Sunday, February 10, 2008
Snowball's Bed
Snowball became my maternal grandmother’s cat. She first appeared as a white stray, claimed by no one in the neighborhood. Once I determined that the stray was a female, I knew I must act. Soon, she had been to my veterinarian, had a check-up, shots, and been spayed. She returned to become one of our household.
My grandmother (Granma) tolerated our cats, but they were not allowed in her room. We did not expect this cat to be any different. We were wrong. When Granma was a child, we learned that she had had an all white farm cat called Snowball. Granma informed us that our new white cat was to be named Snowball. Neither my mother nor I had any reason to object, so Snowball it was.
We soon discovered something even more shocking. Snowball was allowed to sleep on Granma’s bed. She had her space at the foot of the double bed on the side opposite from where Granma slept. Snowball was Granmas’s companion in the day, too, sitting beside her or even in her lap.
Granma was 96 years old when she died. Granma had seven children, all still living at the time of her death. All came to her funeral. One son and his wife flew in from Ohio and stayed with us. We gave them Granma’s room to sleep in. Not until the day they were leaving did we learn about Snowball’s behavior.
My uncle and aunt had visited before, so they knew Snowball and her special relationship with Granma. The first night that they slept in Granma’s bed, my uncle wound up on Snowball’s side of the bed. Snowball had taken her regular spot on the bed. My uncle nudged her with his foot to move her away.
Snowball bit his toe!
My uncle explained that it was not a vicious bite, more of a nip, but Snowball was clearly asserting her claim to her spot. I asked him what he did. He told me he simply moved his feet closer to his wife’s and gave Snowball her space.
Snowball would live for many years. She always slept on Granma’a bed.
Labels: bed, bite, cats, grandmother, sleep, Snowball, stray, white cat
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Love a Feral
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Wellington the Last
Wellington is the last cat in the house at night. He will not come when called if it is after three in the afternoon because he believes that I will make him come in. While it is not always true that I want him in at that moment, it is true that I would like him to come in before dark. My other cats trot into the house on command. Even Gamma who adores being outside, dutifully comes when called.
Wellington lurks under the yellow jasmine where he can survey the yard and keep an eye on me. If I have the audacity to invade the jasmine, he trots across the yard, tail high, to the nandina near the house. Further pursuit on my part results in his disappearance under the house. I live in an old house with a pier and beam foundation. There is no basement, just a skirted space under the house where the cats retreat.
Wellington does have one weakness: catnip. If I am really desparate, I can bribe him with a fresh sprig of catnip. This almost always works. Wellington has dealt with his weakness. He simply leaves the front yard long before I search for him. I do not know where he goes although I suspect my neighbor's fenced and locked yard.
The result of all these tactics is that Wellington is the last cat in at night. Once darkness falls, Wellington will come when called. Well, maybe not the first time. If I have been unsuccessful after several tries, I can get in my car and drive around the block. Wellington always comes to meet the car.
As I come up the sidewalk, he lies down in front of me. He wants to be picked up and carried in while being told what a wonderful cat he is. There is only one problem; Wellington weighs in at twenty pounds. He is a lot for an arthritic with a bad hip to handle. My doctor has forbidden me to carry heavy bags of litter or cat food because he fears my bad hip may fail. (I had a bone disease as a child.) I have never told my doctor about Wellington. He probably suspects.
I only have to carry Wellington to the door. He expects to be put down so that he can strut into the house. Once inside, he heads straight to the dry food bowl. He snacks for a moment, then begins his evening patrol of the house. Once satisfied that all his subjects are properly subservient, he takes his place on top of the refrigerator.
Wellington is not the first out in the morning. I think he believes that would be beneath his dignity.
Wellington lurks under the yellow jasmine where he can survey the yard and keep an eye on me. If I have the audacity to invade the jasmine, he trots across the yard, tail high, to the nandina near the house. Further pursuit on my part results in his disappearance under the house. I live in an old house with a pier and beam foundation. There is no basement, just a skirted space under the house where the cats retreat.
Wellington does have one weakness: catnip. If I am really desparate, I can bribe him with a fresh sprig of catnip. This almost always works. Wellington has dealt with his weakness. He simply leaves the front yard long before I search for him. I do not know where he goes although I suspect my neighbor's fenced and locked yard.
The result of all these tactics is that Wellington is the last cat in at night. Once darkness falls, Wellington will come when called. Well, maybe not the first time. If I have been unsuccessful after several tries, I can get in my car and drive around the block. Wellington always comes to meet the car.
As I come up the sidewalk, he lies down in front of me. He wants to be picked up and carried in while being told what a wonderful cat he is. There is only one problem; Wellington weighs in at twenty pounds. He is a lot for an arthritic with a bad hip to handle. My doctor has forbidden me to carry heavy bags of litter or cat food because he fears my bad hip may fail. (I had a bone disease as a child.) I have never told my doctor about Wellington. He probably suspects.
I only have to carry Wellington to the door. He expects to be put down so that he can strut into the house. Once inside, he heads straight to the dry food bowl. He snacks for a moment, then begins his evening patrol of the house. Once satisfied that all his subjects are properly subservient, he takes his place on top of the refrigerator.
Wellington is not the first out in the morning. I think he believes that would be beneath his dignity.
Labels: cats, night, outdoors, yellow jasmine
Monday, February 04, 2008
Catnip
My cats adore catnip. Some will eat it, some will roll in it and some do both. In all my years of owning cats, I have had only one cat that did not like catnip, Dos. He could never understand what was going on with the other cats when catnip was distributed. He would sniff it, paw it, then look at the other cats mystified. I do know that a small percentage of cats are like Dos and do not react to catnip.
I have always had fresh catnip for my cats. When I only had two cats, Teeger and Tippy, a brother and sister, I could grow catnip behind the rose bushes in a corner of my garden. Teeger was a large, long-haired black cat; Tippy a robust tortoiseshell. Both were indoor/outdoor cats.
I have always had fresh catnip for my cats. When I only had two cats, Teeger and Tippy, a brother and sister, I could grow catnip behind the rose bushes in a corner of my garden. Teeger was a large, long-haired black cat; Tippy a robust tortoiseshell. Both were indoor/outdoor cats.
I was a successful grower for a number of years until Teeger discovered the catnip. I came home from work one summer day to find Teeger lying on his back among the remains of my catnip bed. He must have spent hours there behind the roses. He looked at me dreamily and did not move. The catnip never had a chance after that. Teeger returned day after day to that catnip until nothing remained.
After Teeger's debacle, I had to find a new way to grow catnip. My solution was to switch to a hanging basket. The hanging basket proved successful. I can grow large quantities of catnip in a basket hung from a chain under the oak tree. I trim the catnip back ever so often and share the green bounty with my cats. I think the fresh catnip is particularly good for my indoor cats.
Winter is a problem. I tried bringing the hanging basket inside, but that resulted in total destruction of catnip and basket. I still don't know how the cats managed to reach the basket. Now, I hang the basket on the front porch where it is protected from all but the hardest freezes. For those extremely cold times, I put the catnip in my office which is off-limits to the cats.
My cats know that I have been writing about their favorite herb. They all have that look of expectancy. I will go cut some for them to enjoy.
After Teeger's debacle, I had to find a new way to grow catnip. My solution was to switch to a hanging basket. The hanging basket proved successful. I can grow large quantities of catnip in a basket hung from a chain under the oak tree. I trim the catnip back ever so often and share the green bounty with my cats. I think the fresh catnip is particularly good for my indoor cats.
