A Means to an End

 This is not my cat. His name is Quincy, he is a temporary resident of the TinyKittens Society in Fort Langley, British Columbia, and he is looking for a home.

Oh, yes, and he's feral. Well, he was feral. Now he's just adorable.

But why do I call this post the means to and end? Just this: I want to make a puzzle out of this picture to post on a TinyKittens supporters page on Facebook, and you can't make one out of a photo with no URL. And now this picture will have one.

Here's the puzzle:

https://jigex.com/FsS3

Alas, it won't stay around forever. But it's here for anyone to play with, even though other posts on the FB page push my puzzle link down.

So What Do I Do?

Haven't posted for awhile, and what I have to post about now I'd rather not write.

I'm sitting on the two-seat sofa with Llewellyn next to me, and he's not well at all.  Around the first of the month he threw up his regular kibble (whole), then started turning up his nose at it altogether.  Prior to that he'd been having trouble eliminating, but I thought maybe he'd gotten into the cat box and picked up a bug.  But when he didn't want to eat . . .  Got a vet appointment for the Thursday following (the 7th, the soonest they had), and they told me to put him on chicken and rice in the meantime.

He ate that fine, and everything looked all right at his appointment.  I just needed to feed him more and get him fattened up again; he was too skinny.  They also gave me an antibiotic as they thought he might have a gastric infection.

Kept him on the chicken and rice and changed his kibble.  Fine in general, though he wasn't keen on the increased amounts (this is a dog who left toothmarks in the metal lid of a scented candle).  But last Wednesday his stool got tarry and gradually there were fewer and fewer things I could get him to eat.

Saturday night I made him a batch of hushpuppies and that's the last thing of any significance he's had.

Got him in to the vet's today.  X-rays and sonogram clean.  But they did a comprehensive bloodwork panel and it shows that he's severely anemic.  The doctor is of the opinion that Llewellyn either has an ulcer-- or it's a stomach tumor-- i.e., cancer.

They sent me home with more pills.  For what it's worth, for he's still refusing to eat.  He's lost two pounds in the past 11 days.  And he was a lean dog already.

Vet says if he doesn't start eating I'm going to have to make a Decision.  Crap.  How is it he's still so strong he won't open his jaws for me, but so weak it was a wonder that I found him upstairs with me this morning?

It's not helping going online and reading about miracle cures.  Do I get this stuff and force it down him on the chance it'll mean a breakthrough?  Or do I leave him in peace . . . for whatever time he has left?

Sometimes, when the mood takes me, I bunk down on the two-seat sofa and spend the night sleeping with the dog in the living room.  I think that's what I'll do tonight.

Of All the Nights . . .

Of all the nights for Llewellyn to decide to get skunked, he chose this one.

Yeah.  The one where I've been working two different jobs since 7:45 this morning, got home after 11:00 PM from the second one, and haven't finished filing my taxes.

Took him out, soon as I got home.  No leash, since there's no other dogs around that time of night and well, it's easier.

Yeah, right.  Now I know.

The skunk was a white one, frequent around here, sauntering through the parking lot on the other side of the alley.  When he took off after it I prayed it was a cat.  I yelled at him to get his rear back here, and if had been a rabbit, he would have.  But with a skunk, nooooooo!

When he finally came back to me he wasn't fazed at all.  Oh, no, not he!  No yelping, very lively, proceeded to do his business . . .

But he smelled like garlic and something else, which was weird.  Not at all "dead skunk the the middle of the road."  I read that that's how skunk spray smells close up.  Who knew?

Hustled him inside and into the bathtub.  Found out a few minutes ago I should have used peroxide and baking soda, but I hit him with the doggy flea shampoo since it was what I had on hand.

He didn't enjoy the bathing process and it serves him right.  I don't enjoy the garlic stink that's still got its claws embedded in the back of my throat.  But once he got out of the tub, oh, he's Mr. Lively!  He's around ten years old now but he generally contrives to forget it.

Llewellyn's sitting next to my chair as I type this.  Yeah, he's in the house.  What am I supposed to do, kick him out in the backyard where he'll bark at the full moon and disturb the neighbors and get into even more trouble?  When I sniff his fur it smells all right.  That's the dry parts.  Maybe it's the wet parts that still stink.

Flea Wars

It really wasn't my intention to break my long silence with a post like this, but the subject demands venting.  I was ashamed even to mention it, till I learned that it's a bad problem all over this year.

Fleas!

FLEAS!

We haz fleas!

And I thought we didn't.  I'd been sympathizing with my friend Hannah* since the end of last month, because her dog and cat and kitten and her whole house was infested.  I'd been empathetic with the customers who came into the Big Blue Box Store (where I've worked since last March) wanting advice on flea remedies.  I listened attentively-- for informational purposes only, I thought-- to a fellow store associate as she coached a customer in the flea-removal uses of Dawn dish soap.

My house had no fleas!  I hadn't seen any, and don't the kids all sleep with me?  I would be hopping with them myself if we had them, right?  True, Llewellyn had been itching awhile, so badly that he'd chewed the hair off the back of his hind legs.  But that had to be a dietary deficiency.  He'd grown immune to his dogfood, that was it, and I was trying out another brand to see if that would help.  And it seemed to, a little.

