The Toughest Part

The toughest part of fostering is when the animal and the caregiver develop a friendship that the latter knows the former feels very strongly. With some cats, a relationship is very good, but you know it can be replicated without much loss, and reasonably quickly. Valkyrie likes me carrying her and will roll about asking for attention. But she is the sort of cat who will become good friends with almost any human who treats her right. Indigo, I think, would also create a strong bond with another person, especially if she were an only cat; that would aid her in a new home tremendously.

Brazil, of course, is so very shy that it would take him a long time, assisted by infinite patience, to come around - though he would.

But now, Moxy has decided I’m his best friend. He meets me when I come home from work. He follows me a great deal. He stands on my lap kneading and purring, then lies down and actually nods off to sleep while I rub his chest and chin. Yesterday, he kept me company - and took up much of the writing table - while I balanced by bank-book. He has completely forsaken his outdoor ways and enjoys life inside with his comfortable sleeping spots and his playmates. He is such an easy-going fellow, he would fit into almost any environment, and gentle enough to be friends with almost any feline. He is, in short, one of the rescue-group’s most adoptable cats.

Adoptions are very slow right now, so I don’t think he is going anywhere soon. That will make it harder for him to go when he does. And it will be my job to persuade people that he is just the sort they are looking for - and in the Mixer’s case, that’s probably no more than the truth.

Yes, a cat like Moxy is the toughest part of fostering.

Maybe Spring

Some of the trees behind the Cosy Cabin look to be ready to spring: I observed these fuzzy buds (Latin name (possibly) fuzzii budensis), perhaps indicative of imminent leaves, though I don’t know of any leaves that start out as rolled up fluff. Then again, I’m no botanist.

But, in case I was becoming too forward in hoping for the new season, this little guy and a million or so of his fellows descended on the fuzzy buds and elsewhere in the back yard later in the day.

Well, spring has to come some time: the cats have been noticing more birds out the windows, after all.

Extend-a-Cat

Do you find your cat is too squat, with not enough pull? Too stout, with not enough lift?

Get the new Extend-a-Cat! Going to the bathroom alone? Not anymore! Extend-a-Cat can fit through the narrowest of openings. Put something in a safe spot? Don’t you believe it. Extend-a-Cat will get it. Crevices and cracks, tops of shelves or behind closed doors -  for all those hard-to-reach places, get Extend-a-Cat!*

*Some conditions apply.

A Wonderful Dream

I think the ideal development would be for Brazil, Valkyrie and Moxy to be adopted together. I thought of this as I watched a little scene play out: Valk pulled herself into the cylinder-house cat-tree, where Brazil was snoozing. She snuggled with her big brother while he washed her.

The three of them are an excellent trio. The Mixer and Valkyrie wrestle quite often; Brazil and Valk wrestle but not as frequently: Shimmer is a bit too rough for Val’s liking. But the two boys have some pretty serious-looking bouts. On the other hand, it’s Brazil and his sister who do most of the running through the house.

Then, it’s cleaning time, with the boys usually making sure little sis has a washed face. Then again, the boys will groom each other, too.

And snoozing together is popular, too.

The two left behind if one were adopted would miss the lucky one, while that one would miss something of those remaining. Together, the shyest of the shy - Brazil - would have tremendous moral support in his new home, while Moxy - half-way between the other two in timidity - would benefit, as well. In the meantime, Valkyrie would almost immediately start charming her new family.

Having all three adopted to the same home is virtually impossible - but what a future it would give this wonderful trio.

Her Path For Me

Ten years ago this day, my first cat, Tungsten, died. Though I remembered her, with all the others who had gone on before, just in February, I wanted to take a moment to remember the tiny terror’s effect on my life. Her effect was profound, in that it was deep, and directional, and lasting. It was she who set me on the road of cats.

I had, I think, intended to have just the one. After a year and a half, though, I thought she might be lonely, so I brought in Josie. They did not initially get along. That was my first experience of integration. I was not good at it. Then, I thought that I could foster a cat. After all, I had the space in my apartment. The first foster, Lincoln, was adopted quickly. That was misleading in that most foster-cats are not chosen for a permanent home so swiftly, but it led to my fostering others. Some of those I chose to adopt. Tucker and Renn came along to form, with Tungsten and Josie, the First Four.

Other cats followed; some I adopted, some I fostered until others adopted them, some I fostered until they died. There were always more. In the meantime, I became involved in cat-rescue, volunteering at events and fund-raisers, designing posters and composing the newsletter for the rescue-group.

I have, since Tungsten, taken in more than thirty cats; a small number compared to some, but all due to the first. I think always in terms of cats now. When I moved - three times since then - I thought of how the new home would affect the cats; when I go out anywhere - a rarity - I think of the cats’ care during my absence; I cat-proof cupboards and doors - usually after I’m shown they need cat-proofing. When I hear others talk of cats, I think to myself of how the cat in question is being treated, what is being done right or wrong, by what passes for my knowledge on the subject.