Winter is a problem. I tried bringing the hanging basket inside, but that resulted in total destruction of catnip and basket. I still don't know how the cats managed to reach the basket. Now, I hang the basket on the front porch where it is protected from all but the hardest freezes. For those extremely cold times, I put the catnip in my office which is off-limits to the cats.
My cats know that I have been writing about their favorite herb. They all have that look of expectancy. I will go cut some for them to enjoy.
Labels: catnip, cats, eat, fresh catnip, grow, roll
Friday, February 01, 2008
Gamma and the Pigeons
Gamma, my gray cat with white feet and white chest, goes out every morning along with Wellington, my gray tabby with white. They race to see who will be the first down the front steps. Wellington usually wins even though he is older and heavier. They then patrol the front yard to determine who has dared to visit over night. My neighbors up the street have a white cat named Sydney who only dares visit when Gamma and Wellington are indoors at night. As far as I can tell Sydney is never allowed inside which makes me sad. There is also the yellow tom who is claimed by another neighbor, but seems to roam widely.
While the boys check out the yard, I feed the pigeons in the alley. I throw out seed and a flock of twenty or so descend immediately. This week the pigeons have been absent some days because a falcon has been cruising the area. Gamma has been very disappointed because he loves the pigeons. Actually, he loves to eat the pigeons. He has never managed to catch one of the flock in the morning, but stragglers later in the day seem to fall prey to him all too often. I sometimes manage a rescue, but too often Gamma disappears with his victim.
Gamma and I often have discussions in the morning as the pigeons eat. "These are my pigeons, Gamma. Do not try to catch them," I say. He looks at me with his yellow eyes and seems to agree that these birds are only for looking, not eating. I tell him to come back inside for breakfast, and he dutifully follows me into the house. Except when he has a pigeon in his mouth, he is very obedient.
While the boys check out the yard, I feed the pigeons in the alley. I throw out seed and a flock of twenty or so descend immediately. This week the pigeons have been absent some days because a falcon has been cruising the area. Gamma has been very disappointed because he loves the pigeons. Actually, he loves to eat the pigeons. He has never managed to catch one of the flock in the morning, but stragglers later in the day seem to fall prey to him all too often. I sometimes manage a rescue, but too often Gamma disappears with his victim.
Gamma and I often have discussions in the morning as the pigeons eat. "These are my pigeons, Gamma. Do not try to catch them," I say. He looks at me with his yellow eyes and seems to agree that these birds are only for looking, not eating. I tell him to come back inside for breakfast, and he dutifully follows me into the house. Except when he has a pigeon in his mouth, he is very obedient.
After breakfast, he goes out again and begins to plot a pigeon's demise. Luckily, he is seldom successful. There does seem to be an endless supply of pigeons on Karnak Street since the flock never grows smaller. As always, I plan to discuss pigeons with Gamma tomorrow.
Labels: cats, Gamma, gray cat, pigeons, Sydney, tabby, Wellington, yellow tom
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wynken, Blynken and Nod
Teeger
Wynken
Daisy had three black kittens, two short-haired females and one long-haired male. We named them Wynken, Blynken and Nod. The two females, Wynken and Blyken were identical. In order to tell them apart, I clipped Wynken's tail fur, so that her tail had a blunt instead of pointed tip. All three were lap kitties and very much people cats.
We had dear friends, a married couple, who lived in Gonzales, Texas. She was confined to a wheelchair and home alone in the daytime while her husband worked. Their adult daughter decided that her mother needed a companion. Her father had always preferred dogs, but agreed a cat would probably be better. He contacted me about taking one of our kittens. Shortly before Christmas, Blynken went to live with our friends.
Blynken soon took over their home. During the day, she is the perfect lap cat for my friend in her wheelchair.
When her husband returns from work, he puts on gloves and engages Blynken who turns into a ferocious playmate. Blynken is the cat each of them needed.
Wynken and Nod stayed with my mother and me. Wynken loves attention, but no longer likes to be held. Nod is the lap cat. He jumps into my lap any chance he gets. He is particularly fond of being held when I am at the computer. This does not always work since he thinks the mouse is a plaything. he also assists with my typing. I can blame typos on him.
Nod is now called Teeger. My mother had a stroke a few years after Nod and his siblings were born. Her speech center was damaged. Her diction was perfect; she just lost her dictionary. She could not remember what words meant. Proper nouns were completely gone. If the cat had not resided with us for more than five years, she could not remember their names. Now, twenty years before, we had owned a long-haired, black cat named Teeger. Nod, who was identical to that cat, assumed his name. Mother called him Teeger. I realized that it would be easier for me to go along with my mother's choice, so Nod became Teeger. He adjusted without a problem. Wynken never got a new name. She was The Black Cat to my mother while I continued to call her Wynken. (Mother is gone, but Nod is still Teeger.)
I just checked on Wynken's and Teeger's age: both will be ten in October. How strange, it seems that it was only a couple of years ago when Daisy appeared.
We had dear friends, a married couple, who lived in Gonzales, Texas. She was confined to a wheelchair and home alone in the daytime while her husband worked. Their adult daughter decided that her mother needed a companion. Her father had always preferred dogs, but agreed a cat would probably be better. He contacted me about taking one of our kittens. Shortly before Christmas, Blynken went to live with our friends.
Blynken soon took over their home. During the day, she is the perfect lap cat for my friend in her wheelchair.
When her husband returns from work, he puts on gloves and engages Blynken who turns into a ferocious playmate. Blynken is the cat each of them needed.
Wynken and Nod stayed with my mother and me. Wynken loves attention, but no longer likes to be held. Nod is the lap cat. He jumps into my lap any chance he gets. He is particularly fond of being held when I am at the computer. This does not always work since he thinks the mouse is a plaything. he also assists with my typing. I can blame typos on him.
Nod is now called Teeger. My mother had a stroke a few years after Nod and his siblings were born. Her speech center was damaged. Her diction was perfect; she just lost her dictionary. She could not remember what words meant. Proper nouns were completely gone. If the cat had not resided with us for more than five years, she could not remember their names. Now, twenty years before, we had owned a long-haired, black cat named Teeger. Nod, who was identical to that cat, assumed his name. Mother called him Teeger. I realized that it would be easier for me to go along with my mother's choice, so Nod became Teeger. He adjusted without a problem. Wynken never got a new name. She was The Black Cat to my mother while I continued to call her Wynken. (Mother is gone, but Nod is still Teeger.)
I just checked on Wynken's and Teeger's age: both will be ten in October. How strange, it seems that it was only a couple of years ago when Daisy appeared.
Labels: Blynken, cat names, cats, kittens, Nod, stroke, Teeger, Wynken
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Miss Kitty
Miss Kitty came to live with me last year. She is a long-haired, orange tabby. Her owner asked me to care for her when he knew that he must serve a prison sentence. Miss Kitty had been his mother's cat. Her owner was in tears when I agreed to take her. (He and I had a history because his dog had helped kill my cat, Abner, the only cat I ever lost to dogs in my 50+ years of having cats.) I knew an older cat had little chance of adoption. Her owner told me she was sixteen, but I think she is not that old.
Miss Kitty moved in and immediately made it clear that she did not like other cats. Her yellowish eyes would narrow as any cat approached, then she would yell in rage if they came closer. This tactic worked well with every cat, but Shackleton. Soon, Miss Kitty had her chair and eating area staked out. She settled into life with my crew.
I learned that Miss Kitty did not like to be handled. She whined the minute I picked her up. The whine became a wail if I did not release her immediately, but she did nothing else. I soon learned that her wail was her general comment on life. However, if I deposited her in my lap, so she was not being held, she relaxed.
