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.

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*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.

I Can Has Kittehs?

This evening I called Hannah* to tell her what I'd found out at the vet's. She was glad to hear it.

Then she asked:

"Would you maybe think of taking one of them?"

And I took a deep breath and replied, "Well, I've been watching them play together the past couple of days when I let them out of the kennel, and they have such a good time together, and one kitten with Rhadwen might drive her crazy, but two kittens of the same litter would keep each other entertained and-- Well, I was wondering, what if I took both of them?"

Hannah thinks that's a great idea! Done deal! Their house is nowhere near finished, they're bunking with her in-laws, she's had some health problems: Not having to domesticate the kittens is a real weight off her shoulders!

Neither of us made any mention of the friend of her husband's friend who was looking to take Tiger. I am ruthless: I think these kids should stay together.

So there it is. Mai kittehs. Let me show you them.

Llewellyn Meets the Kitties

The Invaders

The kittens went to the vet's this afternoon.

They don't know about the vet's, yet. And so they were out to take over the world.

It was all I could do to keep Tiger's little paws out of the used needle hazardous waste bin.

And Fluff ("Cream o' Wheat" is just too much of a mouthful-- so to speak) made a thorough inspection of the examination table, while Tiger was out of the room getting blood drawn.

But they behaved themselves very prettily when they were getting their eyes and ears and hearts examined, and they thought the worming medicine was nom nom nom.

More to the point, they tested negative for worm eggs (but I'm to watch their stools for dead spaghetti-looking adults--feh!). And negative for feline leukemia. First stage of the distemper vaccination today, but the vet told me they can't have their rabies, etc., shots till they're twelve weeks old or so. And he estimates them at about eight weeks now.

So despite what the Internet feral cat fostering advice sites say, I can't let Rhadwen near them in only two weeks. I have to wait four.

That is, of course, if they're still with me at that time.

And in case you were wondering, Tiger, the brown tabby, is a boy, and Fluff/Cream o' Wheat, the pale ginger tabby, is a girl. I'm glad of that. Sounds silly, but looking at her little face the past couple of days, I'd been thinking she made an awfully off-key boy cat. But as a girl, she's adorable.

Fostering Service

The kittens are presently with me, enscounced in their wire kennel in the guest bedroom.

I spent the afternoon preparing the room, covering up a duct opening I'm sure they'd be thrilled to explore.

Well, sorry, kiddos, you can't.

When I came over to my friend Hannah's* house this evening, the kittens were taking the air on the side porch, out of the way of the last of the moving operation. As we shifted food bowls and prepared to dismantle the cage, I asked Steve* what their working names were.

"Oh, the striped one we call 'Tiger,' and the other one is 'Cream o' Wheat, because of his color.'"

Good enough handles, if you don't know yet if they're boys or girls.

He said, "I've got somebody who'll take Tiger, here. Think you might like to take Cream o' Wheat?"

And the wheels are going in my head: Rhadwen is almost nine years old. I'd hate to be without a cat when, God forbid, she goes. If I'm going to bring a kitten into the house, I'd better do it soon, while she can still keep up with it. But I was really hoping there would be a calico. Do I want a pink cat that looks like Puff in the Dick, Jane, and Sally books?

Oh, well, I'll think about that later!

Once everything-- including the surprisingly docile kittens in their carrier-- were loaded into my car, I drove to my place, quickly set things up in the guest bedroom (No, Rhadwen and Llewellyn, you mayn't come in and see!), then ran up to the PetsMart just before closing time for Science Diet kitten food and some kitty toys they might like. Hannah gave me what's left of the food she was feeding them, but I think it might be the adult cat food they had for their older cats, and there's not much left of it, anyway. I'll blend it with the Science Diet as prescribed.

Thursday, they have an appointment at the vet's for their initial checkup and shots. At that time we should find out what sex they are. I hate guessing.

I've put baskets with towels in them in the kennel for them to sleep and feel secure in. Hannah told me she kept finding them curled up together in the litter pan. I'd say that's because that's the only thing they had with a semblance of walls or shelter, there in the desolate family room with the debris of moving all around. I seriously doubt it's because these kittens like sleeping in sh1t!

