DogMogBlog

Happy Birthday, Wennie!

2010-09-23T23:10:00.001-04:00

Today is my calico cat Rhadwen's twelfth birthday!

Here she is, as pretty as ever.

I'm not absolutely certain-sure that's the exact day in 1998 when she was born on the acreage outside Cedar Bluffs, Nebraska, but I seem to remember the family who gave her to me as a kitten telling me that's when her mother gave birth. So it's a good day to commemorate.

I'm afraid we didn't do much to celebrate. I forgot to buy tuna at the store, and, due to lawn chemicals on the grass, I couldn't let her spend the day in the back yard. (Oh, I heard from her about that!)

She's doing very well, regardless of her age, and is the best hunter in the family. She brought me a live chipmunk a week or two ago that I would not let her bring inside.

So, many Wennie happy returns!

Tomato Sampling Expert

2010-08-03T16:32:00.000-04:00

Less than five minutes ago I harvested my first Pink Brandywine tomato of the season. I set it on the counter, and went upstairs to get my camera to document the occasion.

In less than a minute I returned to the kitchen, to find the tomato gone and my dog Llewellyn in the dining room having a last chomp.

You greedy beast! So, was it good, sir? Did it meet your expectations?

And don't you know tomatoes are supposed to be bad for you?

Sheesh.

Close Calls

2010-06-07T17:49:00.007-04:00

When I was on restricted activity post-op, I arranged for the neighbors down the street to come and feed the animals and especially, to take Llewellyn out to the alley to do his business. If I had him properly leash trained I could've done it myself early on, but noooo, he's still tugging and pulling at the best of times. And if he sees another dog, it's Katie, bar the door! Definitely in the category of Heavy Lifting.

But about two weeks before I was cleared for regular activity, the teenaged kid from the family that was helping me told me they couldn't find my house key. For a few days, he'd ring the bell morning and afternoon, I'd let him in, and he'd take the dog out. And late at night, at bedtime, I could take Llewellyn out off-leash, since nobody walks their dog in the alley at that hour.

But gradually, none of my helpers from down the block came at all. It was up to me. Whattodo, whattodo . . . ? Ah. Midnight trip, as before. Daylight potty breaks, I let Llewellyn run down to the back gate and I'd get him secured when I got there. Then, "Sit!" He sits. I put the leash on him. "Wait!" He waits. I open the back gate, carefully, carefully . . . I stick my head out, and sweep the scene, up and down the alley. No dogs. "OK!" And out we'd come, Llewellyn would do his business on a relaxed leash, and I wouldn't get my stitches pulled and he wouldn't be menacing other people's pets.

This worked so well, that last week, I got careless. I didn't take the time I should've to make sure the coast was clear. And for three straight mornings, at different times each day, I just missed letting my fear-agressive mutt into the alley right in the path of a neighbor and his little brown dachshund!

I do not know how Llewellyn didn't nose that dog and go off after him, but I guess he had other business to attend to.

Unless . . . ?

Not sure when it was, last Friday or Saturday, but we were out there so he could do his business. And a couple houses down the alley, two young guys I didn't know were standing by a car, I guess waiting for their friend to get home. Then I heard a jingling as of dogtags, and yes, they had a little mutt on a leash, right where Llewellyn could see him. And Llewellyn did see him. And did nothing, except finish his business.

Then yesterday, the neighborhood children were out in force, accompanied by the big Dobie owned by the family on the corner. Vader, who is always off-leash, lay down in the next-door neighbors' yard, not twenty feet from my front entrance. Where the door was open. And Llewellyn was sitting right behind the screen. Did he go crazy? No, he didn't. In fact, the kindergartners and I did some training with some doggie treats I brought out. Llewellyn got treats for sitting nicely behind the door and not barking at Vader, and Vader got treats for chilling out and not coming any farther into Llewellyn's territory.

All seemed well. Until the one preschooler in the group ran into my house to get something, and let the door hang open when she came back out. And out Llewellyn came with her, starting down the front steps, with the child's pet Doberman just a long leap away.

But . . . Llewellyn wasn't running, or barking, or attacking. He was just ambling out, enjoying the fun, wanting to be outside with all the kids who like to pet him and spoil him rotten. Had to spoil his fun, of course. "Llewellyn, back in the house. Now."

He went. Dare I say he might be getting an eensie bit more dog-socialized? If so, I wish I knew what we were doing right. I hate having to be so careful of him now-- and I know he'd love it if he could get over his fear and get out and play and frolic with other dogs.

Resolutions

2010-05-28T17:57:00.004-04:00

I really should make a resolution to write something for this puppy at least once a week. It's not that I take my critters for granted, it's just that they are so consistently cute that I don't find myself jonesing to write about it. And when they're naughty . . . well, it's not really nice to talk in public about the rude things your kids do, is it?

Nevertheless . . . here's some pictures to be going on with.

Rhadwen in the red leather chair.

Rhadwen on the dresser.

Llewellyn and Huw exchange schmooz.

Gwenith keeps my ankles warm.

Like adoptive mom, like son.

That's good for now. This'll give me time to decide whether to tell about how this morning I discovered down the basement that the kittehs had pulled the big new bag of cat kibble to the floor and torn it open, and how it's heavier than I'm supposed to lift yet, but I lifted it anyway to put it away safe . . .

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch . . . .

2010-04-26T20:02:00.004-04:00

I got home this afternoon after five days in the hospital, where I underwent major surgery.

The post-op instructions are that I am to take it easy-- very easy-- the next four weeks. No driving, lifting, heavy cleaning; limited stair-climbing, stuff like that.

I'm afraid I didn't do such a hot job of obeying all that the past few hours since my return: there was too much to take care of, too much to put away; too much orienting to to for the friend who's going to be with me the next couple of days.

But now I am in bed like a good girl, and my friend has gone home for awhile to take care of business there.

And I'm hoping and wishing she gets back sooner than later, because somewhere in the house, here on the 2nd floor, maybe even in this very bedroom, maybe actually under this very bed, something is putting out a suspiciously pungeant smell.

I have my suspicions about the suspicious smell.

Seems Gwenith and Huw were not spotted at all the past five days by the people who were taking care of my critters. I still haven't seen Gwenith; Huw materialized and ate something an hour or less ago. I wouldn't put it past them-- not one bit-- if they got revenge on me for my absence by Doing Something under the bed.

But I am in no physical condition to look. I have to wait till my poor friend Frieda* gets back and make her poke under there and see.

Children! Children! What are you trying to do to me!!??

Everybody Has a Job

2010-03-16T23:32:00.003-04:00

The plasterer is in this week to repair the ceiling in my 3rd floor study. And we all have jobs to do.

His job is to do the plasterwork.

My job is to refrain from asking him so many questions about doing the plasterwork that he never is able to do the plasterwork.

Gwenith and Huw's job is to make themselves scarce.

Llewellyn's job is to stay by me when I'm here and to pretend to like being cooped up in his crate when I'm not, and to contain the barking even if he doesn't like it.

And Rhadwen's job is to go wherever she pleases and look cute.

A Seedy Post

2010-03-07T23:06:00.006-05:00

The birdfeeder is outside my dining room window. To get to it you have to go out the door on the other side of the house, around the front, and back along the other side to where the feeder hangers from its wrought iron shepherd's crook.

There's still a lot of snow on the ground. Deep snow, that I don't want to tromp through.

I have, not a ten-foot, but a four-foot pole, with a hook on the end, that I made for fishing things out from under bushes (mostly plastic grocery bags that the wind blows out of my dog-doo collecting stock on the back porch. But I anticipate). This winter I have discovered, that if I open the dining room window and lean out, this pole is long enough for me to hook the birdfeeder, fetch it in, refill it, and hang it back on the crook.

(This may explain why my natural gas bill was so high last month, but let's not think painful thoughts.)

On Friday, I fetched the feeder in and poured in the mixed seed from the big popcorn tin under the window. I hung the suet holder on the plastic hook under the feeder, then, having placed the feeder bale on my pole hook, I leaned out, out, out the window to hang it up.

Oopsie!

This time, I missed. Feeder and suet cage crashed to the ground. And this time I could've used a ten-foot pole.

Rats. Gotta go out in the snow regardless.

Picked my way along the partly-thawed strip along the front border and crunch, crunch, crunch into the side yard. Where I discovered that the plastic hook on the birdfeeder was broken.

Oh, well. I hung the suet holder on the shepherd's crook, too, and came back inside.

Where I discovered that
I had neglected to put the lid on the birdseed tin before I went outside, and

There was a biiiiggggg dent in the birdseed and scads of millet and sunflower seeds and cracked corn scattered across the floor, and

Llewellyn was happily helping himself to it all.

If I had any question that it was he who'd caused the birdseed level to drop so precipitously, it was settled in a few hours when I took him out to do his business. You'd think my dog had turned into a canine seed drill. Doubt the birds will want them any more, sauced as they are with essense of doggie digestive tract, but I do have to wonder if any of this stuff will sprout when Spring finally comes.

After all, it works that way with birds.

Prince Llewellyn, Lord of the Snow

2010-02-10T23:08:00.007-05:00

Random shots of my dog taking charge in the aftermath of the recent snowstorms:

What I don't understand, however, is why he'll burrow through 16" of snow to root out old dead broccoli leaves he tore off and strewed around a month ago-- and then eat them.

Degrees of Diffidence

2010-01-06T17:45:00.003-05:00

Gwenith, my shy pink floofy kitteh, is even now sitting on my lap, kissing my chin.

Gwenith, my shy pink floofy kitteh, is helping herself to the Cheez-Its in the bowl on my computer table.

Gwenith, my shy pink floofy kitteh, tries to help herself from my plate at the dining room table, practically every time I sit down to eat.

Gwenith, my shy pink floofy kitteh, pounces on me every night after I've pulled up the covers and turned out the light, stalks up my body, finds my face and kisses me goodnight, then curls up next to me and settles in to sleep.

Gwenith, my shy pink floofy kitteh, blocks my path in the morning as I come up the stairs from the shower in the basement, insisting I pet her every three or four risers.

Gwenith, my shy pink floofy kitteh, has learned the word "Treats!" and comes running to join her four-legged siblings wherever the goodies are on hand.

Gwenith, my shy pink floofy kitteh, is currently lying over my left wrist as I type, wondering why I ate all the Cheez-Its and didn't save any for her.

She still runs and hides when any visitor comes; except on the stairs she still won't let me reach down and pet her; she still insists that any advance she makes be at her own initiative and while I am sitting, lying down, or otherwise restricted. But considering where we were a few months ago when she'd run if I barely looked at her, I'd say this was progress.

Definitely Not J. R. R. Tolkien's Elves

2010-01-02T20:07:00.003-05:00

Before the Christmas season is over, I should send out this greeting from the House of the Flying Furrballs, courtesy of the people from Office Max and JibJab.com.

I think today it's time for the Nine Ladies Dancing. OK, one lady, three cats, and a dog, but who's counting?

Consistency in Dog Training . . . Not

2009-12-31T13:23:00.003-05:00

Let's just say my goggeh is really fond of frozen veg . . .

"Curses, Foiled Again!"

2009-12-29T22:46:00.002-05:00

When I go to the PetsMart, I always visit the kittehs up for adoption.

Pure self-indulgence on my part, since I have enough to take care of with my three and couldn't seriously entertain the idea of acquiring another cat.

Still, I look. And today I saw the strangest thing. In one kennel was a floofy black cat with streaks of brown in his fur. The tag on the clipboard on the outside was turned around and on it in big letters was written:

NOT

ADOPT

OUT!

Hmm . . . Black kitteh called "Soot" . . . Dire warning on the cage label . . . could PetsMart have apprehended a minion of . . .

Basement Cat????

Found

2009-11-23T23:00:00.008-05:00

I didn't sleep well the night of the 11th.