Miss Kitty loves to be combed. Actually, she loves for her back, neck and sides to be combed. She thinks anything else is a hideous experience to be commented on with her loudest wails. Since she is long-haired, she must be combed all over. So, despite her protests, I comb her tummy, legs, tail and chest, too. She always stalks off with a swish of her tail when I finish.
I don't know when her owner will return. His sentence has turned out to be longer than he thought. I suspect that Miss Kitty is a permanent member of the family.
Labels: cats, Miss Kitty, orange tabby. long-hair, Shackleton, wails
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Disappearing Cats
I am always amazed by the ability of cats to disappear, even if confined to the house. My cleaning lady came today, and most of the cats simply vanished. (I really can't afford her, but my arthritis is so bad that some tasks are simply impossible for me. Wellington understands that I cannot bend; he always gets up on something so that I can pet him.) My cleaning lady loves cats and enjoys my friendly ones. Even some of the friendly ones disappear when the vacuum cleaner starts. Not until she has been gone for at least an hour, do any of the vanished reappear.
Cleopatra was the only cat I have known that liked the vacuum. I have a cannister style, and Cleo loved to sleep on top of the running machine. She was quite willing to ride around the house on the vacuum and resented being shooed off when I wanted to carry the cannister. I have never had a cat that would let me vacuum their fur although I know there are cats that like to be vacuumed.
Today, when I went into my bedroom, I discovered one hiding place. I looked at the drapes where sunlight was shining and saw the outline of four little feet. Napoleon was on the window sill with his feet pressed against the drapes. I peeked underneath. He rolled over and looked at me, but would not leave his hiding place. With his feet down, he could not be detected. At least now, I know where one of my gang hides.
Cleopatra was the only cat I have known that liked the vacuum. I have a cannister style, and Cleo loved to sleep on top of the running machine. She was quite willing to ride around the house on the vacuum and resented being shooed off when I wanted to carry the cannister. I have never had a cat that would let me vacuum their fur although I know there are cats that like to be vacuumed.
Today, when I went into my bedroom, I discovered one hiding place. I looked at the drapes where sunlight was shining and saw the outline of four little feet. Napoleon was on the window sill with his feet pressed against the drapes. I peeked underneath. He rolled over and looked at me, but would not leave his hiding place. With his feet down, he could not be detected. At least now, I know where one of my gang hides.
Labels: cats, Cleopatra, hiding, vacuum cleaner
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Irene the Business Cat
Irene and her three kittens were dumped on my front porch. The kittens were almost as big as she, but still nursing. I immediately separated the kittens from her, so she could dry up before being spayed. Irene seemed relieved. She is a petite, gray and white cat with beautiful yellow-green eyes. While she was in the house, I had no problem handling her, and soon enough, she was spayed. Again, she seemed to be adjusting to being a house cat.
One morning that changed. As I was letting the boys out, Irene went too. I followed her, but she climbed the nearest tree and would not come down. I returned to my morning chores sure that Irene had been with us long enough that she would not stray. I was only half right. She did cross the street to a neighboring business in an old, two story house where she climbed the outside steps to the second floor. I retrieved her later in the day. She did not enjoy being picked up; she batted my glasses off with a hiss. I held on and we came to an understanding. If I picked her up, she would let me take her home.
Soon, a daily ritual was established. Irene went to work in the morning at the business and allowed me to bring her home in the evening. One day, I headed out to retrieve her a little earlier than usual and encountered a worker at the business. He was astounded to see Irene in my arms.
"We all thought she was a stray with no home. We call her Gypsy."
I assured him that she was a pet that spent every night indoors and that her name was Irene. She simply liked their building better than her home during the day. ( I suspect my outdoor boys have something to do with that. ) He was overjoyed to know she had a home.
Since then, I have discovered that Irene has several friends at the business. Some even bring her treats. None can pick her up. Irene can be a bit of a handful.
Since it is winter, Irene spends less time outdoors. She comes home on her own, enters the house through my office ( I work out of my home), not the front door, and relaxes on my bed. She does seem to prefer to be associated with business wherever she is.
One morning that changed. As I was letting the boys out, Irene went too. I followed her, but she climbed the nearest tree and would not come down. I returned to my morning chores sure that Irene had been with us long enough that she would not stray. I was only half right. She did cross the street to a neighboring business in an old, two story house where she climbed the outside steps to the second floor. I retrieved her later in the day. She did not enjoy being picked up; she batted my glasses off with a hiss. I held on and we came to an understanding. If I picked her up, she would let me take her home.
Soon, a daily ritual was established. Irene went to work in the morning at the business and allowed me to bring her home in the evening. One day, I headed out to retrieve her a little earlier than usual and encountered a worker at the business. He was astounded to see Irene in my arms.
"We all thought she was a stray with no home. We call her Gypsy."
I assured him that she was a pet that spent every night indoors and that her name was Irene. She simply liked their building better than her home during the day. ( I suspect my outdoor boys have something to do with that. ) He was overjoyed to know she had a home.
Since then, I have discovered that Irene has several friends at the business. Some even bring her treats. None can pick her up. Irene can be a bit of a handful.
Since it is winter, Irene spends less time outdoors. She comes home on her own, enters the house through my office ( I work out of my home), not the front door, and relaxes on my bed. She does seem to prefer to be associated with business wherever she is.
For more about Irene, click here.
Labels: cats
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Camping with a Cat
Velvet was my childhood pet. A black cat with an odd personality. She liked people, but did not like to be held. We had one elderly dachshund that she tolerated. (The dog liked her.) She preferred a perch on a tall bookcase where she could observe the world.
We(my paternal grandmother, mother and I) liked to camp and fish. For a number of years, we rented a cabin at a local fishing camp, then we acquired a few lots in a subdivision with lake access. A new tent was purchased, and we began camping on our own land. Velvet had always gone with us when we rented a cabin and stayed inside. Now, we decided that she could learn to camp.
There was no way to keep her in the tent, besides, it was way too hot in the daytime. This was central Texas afterall. I had a few qualms about her in the wild, but my grandmother and mother had no doubts. They were correct. Velvet loved camping. She explored the area around the tent and found a new perch in an oak tree to keep an eye on the world.
As darkness came, she became a creature of the night. One evening as dusk fell, she found something to play with. We were sitting outside the tent on stools enjoying the departure of the day's oppressive heat. Velvet batted something toward us. Whatever it was, did not cooperate. Velvet kept retreating, then herding it back to us. We lost interest, and even the dog stopped paying attention.
Velvet did not give up. Just as I got up to turn on the lantern, she pawed a gigantic tarantula from under Mother's stool. Mother was still sitting, but only for a heartbeat. She jumped up and back. The tarantula was barely visible, but I could see it well enough to know that this was one angry arachnid. It had its front legs raised and its fangs bared. Velvet circled the spider, the gave it a whack that sent it toward the tent. That was enough. I grabbed the shovel, scooped up the spider and tossed it across the creek. Velvet was quite disappointed.
Velvet lived to be an old cat. She always loved camping, but never brought another tarantula to us, a toad or two, but no spiders.
(I have added a donate button, if you would like to help support my continued efforts to care for feral cats.)
We(my paternal grandmother, mother and I) liked to camp and fish. For a number of years, we rented a cabin at a local fishing camp, then we acquired a few lots in a subdivision with lake access. A new tent was purchased, and we began camping on our own land. Velvet had always gone with us when we rented a cabin and stayed inside. Now, we decided that she could learn to camp.
There was no way to keep her in the tent, besides, it was way too hot in the daytime. This was central Texas afterall. I had a few qualms about her in the wild, but my grandmother and mother had no doubts. They were correct. Velvet loved camping. She explored the area around the tent and found a new perch in an oak tree to keep an eye on the world.
