you've got under your pee-pee.  Scratchy has them too, because he's a boy, and we're bringing him to the vet so she can chop them right off!"

I decided to avoid the horror.  And the cost of therapy.

So wild, wall-spraying pee prevention it was.  And that worked just fine.  They just knew the little guy had to go to the doctor's and that he might get shots.  And that was enough potential trauma for my kids as it was.

So we dropped him off and then I brought the kids to school and went home.  Alex, by the way, had insisted on lugging the cat carrier from house to truck and from truck to vet's office.  It was his cat.

When I got home, Softie came RACING to the door, mewing hopefully.  "Do you have my brother?  Is he back now?"

I have to back up a minute here - I forgot to mention this.  As usual when anyone is going to go under anaesthesia in the morning, the rule is "no food or water after midnight" the night before.

Well.  It's one thing for an adult human to deal with.  Quite another for a young cat.

I'd thought of putting away the cat food and dumping the water and just making all three felines suffer over night, but that wouldn't work because there are several other watering holes the cats favor, no matter how much we try to redirect them.  Mainly there's the 55 gallon fish tank in the basement.  We don't have a cover for it - just the two large lights that run across the length and at least keep the cats from diving in. 

So instead, I filled a small litterbox and made a snuggly bed and locked Scratchy in the first floor bathroom.  He immediately began to protest and scratch at the door and reach his paws UNDER the door, in a rather sad and pathetic attempt to, I don't know, become a cartoon and miraculously become two-dimentional so he could slither under the door and then poof! regain his three-dimentional form once freed from solitary confinement.  Didn't work.

I felt horrible.  Kind of like when I say no to Alex when he asks for ANOTHER snack before dinner and when I stand firm on the "no" and request that he not be whiney any more about it and he says he's only whiney because - and I quote - "You never feed us anything" and I beg to differ and he then tells me he's moving, and I ask where, and he pauses and then says "To England!" 

Well, okay, when Alex threatened to move across the pond, I didn't feel horrible; I kind of laughed.

But for Scratchy, I felt horrible.  And what made it even more poignant was the fact that Softie, his sister, spent a good part of that night and the next morning sitting right next to the bathroom door.  Just sitting, quietly and supportively.  "I don't know what you've done to deserve this, O my brother, but I love you no matter what."

Okay, back to the story.

We (the impatient and impossibly hyperactive at the vet's office children of mine) rescued Scratchy a little after 5:00 that afternoon.  We would have been home sooner than we were, but as I was walking to the desk in the vets' office to sign off on the paperwork and pay Scratchy's ransome, some unsmiling woman clearly lacking in social skills stalked in the door, CUT in front of me and very bluntly said something like "Rude-People Crisis Center.  Boris's medicine."  Really.  Just like that.  She looked a lot like Severus Snape, if you want a visual.  Just not as tall.  The girl behind the desk started to explain that the nice woman with the two bouncy children was there first, but I waved at her to take the other woman first.  It seemed the wisest course of action.

Snape-lady was joined by an equally grim woman and a little fluffy white dog.  Julia immediately went to the second woman and asked if she could pet the dog.  She had a lovely time making friends with the little fluffy thing while Snape glared at her.  Actually, Snape wasn't necessarily glaring.  I don't think her face could form any other expression.

At long last, Snape and the other one and their dog left and it was our turn.  I read over the post-op care instructions, signed and initialed, and handed over my arm and leg in payment for Scratchy's procedure.  Good thing I'm part gecko and my appendages keep growing back.  An eternity later (the kids were whirling dervishes of impatience "Where's Scratchy???" "When are they bringing Scratchy out???") our tech reappeared with the gray-blue carrier.  Scratchy was inside, quietly wailing.  The kids looked inside the carrier.  "What's that on him?"

It was an Elizabethan Collar.  That conical embarrassment dogs and cats are subject to when they've had surgery or some other procedure and need to NOT lick, scratch or bite the wound site.  I'm sure Scratchy's wailing had a lot more to do with mortification than pain at that moment.

We carefully settled the carrier in the truck - between the kids' seats - and the smothered him with words of reassurance and love the whole ride home.

Scratchy continued to complain.

