Off to the Seashore

At the end of work today, I leave for Idylland, and another three weeks of holidays. Two years ago, I visited the seashore, and will do so again. There is something comforting about watching a storm approach off the water, knowing that one has nowhere to go and nothing to do but pour some tea, butter some toast, play some music and relax. Or waking to a new day heralded by the bright sun rising over the calm waters.

A year ago, just before my holidays, Indigo arrived, and a year prior to that, again during the holidays, Neville was diagnosed with oral cancer. This turned out to be in error, and a doctor I trust more was able to observe that his mouth’s swelling was due to a bit of tooth from a dental (performed by a third doctor!) that had not removed. Once taken out, Nev recovered, and of course is still with me - though now, thanks to his haircut, he has temporarily adopted his alternate persona of Suede.

This year’s holiday change is Millie, who will be coming with me and the other seven beasts to Idylland, to a snug cottage by the ocean. I hope the sea air makes her transition into the larger group easy, though it will be slow and gradual. In any case, I will be writing about it as it happens.

Time to take our bags down to the station!

The Secret of Moxy's Escape

I think I have deduced how the cats pulled the screen from the cat-room window Monday night.

At the bottom of each screen’s frame is a small, squarish plastic loop. I imagine that it is intended for exactly what Moxy and Sable - I believe it was the two of them working on it over time - used it: to pull out the screen. As is the way with cats, they probably saw it, tapped it, found they could hold on to it, and started pulling it. Not a great proportion of the screen’s frame is in the slot in which it rests in the window’s frame, so it would not take a lot of effort to release it.

At the moment, I have no idea of how to secure the frame in its place, so I am leaving the windows open a minimal amount while I am absent and at night, creating too small a space for even Valkyrie’s slender head to fit through. The windows do not open or close in response to pushing and pulling, only to turning the crank at the bottom.

So far, no cat has figured out how to operate that. It may be only a matter of time, however…

Early Morning Fright

I suffered another eventful morning at the Cosy Cabin. I woke at four o’clock - which is still a little while before I must rise and start my day - and was on my way to do what my body suggested was necessary, first glancing into the cat-room. I often do that to see who is there. Lately, I’ve seen both Moxy and Sable on the cat-tree or the sill under the far window. This time, I saw something that didn’t look quite right. I turned on the light.

The window’s screen was not in place. It was below the window, as if it had been folded back and down on hinges. (It does not have hinges). In the usual manner of such an hour, it took me a second or two to comprehend the implication. When I did, I hurried to the open window - the now unimpeded open window - to close it. Peering outside, I saw a cat’s face looking back at me. I thought, “Oh, a little cat. Where did he come from?”

Then I realised it was Moxy.

Driving all the other cats out of the cat-room, I hurried out to capture my errant cat. I couldn’t find him. Then I saw him back in the house. Returning there, Moxy took fright when he saw me appear in the doorway of the cat-room and jumped out the window again. This was followed by fifteen minutes’ fearful searching. I have a strong backyard light and had a flashlight, but couldn’t find him. Returning to the house, I opened the door to the cat-room - now closed to exclude any other would-be escapers - and Moxy trotted out, to rub up against me: he had slipped back in. I quickly shut the window.

The screen was intact, still in its frame, but had been removed from the window. I am unsure of how this was accomplished; I can see it being punched out, or in, or torn, but neither occurred. The frame in which the screen is stretched fits snugly into grooves all the way around the window’s frame, and would not be easily removed. I can think only that it was not adequately fitted to begin with. The cats are often at that spot, and I have heard them scrabbling there over the past few nights. I feared that they were ripping the screen. What they may have been doing was pulling or clawing at some protrusion that allowed them to gain a grip on the screen’s frame.

I closed all the windows before going to work, and will inspect the screens this evening. The windows are opened by turning a lever and cannot be forced open or closed except by that lever, so I may have to keep the windows open too little for even the smallest feline head to squeeze through, if I want fresh air.

Thank goodness it was Moxy who decided to explore beyond the house. Prior to coming to live with me, he was an indoor/outdoor cat, and so was accustomed to coming and going; being outside - even if he hadn’t been there in months - would not have been a very unnerving or disorienting situation for him. As well, though strong, I think his heft would prevent him from easily jumping to the top of the six-foot fence that surrounds the rear of the property, or even from squeezing under the gate in the fence. If it had been Valkyrie who had escaped, she may have panicked outside. Indigo might have run or might have come to me when called. But if Sable had gotten out, I don’t think I would have seen her again.