It didn't help that some neighbor in the next block up seemed to have left his car lights on and they were shining through the window right in my eyes till maybe 4:00 in the morning, when someone either switched them off or the car battery went dead. It bothered me that I couldn't go alert them to it, but I was dressed for bed and was I supposed to go over there at two in the morning in the freezing cold in my bathrobe and knock on the door?

But more disturbing were my broken dreams and fears. I kept starting awake, staring out the window (into those blasted headlights), hoping to see my Rhadwen silhouetted there, but seeing nothing.

Llewellyn did his best. He climbed onto the sofabed and snuggled in, taking advantage of an unusual opportunity since he never has been admitted onto my bed upstairs. I think Huw made a passing appearance . . . but in the anxious hours until dawn, it was the dog who kept vigil with me.

At 5:45 AM the alarm rang and I got up to get ready for work. I opened the front door and looked out on the cold, dark morning. The treats left on step and sill were untouched. Nothing had changed-- Rhadwen was still gone. I padded into the kitchen and looked out the back door. No calico kitteh there, either.

Oh, god, where could she be? She'd never been gone this long! Never overnight, never with this many meals missed. Oh, heavens, had I really lost her? Is that what I'd have to get used to?

I wanted to go out into the dawn and search, but it wasn't possible. I had substitute teaching to do that day, and never mind my personal sorrows.

About forty minutes later, I was washed and dressed and ready to take Llewellyn out for his morning business. I opened the back door and there, her white fur glimmering palely on the back porch, was my lost calico cat.

Immediately I swooped her into my arms. "Wennie! Wennie! Where were you? Where did you go? Where did you spend the night? Why can't you talk? Oh, Wennie, where?"

Poor Llewellyn. He had to hold his water until his feline sister was indoors and fed. Her fur was cold and damp, as with melted frost; frost that even then covered all the ground and vegetation outdoors. So she'd slept out and not under shelter; but she was clean, she was whole, she was found!

I still have no clue where she might have gone. My neighbor to the west admits it was probably her kid who left the gate open, and though she intended to speak to him, what can you do when it comes to the attention span of a five-year-old? They don't think, so we adults have to do their thinking for them. Which in this case means bolting the gate so the kids have to ask before coming in the yard to retrieve their toys.

For several days after her adventure, Rhadwen had no interest in going outside. But yesterday evening, I saw that things were getting back to normal.

For her. But not for me.

Lost

2009-11-22T18:32:00.009-05:00

On the 10th of this month, the man from the exterminators came to do their quarterly service to keep down the ants, inside and out. It was a different rep than usual, so it was the first time he'd met any of my four-legged dependents.

He came into the backyard just as I finished clearing the leaves from the woodpile, and of course Llewellyn was all over him. New hooman! Joy, joy!

"What a great dog! Boy, I could just take this dog home with me, couldn't I, boy?"

Then Rhadwen sidled up, wanting a piece of the action.

"Gosh, what a big cat! How much does she weigh?"

"A little less than eleven pounds," I said apologetically. "Actually, she's not that big. A lot of it's fur . . . "

"How old is she?"

"She's eleven years old. Actually, I got her eleven years ago tomorrow, on Veterans' Day 1998."

"Gosh!" said the bug man. "I've had cats for a long time, but they never get much over five or six pounds! And they never seem to live more than five years or so! Gosh. Eleven years old. That's really amazing!"

Me, I didn't think it was amazing at all. The strange thing to me is why anybody's pet kitteh would peg out after only five years. Rhadwen, I am determined, will live to be eighteen. At least. And phooey on the bug man's attitude that there is something odd in that.

That night, Rhadwen snuggled next to me in bed. I settled into her furry warmth, deliberately appreciating it, thinking of the conversation in the back yard that morning. Unbidden, a memory came into my head of my late terrier-mix dog Maddie, and how she'd only lived with me five years after we rescued her from the park in Kansas City, and how I'd expected to have her so much longer . . . Maddie's buried in the back yard, under the Mary Magdalene rose bush . . . when Rhadwen goes, will I put her near there, too . . . ? But what was I thinking? Rhadwen will be with me a long, long time. Snuggle closer and go to sleep . . .

The next day, Rhadwen begged to go outside, as usual. Eventually I gave into the nagging and let her out. Then I went upstairs and started working on the computer.

After about four hours, around 7:30 PM, Llewellyn prevailed upon me to take him outside for his evening constitutional. I figured my calico kitteh would be out on the back porch, waiting to come in for supper.

But she wasn't.

After Llewellyn did his business in the alley, we came back into the yard and I looked around for my No. 1 Cat. No sign of her-- Not in the bushes, not on the porch, nowhere, nothing.

Nothing-- but the front gate to the back yard gaping open.

I knew it was shut when I let her out earlier. Sure as sunrise, one of the neighborhood five-year-olds must've lost a ball over the fence and let himself in without asking, to retrieve it. And neglected to latch the gate after he left.

That would have been at least two, two-and-a-half hours before, when it was still light. When had Rhadwen found the gap? How long had she been gone?

I had to find her. I love Gwenith and Huw, but Rhadwen's my best friend kitteh. She's been with me through three dwellings and two moves and several jobs. She couldn't be gone. She just couldn't.

I rang neighbors' doorbells and asked them to keep an eye out. I took a flashlight and combed all the bushes in my yard and everyone else's. I looked in the front of the houses and back in the alley. I looked under the back porch to see if she'd ducked under there. Repeatedly, I came out and searched and called and searched again.

"Rhadwen! Rhadwen!! Wennie!!! Please, come, please! Rhadwen!"

Nothing.

The night was getting colder. The forecast was 31°. A lot of the cover where she'd taken refuge on previous forays afield is gone with the summer. Where could she possibly be?

But I kept looking. Late at night, heart leaden with thoughts of the worst, I turned my steps to the busy street a long block away, in case-- God forbid-- she'd wandered over there and gotten--

There was no sign of her there. Thank God, but where was she?

Still later, after 1:00 in the morning, I hitched Llewellyn to the leash and took him through the alley in the next block down. Maybe he could sniff out his old friend. Maybe she'd come to him, if she wouldn't to me?

Nothing. No sign.

Is this what I got for being so proud of my big healthy senior cat? To lose her, now, on the very anniversary of my adopting her? Is that what I was going to have to get used to?

No way I could just go to bed and sleep. The temperature was dropping and Rhadwen couldn't get back in if I didn't open the door for her. I had to work in the morning, so I couldn't stay up all night holding vigil.

So I did what I had to, and slept on the sofa bed in the front room. With kitty treats strewn on the front steps and on the windowsill by the front door, so that if she came back and nommed them (she'd missed two meals by now), I might see and hear and let her in.

And just in case, I left the front gate to the yard open, too. It might let in rabbits and raccoons and skunks, but it might also restore to me my lost calico kitteh.

Though by now, I feared I might never see her again.

Adorablol Goggie

2009-10-09T00:06:00.001-04:00

How can you not love a face like this?

Treeing Squirrels

2009-09-30T23:37:00.012-04:00

I notice I haven't posted in awhile. Life happens, and my critters are so continually adorable (oh, yeah), how can I pick anything to write about in particular?

But to keep some blood pumping through this blog's system, here for your viewing pleasure are some shots of Llewellyn treeing a squirrel.

At least, he thinks he has it treed. Mr. Squirrel can hop from the maple to next door's garage roof and be gone in no time. Instead, he prefers to sit in the tree and swear at my dog. What does a goggie have to do to get any respect!?

Note to Myself

2009-07-30T14:30:00.002-04:00

Next time I'm in the market for bedroom furniture, remind me not to buy anything with ring pulls.

Until then, remind me not to hide kitty treats and catnip in the drawer of my bedside table. Yeah, the drawer with the ring pull. Not unless I really like having my stripey kitteh Huw pulling it open and rifling it. As he has done the past two nights.

And then there's the fun he and Rhadwen have with the jewelry chest in the wee hours of the morning.

Yep, ring pulls again.

Oh, they are soooo clebber! Opposable thumbs, who needs 'em?

Swim or Sink, Barking Division

2009-07-24T01:54:00.005-04:00

Day before yesterday, the new people moved into the house on the corner, two doors down from the House of the Flying Furballs.

They have a large Doberman named Vader, who does not wear a helmet or have breathing issues.

What he does have is good off-leash discipline, and his people, the past couple of days, have allowed him to lie out on their front lawn while they're with him.

This drives my Llewellyn nuts. Not only is there a new interloping canine in the neighborhood, said interloper doesn't have the grace to run away (i.e., keep going by on leash) when he barks at it. No, this new mutt just lies there and ignores him.

Must need to bark all the louder and longer:

BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!

Hey, that didn't work! Other dog is still there! And now he's walking around with people petting him! Try again:

BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!

Oh good grief, you could hear my mutt up and down the block. Ferociously. Constantly. Not something any of us can tolerate, especially not me with my nerves.

So I'm trying something. It's the basic carrot and stick approach. If Llewellyn can look at the screen door at Vader and keep his yap shut, he gets a treat and high praise for being a "Good, quiet dog!"

If I catch him barking or even growling at the Dobie, he gets a water squirt from the spray bottle and a "Naughty noise!"

We'll see how this works. The advent of this new dog may be an inadvertent blessing-- or the beginning of tumult and misery for one and all.

Stoopy Piggeh Goggeh!!

2009-07-11T23:23:00.007-04:00

I had a nice, big, full, developing head of broccoli in my garden.

Until this evening, when this is what Llewellyn did while a friend and I chatted nesciently on the back porch:

Grrrrr, ggrrrrrrr! Naughty dog! Naughty! Naughty! Nawty!!!

_________________________________________________________

Greedy Beastliness, Omnivorous Division

2009-07-02T23:47:00.018-04:00

I love my dog Llewellyn. Yes, I love him very, very MUCH.

But I kinda sorta like my garden, too. And I really would like it if my dog would approach it with an attitude of live and let grow . . .

And it would be nice if I could let him out by himself in the back yard without having to watch him every minute.

But I can't. I really can't.

The end of May, I planted broccoli and Brussels sprouts in one of my garden plots. They were a little leggy at first, but they took root and prospered. About ten days later, I noticed a leaf or two off one of the Brussels sprout plants. Bird? Maybe. Rabbit? Doubt it; my fence keeps them out. Squirrel? Do squirrels eat plants? I didn't know.

But the next day, I was out back and from a distance noticed Llewellyn slinking along the garden path with something green in his mouth. I thought it was a piece of lettuce, and there's plenty of that to go around. But then I looked more closely, and ack! he was in the crucifer bed, experimentally ripping the leaves off both broccoli and sprouts!

Idiot dog. Apparently the leaves smelled like food, so he'd rip off one, chomp down on it, find it bitter, and spit it out on the path. Maybe the next one would taste good! Rip it off, chomp down on it-- no, that one's bitter, too! Try again!

Until this is what I had:

Damn.

Week or so later, I put in some more Brussel sprouts plants to replace the crucifers Llewellyn killed. Then I let down my guard. The plants were getting to a size where, I told myself, the leaves would smell as well as taste bad, and my dog would leave them alone.

And the plants grew. By late this afternoon, I had heads on two of the three remaining broccoli plants, about the size of a grade-school child's hand. Coming along, coming along . . .

Early this evening, after turning my back on my dog for a couple minutes, I had this:

Bloody 'ell!!

Oh, it could be worse. He could be the sort of dog that eats slippers, suede brushes, and windowsills. I mean, broccoli is good for him. But his stealing vegetables out of the garden is not good for me feeling very happy with him.

Greedy beast! (As he lies sleeping beside my chair, looking ever so innocent . . . )

Sometimes I Scares Meself

2009-06-08T22:59:00.007-04:00

Over the course of a misspent animal-owning life, I've come to under- stand that you get better coöpera- tion with quiet determination than with shouting and yelling and leaping about.

