Breaking News

DATELINE-- House of the Flying Furballs-- At approximately 7:00 o'clock this evening EST, a surprise attack was launched by feline guerilla forces against Fort Christmas Tree.

The first and only casualty in the lightning offensive was brave Lt. Roderick Redcoat, whose shattered scalp and headgear were recovered from the callous batting paw of a pink and white floofy kitten. A further search discovered his hanging hook near Tree Skirt Plain and his torso at the foot of Bookcase Cliff.

It is not known why Lt. Redcoat was stationed in a position so vulnerable to capricious cat attack. An unnamed source has suggested it was due to a bad deployment decision made higher up the chain of command. A Congressional investigation may be ordered.

When asked to make a statement, the Commandant of Fort Christmas Tree insisted that the feline foray was an aberration and that the position was basically secure.

The remains of Lt. Redcoat have been removed to a safe place, where they await final deposition.

A Christmas Miracle

I brought a fresh-cut, live Christmas tree home and set it up in its stand a week ago on Friday.

I strung the lights on it on Christmas Eve.

I put on the decorations late on Christmas Day. (OK, so I'm time-management challenged! But it helps to celebrate Christmas during Christmas. Hey, I sometimes keep my tree up till Candlemas!)

And the wonder is, with one cat, two kittens, and a large dog, the tree is still up!

And there are no ornaments rolling around the floor!

Miraculous!

Maybe it's the distraction devices I set up on the other side of the front room. Gwenith and Huw have been a lot more interested in the dangly doggy toy with the little jingle bell hanging from the floor lamp and the great big jingle bell hanging from the music stand. Those they can do something with.

Since I put the two e-collars over the tree water well, der Tannenbaum has not been much fun at all.

Except for hiding behind. Always except for that.

Pushing It!

Life has been very exciting around here lately. Exploratory trips into the attic storage space. A live Christmas tree brought into the house and put up. Strange boxes full of long stringy things with shiny bits on them, perfect for cats and kittens to rummage through. Batch after batch of chocolate candy and cookies and buttery bread issuing from the kitchen. A big pot of chicken stock simmering, simmering on the stove. Odd green and red things hung all over various surfaces. Felines racing up and down the stairs in exuberance and glee.

It can be a lot for a self-respecting dog to deal with. It's prone to get his canine mind a mite addled. Make him forget his sense of timing and appropriate behavior.

So I couldn't really blame Llewellyn when he lifted his leg in the upstairs hall yesterday, only four or five hours after he'd been out to do his business. The excitement just got to him, that's all.

But this evening, he went too far.

This evening, Christmas Eve, things were quiet. I was standing at the stove, nursing a sauce through a very delicate stage, when I noticed Llewellyn sit down in the corner by the back door. He wasn't quite settled there waiting or signalling: it was more like he was going through the motions to see if he could get my attention.

He did, but that didn't oblige me to act on it. I'd taken him out to the alley barely three hours before. He could jolly well wait. The sauce I was making could not.

Whereupon he casually rose, walked over to the refrigerator, and lifted his leg and did a wee right there on the kitchen floor!

Guess again, doggo! It's into the crate with you, and if you wet it, that's your problem!

I finished the sauce and cleaned up the mess, in that order. Fortunately, the cats had no interest in either.

And then I took Llewellyn out the back.

Was I being mean? I don't think so. He can hold his water when he wants to.

Unless it should turn out there's something wrong with him? And he needs to go to the vet?

Guilt!!!!

Or does a certain mutt simply need a gentle but firm refresher course in just who is alpha in this household?

I'll see what develops after the holidays.

Good Dog!

I confess it: I haven't done any systematic training with my dog Llewellyn since that abortive attempt at dog class last spring. The one where he dragged me through the grass trying to get his fangs into the neck of another owner's dog.

No, everything I do in the training line is casual: Sometimes making him sit before I put down his food bowl. Telling him "Naughty!" when he swipes stuff off the counter or gets too pushy with the cats. Putting him into a Stay while I go down the basement to fetch something, hoping to goodness he obeys and doesn't swipe anything off the counter. That sort of thing.

But nothing so far has broken him of the habit of flinging himself at the back door whenever he believes he just might get to go out. Nothing could ever curb his enthusiasm, or prevent him from taking flying leaps worthy of Barishnikov in his prime.

Until now.

The last couple of days, I've noticed that when it comes time for him to want to go out back and do his business, Llewellyn has been sitting down calmly in the corner next to the back door. Where he looks at me like, "OK, get the leash, I'm ready to go!" And stays sitting until I get the leash on him and we're out the door.

How on earth did he teach himself that? Because I certainly didn't!

Amazing.

Good dog!

Peeking

Yesterday I stopped by the local PetsMart to buy food and a slicker brush for the kittens. As long as I was there, I picked up Christmas presents for my four-leggedy children.

For Llewellyn I chose a giant stuffed carrot. Suitable, considering his penchant for eating everything within reach, not excluding vegetables.

For Rhadwen, Gwenith, and Huw I got a collection of mousies, fuzzy batting balls, jingly rolling balls, that sort of thing. I'll share them out among them all.

So I get home, and I put the bag with the brush and the toys on my bed, out of the way. Then I went up to work in my study.