Soon after the Mixer’s return, all the beasts were breakfasting, their appetites unaffected. Indeed, they were all - Moxy included - unfazed by the event. My own equilibrium needed another description, however.

Millie and the Fuss

Millie spent some more time upstairs this weekend. She doesn’t care for being upstairs, really. She explores, her tail is usually up, she hisses at Neville, but she always wants to return to the library, her safe-room. I opened a window for her in the sitting room, and the fresh air, with the scents that it brought to her tiny nose, seemed to intrigue her. I hope that open windows will be an incentive to like the cat-room when she moves there next weekend.

While Mills was upstairs, the other cats - except for Nev - were put in the cat-room and bedroom. Imogen had either to go in with Brazil, whom she doesn’t like, or Indigo, whom she doesn’t like. Indie doesn’t like anyone, so it was a matter of choosing the cat most likely to stay away from her. This time, that didn’t work and I heard animosity coming from the bedroom while Millie was upstairs. I opened the door to remonstrate and out ran Imo. Millie, who came up to investigate the fuss, took after Imogen. I don’t know if this was simply because Imo was running, or because Mills wanted to chase her.

No damage was done, but it raises some interesting possibilities about the new girl’s interactions with the other cats. They are not possibilities that I would like to see when the time comes…

A Thousand Miles to Go

This may look like a nondescript photograph of my semi-feral cat, Sable, and, in fact, it is. It was taken this morning when she was doing nothing significant. It was after my breakfast, eaten at the dining table, during which Sabe came out in to the kitchen and started playing with a fuzzy mouse. But it is the play of the evening before that was important, because Sable played with me for the first time.

It was a very brief moment, no more than half a minute. It was play-time with the other cats, and Sable was sitting under the dining table, watching. I kept flicking the all-day-sucker-coloured streamer at her. It was difficult to persuade her to do something with it, as Valkyrie kept rushing at it. But when I was able to distract the eternal kitten, Sable reached out and placed her paw on the end of the streamer. She refused to let it go; I tugged on it, she resisted.

That doesn’t seem like much, but it was playful interaction between her and me; a first.

It was quickly ruined when she did release the streamer and I flicked it at her again. This time, it landed on her, and that was too much. She hurried away.

Even so, doing what she did was a step forward, a tiny step, barely noticeable, but a step. The journey of a thousand miles may follow.

Our Elder Statescat

I put before-and-after pictures of Neville on the rescue-group’s Facebook page, to show how his haircut went, and the woman who was responsible for rescuing him commented about how Nev looked at that time. It made me find his picture from 2019, when he was found, literally in a ditch. He was estimated to be ten years old then.

My grey lion hasn’t had an easy life, having to cope with diabetes - which is now resistant to insulin - hyperthyroidism, coarse fur, too much weight, perioidic stomach roils, and, of course, a revolving door of new cats who all annoy him to varying degrees. Nonetheless, I am glad that he is with me, to live out his remaining days. He is our elder statescat, in his refurbished velvet coat.

An Eligible Cat

Millie was sick yesterday, throwing up some of her dinner, and developing diarrhea. I initially feed a new cat the same food, to make sure she eats. Thereafter, I vary the menu to see what she likes, to find preferred flavours, etc. I tried one variety with a sauce in it, and I think that disagreed with her. I don’t believe anything needs to be done but not to serve that food again, and let the reaction run its course. Oddly, she was not affected otherwise, and remained active and alert.

She has not wet outside the litter-box since a week ago Sunday. If this continues (paws crossed), I will move her up into the cat-room, possibly this weekend, but likely the next, when my holidays start. That will be quite a change for her, but it must be made some time. She enjoys looking out the basement windows, with their very limited views, so the cat-room’s windows should appeal to her. It will be a jolt for the other beasts, but it needs to be done.

Mills is one of the sweetest cats I’ve met. She may have a hidden character that she will show only later - she hasn’t yet encountered any of my cats except Neville - but she is very affectionate with people, even those she’s just met. She tried my lap for a few minutes, and may again later, but for now, she prefers to lie beside me, when she settles down. She’s a playful girl and will entertain herself or fight a string-toy with me, for fun. Once we are certain of her litter-box habits, she will make one of the rescue-group’s most eligible adoptees.

From Hirsute to Velvet Suit

It was that time of the season again today: time for Neville’s haircut.