I do not say Llewellyn is qualified for a Canine Good Citizen Award. He still barks when a squirrel crosses a lawn halfway down the block and his antipathy towards other dogs is still ferocious and unabated. Nor do I claim to have a troupe of kittehs ready to tour with the circus. I mean, cats is cats.

But sometimes lately it seems I'm communicating with the critters in ways that are too subtle even for me. It works but it doesn't seem canny that it works.

Llewellyn can be in the front room, barking his fool head off, and I can come to the head of the stairs and just fix my eyes on him, thinking, "Llewellyn, no-noise. Quiet dog. Hush." And presently he looks up at me, gives one more yelp, and shuts down the cacophony.

Then there's our new ritual at the back door. He likes to lord it over the cats, nipping them in and herding them whenever he thinks they're out of line. Especially annoying has been his habit of worrying at Rhadwen when she comes in the house. It isn't fair on her and it's tedious for me, since often that means she runs back outside when I need her in.

Now, Llewellyn and I have been working on the Sit! Wait! at the back door when we come in together. But I've lately been taking it to a new level. I'll get the dog into the Wait position, then call Rhadwen from her favourite corner in the back porch. "Wennie, it's time to come in the house!" She continues to lie there for a moment, while Llewellyn holds his Sit. "Wennie, come in the house," I say again, calmly. Then just stand there silently, looking at her, waiting, willing her to come towards me. She gets up and begins to move towards the door. "Good girl!" I say. "Come on!" And wonder of wonders, the dog continues to sit and does not mistake what I'm saying to her for the go-ahead for him to go in. Rhadwen approaches at a dignified pace, passes between me and her brother the dog--and he lets her alone. She goes in the house, I cross the threshold myself, and then tell Llewellyn, "OK!" and in he trots.

This should not work. Especially not with a dog and a cat together. There's just too much pure force of mind to it, and I am not a strongminded individual.

Probably just coincidence. It might get scary otherwise.

Mercenaries

2009-05-29T23:16:00.004-04:00

My cats only love me for my body heat.

Really.

When the weather's cold out, they're all over me at night. I wake up in the morning in exactly the same position I was when I went to sleep, I'm so weighted down with kittehs at ankle, shin, and side.

But now that the balmy breezes blow and the temperature's heading upwards, Rhadwen, Gwenith, and Huw are nowhere to be found when dusk spreads its humid covers over the land. Or if they are anywhere near, it's in the windowsill, blocking the ventilation.

Damn o sob!

Well, at least my goggie Llewellyn still loves me. He's faithfully on the bedroom floor every night now.

Come to think about it, though--why didn't he sleep there in the cold of winter, when his body heat would have come in handy?

So whom was I calling mercenary . . . ?

She Seems All Right

2009-03-31T21:00:00.003-04:00

Here is Rhadwen on the floor of my study this evening.

Usually, this pose means she's feeling fine and is at peace with the world.

Hope it's the same now. She seems all right. She's been taking her ulcer medicine on schedule. Not willingly, but resignedly. No more blood thrown up, that I've been able to see.

Watch and wait is all I can do.

But-- touch wood!-- things look promising just now.

And the Kittens Follow After

2009-03-30T16:00:00.004-04:00

Gwenith and Huw had their own turn at the vet's today. Happily, for them, it was only for routine shots.

I knew Gwen would be a struggle to corral for the trip over. She's shy and elusive and very wiry and determined to break any hold on her. She would go in the one and only cat carrier. Huw was for the banker's box. He was fine with it last time we went to the vet's a few months ago; he should be okay with it again.

An early lunch served in the Kitten Room about a half hour before the appointment got them both within reaching distance. Once Gwenith had her head in her bowl, I grabbed her, took her struggling to the carrier, and popped her in. Done! And the uneaten food went in after.

I put the carrier on the floor of the car.

Huw's turn, now. I'd put the open box, lined with a towel, in the dry bathtub. I picked him up and put him in, and He. Refused. To. Stay. I grabbed the lid; he jumped out. I shoved him back in and put on the lid; he pushed it up.

It was with mighty effort that I got my boxed tabby down the stairs. He wasn't settling down happily; what if he got loose in the car?

Leash. I need to find a leash. Put the box down by the front door and weighed down the lid with some bricks I happened to have sitting there. Lightweight leash is in the basement. Go get it, remove bricks, don't need to remove lid: Huw's done that for me. Off he goes!

"Oh, no, you don't! Come back here!"

I catch him and loop the leash onto him, hoping I won't have to use it. Cat back into the box. Cat still trying to push out of the box.

Meanwhile, Llewellyn is very, very excited. He knows something is going on. He's not sure what, but it looks like fun and he wants to be part of it.

He refused to sit-stay inside and ran out the front door when I carried Huw out to the car. I couldn't put down the box until the car was secured, or I'd be advertising for a lost gray tabby. Llewellyn frisked by the side of the car; would it make sense to let him ride along, even if I'd have to leave him in the car at the vet's?

I grabbed the back door handle and let the dog jump in (O fanku, fanku!!). Got Huw's box into the front seat of the car and belted in, my purse on top for a weight.

Then changed my mind. Dog's staying home.

Charged with him back to the house, sent him inside ("Aw, Mom!!"), locked the front door, and ran back to the car.

By the time I had the car started, it was about four minutes to our appointment time. By the time I'd driven two blocks, Huw had pushed out of the box and was heading for freedom.

"Huw! No!" I pushed him back in with my right hand while steering with my left. The rest of the trip was like that, with me hoping he wouldn't choose a time when I had to shift gears to pop out again.

He protested all the way over. Gwenith was quiet at first, but presently joined her maows to the duet.

Happily, they both calmed down in the waiting room. They were no wise so noisy as another cat that was brought in afterwards. Though the loud efforts of that kitteh's mistress to hush it were more obnoxious than her cat's cries were.

And though Gwenith the Pink Princess had to be unceremoniously dumped from her portable palace and Huw the Bold made a strategic retreat behind the same chair Rhadwen favored the other day, neither of them put up the screaming-meemie, ai will kil u awl struggle their adopted mommycat/big sister did the other day. But they didn't have to suffer the indignity of having a thermometer shoved up their rears at the outset.

They are both strong and healthy. Gwenith now weighs 8.5 pounds. Huw her littermate tips the scales at 12.7. Why am I not surprised?

I got them home safely, and they have not shunned me since then. So I guess all is forgiven.

But before vaccination time comes round again, I assuredly must acquire another cat carrier. The present system is not working.

Rhadwen Visits the Vet

2009-03-28T23:30:00.005-04:00

I don't know what the tone of this post should be. Maybe let's stick with straight reporting, and let the spin develop with events.

Late yesterday morning, I was upstairs with all of my four-footed kids when Rhadwen, my ten-and-a-half-year-old calico started to hawk up a hair ball.

Not on the wooden hall floor, if you please, Wennie, even if it's not yet refinished. I picked her up and deposited her on the bathroom floor.

She continued to kakk, and brought up-- not a hairball-- but what looked like clear stomach juices tinged with blood.

Then she squeezed back behind the toilet and did it again.

Not a lot, either time, but against the white vinyl it was appalling.

We do not mess around with animals bringing up blood in this house. My late lamented shaggy terrier Maddie died four years ago of some mysterious blood disease, and it began-- or rather, my awareness of it began-- with blood on the bathroom floor.

I called the vet and got her slotted in as an emergency case early yesterday afternoon.

She didn't mind going into her carrier at all. She didn't mind the ride in the car, or the wait in the waiting room.

The examination? She minded that very, very much.

Cold plastik fing nawt gud bed! Ai getz doan rite noaw kthxbye!!

Ten-point-eight pounds. Good grief. I thought she was up to fifteen at least, she's so big. Is it really all fur?

Poky-tempachure thingee goez where??? DO NAWT WANT!!!

Between us, the vet tech and I were able to hold my yowling, spitting cat still just long enough to verify that her temperature was normal.

Then the vet came to do the examination, armed with a heavy towel. Oh, no, Rhadwen was not happy with that, no, she was not. The fighting and clawing started even before the palpations did. I have no idea how the vet could tell there were no areas of unusual tenderness on her tummy, but that's what she said.

Questions. Was she eating her food? Yes. Was she sluggish or lethargic? Obviously not. Could she have eaten anything she shouldn't have? Hm, Thursday afternoon I was sanding some woodwork; maybe she stepped in some of the dust when I wasn't looking and licked it off her toes . . . Could she have gotten into any chemicals? I gave them the name of the wood stripper I've been using, but doubted it could be that, since it evaporates very quickly and she'd never shown an interest in it before. Does she go outside, and could she have eaten something out there? Yes, she does, in the backyard only, and maybe she could have, but nothing I'd noticed.

"Her eyes are bright and she's well-hydrated. We'll take x-rays to see if she's ingested anything, and call about that stripper."

They left us in the room together. Rhadwen took her stand under a chair and stared at me balefully.

Reenter the vet and the vet tech, this time with a muzzle.

O. MAI. GAWD.

Ai weel kil u!! Ai will kiel u wid debastadieng dedness!! Awl ov Uuzz!!

They took her away, her yowls reechoing down the corridor.

Soon she was back, the muzzle askew.

"Any possibility of it?" I asked.

"I don't know yet," the tech replied. "We'll try setting up the x-ray machine first. Then we'll come back for her."

"Should I come back and hold her?"

"We think we can do it. Maybe."

Eventually, the vet and the vet tech returned, got a better grip on my fighting struggling scratching clawing spitting howling yowling sweet calico baby, and bore her back to the x-ray machine. Through the closed door her cries reecho'd and I wondered if there might be more blood on the floor today-- from the vet.

Before long the tech brought her back, and the vet soon joined us. "We got one. The x-ray shows no foreign bodies in her digestive system, and no sign of tumors or any other abnormality. It doesn't look like the chemical stripper could be involved-- she'd have caustic burns around her mouth, and she doesn't. If she'd got into rat poison--"

"Oh, no! That's what they thought might have happened to my terrier that died, though I have no idea where she could have gotten any!"

"Well, if it were rat poison, she wouldn't be throwing up blood, it'd be coming out elsewhere."

"Yes. I know. That's what happened to Maddie."

"So that's really not a possibility. And since she's eating and drinking and she's strong enough to have nearly killed us back there--"

"I'm sorry!"

"That's all right. We'll treat the symptoms and give her some ulcer medicine. Keep an eye on her and if there's any negative change, bring her in right away."

They told me what to look for, and sent us home with the medicine in a little bottle and a syringe to give it to her with, every eight hours. Cherry flavored liquid, which is ridiculous for a cat-- why can't it taste like tuna?

Rhadwen's been taking her dose the past day and a half by now. Not happily, not willingly, but getting it down. (We'd have an easier time with it if the dog wouldn't interfere.) She seems very much herself, and if she's kakked up any more blood she's done it someplace I haven't yet found it.

God willing, she hasn't at all.

So I am keeping my eye on her. I hope it was only something like sanding dust that she licked off her toes and it irritated her tummy. I don't like mysterious illnesses but this one can just go away quietly and never poke its nose into our lives again. I do not want my big furry girl to be sick; no, I want her around and healthy a long long long time.

My Dog's Other Name Is "Mr. Hyde"

2009-03-13T12:15:00.006-04:00

Llewellyn is the sweetest doggie you'd ever want to meet-- if you're a person or a cat.

But if you're another dog, make your will. And if you're a person with another dog, know that he doesn't believe in innocent bystanders.

I'm not happy about this. It severely limits where I can take him. But until I can afford the proper training, that's how it is.

That's how it was yesterday. I was up on a ladder, upstairs stripping wallpaper, when Llewellyn began to bark. And bark and bark and bark and bark and bark!!

"Llewellyn, hush! Naughty noise!!"

Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!!

"Quiet!"

Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!!!!!

The volley went on unabated. I supposed it wasn't just somebody passing by with their dog. Somebody must've been at the door, and couldn't get the bell to work.