Time to go to bed last night, here's the PetsMart bag on the bed with the brush and the carrot-- but no kitty toys! Where could they be?

Oh, yes, the bag came open in the back seat of the car on the way home. I'd probably find the plastic pouch of kitteh jollies on the car floor.

Come the morning, I'm getting dressed. I drop an article of clothing on the floor and stoop down to retrieve it.

And what do I see, under the bed? That plastic pouch of kitty toys! So that's what Gwenith and Huw had been up to when I found them lying on the bed so nonchalantly last night! The little peekers had pulled it out of the sack and had been playing with it already!

I guess I hadn't figured on the attraction of the teaser tail toy that's fixed on the outside the pouch.

But who could have figured that even four-legged children would get into their Christmas toys ahead of the day?

Cross Post

I wrote this post on my main blog, Hiraeth and Hwyl, because it's mainly about people. But the animals play major supporting roles, so the link is hereby made.

WCWF

Over-amplified announcer: Laaaadieeeees an' gennelmennnnnnn! Welllcommme to t'night's champeenship bout of the Whirld Cat Wrassling Federation!

Tooonighttt! in this corner, wearing the calico spots and weighing in at 10.9 pounds, we have the nine-year-old deefending champeen, Rhadwen the Great!

An' in this corner, wearing gray-brown stripes and a white bib and weighing in at 8.5 pounds and ever-growing, we give you the six-month-old challenger, Huw the Bold!

Referee: OK, you cats know the rules. Hissing, spitting, snarling, tackling, swiping, givin' the evil eye-- thass all okay. But keep them claws in, okay? We don't want no blood spilt in this house-- I mean, in this arena. Okay, shake paws and may the best cat win!

Announcer: Ladies an' gennelmen, we got a reelly beeg cat wrassling battle in store for you tonight!

Rhadwen leaps full force on Huw! Huw springs away and down he goes on his back, he's got them pointy ends up in full defensive position! Rhadwen leaps again! but Huw scrambles and swipes with paws, front and rear! But now the Champeen has her mouth around the challenger's neck! Huw ain't lying down for that, nosirree-- he swipes! one! two! three! with his fierce front paws and springs clear! Will the Champeen go in pursuit? No! she turns her back and gives young Huw the advantage! A hit to the backside! Another! Another! Quickly Rhadwen turns and pounces and the battle is jined agin!! The contenders are locked in an all-out roll-and-wrassle head-and-body-lock duel to the finish! Who will win? Will Rhadwen keep her creown? Or will Huw be the new champeeen?

. . . Wait a minnut. There seems to be some problem in the ring! Llewellyn the Magnificent has vaulted the ropes and jined the action!

Ref: You dumb dog! You got no business here! This is Cat Wrasslin we're on for t'night! Hey! contenders! Git back in the ring! You run away like that, you both forfeit the match! Git back heeere! No, not you, you dumb dog, the cats, the cats!!!!

Announcer: Ladieees and gennelmen, the Management's apologies, but tonight's Whirld Cat Wrasslin Federation Champeenship match seems to be over before a decision could be reached. Thank yew all fur comin', and jine us agin for the nex WCWF match, to be held any time, any place, at a multiple-cat household neer yew!

_______________________

Notice: No felines (or canines) were harmed in the production of this blog post. Not so far, at least . . .

Sharing

When I first acquired the kittens Gwenith and Huw in August, I pulled out a couple of small square casserole dishes for them to share, one for their water and one for their food. They were so little their tiny heads fit together in the food dish just fine.

But as you can see, the kittens aren't so small anymore. And life was getting a bit crowded in CorningWare land.

So the other day I bought them two new, separate, food bowls.

Aren't they cute and blue?

And look how my sibling kittens are using them!

(Don't worry. They'll get over it!)

Hed Esploshun!

I saw this
on icanhascheezburger. It reminds me so much of Gwenith, that whenever I look at her I--

Oops!! Get teh mop! Hed esplodid agin!

Chocolate-Eating Dog Update

Going by what I read tonight on line about toxic-level dark chocolate doses for dogs, my Llewellyn has apparently dodged a bullet. Again.

(He did this before with half a bag of semi-sweet morsels a year or more ago.)

Meaning, I haven't observed the more serious symptoms of theobromine poisoning described. Last night, I had to pull an all-nighter to work on my final AutoCAD class project, and he lay quietly on the floor under my computer chair, as usual.

Right now, he's chilling out on the downstairs sofa, just shedding, as usual.

No unusual hyperactivity, no tsedrayt behaviour; he has a regular appetite, everything is mostly as usual.

Really, I notice no effects out of the ordinary-- except a heightened urgency to get out the gate to do his business.

Which he is doing with alacrity. I won't get clinical, but going by the list of typical theobromine toxicity symptoms, it's not half as bad as it could be.

But oh my gosh, am I going to have to redouble vigilence or what? Makes me wonder if the plastic chicken fencing I got last year to keep him out of the dining room during Christmas cookie making will work this time around. He's so determined to chow down on anything quasi-edible he can get.

Though if I will leave candy and snacks on the hallway bench, that doesn't pose him much of a challenge . . .

