Notes on Feline Motherhood

The kittens will soon be finished their second day of life and appear to be flourishing. (It’s going to be interesting with two of them having a different birthday than the other three.) So far as I can tell, they are receiving enough nourishment; I’m pretty sure their mother is. Rhapsody is eating a great deal of soft-food - a 5.5 ounce tin finished this morning alone - but that’s all for the good.

She is a conscientious mother. Even though she may be hungry when I bring her food - I don’t wait until meal-times for her; I feed her throughout the day, and make sure she has a full tummy going to bed - she will not eat if the kittens are nursing, or are snuggling close to her. In those cases, I set the food aside or hold the bowl for her while she empties it. I suspect this is Rho’s second litter, considering the number involved and her care and knowledge.

She does take a break now and then from the babies, though. I have noticed that she does this only when the kittens are sleeping, usually in a pile. Then she feels she can get away on her own for a bit of a rest. Though I am keeping the library warm for the newcomers, it may be too heated for Rho, and periodically she might appreciate the cool floor.

The new mother didn’t use the litter-box the day following the births. This, I was told, was not a worry. Rhapsody has now used the boxes for both kinds of deposits. At first, I moved one box to within sight of the birthing bed, for Rho’s ease. In response, she used the other one, which is where the boxes have always been. Routine beats convenience in this case.

Something else I’ve noticed is Rhapsody’s reaction to other cats at this time. I am of course keeping the other beasts out of the library, but when I opened the door to leave yesterday, Imogen was at the threshold, with Moxy behind her. Imo hurried in before I could stop her. She’d done that several times before and pregnant Rho, though she may not have liked having her safe-room invaded, didn’t do much about it. Now, though, the kittens are outside, not inside. Rhapsody attacked Imogen fiercely. There was screaming and yowling; fur - black only - flew. Imo ran back out the door when she had the chance. Moxy had disappeared; I found him later at the top of the sitting room cat-tree. Fortunately, though Rho has sharp claws - I haven’t been able to cut them recently - Miss Silky suffered no injury. She had been warned.

Kim, from Musings on a Small Life, asked if I had a means of containing the kittens when they start their explorations in a few weeks. For the time being, the swimming pool / birthing bed will keep them imprisoned. Readers can see its high sides in one of the photographs in this entry. Later, when the inevitable escapes occur, they will be kept within the library. I will bring back the cat-tree and provide the youngsters with plenty of lower diversions for their stimulation. No other cat will be introduced to the kittens for at least a couple of months.

Lastly, I am already beginning to handle the babies, to accustom them to human touch. They are very fragile, despite the fact that in the general piling and climbing amongst themselves their heads are twisted backward, limbs turned wrong way about and bodies look like corkscrews. For myself, I think they feel like Baggies filled with tiny bones. I am very gentle. When I pick one up, Rhapsody meows at me; not in anger or fear, but casually, as if to say, “Careful now. They are precious. Don’t drop them. You’ve done this before, right?”

I’ll be careful.

Birth Day!

The kittens are here!

They arrived last night and this morning: five of them. To judge by their colours, four boys and a girl, though of course that is the most rudimentary guess. All appear healthy and wiggly and demanding.

I thought something might be brewing yesterday when I returned from work. Rhapsody had not eaten all of the soft-food I had left with her; that was unusual. Then she consumed only half of her dinner, and nothing at snack-time - no interest at all. She was also clingy, and got on my lap for the first time ever, after my dinner.

Near bed-time, about ten o’clock, I checked on her in the library, to which she had retired for the night. Rho had been on the cat-tree and it occurred to me that that is not where one wants kittens born, so I had put her in the birthing bed and removed the cat-tree from the library. Now, I noticed that there was discharge on the soaker pad in the bed. Vomit? No - Rho’s rear end was wet. Her water had broken.

The mother-to-be went into labour and I stayed with her, petting her and stroking her sides. She kept leaning into my hand, so I think she was glad I was there. The first kitten, who turned out to be a white and orange tabby, was born at 10.44 p.m. I was on the telephone with an experienced foster-guardian who had been through this before, so I had excellent advice through the process.

The actual birth was painful for Rhapsody, but as soon as the kitten was born, she was on him, cleaning him and making sure that he could breathe. I was ready to wipe away the goop from his face if need be, but his mum was on the job. I was surprised at how dry and fluffy he was after just a short time. The second baby was born about twenty minutes later. He (I think) is dilute orange and white.

I knew there were more to come so I waited but at last changed the soaker pad and went to bed at midnight, confident that the new mum knew what she was doing. I woke at two and came down to the library again, and there were two more, a dilute orange (blond) and a mostly greyish black calico. Everyone was comfortable and feeding. I again changed the bedding and went back to bed.

When I woke for the day, I visited the new family and lo, there was a fifth kitten! Another blond.

Rhapsody made up for her lack of appetite the day before. I fed her in the bed and she ate most of a large tin of good, dense food. She looks to be an excellent mother, making sure her babies were clean and safe, pulling them near if she thought they were too far away. When I changed the pads, she cried when separated from her new children. She didn’t mind at all that I touched them - I kept putting them on nipples; my big worry was that they wouldn’t find the dispenser and starve in the first few hours of life - nor did she mind my general intrusiveness in the births. I think being with me and spending much time with me since she arrived on February 18th helped in this regard.

I will be writing more about the newcomers, of course, plenty more, but I wanted to make the announcement as soon as possible.

Whew.