I climbed off the ladder and went downstairs. Llewellyn was still in a barking fury, aimed at the front door. I gave a glance out the window of the wooden front door; I saw no one and concluded it was the little girl from down the street, who doesn't come up high enough to be seen.

But I looked more closely, and saw a woman I didn't know.

Then everything seemed to happen at once.

I open the wooden door--
I hear the visitor say, "Does Kate Carp--?"
Llewellyn rushes past me, snarling with a hatred volcanic--
I look down and notice, oh, no, she's got a chocolate Lab mix dog with her!--
I look up and notice, oh, no, the screen door is off the latch!--
I yell, "My dog hates other dogs!!"--
I reach for the screen door knob to pull it closed to keep my dog in--
The visitor similtaneously reaches for it and pulls the door wide open--
Llewellyn surges out and hurls himself tooth and claw on the chocolate Lab--

And next thing I knew, the visitor and her dog were knocked all the way down my five front steps into the bushes, struggling and tangled in their leash, with my dog doing his best to send the Lab into canine oblivion. I tried to grab his collar but he kept it out of my reach. Somehow I ended up straddling him from behind and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him off the other dog. Then I could collar him, and drag him back into the house.

But I had to get back out and help the lady and her dog and see how they were. Oh, gosh, where could I put him? How could I keep him secured? I've got the stops off all the doors upstairs and they don't close properly!

Leash-- leash-- keep hold of him with one hand; reach up on the refrigerator and grab his leash.

I got it on him as he desperately tried to get back out and finish off the offending Lab. Hooking the loop under a leg of the kitchen stool, I made a mad dash to the front door.

Crash! He had the stool over and was nearly outside before I could seize his leash again.

I dragged him away and this time, wrapped the end several times around a stair baluster, and ran.

Whew! Got outside and the door slammed shut just as he got loose again.

Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!!!!! came through the window next to the door. Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!!!!!

The visitor and her dog had regained their feet by now. I'll pass over my apologies; they were many and profuse, especially once I'd noticed that the woman had a bruise over her left eye socket-- she must've hit it on the concrete steps tumbling down.

She insisted she and her dog were just fine. She hadn't even felt the bruise, and surprisingly, her dog was intact. No blood, no injuries. She said if this had to happen, she was the best person for it to happen to, since she loves dogs and trains them. She told me she'd dropped by because she got this particular dog from the previous owner of my house, who used to socialize puppies to be helper dogs-- this particular chocolate Lab turned out to have knee trouble and got drummed out of the corps. She'd happened to be walking her by my house and thought she'd drop in to show Kate C. how her dog was doing. She discussed what I might do to train Llewellyn to get over his fear agression against other canines.

The visitor told me a lot of things, but one thing she did not tell me was, "I'm sorry I pulled the door open and let your dog out. I saw the state your dog was in, and it was a dumb thing to do."

No. She didn't say that at all.

Maybe in all the tsimmes she forgot that's what she did.

I hope she and her dog really are all right. I hope it for their sakes, and I hope it for my dog's.

Because if it came to a claim being made against my homeowner's insurance, I know what can happen in these cases. And I'd be devastated if anything happened to Llewellyn, simply because he contracted a phobia against other dogs in his previous life-- and now a visitor with a dog had taken it upon herself to open my door and let him-- or his raging alter-ego-- out.

Nighty-Night!

2009-02-17T14:56:00.004-05:00

My bed is a full house of a night. And a lively one as well.

(Hmm, that sounds dodgy. Oh, well. Let it pass.)

Last night, Rhadwen was on the bedspread, up by the pillows. That's her usual spot. I push her over a little, get in, and she hunkers down next to my shoulder.

A few minutes go by. I'm not asleep yet. Anon, I am not asleep at all. In streaks Gwenith! In flies Huw after her! They land plank! plunk! on the foot of the bed! They engage! In all the fury of sibling rivalry they wrestle, they battle, they fight!

MeeyowyowyowowowowMeeeeeeiiiiiiOOWWWW!!!! The din of feline howls rends the air!

"Shut up, kids!!"

The noise subsides, and Gwen settles down, effectively immobilizing my feet and ankles.

Huw, however, isn't ready for sleep. He stalks up towards the head of the bed and plops himself down right in the face of Big Kitteh Rhadwen.

She can't resist. She starts out by whapping him across the nose a time or two, then works herself into a looonnnnggg campaign of grooming him. Liklikliklikliklik!! Liklikliklikliklik!!

Then, just for variety, she commences to groom herself. Liklikliklikliklik!! With her plastered to my side the vibration shakes me and shakes the bed.

I am still not asleep. Or anywhere near it.

I contemplate how it would be with three or four more kittehs, all sleeping on the bed. All sleeping on me.

Oh, gosh, no. I'd never drop off, and once I did, with the weight of them I could never get out of bed in the morning.

Well, the bed could be even more full. Llewellyn the dog could sleep up there, too. But he's never been invited and he's never tried.

He's a huggy dog, but I'd say that's just as well.

Why Feed Birds?

2009-02-13T20:48:00.006-05:00

The current issue of Birds & Blooms magazine features an article called "Why Feed Birds?" wherein various contributors "share why they feed feathered friends."

They came up with all sorts of lovely reasons . . . but none of them mentioned one of the big reasons I feed birds.

And why?

To provide entertainment to my goggie and kittehs, of course!

And it's not just the birdies that are so much fun, it's also the squirrels the birdseed attracts!

But alas, the fun is over for awhile.

Night before last a big wind blew through and knocked over the arbor vitae next to the birdfeeder. The feeder is under there.

Somewhere.

Cooooolllldddd Feeeeeeettttsss!!

2009-01-16T12:32:00.006-05:00

This morning, the guy on the radio said the air temperature was seven-below-zero F.

Llewellyn and I went out to the alley so he could take care of his business. After he'd done his wee, he started looking around for the best place to deposit his poo. But before he'd made even one complete pass over the available ground, he was lifting up one paw, then another, then another. Then he tried to lift several up at once.

"Hurry up, Llellyn, hurry!"

He veered away from the snow-mounded grass strip by the fence and headed out into the ice-packed alley. It only made things worse. If my poor dog could have found a way to levitate, he would have.

That does it. No waiting for a No. 2 this trip! So I called him back inside the gate to return to the house. But he couldn't even walk the length of the backyard, his pads were so miserably cold.

Well. When I adopted Llewellyn, I was looking for a dog that would be a) big enough to hug, b) big enough to intimidate strangers who arrived with dubious intentions, and c) small enough for me to pick up and carry if it was ever ill. At 45 pounds I figured he fit all three criteria. Now, obviously, I'd have to test assumption No. 3.

So I picked my dog up and carried him back to the house. He wasn't as heavy as I'd expected. And as I carried him, he turned his head and looked into my face with relief in his big limpid red-brown eyes. If dogs can say Thank you, I think mine just had.

Gwenith!!!!

2009-01-14T23:12:00.010-05:00

This was once a heart-leaf philodren- dron.

A very valuable and historic heart-leaf philoden- dron, I might add.

It was cultured in the greenhouses of the Kansas City, Missouri, Department of Parks & Recreation, greenhouses that now have not only been closed down but have also been pulled down in the past year† because the stupid current City administration were unwilling to envision a time when there might be enough money to run them again.

It was an Adminstrative Professionals Day gift from my former boss several years ago, when I was serving the public good as a low-paid but hardworking tech in the Parks & Rec Archives. It was a souvenir.

And now, look at it. Or what's left of it.

Gwenith, you see, decided several months ago that she liked nothing better than philodrendron leaves. I was afraid for her because I've heard they're poisonous to cats. But the local Poison Control advisor said don't worry, philodendrons these days are cultivated to have almost none of the harmful compounds they used to. If she was showing no signs of trouble by then, there was no danger to her.

So then I was afraid for my plant.

I tried the old cayenne-pepper-as-repellant trick. But I applied so much I burned the leaves the kitten had left. I didn't give up on it, though. I moved it to a plant pedestal and nursed it back to health. It was putting out tender new growth, when my pink floofy kitteh figured out how to jump up there and nom them off anyway.

That's when I moved it to a shelf in the bedroom. But Gwen still found a way to get at it. By now there were no leaves left, but maybe, maybe, the roots where still good and it would rise again?

So I put an old calendar under the pot where I'd seen her jump up. It's floppy, and when she landed on it, it'd give way under her, she'd tumble off, and she'd learn to let the philodrendron alone, right?

And for a few weeks she did. It didn't grow any new leaves, but she let it alone.

Until this evening. I don't know what possessed her to try again, but she got up there from another angle, ate the smaller of the two remaining shoots, and ejected a quarter of the potting soil onto the shelf and the floor.

Gwenith, you pest! And then you have the cheek to come up on my lap and want to be petted, like nothing was wrong!

I cleaned up the mess and did some rearranging. The philodrendron is now on the third and highest shelf, where I hope it will make a new start.

But if some morning I wake to find my larcenous kitteh all the way up there making her breakfast out of the last, lone, lorn philodendron stem, I won't be at all surprised.

________________________

†I am reliably informed that the KCPR greenhouses have not been razed. Not for lack of intention, but for lack of funds to do the job. Same difference.

Cool Hand Llew

2009-01-13T21:00:00.009-05:00

Since Saturday, we have snow! Snow on snow! Snow worth calling snow!

And my dog Llewellyn loves it.

He doesn't care how cold it is, he goes out and chases squirrels from one corner of the yard to the other. While my lunch goes frigid, as I get up again and again and again to go to the back door to check if he's ready to come in yet. Nawyet, Mommee, nawtymecominyet! Nawyetnawyetnawyet!! Gonnagitthaskwurl,yesyesyesyesyes!!

Enter the neighbor girl, Sophie*, who for the past three or four afternoons has dropped by to show me her new snow toys from Christmas. Two new toboggans. A snow brick maker. A snowball maker.

And to play with Llewellyn in my fenced-in back yard. She has dogs, but not a proper fence. And her dogs are runners. So Sophie comes and plays with my pup in the snow, and he likes nothing better.

Every time, I tell her that I have work to do and she can play out back with him by herself. And every time I come out and join the fun, too. And we all stay out till my dog lets me know his toes are getting cold. He lifts a forepaw and hesitates to put it down, then a back paw the same-- All right, that's enough! Time to go in for milk and cookies!

Whereat Sophie spends most of her time petting Llewellyn and cooing over how sooooooffffttt!!! his ears are.

(Well, they are!)

What I can't figure out is how my dog can tell the snowball Sophie has just thrown him from all the rest of the snow so he unmistakingly goes after it and eats it. He's been eating a lot of snow these past days . . . and I wonder if that's why he peed on the dining room floor just as I was sitting down to dinner this evening? He'd been out only two hours before!

Caught Red-Handed!

2008-12-08T12:57:00.006-05:00

Or red-pawed . . .

About a half hour ago, Gwenith crept up to the study and slipped under the drafting table and behind the file cabinet. On your way to see if you can finish removing that register grille and go exploring in the ductwork, sweetie girl?

Deterred by the camera flash, she slunk away.

OK, think of something to keep that grille close to the wall . . . all right, this is it for the time being: A box of Biblical Hebrew flashcards wedged in with a log-splitting maul. I can't even budge that!

Scant minutes later, here she is again. O, we wants it, does we, my precious? No, my precious, no indeed! You getses that, you goes falling into the nassty hot Duct of Doom, my precious, yess yess you does! We preventses that, yess we wills!

Fear and Trembling

2008-12-08T12:09:00.006-05:00

As readers of my houseblog will know, I've been having issues with my furnace.

I hope I will not have issues to report concerning my ductwork. Kitteh issues.

This is the grille to my study heat supply. It is not supposed to be halfway off like this. It was not like this last time I was up here, Saturday evening or so.