__________________________________________

(I didn't ask the tech at the vet's about it when I dropped Gwenith and Huw in for their spay and neuter operations this evening. Being an Official Poor Person for the nonce, I'm getting it done through a low-cost program that's not patronized by my regular vet. Didn't seem right to sneak in questions about the dog when my only business with this new practice is to get the kittens done.

Though if I'd remembered the toxicity proportions better, I might have asked anyway. 3.5 ounces is really pushing it, even for a dog of Llewellyn's size.)

Kitten Milestone

I dropped Gwenith and Huw off at the vets' this evening. Tomorrow they have their operations.

To read some authors, failing to get your dog or cat spayed or neutered is tantamount to pet abuse.

But I can't help it. Having to take the kittens to get fixed makes me sad.

What on earth for?

Maybe I'm afraid their piquant little personalities might change.

(Though if I let Huw grow into a full-blown tom, his personality very well might change. And not for the better.)

Maybe I feel I'm irrevocably cutting them off from their natural development.

(Yeah, natural developments like incest-engendered kittens running around the house.)

Or maybe, maybe, it's just me thinking, sob, gulp! my babies are growing up so fast!

They're only five months old! And Huw already weighs eight and a half pounds! Gwen is over seven pounds! They're so big, they no longer fit into the cat carrier together! I had to press an empty file box into service to get them to the vet's!

And now they're getting their operations!

They're almost all grownded up!

Whahhhhhh!

I Am a (Half-Asleep) Idiot

I arrived home from work this evening to find this scene in the front hall:

Before I got the light on I was preparing to find the philodrendon and its pot in shards and shreds on the floor.

What it was was quite as bad, from a dog health point of view.

You see, I flew to my mom's for Thanksgiving, and got home last night. I bought an 85% cacao chocolate bar at the airport to eat on the plane, but it was too bitter. No problem, I'd do some cooking with it.

Or not.

This morning, after maybe two hours of sleep (up late doing homework I couldn't get to while I was gone), I did the bat out of Hades bit trying not to get to school toooooo late. I really, truly, really intended to stuff the dried banana chips and the beef jerky and the trail mix snacks back in my bookbag and take them with me . . . And I'd forgotten all about the chocolate bar in its sack, which I guess I must've shifted out of the bookbag and laid on the hall bench . . .

So ten hours later, I return home-- to food wrapper chaos. Including the chocolate wrapper that I homed in on and picked up right away. Oh, no!

If Llewellyn were a little dog, I would be freaking out. Chocolate is bad for dogs' hearts, and the darker it is, the worse. But if Llewellyn were a little dog, that 3.5 ounce bar would have done its dirty work long before I returned to the scene. But at nearly fifty pounds, the only thing apparently wrong with my greedy mutt was that he'd gobbled down every flake and chip of that chocolate and those snack foods and was still nosing amid the debris, unwilling to accept that there simply wasn't any more.

No point in making him throw up. He probably got at it as soon as my key was out of the lock at 8:00 AM. He seems okay so far. No more hyperactive than normal; in fact, he's as usual, quite content to lie at my feet while I work at my computer.

But someday, someday, that dog is going to eat himself into real trouble. And I have got to stay awake enough to prevent it.

Campaign Against the Fleas

The anti-flea medicine came yesterday, but I didn't get it on the beasts until today. Had the idea that I needed to go buy flea shampoo for Rhadwen and bathe her first.

Got the shampoo yesterday afternoon; did not get the bathing done.

Nor today. The thermostat is set low for economy, it's blowing and rainy outside, and it's too cold to handle wet felines.

But something had to be done. So all four of them, the dog and three cats, got their first doses of flea medicine today regardless.

And it's almost too good to be true how well Gwenith and Huw took the between-the-shoulder-blades application. Almost as if they thought they were being groomed by a very wet tongue.

Rhadwen objected, rather. I made it up to her with a dried salmon treat.

In fact, treats for all! Treats for all my good four-legged children!

Nobody Loves Me, Everybody Hates Me: I'm Going into the Garden to---

Escape.

At least, that seemed to be Rhadwen's intention late this afternoon.

I'm familiar with the jump-from-the-top-of-the-compost-bin-and-over-the-fence-to-the-dining-room-sill-and-down-to-the-side-yard-and-around-the-front-to-freedom ploy.

I've seen the variation where she dispenses with the compost bin and attempts to shinny up a fence picket and over and gone.

I've caught her seriously considering the possibilities of the jump-to-the-top-of-the-woodpile-and-up-to-the-top-of-the-fence-and-over-into-the-neighbors'-yard route.

And with the advent of Llewellyn the dog a year and a half ago and now the kittens Gwenith and Huw, I can sympathize. She used to be queen of all she surveyed. Now she has to put up with a dog who beats her to the door when I come home and pretends to chew on her, just to show her he's now the boss. She has to suffer kittens who eat out of her bowl when their food is ready and available, just to show her they can. She has to endure their occupying my lap, when everyone knows it belongs to her. It's enough to make any self-respecting cat feel unappreciated and ready to explore new horizons.

But not by the route Rhadwen tried this afternoon. This afternoon Rhadwen tried a new one. She sprang up to the very tippy top of the wooden garden seat, stood on the corner newel on her back legs, reached up nearly to the top of the fence with her front paws, and nearly, nearly, made the leap for freedom into the back alley.

