Cool Hand Llew

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!

Scenes from a Convalescence

Apparating Kitties

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?

Popular Culture

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!

Cross Post

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

Too Much Excitement!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't.

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

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

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*Made-up names

I Can Has Kittehs?

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

Then she asked:

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

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

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

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

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

Fostering Service

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

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

Well, sorry, kiddos, you can't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This looks promising.

I Think of Something Useful

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

And I got to see the kittens.

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

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

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

Minding Other People's Business

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home Wildlife Preserve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tooth and Claw, or Dying from the Kyoot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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*Fake names!

Going on a Mission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I kept my mouth shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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*All names changed!