As darkness came, she became a creature of the night. One evening as dusk fell, she found something to play with. We were sitting outside the tent on stools enjoying the departure of the day's oppressive heat. Velvet batted something toward us. Whatever it was, did not cooperate. Velvet kept retreating, then herding it back to us. We lost interest, and even the dog stopped paying attention.
Velvet did not give up. Just as I got up to turn on the lantern, she pawed a gigantic tarantula from under Mother's stool. Mother was still sitting, but only for a heartbeat. She jumped up and back. The tarantula was barely visible, but I could see it well enough to know that this was one angry arachnid. It had its front legs raised and its fangs bared. Velvet circled the spider, the gave it a whack that sent it toward the tent. That was enough. I grabbed the shovel, scooped up the spider and tossed it across the creek. Velvet was quite disappointed.
Velvet lived to be an old cat. She always loved camping, but never brought another tarantula to us, a toad or two, but no spiders.
(I have added a donate button, if you would like to help support my continued efforts to care for feral cats.)
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Moriarty at the Vet
(Names have been changed to protect the innocent and not-so innocent, me)
Although I only learned of Moriarty's adventures secondhand, I think they are worth telling. Moriarty was a black tom cat that appeared on our doorstep in pretty bad shape. I managed to get him in a carrier and take him to my veterinarian. Once Moriarty arrived at the veterinarian's, he was sedated, examined and neutered. He had several abscesses, so he was put on injectable antibiotics. After the first couple of days, he settled down. Will came in and gave him a shot every day without much problem. Moriarty did not try to escape.
On Sunday, Will came in to give him his shot. Moriarty was peacefully curled up in his cage, a black fur ball. Will opened the cage, the cat seemed unperturbed, so Will did not grab Moriarty immediately. This was what Moriarty had been waiting for. In one fluid motion, he uncoiled, leapt out of the cage and sailed past the startled Will.
Now, normally, Moriarty would soon have been a prisoner again, but not this Sunday. At one end of the room was a custom made tub designed for bathing large dogs. The tub was surrounded by a plywood outer wall. There had been some problems with the drain, and the plumber had removed the drain pipe section. Moriarty found the tub, then the drain hole and retreated into the cavity between the tub and the outer shell. He could not be reached.
Will decided that he would have to get the cat out. He did not want a wild cat prowling through the clinic. The only way to reach Moriarty was to take off the outer plywood shell of the tub. Will set to work. Soon, he had one section removed, but Moriarty remained just out of reach. Will removed another section, and Moriarty once more moved out of reach. Two hours later, the tub was exposed, but not Moriarty. He had squirmed his way into the wall where the water pipes entered the tub. He could be seen, but he was well back in the wall. When Will reached for him he hissed and gave fair warning that the docile cat of the cage had vanished.
After some thought, Will filled a large syringe with a tranquilizer. He then returned to Moriarty. Reaching toward him, he waited until the cat hissed, then squirted the tranquilizer into Moriarty's open mouth. It did not seem to phase the cat. Will repeated the process. Gradually, the tranquilizer took effect, Moriarty stopped hissing, but still could not be reached. Will got some food and left it out. A few minutes later a slightly tipsy, black cat emerged from the wall and staggered to the food. He was immediately scooped up and put in a cage. Moriarty's great escape was over.
When I picked Moriarty up a week later, all that Will said was that he had gotten out once, but no problem. It was two weeks later when I learned from Ann of that Sunday afternoon spent dismantling a tub and squirting tranquilizer into a very unhappy cat.
Moriarty would not see Will for almost two years, but when he came again, Moriarty remained true to form.
After almost a year, Moriarty started coming on more or less regular basis for food and now for petting. It was spring and his visits became more regular, and he more affectionate. I hoped that he would decide to become our yard cat at last. Then Moriarty stopped coming. Maybe someone else had adopted him. I walked around the neighborhood and saw him dozing on a porch about a block away. I talked to him, but while he looked at me, Moriarty did nothing else. I assumed that he had finally found a home.
After several weeks of absence, Moriarty showed up early one Saturday morning. I was glad to see him and opened a can of food just for him. He looked like he had lost weight. Was he being fed regularly? Maybe I had been wrong, and he hadn't been adopted. Moriarty finished eating, and came to me for attention. I reached down and petted his head. He turned to rub against my leg. I noticed a bare spot near his tail. I peered at it. There was a scab, but it didn't look bad. Moriarty turned around, and now I was looking at an open wound. I tried to see better, but Moriarty didn't like that. He danced away.
I didn't know what to do. What I had seen was almost surely an abcess that had opened up and drained. However, I knew that did not mean it would heal, the infection might be too far along. Should I try to get Moriarty into the house? What would I do with him if I did?
He needed antibiotics, and the only way to help him was to get him to the veterinarian. Moriarty had let me pet him. Would he let me pick him up?
I went into the house and got a cat carrier. I brought it out and placed it on the porch bannister. Moriarty looked interested, but not alarmed. I petted him again. Carefully, I reached down and placed one hand under his chest while I petted his neck and shoulders with the other. I lifted Moriarty. Nothing happened. I put him down and stroked him some more.
I opened the door of the carrier. I repeated the petting and stroking. Again, I slipped my hand under his chest. I picked him up. With the hand that I had been petting him I covered his eyes, then I swung Moriarty up and into the carrier.
He went in without a struggle. I quickly latched the carrier door. Just in time, because Moriarty hit the door and hissed. He rattled the door once more then retreated to the rear of the carrier. Moriarty was quiet on the way to the veterinarian's office. I hoped this was a good omen. It was not. Once inside the door of the veterinary clinic, Moriarty began to yowl. This sound was not the plaintive moan of a poor, trapped creature, but the warning cry of a very angry beast.
Will's daughter, Sara, was at the reception desk. "What have you got, Ms. White?"
"Moriarty, he's got an abscess, I think." Sara only worked part time at the clinic, she didn't know that Moriarty was not one of my regulars.
"Do you want to leave him?"
"Yes, I do," I answered. I waited as she pulled his card, then explained what I had seen.
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Just get him checked in before your father finds out I've brought him in."
Sara's eyes widened.
"This is the cat the crawled into the plumbing."
Sara nodded and grinned. "I've heard of him."
She came around the reception desk to get Moriarty.
"Be careful," I said. "He's a wild one."
There was no need for my warning, Moriarty increased the intensity of his yowling and when Sara picked up the carrier, let out a truly nasty hiss.
"I see," she said. "We'll call you when he has been examined."
As soon as she left, so did I. I really didn't want to be around when Will discovered Moriarty.
Two hours later, at home, the phone rang. Sara was on the line. Will had examined Moriarty. He had an abscess and needed a course of antibiotics.
"Do you want to give them to him or have us do it?" Sara's voice had a strange tone as she asked.
I thought that was the funniest question I had heard in a long time. I couldn't stop from laughing. "Me, give antibiotics to Moriarty?" I pictured my hands dripping blood, my blood. "No, I'll let Will do it."
I could hear laughter in the background at the clinic. Someone there remembered Moriarty.
"Okay," Sara said.
"I'll call Monday and check on him."
"That'll be fine, Ms. White. Good-by"
"Good-by."
Monday, I called, Moriarty was doing fine, but needed to stay. Meanwhile, I suspected that Marian had developed an ear infection, so I made an appointment for her for that afternoon.
At three o'clock, I was at the clinic and in one of the examining rooms with Marian. She had an ear infection. Will cleaned out both ears, then put in some ointment and gave me some to take home.
I put Marian back in her carrier. "How's Moriarty doing?" I asked.
Will gave me a funny grin and said, "Fine, I'll bring him out for you to see."
