Too Much Excitement!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't.

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

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

__________________________

*Made-up names

My Pet Worry Warthog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huw Ydy Enw'r Cath Bachgen Bach

This afternoon I wrote my friend Ruth* via email:

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

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

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

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

A few hours later, Ruth replied:

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

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

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

Free Range Kittens

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

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

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

And let the games begin!

Pwy Ydych Chi?

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

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

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

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

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

I Can Has Kittehs?

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

Then she asked:

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

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

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

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

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

Llewellyn Meets the Kitties