(Yeah, that's a very Lutheran way to put it. But the alliteration is wanted.)

They really are sweet. I didn't bother them this evening by holding them much, but when I did, they were both very good at keeping their claws in.

This looks promising.

I Think of Something Useful

Today I brought my shop vac over to my friends' Hannah* and Steve's* about-to-be old house, for them to use when they finish getting their goods and chattels out.

And I got to see the kittens.

Turns out, the calico isn't a calico. It's a brown tabby. He and his pinky-yellow brother (or sister? We don't know yet!) have been moved into a large doggie kennel borrowed from Steve's parents.

I saw them hunkered there in the middle of the family room floor, and I thinks to myself, I thinks, "Gosh, they really must be in the way with all this moving going on. And the new house isn't ready yet and Hannah and Steve and Stevie* and Letitia* are living with the grandparents until it is. How can they manage the kittens as well?"

So I've offered to take the kitties home to my house, at least until the family gets settled out in the country. And Hannah* has gladly agreed. Their two grown-up cats are enough to think about at the moment as it is.

Minding Other People's Business

Yesterday, I got a call from my friend Hannah*.

"Steve and I came home yesterday, it smelled like we had a gas leak in the basement."

"Oh, no! That's the last thing you need! The closing with the new owners' is next week, isn't it? Is the house ok? How are the kittens? You called the gas company right away, didn't you?"

"Yes. They came out and it wasn't a gas leak. It was the kittens, peeing all over the basement."

"That's terrible!" And helpful me, I repeated what I'd read about how if you have feral kittens loose inside, like in a basement or whatever, they'll just become indoor feral cats . . .

Yes, maybe, but at the moment they'd had to trap the kittens all over again, and what were they going to do about the smell?

Good luck to them for it. I couldn't think of any sure-fire cures for cat urine stink when we were talking yesterday. But today I minded my friends' business royally by slipping an Internet printout on how to domesticate feral kittens into their mail slot when I was on my way home from church. They were still at their own church and I had to run off to an afternoon get-together at another friend's. So I have no idea if they've found the advice useful or not.

Wouldn't blame them if they pitched it in the nearest black garbage bag. Heaven knows, packing and moving and renovating doesn't leave them much if any time to attend to prescribed methods of feral cat taming.

Home Wildlife Preserve

I've heard from my friend Hannah* about the feral kittens they rescued from the barn on their new property.

The other day, she and her four-year-old daughter Letitia* took the fluffy pinky-yellow one to the nursing home where her mother lives to show her the new kitten. It got loose and it took six people to catch it. But other than that, it was perfectly sweet: bright-eyed, willing to be held, and purring like a blender on "puree."

This is not what I read on the feral kittens websites. They all say, Go slow. Wrap them in a towel to keep them calm while you pet them. One person handling the kittens at a time. No sudden moves or loud noises. No small children within ten miles. I keep my mouth shut about the feral kitten websites. If they're doing all right while breaking all the "rules," more power to them. I'm interested the kittens' welfare, but it ain't my house, it ain't my family, and they ain't my kittens.

But then she told me that they'd decided to just let them run loose in the basement. Um, well, I suggested, they might not want to do that . . . "I read something on line that said if you do that, they'll just be indoor feral cats. They need to be around people to get tamed."

Hannah said she'd keep that in mind, but her husband Steve* thought the basement was a good idea. Keeps the kittens out of the way while they're packing upstairs.

No luck yet capturing the gray kitten, she told me.

"Are you sure it wasn't the calico you got already and just looked gray in its hidey-hole in the barn?"

"No, we're pretty sure there's a third one."

If there is, time is running out. I can't go help look: too much that simply has to be done the next couple of days.

Tooth and Claw, or Dying from the Kyoot

The ending of my last entry was really lame, wasn't it? All that sentimental tripe about the poor rescued feral kitten going home with my friend to be pampered and loved.