A few minutes later, he returned with Moriarty who was still not a happy cat. Will had him clutched in a tight grip by the scruff of his neck, and I could tell the arch in Moriarty's back that it was a good thing.
As Will put Moriarty on the examining table, he emitted one of those menacing yowls. Will seemed unperturbed.
"Look here," he said, holding out Moriarty's tail with his free hand.
I saw a round hole, obviously in the process of healing.
"I think a couple of more days, and he can go home."
Moriarty let loose with another scream. I couldn't tell whether it was anger or fear.
"Good. I hope he hasn't been too much trouble."
Will got that funny look on his face. "Well, the day you brought him in, I let him out in the examining room. He was a little rambunctious."
"Not too bad, I hope," I answered. No wonder Will kept a death grip on Moriarty.
"No, I closed both examining room doors before I let him out. I better get him back to his cage."
Will left with Moriarty, and I headed for the receptionist. "Will says Moriarty's doing fine."
"Yes. That's some cat, I don't even go back in the treatment room with him there."
Will came back. We chatted a minute, and then I left with Marian.
I was getting into my car when someone shouted. I looked around. It was Ann.
I waved at her. "I thought you were taking the summer off?" I said.
"I am. Starting Friday."
"Are you coming back?" Ann had indicated in an earlier conversation that she might not.
"Yes."
"Good."
We talked about her plans for the summer for a few minutes, then I asked the fateful question. "Have you seen Moriarty?"
Ann began to laugh. "Did Will tell you what happened?"
"He said Moriarty got out. Nothing else."
Ann laughed harder. "When I came in late Saturday morning the clinic really smelled."
I tried to look unconcerned. Had Moriarty sprayed the place? Cat urine had its own special aroma.
Ann continued. "Will let Moriarty out of the carrier in the examining room. That cat went wild, careening round and round. It was like a tornado hit. Broke every bottle on every shelf."
"Will didn't tell me," I said.
"Yeah, I'm not surprised. He just stood in the middle of the room saying, 'Drucilla got him in the carrier.' We couldn't figure out how you did it."
"Moriarty was very sweet when I picked him up."
Ann looked very skeptical.
"He really is gentle at home."
More skepticism. Then she said, "It was really funny when we got Sara to call you about giving the cat antibiotics. That was after he had destroyed the examining room."
I nodded. "I thought she sounded strange."
Ann grinned. "We all knew the answer to that question."
I grinned back and shook my head. What else could I do?
"You take care, and I'll see you at the end of summer."
"You too."
Two days later, I was back to pick up Moriarty. He had had his last antibiotic shot and been pronounced well enough to get his vaccinations. Will gave them to him just before I arrived. Moriarty was not a happy cat.
I didn't see Will, he was with a client. I paid my bill and left. There was no charge for breakage.
When I got home, I put Moriarty in his carrier on the porch. Mother came out to talk to him, but Moriarty was not mollified.
"Get him some food. He needs to eat before he leaves," Mother said.
"He's not going to eat. He's going to take off when I open that carrier door."
Mother could be stubborn. "Get him some food."
I nodded and soon had a can of cat food dished up. I brought it out and placed it by the carrier. Moriarty did look at it.
"He's not going to eat." I repeated.
Mother was not one to give up. "Well, he'll know it's there. Let me go in before you let him out."
After she got in the house, I opened the carrier. Moriarty scooted out just as I predicted. He glanced at the food again, then headed down the front steps. He didn't run, but he moved purposefully. I watched as he headed across the neighbor's yard without a backward glance. I figured we wouldn't see Moriarty for a long time.
I was wrong. That evening Moriarty appeared on the front steps. I went out. He came to be petted. I rubbed his head and stroked him. He purred. All was forgiven. I went in and got a can of his favorite cat food. I gave it to him. He ate it all. Usually, he left after eating, but not this evening. He returned to me for more attention. I gladly stroked and rubbed him. Finally, satisfied, he laid down on the front steps.
Moriarty now comes every evening and morning. If anything, he's more lovable than before, and he let's me pick him up to pet him. I told Will he must have given Moriarty sweetness shots.
Will just shook his head.
Another year passed with Moriarty becoming tamer. I was thinking about making him a house cat. He was getting older. As spring gave way to summer, Moriarty lost weight. At first, I thought it was the change in seasons, but he seemed to be growing less active. One day I noticed he had not moved from his spot in the yard all morning. I went over and petted him. He barely responded. I knew he was in trouble. I went in the house and got a carrier. I set it on the porch and opened it. Moriarty paid no attention. That was not a good sign. I went over, scooped him up, and put him in the carrier. He glared at me briefly, then sank back into his lethargy.
By the time I got him to Will, I knew that Moriarty was gravely ill. He just did not respond like the old Moriarty. I told the receptionist the problem, and left him to be checked. The call a few hours later was a shock, but not a surprise. Moriarty had feline infectious peritonitis. There was no cure, and it was contagious. I told Will to put Moriatry down, then I cried.
Although I only learned of Moriarty's adventures secondhand, I think they are worth telling. Moriarty was a black tom cat that appeared on our doorstep in pretty bad shape. I managed to get him in a carrier and take him to my veterinarian. Once Moriarty arrived at the veterinarian's, he was sedated, examined and neutered. He had several abscesses, so he was put on injectable antibiotics. After the first couple of days, he settled down. Will came in and gave him a shot every day without much problem. Moriarty did not try to escape.
On Sunday, Will came in to give him his shot. Moriarty was peacefully curled up in his cage, a black fur ball. Will opened the cage, the cat seemed unperturbed, so Will did not grab Moriarty immediately. This was what Moriarty had been waiting for. In one fluid motion, he uncoiled, leapt out of the cage and sailed past the startled Will.
Now, normally, Moriarty would soon have been a prisoner again, but not this Sunday. At one end of the room was a custom made tub designed for bathing large dogs. The tub was surrounded by a plywood outer wall. There had been some problems with the drain, and the plumber had removed the drain pipe section. Moriarty found the tub, then the drain hole and retreated into the cavity between the tub and the outer shell. He could not be reached.
Will decided that he would have to get the cat out. He did not want a wild cat prowling through the clinic. The only way to reach Moriarty was to take off the outer plywood shell of the tub. Will set to work. Soon, he had one section removed, but Moriarty remained just out of reach. Will removed another section, and Moriarty once more moved out of reach. Two hours later, the tub was exposed, but not Moriarty. He had squirmed his way into the wall where the water pipes entered the tub. He could be seen, but he was well back in the wall. When Will reached for him he hissed and gave fair warning that the docile cat of the cage had vanished.
After some thought, Will filled a large syringe with a tranquilizer. He then returned to Moriarty. Reaching toward him, he waited until the cat hissed, then squirted the tranquilizer into Moriarty's open mouth. It did not seem to phase the cat. Will repeated the process. Gradually, the tranquilizer took effect, Moriarty stopped hissing, but still could not be reached. Will got some food and left it out. A few minutes later a slightly tipsy, black cat emerged from the wall and staggered to the food. He was immediately scooped up and put in a cage. Moriarty's great escape was over.
When I picked Moriarty up a week later, all that Will said was that he had gotten out once, but no problem. It was two weeks later when I learned from Ann of that Sunday afternoon spent dismantling a tub and squirting tranquilizer into a very unhappy cat.
Moriarty would not see Will for almost two years, but when he came again, Moriarty remained true to form.
After almost a year, Moriarty started coming on more or less regular basis for food and now for petting. It was spring and his visits became more regular, and he more affectionate. I hoped that he would decide to become our yard cat at last. Then Moriarty stopped coming. Maybe someone else had adopted him. I walked around the neighborhood and saw him dozing on a porch about a block away. I talked to him, but while he looked at me, Moriarty did nothing else. I assumed that he had finally found a home.