Part of the instructions stated that he was only to have a limited amount of food and water the rest of the day because the anaesthetic was still in his system and he might vomit.  The other main thing for Tuesday was that he needed to be kept quiet and safe.  No playing, racing up and down the stairs, jumping onto or off of furniture...because his reflexes might be off also.  You know, that darned ol' anaesthesia again. 

I stressed to my wildly excited offspring that they needed to CALM DOWN and NOT PICK UP SCRATCHY and BE VERY GENTLE with him.  Or ELSE!

And so we brought the carrier into the living room, Bill held the kids back a bit, and I opened the carrier.

Scratchy zipped out of there like a shot, ridiculous collar slowing him just a bit.  He spent a good deal of the rest of the night learning how to navigate with that annoying THING around his neck, and did an awful lot of slow-motion ricocheting off walls and chairs and people in the process.    He just wanted to rub up against all the familiar surroundings...just forget the whole torturous day...but that was impossible.  The collar was a constant reminder that things were somehow different.

Eating, drinking, and using the litterbox were difficult at first - again, because of that collar.

The worst part was when Softie skipped into the room.  Scratchy turned his alien head to face her, and she hissed at him and ran away.

Poor Scratchy. 

I told the kids that Softie was just confused by the collar and the vet office smells, and that eventually she would stop hissing at her brother.  In the meantime, Scratchy would need lots of VERY GENTLE love, and scratching him around that collar would be a huge favor to him.

 

 

Oh, and see that part on his collar where there's a logo and a word in an oval?  I took a closer look, and found it somehow appropriate...the name of the company that makes these collars and, I assume, other post-op props for animals. 

Have a closer look:

 

Yep, that's right.  Butler. 

Well, as of this writing (it's Friday, Halloween, and I'm finally finishing this post.  I hope.), Scratchy has adjusted to the collar and seems resigned to his fate. 

 

He doesn't bump into things much now, and has developed this odd, jaunty, bow-legged swagger, probably as a result of the collar messing with his peripheral vision. 

Or perhaps it's the post-op situation at the other end that's causing this James Cagney/John Wayne/Komodo Dragon gait. 

Whatever it is, it's kind of endearing.

Best of all - Softie has stopped hissing at him.  She knows he is really and truly the same Scratchy she has known since birth, and they are back to hanging around together, sleeping on the back of the chair behind Bill's head together, and watching me try to eat my breakfast in peace together.  And somehow they seem to realize that they can't wrestle just yet.  Scratchy still needs to take it easy a bit longer.  Instead, they work on annoying Blur.  That's always fun.

 

Scratchy is supposed to keep the collar on for a full two weeks, but I don't know if that's going to happen.  For one thing, he's already wriggled out of it once.  I got it back on him and re-tied the gauze, but still...we'll see.  I know it's to keep him from licking his...um...butler region and causing an infection or irritating the site, so maybe after around a week I'll take it off while I'm home and keep an eye on him.  If he goes for that area, I'll put it back on. 

 

In the meantime, the best gift we can give him is the gift of scratching.  All around his neck where the collar is.  He's so, so grateful.  He purrs loudly, and sometimes his hind leg will start scratching air, like dogs do when you've hit just the right spot.

And that, for those of you interested, is the update on Scratchy and his Surgery.

 

prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

He Has No Idea What's Coming

 

Look at him, all happy and carefree.

 

He does not know that it is Neuter Day.

Gazing

And in This Corner...

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grande Dame

 

a.k.a. Blur

It's in the Eyes - Just a Bit of Crazy

You're Upside Down, Sir.

 

 

Hold that Pose

 

I walked into the living room and there they were, like that, together on the "time out" chair.  I tiptoed back to the kitchen to get my camera and tiptoed back in to try to catch them before one got greedy and shoved the other one off the chair.   

 

"Could you go away now?  Please?"

Cute Kitten Photo of the Day

 

No, we're not going to say"cheese."  Just take the picture already.

Tuesdays With Scratchy

 

Dorie?  Dorie who?  This is MY work table now.  I don't really care what day it is.  I'm not moving.

Heightened Security Measures

For Reddy.  Alex's Betta, or Siamese Fighting Fish.

Here's Reddy in his original set-up.

 

(photo by Alex)

Cute little tank, some pretty colored glass and some fauna.  All a little red bachelor fish could want in an aquatic pad.