I recognize the work: Huw, or more likely Gwenith. She's the one who goes after loose pieces of plaster on the walls. She's the one who sits under my drafting table and fiddles with the computer leads. She's the one who, as a feral kitten, sloped down under the floorboards of my friend Hannah's* torn-up house and had to be lured out with tuna. Gwenith is secretive and curious and, under all that hair, small and wiry enough to squirm right down this vent, given half the chance.

I don't want to give her a chance. I fetched a screwdriver to make the loose screw secure.

But I can't. There's no hole at the wall to receive it. It's only providing a bit of tension to keep the grille against the duct mouth. No challenge at all to a strong and determined young cat.

Think of something else. I need to think of something else. No, duct-taping the grille to the wall won't do. Never mind what it'd do to the paint or the heat supply-- that floofy kitteh of mine would rip it right off.

The Just Deserts of Greed

2008-11-27T20:41:00.008-05:00

This is-- or was-- a coupon for dog treats. I pulled it out of Llewellyn's food cannister a couple nights ago and put in on the table till I could see what it was for.

Next morning, I came downstairs and found it in shreds, scattered across the dining room floor!

I tried to put back together, but too many pieces were missing. Llewellyn, old boy, wii haedid uz a ttreetz koopon, butt U eatid it!

So it went in the trash for tomorrow's pickup. O doggie, my goggie, now we'll never know if these were treats of bloomiferous scrumptuosity. It's back to finishing the same old nuggets from the Three Dog Bakery. Foiled by your own precipitous greed!

(And my naivete.)

(Though being such a nice momma, I did save you a wee piece of turkey from Thanksgiving at my friends' . . . )

Itt Snoezez!!

2008-11-17T22:30:00.000-05:00

Kanz it B eetid?

Sumbuddy tored up teh skiiy.

Ai kan jummp doan dere. Wach mii!

Stoopy goggie in teh whey agin. Ai goes bugz mai siszterz.

Well, They Showed ME!

2008-11-01T23:01:00.004-04:00

Last night, to conserve the heat, I got the cats in the bedroom and shut the door.

And so we spent the night, till dawn approached and Huw was scratching from the inside to get out and Llewellyn the dog was scratching from the outside to get in.

Sorry, kids, I'll get up and open the door when the clock radio comes on and not a minute sooner.

So in the fullness of time I did. I made my morning ablutions and dressed, and, it being a bit chilly, I started to put on a cardigan I had lying there in the bedroom.

The cardie was cold. Not surprising.

The cardie was wet. What?

The cardie was so wet, it was getting the clothes I had on wet.

It was wet and stinky.

Cat pee!

Somebody can't hold his water overnight! Either that, or somebody's getting revenge for being made to stay in the bedroom all night.

(Huw, I'm looking at you.)

Well, so much for wearing that cardie today. Or the turtleneck I'd put on under it. Got them both out of there, but the bedroom still stunk. And I could not recall where the sweater had been lying when I picked it up.

Awkward.

Stripped the bed. No evidence of cat pee anywhere on it.

Remade the bed. Room still smelled of cat pee.

Decided I was imagining things, till later this afternoon when I checked the throw cushion on a wooden chair that sits in the corner of the bedroom. Yep, there's the stain. And the smell. Cover and cushion, there's more for the laundry! There was a cardboard calendar on top of it. More stink. That's for the outside trash.

I believe-- I hope-- the bedroom has been exorcised. But when it comes to my little spooks (Huw, I'm still looking at you), tonight I guess I'd better leave them a way out.

They obviously showed me.

A Tale of Horror

2008-10-26T21:52:00.007-04:00

It's getting close to Halloween. And while I like a good tale of horror as much as the next person, that doesn't mean I appreciate featuring in one in real life.

But for a few minutes this evening, I did.

It was a little after 7:00, and I was cleaning up after a very busy Sunday afternoon. I happened to look into the living room here at the House of the Flying Furballs, and noticed that Rhadwen, my ten-year-old calico, was perched up on the sill of one of the little windows next to the fireplace. The window was open, the screen was up, and she was more outside than in.

"Rhadwen!" I called. "Wennie! Turn around!!"

No reaction.

I walked over and saw that she was hanging head and shoulders over the edge of the outer sill. Trying to make up her mind whether to jump down and explore. That's what I figured it was. It's a fur piece, so to speak, to the ground at that point; she probably was considering whether it would be worth it at her age.

Well, I wasn't going to give her the opportunity to try. I grabbed her by her furry middle and hauled her inside.

Yeeoouwwwwoauwwww!!!!! she didn't appreciate that! She howled at the indignity. Worse for her, the dog was on the scene, playing officious big brother and making sure justice was done.

She didn't claw me: I had hold of her so she couldn't. I gave her a little more food in her dish to soothe her ruffled feelings and to give thanks for not having to go out in the rain to chase her. Then I started back to my sweeping.

But wait a minute. When I'd pulled Rhadwen in through the window, she hadn't turned around and yowled at me. There was something about it that hinted she was irate at something outside.

And a few minutes before, when I'd gone out front to light my jack-o'-lantern for the first time, I'd heard something in my front bushes. I'd dismissed it then as me myself having brushed against them, but now . . .

Aw-oh! Where one cat can sit and perch and stare, two other cats can be through and away. The kittens. Where were the kittens?

"Gwenith! Huw!" I searched all over the house, from middle to top to bottom. No sign of the floofy pale pink tabby or the sleek brown and gray. Not in the box spring in the Kitten Room, not under my bed in the bedroom, not under the table in the study, not under the stairs in the basement. There were no kittens to be found, in litter box or in empty packing box, in dropcloth or ironing basket: my little cats had disappeared.

They're good at disappearing, of course. They'd disappeared all afternoon when I had company over. But now there was a strong possibility they'd apparated themselves right off the premises, through that gaping screenless window.

So out I went, tramping miles and miles through the freezing, merciless rain in the blazing cold night, searching relentlessly for my lost kittehs.

Well, no, actually, it was around 60 degrees outside this evening and I only went round to the side of the house under the living room window. But it was dark and staring to rain.

No sign of my little cats. "Huw! Gwenith!" Huw I hoped would come stalking up to me. Gwenith is more skittish: what would she do if she were spooked? But Rhadwen's behaviour told me they might be-- please, God!-- were out there. "Gwenith! Huw!"

But I found nothing.

I looked in the front border. Nothing.

Maybe it would help if I located a flashlight? Yes, perhaps.

Thus equipped, I tried again. The rain was starting to come down harder. I had to find my kittehs. "Huw!! Gwenith!!" I called. "Gwenith! Huw!"

All of a sudden, under the weeping cherry, a moving gray-striped shadow, a flash of white breast.

"Huw! Baby, come here!"

He wouldn't come. He moved deeper into the vegetation.

I moved closer, made a grab. Missed! "Huw! Please! Come here! Where's your sister?"

He turned tail and ran into the front border. I followed, stepped over the sheet-covered dahlias, and tried to secure him again. His wet body slipped through my grasp and behind the Alberta spruce.

"Huw, please!!"

I came around again, just as he made a break for it to head for the neighbors' spirea. Aaaghh!! Got him! He was slick and wet and squirmy, but I gathered him into my arms and carried him into the house, placing him in the custody of Llewellyn who doubtless gave him what-for for his illicit escapade.

But his littermate was still out there. I had to assume that. Back out into the rain.

"Gwenith! Gwen!" Had she squeezed into the neighbors' yard? She's supple enough. Had she heard the call of the wild and taken off to parts unknown? I combed and recombed the wet bushes on both sides of the little side yard, while in the neighborhood all around me the heedless households were huddled around their televisions, watching whatever it was the Steelers and the Giants were doing to one another. Dismayed, I steeled myself for the possibility that I'd have to go petitioning up and down the street for the neighbors to keep an eye out for my missing cat.

It was time to bring out the big guns: Some fragrant gushiefood in a little dish. Oh, please, please, let a bribe work! It does indoors, when she hides in the attic storage space! Please don't let her be so confused and disoriented she won't come!

One last look in the yard under the guilty window, one last admittance of futility. I set the dish down on the front step near the lighted jack-o'-lantern and hoped she'd be willing to come.

But then, I don't know what it was, something moved me to look in the bushes on that side of the house. I shone my flashlight behind each, and there, behind the boxwood shrub closest to the gate to the back yard, was an tawny oval furry shape, a dry tawny oval furry shape, huddled next to the house, the head invisible, hiding in the foliage.

"Gwenith!"

She didn't budge.

I went and got the food. "Gwenith!"

She still didn't budge.

Here was a reversal, but a happy one. I had just one chance to secure her, and I took it. She squirmed, just a little, but seemed just as glad as not to be rescued and brought inside.

She and her brother got a serving of fragrant gushiefood to reward them for-- well, for being alive and found, and their big sister Rhadwen got some, too, for staring out that open window and clueing me into what was going on.

As to why the living room window was open at all, that's another tale in another blog. But diolch a Dduw! my scary story ended happily.

Very happily, when I think how it's supposed to get below freezing and maybe snow tonight. Thinking of that is a real horror story.

Sh!t Eating Grin

2008-10-14T18:36:00.005-04:00

As if to prove there is no such thing as a dog without a mind of his own, yesterday morning I learned that Llewellyn is clever and well-trained when he wants to be; other times he's just clever.

I'd noticed this weekend a couple times that my Kitten Room security system of a bungee cord hooked round the doorknob with the other end hooked to a screweye, with a doorstop (aka a flat rock) between the door and the jamb to make a gap big enough to let in cats and only cats was not doing its job. It's always worked before. Had I just forgotten to fasten the cord hook to the screweye? Had the kittens been playing with the rock and pushed it out of the way so the bungee cord lost tension and let the door swing free?

Or has the cord gotten just loose enough that Llewellyn can widen the opening and push through?

I've never caught any of us in the act. But hearing the scrape of claws on the hardwood floor of the hallway around dawn yesterday morning, immediately followed by a thump, thump from the door of the Kitten Room, and given that the door was open when I finally hauled myself out of bed to face the worst, I suspect teh goggie.

It's not the cat food I'm worried about him getting. No. It's what I know he's treating himself to when I see piles of organic corn cat litter pawed out onto the mat by the litter box. It's what I can smell on his breath when he presents himself to me with the selfsame corn cat litter festooning his muzzle.

You've heard of a sh!t-eating grin? Mai goggie, hee haz itt.

Whut shal wie du, whut shal wee doo!

No place else to move the litter box and still have one on the second floor. Get a new bungee cord? Attach a chain lock on the outside of the door?

For the time being, I've looped the existing bungee cord around back of the doorknob. Gives it more tension. It's working, so far, but give him time, Llewellyn will find a way to outsmart it. He's too clever for his own good.

A Well-Trained Dog

2008-10-10T21:57:00.005-04:00

My dog Llewellyn amazes me by how smart he is.

I don't say that because he's my dog. I say it because he sometimes behaves better and more cleverly than even I've trained him to.

There's his practice lately of not letting me lie down and sleep on the carpet. I only do it when I'm in my study late at night waiting for things to download . . . well, usually . . . and once when I was dizzy. Anyway, I try to lie down and he forces his body under me and makes me get up.

But there's something else. Often Llewellyn will be lying or standing or moseying right in my path, right where I want to go. I command, "Llewellyn, move!" expecting him to proceed ahead of me out of the room or down the stairs, wherever I'm going. But instead he just moves to the side, more and more he's just moving to the side.

This was annoying. Didn't he know what I wanted? "Llewellyn, get going! Move!!"

And he moves. Not ahead, aside. Then falls in behind me to follow me as I pass through the door or set foot on the steps.

After that, he'll run on ahead, but not until.

And a day or two ago, it dawned on me: He's acknowledging my authority. He's taking his proper doggy place in my wake. I read something in a book by veterinarian Dr. Nicholas Dodson, Dogs Behaving Badly, where he says that "Access along corridors and across thresholds is so important to would-be leaders that these zones are typical testing grounds for dominance." And somewhere along the line, my dog has got me placed as his leader, and he's not going to let me forget it.