After several weeks of absence, Moriarty showed up early one Saturday morning. I was glad to see him and opened a can of food just for him. He looked like he had lost weight. Was he being fed regularly? Maybe I had been wrong, and he hadn't been adopted. Moriarty finished eating, and came to me for attention. I reached down and petted his head. He turned to rub against my leg. I noticed a bare spot near his tail. I peered at it. There was a scab, but it didn't look bad. Moriarty turned around, and now I was looking at an open wound. I tried to see better, but Moriarty didn't like that. He danced away.
I didn't know what to do. What I had seen was almost surely an abcess that had opened up and drained. However, I knew that did not mean it would heal, the infection might be too far along. Should I try to get Moriarty into the house? What would I do with him if I did?
He needed antibiotics, and the only way to help him was to get him to the veterinarian. Moriarty had let me pet him. Would he let me pick him up?
I went into the house and got a cat carrier. I brought it out and placed it on the porch bannister. Moriarty looked interested, but not alarmed. I petted him again. Carefully, I reached down and placed one hand under his chest while I petted his neck and shoulders with the other. I lifted Moriarty. Nothing happened. I put him down and stroked him some more.
I opened the door of the carrier. I repeated the petting and stroking. Again, I slipped my hand under his chest. I picked him up. With the hand that I had been petting him I covered his eyes, then I swung Moriarty up and into the carrier.
He went in without a struggle. I quickly latched the carrier door. Just in time, because Moriarty hit the door and hissed. He rattled the door once more then retreated to the rear of the carrier. Moriarty was quiet on the way to the veterinarian's office. I hoped this was a good omen. It was not. Once inside the door of the veterinary clinic, Moriarty began to yowl. This sound was not the plaintive moan of a poor, trapped creature, but the warning cry of a very angry beast.
Will's daughter, Sara, was at the reception desk. "What have you got, Ms. White?"
"Moriarty, he's got an abscess, I think." Sara only worked part time at the clinic, she didn't know that Moriarty was not one of my regulars.
"Do you want to leave him?"
"Yes, I do," I answered. I waited as she pulled his card, then explained what I had seen.
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Just get him checked in before your father finds out I've brought him in."
Sara's eyes widened.
"This is the cat the crawled into the plumbing."
Sara nodded and grinned. "I've heard of him."
She came around the reception desk to get Moriarty.
"Be careful," I said. "He's a wild one."
There was no need for my warning, Moriarty increased the intensity of his yowling and when Sara picked up the carrier, let out a truly nasty hiss.
"I see," she said. "We'll call you when he has been examined."
As soon as she left, so did I. I really didn't want to be around when Will discovered Moriarty.
Two hours later, at home, the phone rang. Sara was on the line. Will had examined Moriarty. He had an abscess and needed a course of antibiotics.
"Do you want to give them to him or have us do it?" Sara's voice had a strange tone as she asked.
I thought that was the funniest question I had heard in a long time. I couldn't stop from laughing. "Me, give antibiotics to Moriarty?" I pictured my hands dripping blood, my blood. "No, I'll let Will do it."
I could hear laughter in the background at the clinic. Someone there remembered Moriarty.
"Okay," Sara said.
"I'll call Monday and check on him."
"That'll be fine, Ms. White. Good-by"
"Good-by."
Monday, I called, Moriarty was doing fine, but needed to stay. Meanwhile, I suspected that Marian had developed an ear infection, so I made an appointment for her for that afternoon.
At three o'clock, I was at the clinic and in one of the examining rooms with Marian. She had an ear infection. Will cleaned out both ears, then put in some ointment and gave me some to take home.
I put Marian back in her carrier. "How's Moriarty doing?" I asked.
Will gave me a funny grin and said, "Fine, I'll bring him out for you to see."
A few minutes later, he returned with Moriarty who was still not a happy cat. Will had him clutched in a tight grip by the scruff of his neck, and I could tell the arch in Moriarty's back that it was a good thing.
As Will put Moriarty on the examining table, he emitted one of those menacing yowls. Will seemed unperturbed.
"Look here," he said, holding out Moriarty's tail with his free hand.
I saw a round hole, obviously in the process of healing.
"I think a couple of more days, and he can go home."
Moriarty let loose with another scream. I couldn't tell whether it was anger or fear.
"Good. I hope he hasn't been too much trouble."
Will got that funny look on his face. "Well, the day you brought him in, I let him out in the examining room. He was a little rambunctious."
"Not too bad, I hope," I answered. No wonder Will kept a death grip on Moriarty.
"No, I closed both examining room doors before I let him out. I better get him back to his cage."
Will left with Moriarty, and I headed for the receptionist. "Will says Moriarty's doing fine."
"Yes. That's some cat, I don't even go back in the treatment room with him there."
Will came back. We chatted a minute, and then I left with Marian.
I was getting into my car when someone shouted. I looked around. It was Ann.
I waved at her. "I thought you were taking the summer off?" I said.
"I am. Starting Friday."
"Are you coming back?" Ann had indicated in an earlier conversation that she might not.
"Yes."
"Good."
We talked about her plans for the summer for a few minutes, then I asked the fateful question. "Have you seen Moriarty?"
Ann began to laugh. "Did Will tell you what happened?"
"He said Moriarty got out. Nothing else."
Ann laughed harder. "When I came in late Saturday morning the clinic really smelled."
I tried to look unconcerned. Had Moriarty sprayed the place? Cat urine had its own special aroma.
Ann continued. "Will let Moriarty out of the carrier in the examining room. That cat went wild, careening round and round. It was like a tornado hit. Broke every bottle on every shelf."
"Will didn't tell me," I said.
"Yeah, I'm not surprised. He just stood in the middle of the room saying, 'Drucilla got him in the carrier.' We couldn't figure out how you did it."
"Moriarty was very sweet when I picked him up."
Ann looked very skeptical.
"He really is gentle at home."
More skepticism. Then she said, "It was really funny when we got Sara to call you about giving the cat antibiotics. That was after he had destroyed the examining room."
I nodded. "I thought she sounded strange."
Ann grinned. "We all knew the answer to that question."
I grinned back and shook my head. What else could I do?
"You take care, and I'll see you at the end of summer."
"You too."
Two days later, I was back to pick up Moriarty. He had had his last antibiotic shot and been pronounced well enough to get his vaccinations. Will gave them to him just before I arrived. Moriarty was not a happy cat.
I didn't see Will, he was with a client. I paid my bill and left. There was no charge for breakage.
When I got home, I put Moriarty in his carrier on the porch. Mother came out to talk to him, but Moriarty was not mollified.
"Get him some food. He needs to eat before he leaves," Mother said.
"He's not going to eat. He's going to take off when I open that carrier door."
Mother could be stubborn. "Get him some food."
I nodded and soon had a can of cat food dished up. I brought it out and placed it by the carrier. Moriarty did look at it.
"He's not going to eat." I repeated.
Mother was not one to give up. "Well, he'll know it's there. Let me go in before you let him out."
After she got in the house, I opened the carrier. Moriarty scooted out just as I predicted. He glanced at the food again, then headed down the front steps. He didn't run, but he moved purposefully. I watched as he headed across the neighbor's yard without a backward glance. I figured we wouldn't see Moriarty for a long time.
I was wrong. That evening Moriarty appeared on the front steps. I went out. He came to be petted. I rubbed his head and stroked him. He purred. All was forgiven. I went in and got a can of his favorite cat food. I gave it to him. He ate it all. Usually, he left after eating, but not this evening. He returned to me for more attention. I gladly stroked and rubbed him. Finally, satisfied, he laid down on the front steps.