Hell-on-Paws and the Teaboy Chaser

My furniture is mostly in poor shape. This is due largely to the cats with whom I live. I sometimes think of buying new furniture to replace the old, with its ripped and gouged fabric, scratched wood and stained surfaces. But that expense would merely be exchanging soon-to-be-damaged goods for horribly disfigured items. There’s a reason why I write this, as readers may guess.

Last evening, after dinner, I was sitting on the couch in the sitting room, drinking tea. Brazil wanted on my lap, so I picked him up and placed him there. (However much he wants to be there, he won’t jump up himself.) Moxy too wanted attention, so he sat beside me. I was rubbing Shimmer’s face and scratching the back of the Mixer’s neck, when Imogen wandered in to the sitting room. This is not unusual. Brazil doesn’t spend long on my lap; after ten minutes or so, he will drop to the floor and go lie elsewhere, and Imo takes his place.

Brazil still chases Imogen from time to time. He knows I frown most heavily upon it, so he doesn’t do it often. I had just reached for my cup of tea, though, when Brazil decided to chase Imogen, straight from my lap and right in front of me. As he leaped from my knees, I quickly held my cup away so it would not be struck by a jumping cat. I nearly congratulated myself upon avoiding disaster. I had, however, discounted Moxy.

Moxy is one of those annoying felines who, when there is trouble afoot, rushes to its scene, like a crowd gathering at an accident. It is usually meddlesome, always inconvenient. This time, it was also messy. As Miss Silky darted out of the room with Brazil in pursuit, the Mixer rocketed after them, completely ignoring the cup full of tea that I was inadvertently holding almost directly over him. He hit the cup and sent half of its contents over the couch and half over himself.

I’m afraid I was not silent in my disapprobation.

All the cats thought it best to maintain low profiles for a while, and did not show themselves much until snack-time, though I had to drag Moxy out from hiding to wash his fur of tea. Their self-imposed exiles were fine with me, as I was not really in the mood to enjoy their company, at least not Brazil or Moxy’s.

Nonetheless, later that evening, things had returned to a relative calm. The cats who had caused the trouble of course assumed that since the furor over the chase had died away, they were now blameless of any wrongdoing. My glowering at them had no effect. At bed-time, everyone was in his or her accustomed place, and there was little evidence that anything amiss had occurred at all.

Little evidence, but not none…

The Ragged Claws

A good gauge of a cat’s health is her claws. If they grow rapidly, and sharply, then, the general rule states, the cat is in good health. I have found that to be true, though I’ve noticed that now and then, even among cats in very good shape, an odd nail will grow bluntly, or slower than the others. But, for the most part, I’ve found the rule true.

The opposite, therefore, is also true: that an unhealthy cat’s claws grow slowly or poorly. Neville’s became thick and heavy, and needed trimming for that reason, not because they were sharp.

Indigo is struggling with health issues, as readers may know. The evidence is in her claws. I cut most of the cats’ claws this past weekend (except for Rhapsody, whose daggers are still difficult to cut alone, and Sable). Indigo was the only one who didn’t need a trim. Her claws were not only blunt, but a few were still rough from the last trim, and hadn’t grown enough to smooth their ends.

Her age was estimated at ten years when she first came to me, but she could be as old as fourteen or fifteen. She has diabetes, pancreatitis and whatever is affecting her mammary glands. She has days on which I know she feels poorly. She will then stay mostly under the bed, or she won’t sleep with me at night. But she eats well, for which I am thankful; is still using the litter-box, more or less regularly (with some help from Restoralax twice a week); and, most of the time, enjoys her snuggles at night. Her bad days aren’t bad enough for veterinary visits, and her problems at those times too general for professional care, anyway.

I feel sad that when she feels her best, it’s only half as well as most cats feel, though they might be her age. Nonetheless, she has good food and clean water, warm and soft spots to sleep, and medicine when she needs it. If her claws aren’t the deadly rapiers of her youth, if they are ragged and ugly, they are still her claws, even so.

A Healthy Mum; All She Needs is Kittens

Rhapsody is still holding on to her kittens. I’d be concerned if she were giving indications of feeling poorly. But she is eating well, visiting the litter-box regularly, and in terms of activity, is the most energetic cat come play-time. I had to pause in tossing about the string-toy because she was jumping up onto the back of the couch - from the floor - and bouncing off the cushions.

But she is also claiming her place as a resident of the Cosy Cabin. After dinner, I had Brazil on my lap, and Rho decided to join us. Neither she nor Shimmer were alarmed or even mildly put off by each other’s proximity. While this isn’t always the case - I think it depends upon where they are and what they are doing - it is another good sign of Rhapsody’s confidence and emotional health.

But, really, where are those babies?

No Box for Rho

There is little to report today. Rhapsody continues to withhold her kittens from the world. She shows no signs of distress or concern; she is eating well, is active and responds to attention with purrs. Her litter-box visits are back on schedule and she hasn’t even thrown up, except for a neat and streamlined little hairball a couple of weeks ago.

I think the veterinary estimate as to the progress of the gestation period was off. An ultrasound’s picture isn’t exactly an electron microscope image, so I imagine it’s hard to judge the age of kittens in the womb. I won’t take the young mother-to-be to the veterinary just yet, though that is very much an option.

I guess you can’t put feline pregnancy in a neat little box…

Judging the Moment

As I have written previously, Indigo will tolerate most of the other beasts, but her behaviour is not always consistent. She can be in a bad mood, when everyone seems to cause her annoyance. It’s why her roommates usually try to avoid her in any case.

Yesterday morning, as the crowd gathered for breakfast, Indie was in a relatively benign mood. But Moxy was judging what sort of reception he would receive if he were to move closer. His Mixer-magic usually works, but this day, he decided that discretion was the better part of acquaintance.