As he is growing older and a little less able to move about - far from an invalid, his body nonetheless seems to have fewer choices when deciding to move - the Nevsky is collecting more bits of litter and food in his fur. As well, since he doesn’t groom much at all, he has developed some terrible matts that defy combing and brushing, due to the coarse texture of his fur. A fittingly leonine cut for my grey lion was thus in order.

It was a long session; necessarily so, as there was much to do. At one point, he wet; I don’t think it was stress but merely the need to go, any complaints about which were mistaken for general declarations against the haircut. He also pooped. While these actions did little for Nev’s dignity, they did clear him out. And it was good to see that his diarrhea has disappeared. It was very good to see that…

Once done, Neville’s complaints vanished. He did seem to have some indecision about where to lie: the unaccustomed freedom he felt, combined with an equally unaccustomed lack of fur, may have required a search for just the right warmth in his leisure location. Interestingly, he chose my bed and the bedroom’s armchair for his relaxation; the former he had not used in months, and the latter never.

I was reminded of Minuet. After her haircut had removed matts under her legs, she started climbing her cat-tree more. Such knots of hair can be both inhibiting to movement and painful. Neville had some of those of long-standing cut away. The haircut may have restored to my oldster a little agility that was present but restricted.

In any case, I have no doubt that Neville is feeling much better than he has in months. If he has to use the heated cat-bed or those with high sides more often until the spring advances, I believe he will think it a small price to pay for comfort and relief.

Upstairs Saturday Afternoon

Millie was brought up to the main floor for an hour in the early afternoon today. The other cats, except for Neville, were in the bedroom or the cat-room. I think her excursion was a success. I could tell that she was a little nervous through it all; nonetheless, her tail was up most of the time. She explored the sitting room, kitchen and corridor, and even went into the bathroom.

(Readers may notice Millie’s tail-tip. Though she is a tortoiseshell, the last inch and a half of her tail is that of an orange tabby. It stands out like Rudolph’s red nose…)

I suspected that Nev would not make a fuss over a new cat on the loose. I was right. When she first encountered the oldster, Millie may have thought he was dead, so little did he respond. I think he may have looked up at some point. My new guest was not overly upset by his presence. She hissed a couple of times - a most unfrightening sound, like a leak in a bicycle tire - but that was it.

She now knows that there are multiple cats in the Cosy Cabin, from the smells she no doubt encountered, and from seeing the Nevsky and hearing Valkyrie, who cried the whole time to be let out of her prison. Millie did not wet anywhere, and has not since returning to the library, to which, despite her bravery upstairs, she was pleased to return. (Since covering both her litter-boxes with their hoods, she has not wet where she should not, paws crossed.)

I will release Millie upstairs tomorrow and Monday, which is the Victoria Day holiday. That will keep her until the next weekend, I think. In such a case as hers, I believe small amounts of novelty are just enough.

Working Toward a Solution

Millie is doing well. She has not wet outside the litterboxes in a number of days. After finding that she had wet above the rim at the back of her open litterbox (but against a soaker pad I had fixed in a vertical position behind it), I decided to cover both boxes. She has used both (one with corn-based litter, the other with clay) since then. I have also blocked off the wall against which she has previously wet.

The theory is that she should grow accustomed to using the covered boxes - which seem to be her preference - and forget about wetting anywhere else. The flaw in this theory is that it is based solely on supposition. Since I don’t know what causes her to wet where she shouldn’t, I can’t really devise a proper solution to the problem. And introducing her to the other beasts will of course add another unpredictable dimension to the situation.

However, first things first. I will take Millie upstairs this weekend and let her roam about the house, while I confine the others to one or two rooms. She seems happy enough in the library but I don’t spend enough time down there, in my opinion; I don’t have the available time, which is something that must always be considered when fostering multiple cats. It should figure in the quantity of cats in one’s care. Millie, of course, was an emergency case, and had to be accommodated anyway. Too few people are willing to foster these days, and no one wants to foster a cat with issues. She will remain with me for as long as she needs a home. Until her wetting problems are proved solved, though, even the loving and sweet nature of this cat won’t avail her in finding a family.

Is She or Isn't She?

This is a picture of what Imogen looks like when in her cat-bed.

This is also a picture of what her cat-bed looks like when Imogen is not in it.

The Mixer Does It Again

Indigo has a reputation in the Cosy Cabin for being a bit grumpy with the other cats. She will growl at them even from a distance. She and Imogen share a particular antipathy, while even little Valkyrie raised Indie’s ire enough to be chased several times from the bedroom.