Moriarty now comes every evening and morning. If anything, he's more lovable than before, and he let's me pick him up to pet him. I told Will he must have given Moriarty sweetness shots.
Will just shook his head.
Another year passed with Moriarty becoming tamer. I was thinking about making him a house cat. He was getting older. As spring gave way to summer, Moriarty lost weight. At first, I thought it was the change in seasons, but he seemed to be growing less active. One day I noticed he had not moved from his spot in the yard all morning. I went over and petted him. He barely responded. I knew he was in trouble. I went in the house and got a carrier. I set it on the porch and opened it. Moriarty paid no attention. That was not a good sign. I went over, scooped him up, and put him in the carrier. He glared at me briefly, then sank back into his lethargy.
By the time I got him to Will, I knew that Moriarty was gravely ill. He just did not respond like the old Moriarty. I told the receptionist the problem, and left him to be checked. The call a few hours later was a shock, but not a surprise. Moriarty had feline infectious peritonitis. There was no cure, and it was contagious. I told Will to put Moriatry down, then I cried.
Labels: cats
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Daisy Lives Next Door
Daisy, a black and white female, appeared nine years ago. She showed up on our front porch one morning, a small blimp gobbling dry cat food. I called to her expecting her to flee as did most of our cat visitors. She took a few steps back, then stopped. I talked to her,"nice kitty, kitty, kitty..." as I tiptoed closer. She came to me. I petted her, then took a chance and scooped her up. She purred. I hurried inside and placed her in a carrier. She growled. I knew she needed to see a veternarian before I introduced her to my pride. I also knew she was very pregnant. I delivered her to my veternarian with the request to check her out, then left. My vet kept her overnight. The next morning, his assistant called. "She's disease free. Come and get her before she has the kittens here." I picked her and three days later, she had five kittens.
All was not well, however, while Daisy was disease free, she was in poor overall condition. She had not been eating regularly and was really just skin and bones and kittens. My vet was afraid we would lose both mother and kittens. She came home from the vet with vitamins, supplements and instructions to feed her all she could eat. Eat she did, and I gave her vitamins and supplements that she thoroughly enjoyed. The vet suggested that I also bottle feed the kittens after their first week of life to take some of the load off Daisy. So, twice a day for the next six weeks I fed the kittens.
There were three black kittens, one black and white, and one white. Two of the black were short-haired, one long-haired. The long-haired black was the only male in the litter. I named the black ones Wynken, Blynken and Nod (the male). The black and white one became Rosie and the white one Violet. All enjoyed their extra feedings and all enjoyed attention. After a few days, I noticed that the little white one had dirty feet. I was surprised because I changed their bedding twice a day, and Daisy was a very good mother bathing her babies regularly. On closer examination, it turned out the feet weren't dirty, the hair was getting darker. Violet was a Siamese. I asked my vet who informed me that Siamese are born white, then develop their distinctive markings. Violet grew to be a beautiful seal point Siamese.
Daisy was a superb mother as long as the kittens were nursing. Once weaned, though, she decided she had no relationship with these little things. She was absolutely sure that she had never seen them before and that she wanted them no where near her. The kittens soon attached themselves to one of our older neutered males who happily became their surrogate mother.
Daisy put on weight and seemed none the worse for her time with the kittens. We tried to integrate her into the pride. She would not associate with any other cat. Her antipathy aroused a reciprocal feeling in two of the younger males. They desired nothing better than to torment Daisy.
We had hoped to make Daisy an indoor only cat. We did not succeed and soon she was venturing outside regularly. Over time, we found out that Daisy was checking out the neighbors looking for a new home. Most would not allow her inside, a prime prerequisite, or there was another cat already in residence. Daisy wanted a home where she reigned alone. At last, she found a compromise. Our next door neighbor did not want a cat, but she did enjoy feline visits. Now Daisy goes over in the morning, stays all day, then returns home and indoors for the night. We have fewer cats now, so she tolerates this arrangement.
All was not well, however, while Daisy was disease free, she was in poor overall condition. She had not been eating regularly and was really just skin and bones and kittens. My vet was afraid we would lose both mother and kittens. She came home from the vet with vitamins, supplements and instructions to feed her all she could eat. Eat she did, and I gave her vitamins and supplements that she thoroughly enjoyed. The vet suggested that I also bottle feed the kittens after their first week of life to take some of the load off Daisy. So, twice a day for the next six weeks I fed the kittens.
There were three black kittens, one black and white, and one white. Two of the black were short-haired, one long-haired. The long-haired black was the only male in the litter. I named the black ones Wynken, Blynken and Nod (the male). The black and white one became Rosie and the white one Violet. All enjoyed their extra feedings and all enjoyed attention. After a few days, I noticed that the little white one had dirty feet. I was surprised because I changed their bedding twice a day, and Daisy was a very good mother bathing her babies regularly. On closer examination, it turned out the feet weren't dirty, the hair was getting darker. Violet was a Siamese. I asked my vet who informed me that Siamese are born white, then develop their distinctive markings. Violet grew to be a beautiful seal point Siamese.
Daisy was a superb mother as long as the kittens were nursing. Once weaned, though, she decided she had no relationship with these little things. She was absolutely sure that she had never seen them before and that she wanted them no where near her. The kittens soon attached themselves to one of our older neutered males who happily became their surrogate mother.
Daisy put on weight and seemed none the worse for her time with the kittens. We tried to integrate her into the pride. She would not associate with any other cat. Her antipathy aroused a reciprocal feeling in two of the younger males. They desired nothing better than to torment Daisy.
We had hoped to make Daisy an indoor only cat. We did not succeed and soon she was venturing outside regularly. Over time, we found out that Daisy was checking out the neighbors looking for a new home. Most would not allow her inside, a prime prerequisite, or there was another cat already in residence. Daisy wanted a home where she reigned alone. At last, she found a compromise. Our next door neighbor did not want a cat, but she did enjoy feline visits. Now Daisy goes over in the morning, stays all day, then returns home and indoors for the night. We have fewer cats now, so she tolerates this arrangement.
Labels: cats
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Shackleton Appears
One spring afternoon, I opened the front door to find the woman who cleaned house for me standing there with a shoebox. Instantly, I had a sinking feeling, shoeboxes meant trouble. Baby possums, birds and other critters always arrived in one of those cardboard ubiquties. Elena (I'll call her that) smiled at me and removed the lid of the box. Sure enough, inside was a kitten, a tiny orange and white fur ball, one eye closed, the other just beginnning to open. I knew from those eyes that this little one was less than two weeks old, too young to be separated from its mother.
Elena began a detailed explanation in Spanish. While my ability to understand Spanish far exceeds my ability to speak the language, very little of what Elena said registered. What I did understand was that I was the solution to the problem. What problem? I made Elena repeat her story, and I interrupted frequently to be sure I understood.
The kitten had been found in the garbage behind the restaurant where Elena worked nights, by a busboy putting out trash. The kitten's helplessness had caused a stir among all the staff. Even the restaurant owner had been brought into the discussion of what to do with such a tiny one. Elena happily told me that she had announced to all that this was no problem because she knew a lady that would care for the kitten. She, of course, meant me.
While I appreciated her confidence in me, I knew it might be ill placed. A kitten this young, separated from his mother, was not likely to survive. I told her that even as I checked my watch. My vet was still open; if I hurried I could get the kitten to him. With a quick explanation to Elena I headed out.
I arrived at my veterinarian only minutes before closing. My vet, Dan, was also familiar with shoebox catastrophes. Without a word he took the box. My first question was "Will he live?"