The attempted escape route

Or at least, into the neighbors' rose of Sharon tree. And thence, perhaps, to the top of their garage.

Either way, this is scaaaaary. In the side yard, the front yard, the neighbors' yard, I know where to find her and bring her home. But back in the alley, next stop is our town's main drag. Which doubles as a major highway. And let's not even think of the neighborhood liveliness that would ensue if my big cat had to be extricated from next-door's garage roof.

I moved in and grabbed her before she could make the jump. And took her right back in the house, whether she likes sharing it with the dog and the new kittens or not.

Besides, I can't be letting her outside anymore. At least, not for awhile. When I was petting her day before yesterday, I discovered that she's brought in-- fleas! We're sitting tight till the flea medicine for one and all comes in the mail.

Ode to a Pink Tabby Kitten

I've written a poem on the ways and character of Gwenith, my pinky-yellow medium-haired tabby kitten.

WARNING: Egregious Sentimentality and Affected Archaisms Dead Ahead!
To My Capricious Kitty

O Gwenith fair, thou pink and coy,
How dost thou wend within my heart?
Flirtatious, clinging, shrinking, shy,
Thy feline ways a thing apart.

Thy pale and striped tabby fur,
Thy bib and belly white as dove,
Thy elfin face, thy plushy tail
Me call to give thee snuggly love.

And purring, purring like a mill!
Content thou seemst in all thou dost:
At play, at food, at mischief, too:
To pet thee seemeth only just!

But O! illusive as thou art!
Thine act denies thy winsomeness:
So quick eluding every touch,
So loath to brook the fond caress!

Thou might'st be tripping through the hall
Or crouching snug the stairs upon,
Or anywhere the house abroad:
I stoop to stroke--and thou art gone!

But let me lay me in my bed,
Or sit to work, then verily,
There art thou, Gwen, upon my lap,
My desk, my work, all over me!

Thou trammelst me at every turn!
I cannot see, thou block’st my view!
With kisses rousing me from sleep,
With paws that knock my plans askew!

No good nor use to sigh and groan,
For kittens walk in fancy’s ways;
And Gwenith fair will grow a cat,
And then I’ll mourn these wanton days.

Flirtatious, clinging, shrinking, shy,
Thy feline ways a thing apart,
O Gwenith fair, thou pink and coy,
How thou dost wend within my heart!

So True! So True!

I received this the other day via email from my friend Ruth*. She got it from our mutual friend Ieuan*. I don't know where he got it, but if anyone knows who the artist/animator is, I will gladly and appreciatively revise this post to credit him or her.

"For anyone who has ever owned a cat . . . "

The Cost of Free Kittens

Did PetsMart's stock go up yesterday?

Wouldn't be surprised if it had.

It should have, after I got finished at my local branch. One seventeen-and-a-half pound bag of premium dry kitten kibble! Twenty-four five-and-a-half ounce tins of kitten dinner, ditto premium! Forty pound box of clumping kitty litter (Huw, the litter box connoisseur, has declared it his favorite, which is convenient)! A new scratching post! Nature's Miracle enzymatic cleaner against the marking behavior which evidence tells me has already started! Sticky-Paws tape to protect the new slipcover I bought to cover the feline-ripped loveseat! Anti-scratching spray, as a back-up for same! Three new feather-ornamented kitty toys, which the dog will want to go after first!

The dent in the checkbook is not pretty.

On the other hand, the kittens are. For all that, I get one sleek four-month old kitten and one fluffy. I get two more balls of fur to snuggle up to me in bed at night. I get diet aid for my admittedly-overweight grownup cat, who abandons her bowl whenever she sees the kittens coming. I get two little creatures for my dog to shepherd. I get a helper and companion in my computer work. I get a furry little doorstop for the back door.

And when the cold weather sets in, I'll get two more portable (well, mobile) heaters to keep the bedroom warm when the thermostat turns down at night.

That's what I call value for money.

Teaching a Young Dog New Tricks

The grass in the near end of my backyard is a mess.

Correction: The bare dirt in the near end of my backyard is a mess. Thanks to my doggie Llewellyn and his little gifts and deposits over the past year and a half, it might be, oh, maybe one-quarter covered with grass?

And not happy grass, either.

This I need to do something about before the warm fall weather goes away.

Never mind why I didn't rake out the dead matter until yesterday. I had my reasons. But now it's done. Hopefully, I'll get the area reseeded by Saturday. Can I let my poor dear dog range free out there and do his business as usual?

No, I can not.

So since last night, Llewellyn's doing his business on the leash, out the back gate, in the grass next to the alley. Back there, I don't care if the vegetation gets killed. Good riddance to it.

The surprising thing is that he's not pulling on the leash half as much as he does when I try to take him for a walk out front. And this is in spite of the fact that he chewed through his Halti collar when he freaked out at the vet's in July!

In fact, the one needing the discipline is most likely to be me. I start an early class tomorrow, and it'd be soooooo much easier on cold crisp dark mornings to just let him run out the back door . . . ! Especially if I'm running late.

Llewellyn, he's enjoying himself so much, he's forgetting to be a prat on the leash. Maybe it's the novelty factor. Long may it last.