But Indie seems to tolerate one of her roommates. Not surprisingly, it is Moxy. The Mixer’s presence is found to be much less odious to Indigo’s sensitivities than the others’. He becomes alarmed at her proximity, but only because of her actions with his fellow felines. For the most part, Indie will satisfy herself with a short hiss before allowing him to settle near her; sometimes, she doesn’t even do that. Periodically, it is she who will be the second on the scene, climbing Min’s cat-tree to look out the window, for instance, when Moxy is already on the top platform.

I don’t know if Moxy’s harmless personality will translate for every cat, but as far as Indigo is concerned, the Mixer has earned his nickname once more.

For Mother's Day

[This story was published on the blog in March of 2023, and at the time, Meezer’s Mews & Terrieristical Woofs suggested that it could be re-posted on Mother’s Day. I hadn’t thought of doing it previously, but it seems fitting, so here it is again, thanks to Trout Towne’s good friend, ‘copy and paste’.]

Neville was snoozing in the Cosy Apartment Feline Sanitarium’s Common Room, enjoying the softness of the rugs on the floor and the warmth of the sunlight through the windows. He soon became aware, however, that he was under observation. He opened his eyes and saw Zofia regarding him.

“Crik wee pik pik queek?” the kitten asked.

“Yes, of course I was sleeping. You woke me...” replied the older cat.

“Er er week crik.”

“I speak funny?” Neville frowned and lay his head back down on the rugs. “Go away. I was having a nice dream. I was running through green fields; I felt like I had wings.”

“E whee mip. Kip kip kip kip kip!” Zofia laughed.

“Not wigs. Wings. Oh, for... What do you want? I assume you want something.”

“Creek week mikk mikk er wee pik pik queek er...”

“A letter to your mother?” Neville raised his head again. This was an unexpected requested. “Do you know your mother? Where she is?” The older cat was incredulous, but when the youngster answered, his expression softened. “Well, no, I don’t suppose you need to, in order to write her a letter. Why do you need me?”

“Week crik whee mip creek week mikk...”  Zofia’s eyed the rug and she scratched at it absently.

“That’s not surprising: you can barely speak comprehensibly, never mind write.” Neville paused; to give him time to think, he scolded Zo for scratching the rug. “You have posts for that. Dr Bellen goes to some trouble to provide them.”

“Er mikk er wee pik pik queek!” pointed out Zofia.

“Well, what if I do? I’m old. I’m incorrigible  - and no, I won’t explain what that means. Very well, then, I’ll help you write your letter.” Neville gestured. “We’d better go to the Library...”

The Library was a small room filled with books. Most of the residents didn’t read - Miss Josefina von Chubs had been the biggest reader at the sanitarium - but many found it a tranquil spot. Especially favoured were the heated beds to be found there. A newcomer to the institution, Imogen, was asleep on one of them. Neville had to caution Zofia not to wake her.

“Let me find some paper, and a pencil.” Neville searched a desk’s drawers and found what he wanted. The sanitarium provided its residents with however much stationery they needed, though, like the books, it was rarely used. “All right, tell me what you’d like to say to your mother.”

“Wee pik pik queek er er week crik whee mip creek!!” began the kitten.

“Shh! Please, you are not the only cat here. Don’t become over-excited. All right, start again...”

As Zofia dictated, Neville wrote, the sound of his pencil and the squeaky voice of the young cat being the only sounds in the otherwise silent room, the two noises alternating. The letter took longer to compose than Neville had expected, as his companion had much to say, but little idea of how to phrase it. Extensive use was made of the pencil’s eraser.

At last the missive was completed, and Neville looked at the abused paper on the writing table before him. It was covered with corrections, tears from vigorous rubbings and annotations. The older cat glanced sidelong at the younger.

“Well, it’s done. I think I should read it out to you, to make certain it’s what you want.”

“Mip creek week mikk...”

“Let’s go to the Sun-room...”

The Sun-room - or Conservatory, as Dr Bellen kept trying to have it called - was a bright and warm room that was very popular with the residents. At this time of year, though, the sunshine spilled through its glass walls directly only in the morning, and in this late afternoon, the room was rather dim, and empty. Zofia pulled herself up onto a chair that was covered with a blue and white striped towel. Neville sat next to her on a similar chair. He cleared his throat.

“Dear Momma.

“It’s been years and years since I last saw you, maybe even eight months, but I think of you still. I want you to know that I am safe and happy. Some things happened to me after I was taken from you that were scary. I was all by myself outside. It was cold and injurious to life and limb...”

Neville glanced up and asked, “Are you sure you want to use that phrase?”

“Week mikk mikk er wee pik pik queek!”