Now if he'd only mind and shut up when he starts up barking out the window first thing in the morning!

Ai Wantses Itt!

2008-10-09T21:30:00.004-04:00

I wish I'd turned on my camera sooner. I wish I'd had more lights on. But for your viewing pleasure, may I present Huw and the Wadded-Up Shopping List.

He heard it land in the wastebasket, ran over, fished and fished and fished, and at last, success!!

Hhahahahahahahahahhaaaa!!!

Renovation Superintendents

2008-10-05T23:18:00.002-04:00

Though Gwenith has an important appointment Elsewhere.

Opportunists

2008-10-04T22:30:00.004-04:00

It's gotten chilly in southwestern Pennsylvania the past few nights, and suddenly my year-old kittens are showing me how much they love me.

All summer and spring, had immediate evacuation been called for during the night, I wouldn't have had the least idea where to find Gwenith or Huw. Once I'd retire to bed and shut off the light, they'd simply Disappear. Maybe into the fifth dimension-- I'm sure any self-respecting cat can manage a tesseract.

But now the nights are longer and frankly cold. And if Gwenith is not on the bed when I come to it, she joins me soon afterwards. Always right in the middle, usually lying right over or next to my legs. Huw joins her-- and me-- soon thereafter, snuggling in on the other side, and sometime later Rhadwen takes up her usual place by my shoulder.

And I am so bossed about and ruled by these young felines that I daren't-- dassn't!-- do anything to displease them or make them uncomfortable. If Gwenith is in the middle of the bed when I climb in, I simply have to settle for the slender slip of the bed's side, my back exposed to the breezes as the blankets, weighed down by floofy cat, refuse to extend enough to cover me properly. If Gwen and His High Velvetness her brother Huw arrive to hem me in after I have ensconced myself for the night, you can be sure that I will wake up in exactly the same position in the morning, the brown tabby and the pale ginger clamping my legs together like a vise.

Rhadwen at the age of ten is Miss Free and Easy. I could throw her across the room (I wouldn't, of course) and she'd nonchalantly march back to snuggle up to me, or to rummage through my jewelry case, or to swat things off the nightstand. We have an Understanding. ("Rhadwen, stoppit!!!")

But the young ones, I dare not cross or disappoint. After all, on a cold autumn night who could thwart such a precious show of looooooovvve??? The fact that the only central heating that's on right now is me has nothing to do with it.

Yeah, right. Opportunists!

Thrills and Chills

2008-09-16T21:21:00.006-04:00

A section of my backyard fence is down since the windstorms Sunday evening. This opens up whole new opportunities for my dog Llewellyn and for the four-year-old next door.

Caitlin East* is fascinated with my dog. She has two kittehs of her own (older by far than she is), but a Real Live Dog is something altogether different.

Always before, I've brought him out on his leash to the front yard so she and other neighborhood children can pet him and practice telling him to sit, sit!

But now the backyard fence is down. And when Caitlin* is in her backyard with her daddy, Llewellyn, off-leash, just has to run through and explore and be in-your-face sociable on the other side of the line. And Caitlin* just has to come through (past the fallen branches) and visit my dog on his own turf.

This makes him very, very happeeee! And like the collie mix he is, he runs round and round joyously, rambunctiously, heedlessly!! And last night he nearly barrelled into little Caitlin, who is about half his size.

Suddenly, being friends with The Puppy didn't seem like such a good idea any more. No, she didn't want to run back into her own yard. She wanted to squeal and tremble and cling to me, holding my hand and saying, "I'm scared of the puppy! I'm scared!"

"Why are you scared? He didn't mean to run into you. He's just being careless, and we have to teach him not to."

"I'm scared!"

"How come?"

"Because his mouth is open!!!"

Oh, yeah. When you've just turned four, all those goggie toofs can be pretty scary, even when the goggie is grinning like a silly idjit.

So we practiced throwing him the tennis ball, which intices him to run away from her-- not so intimidating. And getting her to laugh at his long red tongue as he sits there panting.

This evening, then, Caitlin* was in her backyard with her daddy. Away through the gap Llewellyn went, dragging his leash, hello, hello, helloooo!!!

"Eeee!! Eeee!!" went Caitlin*, and hid behind her daddy. I called my doggie, and the child squealed and ran away. Off goes my mutt after, but luckily for us all, not to chase her, rather to nose here, there, and everywhere around their yard. And off she went after him, picking up his leash, commanding him to sit. And had no problem at all when Llewellyn poked in when her dad was trying to tie her shoes.

She's still not so sure about those grinning doggie teeth. But she can't keep away, rambunctious mutt or not. So I have to wonder: How much of this is my dog scaring the kid next door, and how much is this her scaring herself?

(I shall keep a close eye on the situation.)

My Mystery Cat

2008-09-12T13:29:00.005-04:00

Sometime when I'm feeling more creative I'll think of a caption for this photo of Gwenith. For now, it can speak for itself.

We Have Company

2008-09-04T23:43:00.000-04:00

About two or three weeks ago, I returned home to find a neighbor from the other side of the street in my side yard, peering into my bushes. When I got out of my car, she approached and said, "Sorry about traipsing all over your yard. But our little gray kitten has gotten out and I saw her run through here."

Oh! no problem at all! She was on the search, her teenage son was on the search, and now I joined the search. In people's front borders we looked and along the back alley. The man on the corner, scraping his porch, agreed to keep an eye out. The lady on the other side of me, just pulling into her garage with her two small children, promised to keep watch. I came out with a little dish of kitten food, to see if the creature could be lured.

I saw nothing of the illusive little feline. Her owner spotted it a time or two, but it always ran away. Maybe, she figured, it hadn't bonded with the family yet-- it was only about five weeks old and they'd only had it a week.

We moved the hunt further down the alley, where we encountered another neighbor. She said, "Yes, I've seen a gray kitten like that around the neighborhood, but it can't be yours. It's been hanging around for a month."

"Really? It looks just like our new kitten!"

"I'm sure the one you saw out here is a stray. Have you checked everywhere in your house for yours?"

So the kitten-owning neighbor and her son went home to make sure. An hour or so later, she appeared at my door. "I was wrong. That wasn't my kitten I saw. My own gray kitten was curled up on the rug in the spare bedroom."

That's a relief, but what about this other tiny catkin? In the following days, I began to see it myself. Standing in the street when I got into my car in the morning. Stalking through the bushes across the alley. And carrying itself always with a massive self-assurance all out of proportion to its infinitesimal frame.

Other neighbors saw it, too. "Have you seen the little gray kitten?" they'd ask. "I set out some cat treats for it the other day."

This evening from next door other side it was, "That kitten was on my porch today. It touched noses through the storm door with one of my cats."

Two evenings ago, it favored me with a visitation, taking up position under the weeping cherry in my front border. I lay down in the grass about five feet away, and tried to get it to come to me. Wasn't interested, but wasn't afraid, either. Just crouched there, staring at me.

It is still so little! So . . .

So I fed it. Correction, I've been feeding it. With some canned kitten food my own year old kittens are too old for. Always in the same place, under the arbor vitae in the side yard. I think it's figured out that's a good place to look for food in the morning.

Me, I'm trying to figure out what's best for it, considering there's No Way I can afford to bring another kitten into the House of the Flying Furballs, let alone another feral one.

The three-year-old next door announced this evening that The Little Black (he thinks it's black) Cat had been in their yard again and his dad is allergic to cats and if they see it again they're going to catch it and take it Far Away Where It Really Lives or something of the sort-- what exactly, I couldn't tell, since yelling over the fence, I can't always hear or understand what the kid is saying.

Does this mean I need to do something right away, whether I really can or not?

Or maybe should I tell myself there are thousands, millions, of abandoned and stray kittehs out there, and if I can't keep this one healthy and happy, that's just how it goes?

Meanwhile, we have company.

News Flash!

2008-09-02T12:47:00.001-04:00

Gwenith has climbed onto my lap three times running just now!

And even let me pet her (a little!)

I think I'm gonna faint.

Llewellyn Has Missed His Calling?

2008-08-27T22:26:00.005-04:00

Late this morning, I was out back with Llewellyn. Well, I was on the back porch and he was bounding around the yard, nosing here, sniffing there. Suddenly something on the ground took his fancy. Oh, hey, guess he was eating spent rose of Sharon blooms again.

But as he picked up whatever it was and ran off, I noticed it was too big to be one of those. Whatever this was was large enough to dangle from his jaws.

"Llewellyn, come!" And he came, bringing his new toy-- a recently-dead chipmunk.

Which I immediately told him to drop.

And he did.

He wanted to come back and get it, but I told him No, get in the house.

And he did.

Which is what I call good retriever dog behavior. But since I don't plan to take up small game hunting any time soon, it looks like his efforts are wasted.

Glad I got him to drop it, though. I don't think he'd killed it; there was no blood. The poor chipmunk was probably diseased: not what I call a good snack for a dog's elevenses. A few years back my late dog Maddie once ate a dead bird or something in my sister's back yard, and I had to take her to the emergency vet's from the ensuing infection.

(She had to get sick on Memorial Day, of course.)

We dodged that bullet today, and Llewellyn got lots of doggie treats for being so obedient. Good dog! Very good dog!

Helping-- Or Not

2008-08-15T21:54:00.008-04:00

I'm doing some renovation work around my house. Llewellyn likes to help. He helps tape down contractor paper to protect the floor.

Huw likes to help, too. He helps unroll the paper.

Rhadwen, too, is a big help. She tested out the picnic bench I dumpster-dove for a couple days ago, thinking it'd make a good low scaffold. She wants to make sure it's study enough for me to stand on.

Gwenith helps by keeping out of the way. Unless I'm on the computer, of course.

On the other hand . . . Llewellyn, the floor paper did not need irrigating! And he did it on purpose! I'd thought I'd leave the paper down to give me an incentive to hurry up and hammer the trim back up and get it refinished, but not now! A stinky floor I do not need.

Momcat?

2008-08-09T07:01:00.008-04:00

My Rhadwen may have had her kitty hysterectomy nine and a half years ago, but she knows good maternal behavior when she gets a chance to do it.

Witness her licking Huw the year old kitten into shape:

Yes, I'd say she was getting some long-delayed mothering in . . . except that Huw himself grooms the dog Llewellyn and the dog looks after Gwenith the pink floofy cat and she reciprocates with strops and purrs and Huw liklikliks Rhadwen back. A very harmonious family we've turned out to be! Hurrah, let cheezburgrz rain down on us all!

Nip Head

2008-07-09T23:37:00.003-04:00

Last night I was out for a few hours, never imagining I'd come home to--

THIS!!
Oh, Huw! The shame! The agony!

My little stripey cat had overdosed on--

NIP!!!

He'd obviously been rolling in it, luxuriating in it, till he could roll and luxuriate no more!

Oh! Oh! What a sad and dreadful sight! Huw, how could you?!

While I-- I brought it into the house! I never dreamed--!

(Well, I guess it was a good time to change the bed quilt anyway . . . )

Happy Family

2008-07-07T22:00:00.000-04:00

When I get up in the morning there's generally a pet convention in the upstairs hall. Llewellyn and Rhadwen leave the bedroom with me and Gwenith and Huw descend or ascend from wherever they've taken up their sleeping quarters.

But I rarely have all four of them there at once.

Yesterday morning, I did. And get out the Victorian greeting cards with the cherubs and the posies, put "Home, Sweet Home" on the Victrolia, and spout whatever sentimental nonsense you might like about Happy Families.

Bekuz it wuz da kyooot!!

Nine-year-old Rhadwen was likliklikking Huw's stripey little head. Fuzzy Gwenith was stropping herself against Llewellyn the goggie and trying to groom his ears.

Are these kids socialized or what?

No, no pictures of this tender domestic scene. I don't sleep with the digital camera, nor yet take it to the loo with me.