Pecking Order

Let's figure this out:

The kittens Huw and Gwenith openly steal food from nine-year-old Rhadwen's bowl.

Rhadwen blatantly steals food from my plate.

So where does that put me in the household pecking order?

(Llewellyn I don't allow to eat till after I do, but that's only because he hasn't yet worked out how to pry the lid off the dog food tin . . . )

Gwenith Is Computer Literate!

Tonight, Gwenith, my four-month-old girl kitten, discovered the computer.

And the cursor, and the fun way the picture scrolls up and down, and (oh, joy!) the funny cats on YouTube!

What she can't figure out is, why does the funny cat jump around here, but she hears it meowing over there?

A Milestone

Of sorts.

The medium-sized litter box in the basement that Rhadwen has been using the past several years is as of today officially too small. The cat household has graduated to the big box I bought four years ago but didn't use because, well, because there was no need.

Now there's a need. Huw, at least, is also using the basement box. The old one has been outgrown. Or overpopulated. Or overpoopulated!

Enough said, then, on the litterbox issue. Except for this: Why does Huw have to be the first one in after the litter's been changed? He did that with both boxes this afternoon.

Correction: Why does he have to be the first one in the clean box, even when there's no litter in it yet? I foresee a messy issue to this someday!

Kitten Retrieved

Here's a cute story of interspecies adoption from the Pixburgh Tribune-Review website:

"Golden retriever nurses stray kitten."

This little girl looks a lot like my Huw!

This Should Not Be!

This is Huw eating out of Rhadwen's bowl this evening-- and Rhadwen letting him! A little later, Gwenith jumped up and did the same!

The kittens do not need to be eating her Senior food!

And to be fair, she does not need to be slipping into the Kitten Room and licking up the leftovers of their canned kitten dinner!

I took the water pistol to both the little upstarts. We'll see if it works.

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

Last night was the first time since the kittens came that I've tried sleeping a) in my own bed, with b) all the doors open so all the four-footed inhabitants could come and go as they pleased.

I woke this morning with one big cat and two little ones with me on the bed, and one dog on the floor.

And no wet places!

Well done, one and all.

Homeland Security

The kittens Gwenith and Huw are increasingly out and about these days, so appropriate measures must be taken to Protect the Homeland.

And not necessarily from the kittens themselves.

Here's the security device I rigged up on the Kitten Room door a week or so ago:

It's designed to keep Llewellyn out of the room and out of the catbox cookies.

Comme ca:

(Poor baby!)

Then early this morning, I installed this on the hatch door to the attic storage:

The dark recesses of the void under the roof has been a popular hideyhole for Rhadwen ever since we moved in four years ago. In fact, this is what she did back then when I tried to block the door with a full can of white trim paint:

Imagine coming home from a nice Sunday afternoon out to find that!

But we now have an understanding. I can pretty reliably call (or bribe) her out of there when I need to. But who knows what Gwenith and Huw might get up to in that long, dark space. They might park themselves way in the back just to assert their feline independence. They might creep in unbeknownst to me and I could inadvertently close the door on them on a very hot or very cold day. Do not want!

I kept them out as long as possible; yes, I did. But yesterday they, too, figured out how to push aside the door stop, spring the cabinet latch, and get inside.

Huw I quickly managed to catch and deposit back in the Kitten Room. But Gwenith had found something marvellous in the attic space, something delightful and delectable, something so fascinating she must bat it and attack it and carry it in her little mouth all round and behind and between the boxes and bags and stored Christmas decorations, something she was going to keep away from me, oh, yes, she was. It was stiff and gray and looked sort of furry-- Oh, no, do I have mice?

But eventually she--and it-- got close enough and I pounced. This is what she'd found:

A dead bird does not surprise me, though I'd like to know how it got in. Wouldn't be the first bird, live or dead, I've found in this house.

Even so, I don't need my kittens breaking into the attic space in hopes of further necrotic avian treats. Thus, the bolt.

Here's Rhadwen this afternoon trying to get the hatch door open. It's too bad I didn't get a picture of her glaring at me afterwards. If looks could kill--!

Sorry, BabyCat. The kittens ruined your fun for you. The attic has been made Secure.

Not Such a Good Idea

What, pray tell, is that?

Dear reader, you well may ask.

Is it a blanket for a late-season picnic? A quick and easy way to kill the grass for a new garden bed? An insidious pattern fungus growing in my back yard?

No, it's the wet memory foam mattress topper from my own little bed. And it's the sign and evidence of an experiment gone wrong, of an idea Whose Time Had Not Yet Come.

Yesterday I did the wash. Rhadwen and her predecessor Didon always derived great amusement from "helping" me fold the laundry. Let's see if the kittens will like it, too!

So I brought them individually into the front bedroom, where I was working. Gwenith and Huw liked that. But I noticed they were more interested in the room than in diving under the sheets and towels and T-shirts.

Hey . . . Why not let both of them sleep in my room? It'd expand their territory and get them more familiar to this part of the house. True, that meant closing the door to keep out the dog and Rhadwen the big cat, but if they needed to pee or poo, they'd let me know, right?

