Scare

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

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

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

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

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

FBI Update

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.