But here's what I have from an earlier date . . .

What's Out There

2008-06-20T01:43:00.008-04:00

Night before last, meaning Thursday morning about 1:00 AM, I was sitting in the dining room eating a snack before bed (blueberries in cream, if you must know).

A minute or two earlier I'd reprimanded Gwenith for using an armchair back as a scratching post. So when I heard Llewellyn's claws precipitously scraping over the fake Pergo, I thought, she's at it again: he's upset because she's being naughty.

I turned around, and Gwenith was nowhere in sight. But the dog was still dashing frantically here and there, jumping at the windows, running into one room, then another, whining, manic, unwilling to listen when I told him to sit, desperately urgent about something.

I looked out the front door, nothing stirred. And Llewellyn wasn't barking, as he would if a person or another dog were walking by. Still, he was sure there was something out there. He wanted to go see; of course I didn’t let him.

But it was time for his nightcap walk to the alley, so I leashed him up and took him out the back. Immediately, he pulled towards the side of the porch, towards the screened openings and the walkway below.

There definitely was something there: I could hear it rustling in the hostas.

Back in--with dog-- for the flashlight. Turned it on; I could still hear the rustling, but saw nothing.

Got Llewellyn out to the alley all right, and happily he didn’t yank and pull me to get at whatever was at the side of the house. A stray cat? Skunks . . . ?

Oh, I hoped not! I've never had skunks in the yard, but I've seen them in my neighbors'. Their gates don't fit as well as mine. Though something's been digging a hole under my front gate lately . . .

That was last night. Tonight, at dusk, I was taking out the trash. I came out the back gate, and there, across the alley, was a group of six or seven black and white-- I wish I could say cats, but no, it was Pepe LePew and all his clan. What would you call it-- an odor of skunks?

They sped up and moved away down the alley when they heard me. But when I came out again with the next bag, there was one still lingering . . . on my side of the alley . . . just at the end of my property. I spoke to him nicely and asked him to move away, please . . . And instead, he came closer.

Nope! Back inside the gate!

Eventually, by dint of whistling, chattering, and working away at the squeaky gate latch, I frightened off any black and white children that were hanging about and got all my trash in the barrels without mishap.

But. Tonight, that is, Thursday night, Friday morning, at about 12:40 AM, I was again at the dining room table, eating a very late supper, when again the sound of Llewellyn's claws against the plastic wood floor ripped through the house; again, he began frantically to leap at windows and hunt from one room to another; again, he whined and was in a world of his own as he searched for whatever it was that was out there.

Nothing out the front door, again.

Nothing rustling in the hostas in the side yard tonight, thank God.

Nothing even in the alley, when I took him out to do his business.

But unless my dog is bewitched, there's something lurking around our house, something he's determined to catch or drive away.

Something that makes its presence felt in the witching hour between midnight and 1:00 AM.

And if it's furry, black with a white band down its back, and possesses distinctive and projectile scent glands, I'm just as determined that my dog shall leave it the hell alone. There isn't that much tomato juice in the world.

In Case Anyone Was Wondering . . .

2008-06-18T21:00:00.000-04:00

. . . The scent of the pet shampoo has worn off sufficiently, and Rhadwen is back to grooming herself. To prove it, may I present this in evidence:

(Oh, if my calico kitteh were human, I'd be in so much trouble! Lolcat captions welcome!!)

Scare

2008-06-13T17:21:00.005-04:00

Early this afternoon I looked out one of the front windows to see how the flower border at the front of the house was doing. I glanced down and "That's strange. There's a window screen lying on one of my delphiniums!"

Sometimes I can be really slow.

Window screen . . . window screen . . . Oh my gosh, there's no screen on the window! The window is wide open! There's no screen on the window, one of the cats must've been lying against it, and pushed it out!

The cats. Where are the cats?

My kittehs are all indoor cats. Safer that way. My former cat, the late, great Didon, lost her life or was stolen when the people I gave her to when I went to England to study theology let her become an indoor-outdoor cat. My previous owners here told me there was a guy on a neighboring block who habitually shot roaming cats with a BB gun. I've seen too many pathetic and bloody kitty carcasses on the roads. No, apart from allowing Rhadwen some occasional R & R in the fenced backyard, my kittehs stay indoors.

But the front window was wide open, with the screen outside.

Ok, don't panic. Maybe they haven't gotten far.

I came outside, and thank God, there was Rhadwen lying casually on the walk that runs by the side of the house, sunning herself. She wasn't going anywhere, so I went to retrieve the screen.

It'd smashed and decapitated the poor delphinium. From the damage, I'd say it wasn't just the screen, but the weight of a calico cat landing on it, too. And the damaged parts looked pretty wilted. How long would that take . . . ? How long would Gwenith and Huw have had to escape, if escape they had?

Happily, Rhadwen was ready to come in, and followed me through the door needing no persuasion.

I tried to put the screen back in the slot. Couldn't make it go. Looked at another window to see if I had it right. Still couldn't figure out how to put it in. Thought about how I hate those windows anyway and wish I could afford to get new ones.

Realized I was thinking slowly again. Idiot! Just shut the darn window and go look for the kittens!

Right. Assume best case-- still in the house.

No kittens on the first floor.

No kittens on the second floor. Looked under both beds, in the closet, everywhere.

No kittens up in the third floor study. That leaves the basement.

Came down from the third floor, and saw Huw walking into my bedroom. Where'd he come from?

I don't care. He's accounted for.

Downstairs, heading for the cellar to look for Gwen. But whew! there she was, stropping herself on the chairs in the dining room.

All cats present! And one dog, who'd been helping me look!

Gelobt sei Gott!

The window is still shut, the screen leaning against the wall below it. Nice to know that the first impulse of all my critters was not to bolt for it. Now I remember it, that screen has come loose before, and I'm taking no chances with it again.

Asking for It, Part 2

2008-06-09T23:30:00.004-04:00

If Huw asked to be launched into the drink in one way, Rhadwen did this evening in another.

I try to be considerate of the kittehs. If my big calico decides the bathroom sink's the most comfortable spot in the house when the temperature's in the 90s, who am I to dispute her choice?

But sometimes I have to use the wash basin. And if she won't get out when I ask politely, a trickle of cold water can be an incentive for her to let me have the use of my property.

That happened enough times today that by early evening Rhadwen was already a pretty damp cat.

And I've noticed a brown dirty spot on her white fur that she's not been attending to.

That does it! She's getting a bath!

And she did.

I have to wonder if there's something wrong with her. She didn't scratch me at all. In fact, when I lifted her up to wash her tummy, she put her little paws up like small child that wants its mommy to pick it up.

She's clean now, but it bothers me that she hasn't done all that much towards licking herself smooth. She's let herself dry all spiky and punk, and was very happy to let me go over her with the grooming brush.

I'm hoping it's because she doesn't like the smell of the new cat shampoo. She seems okay otherwise . . . I mean, she's eating and drinking and all . . . and jumping on and off the bed and the sofa and the dining room table and everywhere as usual . . . But if she won't groom herself, that's gotta mean something's wrong.

Right?

Meaning the next thing Rhadwen might be asking for is a trip to the vet.

Asking for It, Part 1

2008-06-09T23:00:00.007-04:00

Huw is nothing if not adventurous. He's first in every clean litter box, he's tried out the piano--repeatedly--, and he stands on his hind legs at the back door, gazing longingly into the garden he's not allowed to go into.

Couple nights ago, I had drawn my bath after a hot day working outside. I was still at the sink, brushing my teeth or something, when Huw stalked in, eager to see what was going on. He stood up and leaned over the edge of the tub. And stared.

Watter. Tihs iz teh fass-- fassin-- neet!

A paw went in. Splash! Again. Splash.

I kept doing what I was doing. Behind my back, my brown tabby was apparently thinking:

Ai haz a thurstee. Awl tish watter-- want!

Splash!!!

I turned--to see his front paws in the water in the tub and his haunches just barely, precariously, gripping the rim!

O noes! Do nawt want!

I reached in for the rescue, but too late! Huw was in the drink and going for a brief and unwanted swim.

Ai mint tuh doo taht, he says as he licked himself dry thereafter. Mah poyz, let me show u it.

Sumer Is Icumen In

2008-06-08T20:10:00.007-04:00

You want signs of summer? Here are the signs of summer around my house:

First we have calico cat on the half shell:

What was that? Water? What does Rhadwen need with water?

Me? No, of course I wash my hands in the bathtub!

Always being careful, of course, not to slop one brown tabby. Huw enjoys basking in a tub bottom as cool as he is.

Open windows are a summer attraction as Gwenith displays her blonde sophistication to an admiring world.

And for Llewellyn? For him, summer means birds, and squirrels, and all manner of wildlife to point at and chase. Lhude squawk cuccu!

I Haz a Sad

2008-04-29T23:53:00.003-04:00

Last night at 3:00 AM found me in the Kitten Room, desperately darting, feinting, reaching, clutching, missing, pleading, and nearly crying.

What brought me to so strange a pass at so strange a time?

A wee tube of flea and tick protection-- and a pink and white floofy catkin who simply wouldn't allow me to put it on her.

I'd taken care of the rest of her four-legged siblings hours before. And I was determined that I was going to dose Gwenith, too, before I went to my well-earned sleep.

But she wouldn't let me! It wasn't just that she sensed it was monthly flea dosing day, she'll never come to me, not unless I'm immobilized at my computer or snug in my bed!

Llewellyn the dog is my shadow. Rhadwen is always keen for a petting or skritches. Huw butts up against my legs until I nearly trip over him. None of them gave me any trouble with their flea and tick medicine. Why won't Gwenith do the same?

O Gwenith, Gwenith, doan u luvs ur momma? Ur moma lurvs u! Shje duzzen wun u eated up bye teh fleez an teh tix!

But no, she has to lead me a frantic chase. Under the rocking chair. Under the bed. Nearly into the box spring. Into this corner of the room. Into the other. Under the rocking chair again. And me on my knees pleading with her to come out, wondering, What Did I Do Wrong to end up with such a shy kitteh?

I finally catch her, and get the medicine applied between her squirmy shoulder blades. Which operation probably convinced her she was right to avoid me.

But what could I do?

O Gwenith, u givezes mee teh unhappee!! Ai haz a sad!!1!

Scenes from a Convalescence

2008-04-19T23:00:00.003-04:00

FBI Update

2008-04-14T15:28:00.003-04:00

Llewellyn and I are home from the regular vet's, and yes, the Foreign Body he Ingested on Friday was a trimming from the wool fabric I'm making a suit out of. Pieces of it were in the stool sample he produced this morning, that I brought in for analysis.

He's been eating his bland diet mini-meals hungrily and keeping them down, and was free from pain when the vet palpated his abdomen.

He's definitely acting like his old self-- including barking lustily at the other dogs in the vet's waiting room! Llewellyn, hush!

So is there a moral here?

Maybe that I should have been more diligent and finished this sewing a couple weeks ago. Or that I should be a better housekeeper and vacuum my rugs more often. Or that I should be more preemptive, and have fed him peroxide in water (the vet recommends milk, to get him to drink it voluntarily) to make him throw up the mystery object right after he gulped it down.

But I guess the true moral is, be ready for anything. Dogs is dogs, and if they take a mind to make a meal out of something, they will.

Scary, Not Cute

2008-04-13T17:04:00.009-04:00

After midnight last night I had to take my dog Llewellyn to the emergency vet's.

Yesterday evening, as I was about to drive into town to go to the symphony, I took him out to the alley to do his business. His business, if you'll pardon the specificity, was yellow, runny, and strained.

Less than five minutes later, he threw up his breakfast (which he'd eaten nearly eleven hours before) in the front room. All of it. Recognizable. Undigested.

I debated with myself. Should I stay, or go? But I was dressed up, I had my ticket, and dogs throw up all the time. He'd probably eaten something that'd disagreed with him. Now it was out of his system and he'd be fine.