Gwenith and Huw had a field day-- or night. Wonderful places to jump and climb and tunnel through! Unlimited fun with mirrors, windows, curtains, and bed rails! The frolic went on far past lights out.

But eventually all subsided into silence and sleep . . .

. . . . Until the dawn's early light, when I was roused by the sound of kitty claws going scritch, scritch, scritch in the sheet next to my shoulder. Simultaneously, I became aware of a strange wetness on the sheet, on my nightclothes, on me! The air was filled with the delicate odor of kitten pee, and my now wide-open eyes beheld no kittens on the bed, but a rapidly-spreading wet spot right next to me on what had been the clean white sheets.

Oh, p----! I guess they are too young to let me know when they need to go!

Instantaneous leap to action! Get the kittens back to their own room and their own litter box! Get out of the wet nightclothes! Strip the bed! Rinse out the mattress topper in the bathtub! Take a shower! Put the soaked bedding in the washer! Hurry, hurry, hurry!

So that's why the foam topper is out in the backyard killing the grass and theoretically getting dry. It'll be awhile, so I'll be bunking in the Kitten Room until future notice.

The Continual Entertainment Value of Cats

Here's a funny cat story I picked up via the AP feed on the WABC Radio website:

"Cat, Stuck for a Week, Blasted Out of Tree with Fire Hose."

Funny, that is, as long as it's not your mog.

The Top Cat Wars

Huw is nothing if not gutsy. And he appears to have dreams of dominance and glory. Here he is yet again nosing into Rhadwen's dish:

Rhadwen, in her placid middle age, seems to acknowledge his ambitions. The times she's come into the Kitten Room, it's Gwenith she approaches and hisses at. Rivalry against a fellow female? Or a desire to avoid the little tiger-striped tabby, who would like nothing more than to set himself up as Top Cat?

Though to be fair to Rhadwen as Queen of the House, this evening she did not permit the young pretender to eat out of her bowl. Blasted digital camera lag lost her reaction, but oy! it was unmistakeably clear.

An Unexpected Development

On the theory that cats will associate good things with the place where they eat, today I fed Rhadwen breakfast outside the Kitten Room, with the door open, so she could see the interlopers-- I mean, her new brother and sister-- while she ate.

And not just ordinary dry kibble, either, but nice, moist, fishy tinned food contributed by my neighbor Eileen*, a cat person who can't have cats because her teenaged son is violently allergic.

So there Rhadwen is, one eye on the kittens, the other eye on her saucer, eating her meal. And out marches Huw, bold as brass, and starts eating out of her dish! And Wennie backed up and let him!

No, I do not have pictures of this. Camera wasn't handy. But that's exactly what that three-month-old upstart did!

In a case like this, I do not care what the books and websites say about letting the cats arrange these issues for themselves. The kittens are not eating out of my senior cat's bowl. Especially not when it's tinned food that's too rich for them. I do not wish to be cleaning up piles of kakk on the rug.

So I pulled Huw back and distracted both him and his sister with a bowl of their own kitten kibble. And the respective breakfasts were finished in peace.

But now Rhadwen is going to associate special food with its being stolen? Life is shaping up to be interesting here in the Valleys.

To give an idea how it went down, here's yesterday's dry run of the food-association exercise:

The sniffing you hear is Llewellyn, shut in the front bedroom.

Greedy paw by Gwenith. She's not as in-your-face brazen as her brother. She prefers the sneaky guerrilla approach.

_____________________________

*Made up name

Sniffing Out Trouble

Earlier this morning, the kittens Gwenith and Huw went to the vet's. They got the rest of their shots. They were weighed (Huw has more than doubled his weight in the past 26 days; Gwenith, who was bigger the first vet visit, has added over 50% to hers). And hallelujah, they were both cleared as free of FIV.

So now the felines old and new can start sniffing out each other's territory. Literally.

The kids went into my room, in the carrier. Llewellyn, poor thing, I bundled into the bathroom, to keep him out of the way. And Rhadwen I induced to come upstairs to inspect the Kitten Room.

This is the result.

I hadn't intended to give the kittens reciprocal privileges this morning. The ideal thing is to let the newcomers range over the whole house while the reigning cat is otherwise occupied. And my house is not ready for that.

But what could it hurt if I let Gwenith and Huw nose around only in the front bedroom after Wennie took herself off downstairs? Not a whisker!

Today they're most interested in strange smells and promising hidey-holes. In a week or so, they'll be happily flinging phones and doilies and ornaments off dressers and nightstands and shelves, just like their adopted big sister Rhadwen.

(Oh, golly. I can hardly wait.)

The Cat Channeller

This past Saturday I made a foray to the Big Pet Supply Store, for kitten food and kitty litter and a litter mat and a scratching post and who knows what all. In amongst the haul I brought home a book, Cat vs. Cat: Keeping Peace When You Have More Than One Cat, by Pam Johnson-Bennett.

I'm looking forward to introducing Wennie and the kittens in a few days, and I'm eager--not to say, anxious--that all should go well. After I'd stood there in the store reading it for maybe fifteen minutes, this book struck me as something worth having. Even as something I wished I'd had a couple weeks ago!