“You heard it on a television programme, did you? Yes. Of course.” Neville cleared his throat again.

“It was cold and injurious to life and limb... But a kind human lady took me in. It was warm and safe in her house, and I met nice cats. Then I was sent to the sanitarium. I met my good friends, Horace and Hector. Them and me...” Neville glanced over the sheet of paper at Zofia, who looked pleased at the letter’s progress.

“Them and me...played and cuddled and played and cuddled. They were like my big brothers. There were other cats, too, but they were grumpy and old...” Neville paused in case Zofia wanted to make a correction at this point, but the kitten only prompted the reader to continue. Neville sighed.

“Then Horace went to his own home, and then Hector did, too. I was lonely, but Dr Bellen - he’s the chief human here - he made sure I was played with lots, and had lots of cuddles. And the grumpy old cats got to like me, too. Or at least they stopped hissing at me. Ha Ha.”

Neville peered at Zofia, whse long legs almost reached the floor from where she sat in the big chair. She was excited at the way the letter sounded.

“Whee mip creek week kip kip!

“Yes, well... But now, I will have a home of my own, just like you always wanted for me, Momma. I will have a family of humans and another cat to play with and cuddle with. Dr Bellen told me all about it. I will miss being at the sanitarium, but I will be happy in my own home. It will be scary at first, but not like when I was outside.”

“Mop mip mikk crik wee?”

“Yes, quite right, Zofia: scary in a good way,” said Neville. He returned his eyes to the letter. “I wanted you to know I will be happy and safe, Momma, and I will be loved. I love you and miss you. Zofia.”

Neville put the page down and asked if Zofia was satisfied with the letter.

“Whee mip creek week mokk wip...”

“Good.” Neville nodded. “I will write this up properly, in ink, and then it will look presentable.”

“Pik queek er er?”

“Oh, well... I thought you’d considered how to send it to your mother...” Neville appeared uncomfortable for a moment. Then he brightened. “What about putting it into a bottle and thorwing it in the river? It will travel with the current down to the sea. It’s bound to float all the way to your mother after that.”

“Mikk er wee pik pik queek gik!!”

“All right. Let me transcribe this. We’ll meet after dinner and take it to the river. There will be enough light before night-time.”

Zofia hopped down from her chair and hurried off to have her dinner. She was very excited at being able to tell her mother about her good fortune, about having a home of her own, and a family. Neville watched her run down the corridor. He considered the letter in his paw and sighed.

“A letter in a bottle...” he muttered, and shook his head.

An hour later, he and Zofia were standing in the water meadows down from the cluster of homey buildings that comprised the Cosy Apartment Feline Sanitarium. The river ran slowly here, its eddies keeping away from the grassy banks the leaves and twigs that it carried from the hills of Verdureland. Birds sang in the trees about the meads, bidding the world a good night before the sun’s light faded.

Neville handed Zofia a bottle. It was of smooth, clear glass, unblemished; within could be clearly seen the scroll-like roll of the kitten’s letter. Zofia took the bottle and glanced at her elder, who gestured toward the river. With a chirping grunt, Zofia threw the bottle away from her. It landed with a wet plop in the water, seemed to sink, but then bobbed, its bottom down, its corked top up. It started following the current, and was on its way to the sea.

Zofia watched the bottle a long time, until she could not see it anymore in the thickening twilight. Then she looked at Neville, and sniffed his nose, finally pushing her face against his. Then she was off, running up the hill to the sanitarium. There was still time for chasing a fuzzy mouse before bed.

Neville sat on the shore of the river for rather longer. Lights came on in the sanitarium’s buildings, deep yellow lights that made the windows look snug and welcoming. A colder illumination shone from the moon that had risen while the two cats had stood together. Neville had a fleeting reminiscence of his own past, a very long time ago indeed. A tiny kitten, his eyes just open, and a huge - or at least it seemed to the kitten - grey female cat, her long hair so warm and gentle that the kitten never wanted to leave it. He felt heavy, contented purring lulling him to sleep. Then the vision was gone.

Neville glanced this way and that. He was quite alone on the strand. He took from his own long fur a second bottle, and quickly tossed it into the water. The river caught it and it was soon lost to sight in the gloom. With a last look at the now-black water, the cat turned and made his way uphill, slower than had the kitten. Soon he too was inside the warm residence, ready for a long-delayed nap.

And through the night, the river carried two bottles to the distant sea, and from there to the shores of Samarra, and perhaps beyond, keeping its unspoken promise.