"He's about ten days old, but he has a chance. Let me keep him over night. Does he have a name?"
"No, I haven't thought of one."
Dan's assistant chimed in, "We'll call him Baby Kitty."
The next morning I called around ten. I knew from experience that the clinic settled down around then and I could expect immediate help. "How's the kitten?" I asked.
"Doing fine. You can take him home."
Ten minutes later, I had the shoebox and its orange contents again. Dan said, "it's a male. You'll need to feed it often and stimulate it to defecate and urinate. I think it has a good chance."
I headed to the nearest locally owned petstore to buy kitten supplies. As I purchased the requisite bottle and formula, everyone had to see what was in the box. Everyone oohed and ahhed over Baby Kitty. Many had never seen a kitten so young. Baby kitty did not seem to mind the attention.
When I reached home, I knew I had to devise a way to keep my adult cats away from this little one. The solution was to ensconse him in the largest cat carrier I owned. I made a litter box out of the top of the shoebox, covered in foil. Wishful thinking. I fixed a bed with a clean towel in the rear, but the kitten looked lost. Then I remembered. I had a black and white stuffed cat for visiting kids to play with. I found it and soon the kitten was snuggled up between its front paws. That stuffed cat would be Baby Kitty's surrogate mom until he was several months old.
The next week and a half went well. Baby Kitty loved his bottle and responded appropriately to stimulus. I had noticed that he was not as active as kittens his age we had raised before. At first, I just decided that it was the lack of a mother that made the difference, but a few more days passed and I knew we had problems. Baby Kitty did not seem able to see even though his eyes were open, and he was not walking at all. Back to my vet and half day stay for evaluation.
When I picked him up, the diagnosis was not good. He was blind and his rear legs did not work although he had feeling in them. Dan thought the kitten had neurological damage either from birth or from being tossed in the trash. I asked for a prognosis. There, I was luckier. Dan thought that there was a good chance that Baby Kitty would be able to see because most to the problem seemed to be a lack of muscular control of his eyes. Dan just didn't know about the legs. He had never seen a kitten with this problem.
When I reached home, I told my Mom, who had Parkinson's Disease, the diagnosis. Mom looked at me and grinned. "He'll fit right in."
I understood instantly. I had a problem with the nerves leading up the left side of my head into my brain. Mom had had a stroke as well as Parkinson's. What better place for a brain damaged kitten than with two brain damaged women.
Baby Kitty did fit in. Mom would sit on the front porch in the mornings and Baby Kitty sat between her feet. He played with her shoes and her shoelaces. Slowly, he was gaining eyesight, but those rear legs just did not work. He sort of scooted around Mom's feet and played with those rear legs as if they had no connection to him. Then one day he managed to get both rear legs under him. Baby Kitty stood up.
From that moment on Baby Kitty worked at walking. Obviously, he had to think about what he was doing. He also had no idea where his rear legs were, but he walked. His gait was slow and stumbling and since he could not see very well, he ran into everything and fell often. He persevered.
By his next check-up, he was almost normal. Dan was satisfied that Baby Kitty would lead a full life with little noticeable handicap. Dan was correct.
Baby Kitty has grown into an adventurous, although smaller than average cat. He has a name - Shackleton (Shack for short). Shackleton was an Antarctic explorer who did not give up when faced with life and death struggles. My Shackleton has that same fierce spirit.
Elena began a detailed explanation in Spanish. While my ability to understand Spanish far exceeds my ability to speak the language, very little of what Elena said registered. What I did understand was that I was the solution to the problem. What problem? I made Elena repeat her story, and I interrupted frequently to be sure I understood.
The kitten had been found in the garbage behind the restaurant where Elena worked nights, by a busboy putting out trash. The kitten's helplessness had caused a stir among all the staff. Even the restaurant owner had been brought into the discussion of what to do with such a tiny one. Elena happily told me that she had announced to all that this was no problem because she knew a lady that would care for the kitten. She, of course, meant me.
While I appreciated her confidence in me, I knew it might be ill placed. A kitten this young, separated from his mother, was not likely to survive. I told her that even as I checked my watch. My vet was still open; if I hurried I could get the kitten to him. With a quick explanation to Elena I headed out.
I arrived at my veterinarian only minutes before closing. My vet, Dan, was also familiar with shoebox catastrophes. Without a word he took the box. My first question was "Will he live?"
"He's about ten days old, but he has a chance. Let me keep him over night. Does he have a name?"
"No, I haven't thought of one."
Dan's assistant chimed in, "We'll call him Baby Kitty."
The next morning I called around ten. I knew from experience that the clinic settled down around then and I could expect immediate help. "How's the kitten?" I asked.
"Doing fine. You can take him home."
Ten minutes later, I had the shoebox and its orange contents again. Dan said, "it's a male. You'll need to feed it often and stimulate it to defecate and urinate. I think it has a good chance."
I headed to the nearest locally owned petstore to buy kitten supplies. As I purchased the requisite bottle and formula, everyone had to see what was in the box. Everyone oohed and ahhed over Baby Kitty. Many had never seen a kitten so young. Baby kitty did not seem to mind the attention.
When I reached home, I knew I had to devise a way to keep my adult cats away from this little one. The solution was to ensconse him in the largest cat carrier I owned. I made a litter box out of the top of the shoebox, covered in foil. Wishful thinking. I fixed a bed with a clean towel in the rear, but the kitten looked lost. Then I remembered. I had a black and white stuffed cat for visiting kids to play with. I found it and soon the kitten was snuggled up between its front paws. That stuffed cat would be Baby Kitty's surrogate mom until he was several months old.
The next week and a half went well. Baby Kitty loved his bottle and responded appropriately to stimulus. I had noticed that he was not as active as kittens his age we had raised before. At first, I just decided that it was the lack of a mother that made the difference, but a few more days passed and I knew we had problems. Baby Kitty did not seem able to see even though his eyes were open, and he was not walking at all. Back to my vet and half day stay for evaluation.
When I picked him up, the diagnosis was not good. He was blind and his rear legs did not work although he had feeling in them. Dan thought the kitten had neurological damage either from birth or from being tossed in the trash. I asked for a prognosis. There, I was luckier. Dan thought that there was a good chance that Baby Kitty would be able to see because most to the problem seemed to be a lack of muscular control of his eyes. Dan just didn't know about the legs. He had never seen a kitten with this problem.
When I reached home, I told my Mom, who had Parkinson's Disease, the diagnosis. Mom looked at me and grinned. "He'll fit right in."
I understood instantly. I had a problem with the nerves leading up the left side of my head into my brain. Mom had had a stroke as well as Parkinson's. What better place for a brain damaged kitten than with two brain damaged women.
Baby Kitty did fit in. Mom would sit on the front porch in the mornings and Baby Kitty sat between her feet. He played with her shoes and her shoelaces. Slowly, he was gaining eyesight, but those rear legs just did not work. He sort of scooted around Mom's feet and played with those rear legs as if they had no connection to him. Then one day he managed to get both rear legs under him. Baby Kitty stood up.
From that moment on Baby Kitty worked at walking. Obviously, he had to think about what he was doing. He also had no idea where his rear legs were, but he walked. His gait was slow and stumbling and since he could not see very well, he ran into everything and fell often. He persevered.
By his next check-up, he was almost normal. Dan was satisfied that Baby Kitty would lead a full life with little noticeable handicap. Dan was correct.
Baby Kitty has grown into an adventurous, although smaller than average cat. He has a name - Shackleton (Shack for short). Shackleton was an Antarctic explorer who did not give up when faced with life and death struggles. My Shackleton has that same fierce spirit.
Labels: Baby Kitty, cats, kittens, Shackleton