Then two days after the conversation in the store, Sunday night two weeks ago, I had Rhadwen in my lap as I sat at the computer.  And what do I see in her white fur?  Flea dirt!

She got a bath in blue Dawn that night.  She cried the whole time, but was very good and didn't scratch me once.

Llewellyn stood outside the bathroom door and barked and barked and barked!  Never mind your noise, goggie! You'll get yours.  Which he did, the next afternoon.  He's not fond of water, either.  I had to pick him up and put him in the tub.  But once in, he yielded to the treatment, with some trembling, poor thing.

The following Friday I noticed some more fleas on him when we were outside for his bathroom break.  He got a touch-up with the hose.

Last Saturday I headed for the local Tractor Supply store, because I heard they had economically-priced anti-flea medicine, and food grade diatomaceous earth at a good per-pound price.  It's made of ground-up fossils and its sharp-edged grittiness rips the nits and larvae to def!

Got the carpets vacuumed up as well as I could reach with my upright Oreck (with a flea collar in it to kill them), then loaded the garden puffer with D.E. and went to work in the guest bedroom (formerly the Kitten Room).

Oh, dear.  This will not do.  Diatomaceous earth.  As in earth.  Like, dirt.  It looked awful.  I just couldn't see coating my carpets with it.  And letting the dog and the cats roll in it and get filthy after their baths.  And having them and me track it all over the house, including all over the stairs I'd just touched up with nice, shiny new shellac.  It'd scrape the hell out of the finish.

I think I'll use it in the garden instead.

Meanwhile, the bathing campaign went on.  Last Monday, Huw got his.  He's very strong, and definitely let me know how he felt about it ("Maow!  maow! maow!), but he held still once he was in, and scratched my left arm only a little when at one point he tried to use me a a ladder.

Llewellyn got a repeat bath late Tuesday evening.

And Rhadwen had to undergo the ordeal again on Wednesday.  Poor thing, her head is so tiny it's hard to get it lathered up really well.  And just as I thought we were done, I noticed that a good many live fleas were headed for her face.  Noooooo!!!!!!  Die, monsters, DIE!!!!

By yesterday afternoon everyone had been bathed and had their topical flea medicine applied-- except for Gwenith.  At six years she's still my shy, skittish girl, and won't let herself be touched unless she feels she has you confined or at some disadvantage.  I even ran the bath for her Thursday night, but the water went cold before I could get her corralled.

But yesterday I caught her on the stairs, happily while I was carrying a towel, and whisked her upstairs and into the bathroom.

No pictures of Gwen in the bath.  The steam shorted out my digital camera while I was working on Rhadwen on Wednesday.  She reacted totally contrary to what I'd expected.  Thought I'd be chasing her all over the bathroom.  But no.  As long as I held her gently but firmly, and maintained a calm, soothing attitude (the attitude of the bath-giver is very important!) she held still.

Oh, she did cry at some points.  Sounded uncannily human:  "No! No! No!"  But when I was massaging the lather into her, she quieted down and even relaxed.

Which was a jolly good thing, because when I had her rinsed off and I thought we were done, when I had her out of the bath and onto the towel, I noticed her chest was still crawling with live fleas! Aaaaagggghhhh!!  Back in the tub, and through the whole process all over again!

Even then, I think there were one or two that were clinging so tightly to her fur I couldn't get them either with my fingers or the flea comb.  Tried and tried to get them out, and maybe I did, but I figured by then she had had enough.  After I dried her off, she ran into the guest bedroom and crawled into a rip in the box spring cover and hid.

Last night as I lay in bed reading she was speaking to me again.  Which was good, because her ordeal wasn't over:  I still had to treat her with the topical medicine.  Poor thing, betrayed again!  I got it on her, she headed for the hills, and I didn't see (or feel) her again last night.

What now?  Everyone has apparently forgiven me; at least, they're all being sociable and no little revenge presents have been left in the laundry basket.  Llewellyn still has some live fleas on him; at least, he did this morning, and got another sponge bath.  But he's not itching like he was, and the hair's growing back on his hind shanks.  The kittehs are still scratching here and there, but I don't know how long the histamine in a flea bite lasts after the fleas themselves are dead.

I wonder if there's a flea powder or spray I can use on the kids to supplement the action of the topical medicine.  And how long after applying the latter I can give them another bath.  Though I'd like to avoid that if I can-- and I'm sure they feel the same.

Still need to do something about the carpets and chairs and so on.  It's hard to get the place really clean, since I'm still, perpetually, eternally renovating.  But I have to try.  Forgive me, but I'm contemplating chemical (vs. mechanical) methods.

I wonder if my exterminator knows a product that'd be good.  Unfortunately, I find I forgot to pay him so far for this quarter's treatment.  I think I'd better take care of that before I go asking for free advice.

Just Had to Do It

I'll redo this when I have time. But for now . . .

Happy Birthday, Wennie!

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

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

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

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 . . . .

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

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

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.

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


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


3. 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

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

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

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

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

"Curses, Foiled Again!"

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:

DO

NOT

ADOPT

OUT!

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

Basement Cat????

Found

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

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

How can you not love a face like this?