My spare time is spent with cats, feeding them, playing with them, cleaning up after them, and I advocate for cats and animals in general much more than I used to.

This is the road that Tungsten put me on when I adopted her in 2007, and the road I have been on since she died in 2015. The effect of a little creature, never much heavier than three kilograms, has been surprising, even startling. And it’s not finished yet.

The Complainer

Imogen is a complainer. She will register her disapproval of food, but it will be food that she isn’t even being offered. The hard-food left out for anyone to have seems to be her particular bête noire - ironic, for a black cat. Also, she almost never eats hard-food. She will as well show her disregard of leftover soft-food that I sometimes put down on the floor between meals.

Imo will complain for an extended period, scratching at walls, at furniture - not to scratch, not damagingly, but in that imitation of burying something unpleasant that cats perform over food they dislike. She will scratch and scratch, pause, consider the offensive substance again, then scratch and scratch some more. Then she will look at it a second or third time, perhaps sniff it, move to another surface, and complain there.

This is not done at meal-times; it is not done with food given directly to her. It’s as if it is a dislike of the food even being generally on offer with which she takes issue. Eventually she stops, though she may return later to complain further. I sometimes hear her when I am in the bedroom or downstairs, mildly scratching her dismissal of what has been given.

Then later, she will complain if her food is late at dinner-time…

Sharing the Morning

The move from the Cosy Apartment to the Cosy Cabin continues to have its beneficial effects. Though Imogen still doesn’t like other cats to come very close to her, she is much more tolerant than she used to be. Moxy is the least offensive cat here, and Miss Silky appears to appreciate that.

Imo’s favoured spot in the sitting room is the second highest platform of the taller cat tree at the window. The Mixer was already lying on the top platform. In the past, that might have posed a problem for Imogen. Now, when she jumped onto her usual haunt from the lower cat-tree, she hissed at Moxy, though it was not a particularly strong salute. The loveable fathead didn’t react much, perhaps because he didn’t know how he should. Imo scratched at the tree; I think she was just showing Moxy that she was ready for trouble if it came, though I suspect both knew there would be no issue. She hissed again. Then they settled down for their respective snoozes.

It was most pleasant to see on a weekend morning.

Sable Plays

I saw Sable playing today. I went downstairs to the library first thing in the morning to sweep the floor and scoop the litter-boxes. While I was engaged in the latter activity, I heard a sound like somecat amongst litter. It was, in fact, somecat scraping along the floor. A fuzzy mouse was propelled from behind the couch and Sable came into view, trotting after the toy. She didn’t play with it while I was watching, but she didn’t hide, either. She had been playing.

I was delighted, of course, and am, but not surprised. Even at her age, and that is, I estimate, the early teens, she has always seemed a light-hearted cat, not the usual serious stray bent only on survival. Perhaps that is why she has done so well as an insider-cat. I would see her periodically outside the Cosy Apartment, rolling in the grass, and pretending to stalk birds she must have known she would not catch.

I hope one day to see Sabe playing with the other beasts. She seems to be growing close to Moxy. They sniffed noses today, and I have seen her lying on the bed near him. Brazil chased her once, but that appears to have been an aberration. Maybe she will be infected with Valkyrie’s kittenishness. In any case, today was a sign of one more step forward for my erstwhile outsider-cat. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

The Simple and the Complex at the Litter-box

Life can be both simple and complex when one is an oldster. My Neville is a good example of this.

I have litter-boxes in the cat-room, the bedroom, the library, and this triangular one for a corner of the corridor. It is the smallest, but is convenient for the cats, especially for Nev, who doesn’t have to go far on sometimes wobbly legs. But his use of the box can vary.

Sometimes, he will feel a bit of an excursion is in order, and he trundles down the stairs to the library and uses the ones there. Other times, he finds the cat-room litter-box handy. All of these are large and can accommodate his entirety. So too can this triangular box, when he wants it to. Periodically, he will fit all of himself in; now and then, his rear half is within and the front half out.

Last night, I saw another variation: Neville ambled up to the box, stepped inside and halted, his fore portion inside and his nether parts out. Then he pooped. Scattered on the floor, the various bits of refuse awaited their disposal at my leisure. Neville, his duty done, returned to the sitting room for an hour of rest before bedtime.

I can’t be angry at the Nevsky, of course. Firstly, he no doubt felt that he had achieved his purpose and had achieved it hygienically. He was, after all, mostly in the litter-box. If his business end was not, that was more the fault of the box than of his business end. More importantly, his products are firm, formed and more or less regularly deposited. For a sixteen year old with hyperthyroidism and unmanageable diabetes, he isn’t doing too bad.

Among the complexities of his health-care, his notion of pooping is simple.