Will you forgive me if I plead that by the time she took the kitty home and I finished the blog entry, I was hopelessly, brainlessly shattered?

And that hey, the kitten did allow us to pick him up and hold him, purring away like a BMW the whole time?

But since then, I've been online, looking up the care, feeding, and domesticating of feral kittens. And oy vey, have my friend Hannah* and her family taken on a task! And right in the middle of trying to pack up and move.

A double task, too, since Monday or Tuesday, they trapped and brought home the pinky-yellow kitten's littermate: a calico, they say.

And there might still be a gray kitten hiding out in their barn. They're trying to trap it, too.

Two, even three feral kittens? In a disrupted household with a six-year-old and a four-year-old? Oy vey, again.

Everything I read on the Web tells me that feral kittens can be extremely dangerous. That they should be handled only with armpit-high welder's gloves. That they're like little animated cacti and harder to control than the Main Stream Media sniffing out a possible Republican scandal.

What on earth could possibly be going on in Hannah and Steve's* household? I haven't heard from Hannah since late Monday. She said she'd call me when they captured the gray-- maybe I'd like to adopt it, she said. I've called and left messages but I haven't heard back. Are all the family lying on the floor, ripped to shreds by the Killer Kittens? To hear what the feral cat sites on the Internet say, nothing's more possible!

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*Fake names!

Going on a Mission

This evening around 8:50 PM when I was home listening to The White Horse Inn and eating my dinner, my friend Hannah* showed up unexpectedly at my door and said:

"I came to ask if you'd go on a mission with me."

Both of us being Christians, she says "mission" and I immediately think Brazil! Mexico! West Virginia!

But for that, she wouldn't appear unexpectedly on a rainy Sunday night. It must be something more immediate.

"Sure," I said. "What is it?"

"Remember those kittens in the barn at our new house? The ones whose mother we found dead? We caught one and put it in a room in the house till we can take it to the vet's tomorrow."

Yes, the house they're working on, the house that at present has no interior doors. So they put a piece of drywall across the opening to the cat room for a baby gate to keep the little one in.

"But Stevie* [her six-year-old son] brought his little friend from across the way in to see the kitty-- and they forgot to put the drywall back."

And the kitten escaped and disappeared, most likely down a hole in the floor in a neighboring room.

"We're afraid it might be trapped down there and die. Steve* [her husband] is home at the old house with the kids. I got one of those cage traps earlier and baited it with tuna to see if it'll get the kitten to come out. I need to find it tonight: I'm afraid it will starve. But I don't want to go out there by myself in the dark. Will you come with me?"

I was game, but not optimistic. I refrained from telling her the story of that cat that got stuck in the wall of that shop in Manhattan a year or so back, where it took everything short of the Army Corps of Engineers to get the moggie out. Would tuna work for a kitten that might not even be weaned? Would a feral cat let itself be caught, no matter how hungry it was?

I foresaw a long vigil. Near misses and clever if panicked feline escapes. Weariness and scratches. Frustration and lost hope.

I kept my mouth shut.

We packed up the flashlights, a splash of cream in a plastic container, and the freeze-dried salmon treats, and off we sallied through the fog and the pouring rain to undertake the Great Kitten Rescue.

By the time we arrived at the farm, the rain had slackened. But it was still dark and uncertain outside, and even darker and more uncertain within-- somebody had turned off the electricity at the mains.

Upstairs we ventured by the beam of our flashlights. Who knew what long search lay before us? Never mind, we were On a Mission.

. . . Well, actually, no long search lay before us. The mission was accomplished: the tuna had done the trick, and the dirty but fluffy little mog was hunkered down in the humane trap, probably thinking, "I were has tuna-- too I can has cheezburgr?"

We took the little one back to my place, where we decanted him out of the trap into my bathtub, and thence into my own cat's carrier, to be taken home to be cleaned, deflea'd, vetted, and loved.
But not before the kitten indulged himself in the cream we'd brought, while my own mog and dog kept curious and whimpering watch outside the bathroom door.

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*All names changed!