But then these two came on the scene:

 n't

Adorable little babies, weren't they?

Well, they're bigger now.

And they're not always so adorable.

Particularly this one.

 

That was then - the end of July, the day after we brought the babies home.

This is now...two whopping months later.

 

   

She is certainly bigger.

And she's coming into her own as a hunter.  I remember when they were babies, and they'd play and wrestle, and usually it was Scratchy who would attack Softie, and Bill would worry and fret about Softie's safety.  If he heard so much as a peep out of either of them, he'd separate them and cuddle with Softie a bit to make sure she was okay.  I told him she was fine and perfectly capable of defending herself, but that fell on his deaf, kitten-virgin ears.

Well now I am proven right.  She is just as likely - or more likely - to launch an offensive.

She's still cute and all.  But consider that her sheep's clothing.

So, back to Reddy.

There he had been, swimming happily in his tiny habitat, building houses of mucus bubbles, dining on his three daily food pellets, basking in the peace and quiet.

Then one day I saw Softie sitting up on the table that the lizard tank is on.  The table is right beside the desk where Reddy's home perches.  And Softie was looking up in that direction.  "Hmmm...something very interesting is up there...."  You could see the wheels turning in her little feline brain.

I shooed her off. 

Next time, she was up on the desk, sitting by the lamp, right beside Reddy's tank.

I shooed her off. 

Bill tried to fashion some sort of mesh cover to keep Softie out, but that didn't deter her.

Nor did our repeated shooing.  And our covering the entire surface surrounding the little fish tank with lots of STUFF so Softie wouldn't have anywhere to sit.

And so last night, after dinner, Julia and I were downstairs and Bill and Alex were in the music room with the door closed.  Bill was giving Alex a guitar lesson.  Julia and I were watching something on TV.

And then...

CRASH.

Of course.  And not just one crash, but a whole stumbly series of CRASH sounds. 

It could be nothing else but...

I just about threw Julia off my lap and ran up the stairs.

Bill was closer - when I reached the top of the stairs, he was gently scooping Reddy off of the floor and setting him back in the half-empty habitat.

Water and colorful glass rocks were all over the living room floor...one of the lights from the lizard tank had somehow been included in the fall, so that was there, sitting in the puddle.  Scratchy was eyeing the fish, and Softie had probably been startled away by the unexpected tumble.

Two amazing things:

Reddy's tank didn't break.

And Reddy didn't die.

Alex chased down Softie and told her she was a very bad kitten, and I cleaned up the mess while Bill added water to Reddy's tank so he could swim comfortably.

And then Bill created a small fortress for Reddy.

He got an old 5 gallon fish tank that we'd used for the first lizard we had (Razzcake.  I think Alex was two when he named it.) and miraculously, Reddy's tank fit perfectly inside.  Bill had also (back then) made a very tight-fitting screen cover, so Reddy is completely protected at this point.

Here he is in his fortress.

 

The lid fits so tightly that I have to use both hands to wiggle it off the tank.  So I don't think Softie will have any luck getting inside.

At least for now.

Puzzled

Squabble

This is the same box my pink KitchenAid food processor came in weeks ago.

 

All that packing paper used to be bigger and puffier, but the kittens have basically crushed it with all their playing and stalking and pouncing.

 

I've kept the box in the kitchen, even though it's big and in the way, just because the kittens love to jump in and out and hold their frequent Ultimate Kitty Fighter matches in it.

 

The crinkly paper sound makes it extra exciting.

Snooze

Softie in the Window

 

Love and Claws

 

This one.

She is the snuggliest of the two.  She's the one who will plant herself at my feet while I'm typing or washing dishes or measuring out ingredients and look up, mewing plaintively. 

Last night at some point I woke up when she slammed her little body against my head, purring loudly, and flopped there on my pillow to sleep.  A little violent, but sweet.

A bit later I was awakened by the sensation of a hundred tiny needles poking gently at half of my skull.  First some near the top of my head, and then some near my ear.  Back and forth, back and forth.  And purring.  Loud purring.  They didn't hurt - the needles - it was almost theraputic. 

I lay there, not moving, while a sleeping kitten kneaded my head and purred in my ear.

My Two Little Boys

  

 

Ghost Writer