Well, I've pretty well finished reading it by now, and yes, Ms. Johnson-Bennett gives some great advice on introducing new and old cats to one another. For instance, it stands to reason what she says about letting them catch each other's scents and about sequestering the resident cat(s) while the newcomer(s) explores further afield.

But ye gods and little fishhooks! For most of this book, you could swear she's the paid lobbyist for the Feline Rights and Rewards Political Action Committee! Sometimes, I think she's channelling some mysterious cat spirit. Or maybe, she's part cat herself!

I mean, she prescribes two fifteen-minute play sessions per day with each cat! More, if my schedule is about to change or get busier! She tells me I shouldn't rearrange the furniture, because it'll upset their sense of place! I should have a litterbox for each of them, and maybe more! And don't put it in a corner, because kitty might get ambushed!

And all that you hear about cats being aloof and independent? Forget about it, according to this book. No, I read that it might provoke a crisis once I get a fulltime job, because cats actually suffer from separation anxiety! And as for going away for the weekend, let alone longer--!

So if I got cats because I thought they were drip-dry, wash-n-wear, wrinkle-and-care-free pets, apparently I am to see the error of my ways.

Yes, I am firmly convinced that Ms. Johnson-Bennett is a paid lackey of the Loyal Order of Cats and Kittens. If she isn't some eerie form of cat-human hybrid. And she is here to put me in my place. Firmly. To the delicate but gratified ovation of three pairs of feline paws.

It's enough to make a cat laugh.

Resistance Is Futile

Two weeks ago I gave Rhadwen her Triennial Cat Bath. Here's this big calico kitty with all her claws, known for scratching some people's eyes out** and sending others to the emergency room (see link to her MeanKitty profile, to the right in the Virtual Tie-Out List). And she sat there in the bathtub with me hardly holding her, submitting to the indignity of being soaked wet and bathed.

How could this be?

Oh, yeah, I remember. She started getting baths back when she was a tiny kitten and came to me with fleas. She figured out early there's no point in fighting the Dreaded Bath: just endure it and get it over with.

Gwenith and Huw don't have fleas. They weren't particularly dirty. (Gwenith got a bath from Hannah* after she was recovered from the floor cavity of Hannah and Steve's* new house.) But both kittens need to learn the same lesson their big sister did eight years ago.

So I bathed them both this afternoon. Gwenith actually fought more-- maybe because she knew what was coming!

They survived, and they're sleeker and fluffier for the exercise.

And hopefully, when they're great big grownup kittehs and they get dirty and need to be bathed, they'll go peaceably to their doom. Because at bathtime, Resistance Is Futile.

_________________________________
*Made-up names
**Mine, practically, when trying to jump out of my arms to chase some neighborhood cats

Cat Bath!

Rhadwen got a bath today.



It's been--what? three years since her last one.

She should have her own scent back in time for Meet the Kittens Day in a week or two. No, my big kitty does not normally smell like lavendar!

A Sop to the Worry Demons

I called the vet's today to change Gwenith and Huw's follow-up appointment for the 11th.

We're still going for their shots and all that day, but in the morning instead of in the evening. I've had a meeting come up.

So as long as I had the receptionist/tech on the phone, I asked her, "Um, the male we were calling Tiger when he first came in, he's been having coughing spells: I notice them once every two or so days. Should I bring him in before the 11th? Like today?"

"I don't think that'd be necessary. It's normal for kittens to get little respiratory infections. They get over them."

"Well, I guess so. Yes, my big cat and I both got the flu at the same time when she was a kitten, and we were on the same antibiotic! So you don't think it could be something like feline asthma?"

"It's unlikely," said the tech. "But keep an eye on him, and if he's still coughing when you come in, let the vet know."

So, okay, that's what I'll do. Though they saaaaayyy that feline asthma is hard to diagnose and a lot of vets don't/won't consider it . . . What if? . . . . (Oh, no!) But if there are other, more innocuous possibilities, like a transient bug . . . . And yes, if Huw isn't coughing anymore in two weeks, I guess that means asthma is unlikely . . . I mean, it'd stay the same or get worse, right? . . . .

Oh, phooey, buck up, kid! Watch the little cat, see how he does, and act accordingly.

Too Much Excitement!!!

I answered the doorbell a little after 6:00 this evening. There on the steps stood my friend Hannah* and her kids Stevie* and Letitia.*

"Hi! We've brought dinner and we've come to see the kittens!"

So she ran the frozen dinners through the microwave while I escorted the children upstairs to visit Gwenith and Huw.

How do you explain to a six-year-old and a four-year-old why two nine-week old kittens, who spent just over a week at their house (much of it hiding in the basement), dashed under the bed the minute the children walked into the room?

How (once you've fished the kittens out from under the bed) do you convince them that the kittens might be more comfortable if the children didn't yell so excitedly at the kitties, at you, and at each other?

How do you teach them not to hold the kittens too tightly and to let them go if they want to jump out of their arms?

And how, when little Letitia is doing a good job of keeping Gwenith, wrapped in the pink cotton kitty cat rug, happy and secure, do you prevent her big brother Stevie with his Superior Knowledge from grabbing the kitten from her and showing her How It Ought to Be Done?

You can't.

Oh, you can run your mouth and try. But there's just Too Much Excitement. So you simply referee. And intervene when needed to make sure none of the children-- human or feline-- get hurt.