Working Up an Appetite

This is a short recording of a wrestling session between Valkyrie and Moxy. Though the Mixer is big and heavy, Valk is lean and wiry, so I think they are evenly matched. It’s not one of the more exciting bouts, with its body-slams and yells by the youngster just before she pounces, but you get the idea.

These often take place while they are waiting for meals to be served; perhaps they are working up an appetite. Recording has been difficult because the telephone makes a ‘ping’ sound when it starts operating, and Moxy stops to question the noise. I tried to tell him it’s the bell to start fighting, but I don’t think he believed me.

Force of Habitat

I think one of the things that Sable may enjoy about being an insider-cat now is the food. There is plenty of it; the hard-food is available throughout the day, and the soft is served regularly. I know she eats the hard-food, and know she likes the soft; fishy flavours seem to be her favourite.

But I have noticed a characteristic. When I am home, Sable is usually either downstairs in the library, or upstairs under the bed. When I feed her downstairs, where she will allow me to approach within a yard if I am moving slowly and hunched over (she will temporarily hide if I move too swiftly and am fully upright), she tends to eat only about half of her soft-food ration. When I garnish the remainder with a dusting of Fortiflora, she finishes her meal.

If she is under the bed, I will push her dish to her, and she will almost always consume the whole portion, without pause or further encouragement. I have observed this happening regardless of the flavour or variety. There are exceptions to this rule from time to time, but it applies for the most part.

My former outsider is starting to show her personality.

Like Panasonic

I woke up about four o’clock in the morning and realised that I had not reset my alarm. I wake up at 5.45 on my days off, and at 4.30 when I work, so I needed to reset my alarm for the weekdays, but knew that I hadn’t. I reset the alarm to ring at 4.30 for the workdays of the week, and went back to bed. Surprisingly, I fell asleep again. I woke once more of my own accord at 4.28 and got up.

I was puzzled when the alarm did not go off at 4.30. My back-up alarm, set for a few minutes later, had not gone off, either; in fact, I had not even turned it on the night before. I checked and saw that I had indeed set my primary alarm for 4.30 Monday morning.

I dressed and started my morning routine. It was then that I remembered I had watched a movie the previous night. The previous night was Saturday. It was now Sunday. That’s why the alarm set for the weekday mornings had not gone off. It’s why I did not set my secondary alarm.

I reset my alarm for 5.45 and went back to bed. The cats were puzzled but, since I had not begun preparing their breakfasts, they were not annoyed. They let me sleep for another hour.

While it was weird that my mind should have thought I had lost a whole day, it was a pleasant feeling to be given another day off, when I clearly had been thinking - at least subconsciously - that the weekend was over. I suppose I was like Panasonic: just slightly ahead of my time...

Brave Mountaineer

My oldster, Neville, still can surprise me from time to time. He is diabetic - with insulin having little effect on his condition - and hyperthyroidic. He’s overweight and doesn’t groom himself enough, and he’s sixteen years old. But he still has a few tricks up his furry sleeve.

For a few days last week, he had been showing an interest in the bedroom, with which he had not bothered much before. He would make as if to enter, and stand on the threshold, looking in.

Then one day, I came in to see him up on Minuet’s cat-tree at the window. More than that, he was at the top and actually had a foot on the narrow window ledge, and was peering out. His balance on a solid, level floor isn’t always good, and Min’s tree has smaller platforms to accommodate more of them for less distance between, so, worrying about him falling, I started to go in to help him. But he was, this time at least, capable of descending on his own, as he had been ascending. It was only when I observed this that I paused to take pictures.

I think Nev was curious as to what could be seen through the bedroom’s small window, rather like the one that he enjoys in the cat-room. Whatever the reason, he has demonstrated that there is still life and verve in his old, often slow body, and appropriately feline interest remaining in that sharp, frequently opinionated mind. The Nevsky can still surprise even those who know him.

No More Fluids for the Moment

Indigo’s subcutaneous fluid injections are on hold. The progression of her reactions to them has been interesting. She initially put up no resistance, and it was an easy procedure. Gradually, probably in inverse proportion to how she was feeling, with the various medicines she was receiving, there was a greater and greater vigorous response. Eventually, once she was feeling better otherwise, Indie was complaining vocally and trying to get away from the process. Last night, she struggled so hard, squealing and hissing, that I could not complete it.

Though the veterinary said that, with Indigo’s recovery from her recent episode, she did not need any more fluids, I decided to continue them twice a week, to provide her with any replacement needed due to her being given Restoralax. That substance works by drawing fluids from elsewhere in the body and into the bowels, where they do the requisite job of softening the stools and permitting easier movement. Indie is still pooping adequately, but certain factors made me think a regular dose of Restoralax, amounting to little more than an eighth of a teaspoon a day, is a good idea. But its companion action - subcutaneous fluids - will be temporarily halted.

I will attempt an injection again in a couple of weeks, and see what reaction I have. For the moment, however, Indigo can savour her victory…