I filled his supper bowl, threw a bath towel over the mess, and left.

It was a good concert. Great music, well-played. Though I was distracted at times, wondering how my doggie was doing.

I didn't hang around after, but drove straight home, hoping I'd find Llewellyn to be his old cheerful self and his food bowl empty.

Neither were the case. He was mopey and lethargic. He lay down in the front room and wouldn't even look at the nice homemade chicken broth I now put down for him. He wasn't interested in the bit of nice, fragrant gooshy kitten food I tried to tempt him with. He just lay there with his dry nose, breathing heavily.

Oh, BabyDog, what's wrong?

When I called him and he acted like he couldn't get up and come to me even if he wanted to, that was it. It was time to call the 24-hour vet.

Frustrating, but there still are no 24-hour veterinarians in my county. Nearest one was nearly an hour away--I'd been there before with my late dog Maddie. The receptionist there said it sounded as if I'd better bring him, and I agreed.

Llewellyn seemed much better by the time we got to the clinic. Smiling, sociable, with tail wagging and no longer between his legs. Vet said the adrenalin rush of a car ride and a visit to a new place can do that.

She took my history of the case, along with something else I'd remembered. Friday, up in my study, Llewellyn snatched something off the floor and began to gobble it up. By the time I'd rotated my chair around, he had his mouth closed around it and wouldn't drop it and wouldn't let me pry his teeth open so I could make him let it go.

The strange thing is that he didn't just swallow whatever it was down and stare at me grinning at what he'd just gotten away with. No, he'd had to gulp, gulp, gulp to get it down his gullet.

I told the vet last night at it might have been a live stinkbug. Or a stray jellybean egg or foil-wrapped chocolate egg from when one of the kittens knocked the Easter basket over a few days ago. I couldn't think of anything else.

But after the x-rays came back, I saw that there well may have been something else. The lateral film shows something that just possibly could be a piece of fabric, about five inches long, in his small intestine.

Yes, I have been sewing up in my study. Yes, I have been trimming seam allowances. But why on earth would my dog gobble up a scrap? He's never been one to devour nonedibles-- unless they have something edible on them. But there it was on the x-ray.

Or maybe not. Vet said, "The line is very faint. It might also just be the way his intestines are lying. We'll need to take another x-ray tomorrow or the next day to make sure."

They gave him some antibiotics and anti-gas medication to reduce the slight bloat in his poor empty tummy. They injected a quantity of water, like a camel's hump, under his skin to alleviate his dehydration. Then they sent him home with me with a long list of instructions and warnings and caveats for the next few days. And it's a good thing they were listed, since by then (3:00 AM) my brain was refusing to take anything in.

So today I'm observing his condition. Fasting first, the remainder of last night and through this morning. Then a little bit of water and bland food-- actually just some tinned water-pack chicken breast around the pills he has to take. He's held that down so far, thank God, so now I have permission to feed him a teeny, tiny serving of chicken and white rice. And if he doesn't throw that up, another teeny, tiny serving of the same four hours later. And so on, for the next three or four days.

And watch his stool to see if anything comes through, and schedule the followup x-ray with my vet if he continues to eat and do well into tomorrow. Or bundle him into the car and get him down to the emergency vet's again if things go wrong.

If it is a piece of cloth, it could bind his intestines. They could even rupture and spill sepsis into his gut. Before that could happen, he'd have to have surgery.

Thus far, he seems more interested and lively . . . wants to eat, even though I mustn't let him till the scheduled time. Bossing the cats around and barking and jumping when someone came to the door. So I'll go cook him his bit of supper, and hope-- hope--all goes well.

Apparating Kitties

2008-04-12T13:44:00.006-04:00

This morning my friend Hannah* dropped off her four-going-on-five-year-old daughter Leticia* to stay with me while she went to a Bible study.

Hannah and her family originally found Gwenith and Huw in their barn as four or five week old feral kittens, and you'd expect the little furballs to be eager to see them, one and all.

Not so. Whenever the doorbell rings, the kittens don't discrimate. They run and hide.

But I knew Letty would want to see how big Gwen and Huw have grown. Oh, thought I, I'll shut them in the Kitten Room when I'm giving them their breakfast! Then they can't run down and hide in the basement.

I carried out my plan. The kittens were fed and watered, retrieved when they tried to escape, and the door was shut.

A few minutes later, Letitia and her mother arrived, bearing a gift of fastfood breakfast. Mom departed; the young lady and I sat down and ate.

"Can I see how big the kittens are?" inquired Letty over her food.

"Yes, after we finish eating. I've shut them in the guest bedroom. They can't go anywhere."

But when we went upstairs and slipped into the room, the kittens were nowhere to be found!

Not under the chair, not in the closet, certainly not out in the open waiting for us, not even under the bed!

But under there I keep a storage box with wrapping paper and ribbons in it. Maybe Gwenith and Huw were behind it. Pulled it out. I looked again--even now, no kittens!

I knew I'd got them both inside and closed the door! Where could they be?

"Can you see them?" asked Letty.

"No, I can't," I replied. "Maybe they're Magic Kitties and they can make themselves disappear!" And there's something about cats and about these cats in particular that made that statement at least ten per cent serious. "Maybe they can get out of the room without even opening the door!"

"Oh! Oh!"

But let's not be silly. They had to be here. I kept peering into the gloom under the bed . . . wait a minute. Isn't there a strange sagging lump in the scrim fabric on the bottom of the box spring? I stuck my arm in and pushed it upwards.

"Letty! I think I've found the kittens!"

"Where are they? Where are they?"

"They're in the box spring! . . . But wait a minute, how can they be in there? . . . O my gosh!" And looking down towards the foot of the bed, I saw that the scrim was loose and open almost all the way across. Those resourceful little rascals had clawed it free and made themselves a snug little hidey-hole amongst the box springs!

I nearly coaxed Huw out. Later, when Hannah returned, he'd come out on his own and suffered himself to be carried downstairs to show what a Big Boy he's grown. Then was off like a shot, probably down the basement this time.

Gwenith we never saw at all. Was she really in the box spring with her brother? I only saw one lump in the scrim! Or was she elsewhere, and did she--apparate?

I Maeded U a Lolcat Pikshur. Oar 2

2008-03-29T00:27:00.005-04:00

An Ai hoeps teh sis-Tim haz nawt eated it.

moar funny pictures

O. it jus eatid sum uv mah pikshur. O wear o were did it goe??

Heer iz an udder.

moar funny pictures

It got eated sumwhut 2. O wels!!

Sloppy

2008-02-29T23:21:00.005-05:00

There’s been snow on the ground the past week or so, hard, crusty snow that gets added to at irregular intervals.

Today’s addition was three inches of wet whipped cream, slushy and mixed with rain, falling in a temperature that hovered around 33 degrees . Your boots (tall ones, not the ankle kind) squelch through the gelid, pitted mixture, sploosh, sploosh, sploosh, even on the sidewalk you’ve attempted to shovel and then sprinkled with rock salt. It’s sloppier than Sandy Berger at the National Archives.

Well, I just took Llewellyn out for his night time constitutional. And between the old ice and the new semi-frozen puddles, I couldn’t get the back gate open more than 2"!

I pulled him up on the rock (and snow) covered mound next to the gate where my Norway maple is planted and convinced him it’s ok to pee there.

But he would not do his No. 2. Since October, he knows that’s done Outside. In the alley. He even went and sat down in the slush and looked expectantly out the gap.

So I tried taking him out and around to the alley via the side gate. And it’s frozen shut as well!

Okay, not totally. I could push it open enough for him to get out. And for me to get out, probably, too.

But I didn’t dare. I could see me not being able to squeeze back in. I could visualize impaling myself on the latch bolt. And the only unlocked door and the spare key are both at the back of the house, through that gate.

Gave up, pulled Llewellyn back in, and now I couldn’t shut the side gate, even to latch it!

Came back inside. But Llewellyn really needed to go. All right, I’d take him out and around the block by way of the basement door.

Oh, no, no! My dog wouldn’t let me do that! He knows he’s not allowed down the basement stairs! Not even I would be permitted to tempt him down them!

Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry, puppy.

So we went out the front door (the one that won’t latch), which meant using the key. Llewellyn was so thrilled with getting to go out front that he nearly forgot what the purpose of the trip was. As he hauled me splooshing along the futilely cleared sidewalks, I could just see him pulling me over and me falling down in a great frigid splash!

But we got past next door's house, and next door's to them, and along the side street, and around back with no more than wet paws and cold boots. Once he saw his usual strip of real estate between my fence and the alley, he did his business in short order.

And then waited to be let in through the back gate, as usual.

Not tonight, doggie. And if it freezes tonight as the forecasters say, not tomorrow morning, either.

Oh, joy.

Popular Culture

2008-02-16T23:53:00.004-05:00

My friend Ruth* in Kansas City has sent me a Valentine's card, one of those computer-chipped musical ones.

It's a very big hit around the House of the Flying Furballs. As you may see:

Obviously, my kittehs and goggie really Love Lucy!

Shhhh!

2008-01-23T00:31:00.000-05:00

The camera is never at hand when wanted.

Shhhh!

Right now, on my study floor, nine-year-old Rhadwen and seven-month-old Gwenith are sleeping peacefully, curled up together on the same bunched-up throw, about five inches apart.

(And darned if Gwenith doesn't appear bigger than Rhadwen!

(Yes, I know: It's all fur.)

Beside the Point

2008-01-17T17:44:00.000-05:00

My Llewellyn is, as far as I can determine, a muttly mix of collie, beagle, and pointer. When he's indoors, the shepherd side of him rules his doggie behaviour: He's continually trying to herd the cats. I can see a kitten up on the wrong surface in another room and chide, "Huw! Get down!" and Llewellyn is immediately off after that feline, to nip him into line.

Outside, however, his hunting dog heritage comes into play. Especially the pointer part. I'll have him out the back gate in the alley at 2:00 in the morning in the freezing cold to do his business. And suddenly, he'll pick up the scent of something. What is it? Rabbit? Raccoon? Skunk?

No matter. His body goes stiff and straight, his tail takes a rigid right-angle curve, his ears prick up, his eyes shoot laser-like straight ahead, and up comes his forepaw in a steady, determined point.

It's a beautiful point, a focussed, concentrated point. Trouble is, when he points, he doesn't poop. He can be hunkering down into his squat, ready to do what we came out in the alley for, when suddenly the message of the nose overrides all else. Poooiiiiinnnnttt!!!!

And there I am, out in the back alley in the middle of a brass-monkeys frigid night, and my dog is homed in on some hidden rabbit, raccoon, or skunk. "Business, Llewellyn, business!" I stage whisper (so not to disturb the neighbors). But he hears me not: he's Pointing. I try gently pulling him over to an old pooping place, to give him the idea. No: Soon as I let up the tension, he's reassumed the stance and is resolutely pointing again. The only way to get him out of it is forceably to jerk his leash.

But by then, all hope of his producing anything is dried up and gone. I can only take him in and pray he holds his biscuits till we go out again in the light of day.

Nice to have such a talented dog. Too bad it's a talent I have no use for.

Breaking News

2007-12-28T20:00:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-28T16:39:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-12-24T22:30:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-12-22T20:30:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-20T21:22:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-19T06:51:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-17T13:57:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-13T17:30:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-12-07T22:26:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-28T23:51:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-28T20:30:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-27T21:37:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-06T23:04:00.000-05:00

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---

2007-11-03T19:25:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-27T23:14:00.001-04:00

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!

2007-10-26T23:00:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-19T22:43:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-18T23:29:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-17T19:00:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-10-12T23:48:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-11T17:15:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-08T23:49:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-10-06T23:00:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-05T22:30:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-02T18:30:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-21T21:26:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-17T16:45:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-16T23:45:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-15T14:57:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-11T12:00:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-10T22:30:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-09T21:00:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-08-30T14:48:00.000-04:00

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!