And when the children call the kittens by their old handles Tiger and Creamie, and ask their mother when they're going to get to bring them home, you keep your mouth shut. That's her enviable job.

__________________________

*Made-up names

My Pet Worry Warthog

Yesterday or the day before some speaker on the local Christian station was listing ways you can test the quality of your Christian walk. Number One on the list was, "Is God the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning? Is your first thought to thank Him for giving you the new day and to dedicate it to Him?"

Yes, that would be ideal. But this morning I woke in the guest bedroom (where I slept to work on bonding with the kittens) and my first cogent thought was about how absurdly hard and fast my heart was slamming against my ribs. It felt as if I’d been fleeing for my life up a hill.

I know what it is, of course. It’s useless worry and anxiety.

Among other things, that anxiety arose from the sight and sound of the kittens Gwenith and Huw wrestling and play-fighting one another on the floor. Three times this past week I’ve witnessed Huw seeming to hyperventilate for a few seconds, as if he were trying to hack up a hairball and couldn’t. I tripped over a video online a week or two ago of a cat doing what looked just like that, and the label said the cat had feline asthma. Oh, God, please don’t let Huw have asthma!

You can treat it with inhalers and so on. But the kittens’ pet insurance won’t be properly in effect until after I get them their follow up check up and shots two weeks from next Tuesday. If Huw has asthma diagnosed then, it becomes an existing condition and the insurance won’t help pay for the treatment.

If I say nothing and he does have it, that’s dishonest. Also, if he’s sick and gets his shots, that can be very harmful to him, as the vaccines are warranted only for healthy animals.

But if I say, "I think Huw has feline asthma," might I not then run the risk of putting the vet on the wrong track?

I guess I just have to keep an eye on him between now and then. And watch for any signs of air deprivation. Maybe he is just trying to hack up a hairball, and hasn’t got the hang of it.

But this morning, I watched the kids wrestling, and my sleep-ridden fears said "Oh, what if he doesn’t have much longer to do that sort of thing! What if his sister won’t leave him alone and sends him into a major attack or seizure!" What if, what if , what if.

So I lay there in bed at 7:30 this morning, knowing I should think first thing of God and His mercies, and concious of my galloping worried heart instead.

Well, no excuse. "Cast your cares upon the Lord, for He cares for you." Even if your cares have to do with the health of a nine-week-old barn kitten . . .

Huw Ydy Enw'r Cath Bachgen Bach

This afternoon I wrote my friend Ruth* via email:

"Here are a few shots of the kittens. Now I have to finish naming them.

"The fluffy wheaten one is Gwenith. I want the stripey male to have a one-syllable name so they're easy to say together: "X and Gwenith," "Gwenith and X" . . .

"Do you think he looks like a Rhys? Or more like a Huw? ("Gwenith and Huw" is easier to say). 'Rhys,' I read, means 'enthusiasm,' and he's pretty enthusiastic; while 'Huw' is adapted from the German 'Hugh' and means 'soul, mind, intellect.' And he seems to be very smart!

"Or should I call him Wil (Hopcyn) as a salute to 'Bugeilio'r Gwenith Gwyn'?"

A few hours later, Ruth replied:

"Thanks for sending the pictures. The kittens are very adorable. Of course, I love the name Gwenith - that was my Gwen's [Ruth's late Golden Retriever] given name (given by me. Her original name was "Joybells"- didn't take me long to change that one.)

"I rather like Huw, but the others are all right as well. He really does remind me of Tomi, giving me an idea of what Tomi looked like as a kitten (Tomi was fairly young, maybe around a year old, but not a kitten when he came to live with me.)"

So there we have it. The little boy kitten's name is Huw.

Free Range Kittens

The kennel I borrowed from my friends Hannah* and Steve* (which they borrowed from his parents) is a handy thing to have. It keeps the kitten paraphrenalia--food and water bowls, sleeping baskets, and litter box-- in one convenient spot.

But that doesn't mean the kittens needs to be kept in there.

So for the past few days I've left the kennel door open and they have free run of the bedroom. They do like hiding under the bed: stands to reason, they haven't totally gotten used to being here yet. But when I come in, in a second or two Rhys(?) will venture out, and after a minute or so more, there is Gwenith.

And let the games begin!

Pwy Ydych Chi?

I've spent a remarkable amount of time so far this weekend, sitting on the floor in the Kitten Room and reading.

After all, the kittens need socialized, I've got a book here that I've owned for a few years but have never read (Christy, by Catherine Marshall), so why shouldn't I combine the-- ahem! tasks?

I've named the pinky-yellow one "Gwenith." That's a natural transformation from "Cream o' Wheat (sorry, Steve*, no), since gwenith is Welsh for wheat.

So now that all three of the other four-legged kids have Welsh names, the little boy kitten has to have one, too. Of one syllable, I've decided, since it flows nicely with "Gwenith and--" Rhys, maybe? I keep looking at him and trying to make it fit, but it won't, not quite.

I'll write my friend Ruth* back in my home town. She's got three dogs and one cat and she's good at naming animals. What's more, she's deep-dyed in Welsh culture and activities. Her ear should be good for this.