Wonder Cat

So Rosey is still boycotting his obscenely large selection of litter trays for the purposes of plopping. Poor Mini Kitty. She must think boys are so lazy and unclean, which I would actually concur with.

Last weekend my mum came home after running some errands and went into the bathroom, where Mini and Rosey stay when she's out, and fully expected to find a little present from Rosey on the floor. Indeed she could smell said gift, but couldn't see it. She could, however, see a J cloth on the floor, under which was nestled Rosey's little present, as it turns out. My mum concludes that Mini Cat must have dragged the cloth from its previous spot wedged behind the toilet cistern and used it to cover Rosey's poop, possibly in some kind of desperate (but alarmingly clever) attempt to cover up the foulness.

I was skeptical when she told me this, but she went on to say that Mini regularly kicks bits of gravel that happen to be outside the litter tray towards Rosey's offending stool, wherever it may be in the room, and attempt to cover it up with that, so now I am wondering whether the whole J cloth thing was premeditated by the little black cat after all. Apparently they've never played with the J cloth either. They're not interested in things like that. I am surprised either way. I thought a recent study showed that cats are pretty stupid. Mind you, a lot of people can be pretty stupid too. Anyway, needless to say my mum was gushing and squealing like an embarrassingly proud parent over Mini's antics. To be fair, I knew she was a special little girl.

In other news, Rosey is still snotty and sneezy and, on reflection, has actually been like this since I got him. The vet's been giving him various medication and although he has this issue, his airways and lungs are always apparently clear. My mum thinks he's got some sort of lifelong condition. She keeps vaguely mentioning herpes, which has me raising my eyebrows in perplexion (which isn't actually a real word, but definitely should be). I'm pretty sure the vet mentioned no such condition.

Here are some old and recent photos of the babies for purposes of a comparison. It's amazing how much they've grown and changed.

Getting back to writing

Wow, life's been hectic now back at home and I just realised how long it's been since my last post. I am genuinely wondering how I went about my life with six cats to care for when there even seems too much to do now with none. I guess when you're caring for the little critters, you automatically care about them more than the trivial little things in life (like keeping the surfaces tidy, using in-date milk and paying the electricity bill).

I see Oscar and Tilly are still listed on the TCR website and therefore still in their foster home. I wonder how they coped with losing their mom. Just the thought of it is so saddening, even if cats don't attach as much emotion to this kind of thing as humans. I think I'd be in tears if I had to look after those poor orphans. And I think I was lucky with my bunch. It was difficult enough coping with the death of Celia even though she was no longer in my care: I don't know how I'd have felt if I did lose one while he/she was with me.

I feel like I appreciate the fragility of life a bit more having just read about little Destiny's fate on Beth's blog. It makes me think back to Rosey and how close we'd been to losing him. I cannot believe what a little fighter he was and how far he's come from being a snotty little furball who wouldn't stop screaming to an athletic little tiger who only ever wants to poop on the floor. I feel like throwing caution to the wind and just letting the little guy poop wherever he bloody well likes in appreciation of the fact that he just kept on going in times of adversity. Unfortunately he's my mum's responsibility now and she tells me it's not much fun cleaning up poop from the floor every day, especially in the heat of summer. I actually do know how she feels and have had my fair share of it, thank you very much. Other than that, Rosey's being totally, totally spoilt with fresh meat, which he loves so much that he gobbles it down and starts on Mini-Cat's bowl within seconds. No wonder him and Matt got on so well.

As an aside, I was alarmed to notice a strange name on Rosey's medicine bottle from the vet when I visited at the weekend - "Tigger". Having questioned my mum, she shiftily revealed that when being pressed for a name at the vet the first time, she felt embarrassed for Rosey about giving the vet a girl's name for him, so she hastily opted for "Tigger". Uh, now all we have to do is change Mini's name to "Winnie" and rename Tiddles "Christopher Robin" and we're all set for a remake of the children's classis Winnie The Pooh. Well, she claimed she gave that name because he looks like a tiger and wasn't in fact aware of his cartoon namesake, but I'm not so sure. There's nothing wrong with the name, as such, but it's such an obvious name for a tabby cat and I don't like obvious. And I also cannot believe they rebuffed my suggestion of "Dexter" (I've been enjoying series 1 and 2 and was inevitably inspired) and then went and did this. Anyway, luckily neither names stuck and my handsome little stripy prince continues to be called Rosey, although his silly little head doesn't in fact seem to respond to anything you call him.

Some very sad news

Celia, whose translucent amber eyes adourn the tops of my blog pages, passed away yesterday.

Jenn at Toronto Cat Rescue had the kindness to think of me and delicately let me know straight away, even though I'm away from home and even though I was just another foster home for Celia that she'd had up until three weeks ago. She was right to think that's not how I saw it though.

Apparently Celia fell ill at her new foster home last week, a week or two after being spayed. She was taken to the vet where she remained on IV until she could fight no more. I'm told the vet felt Celia was jaundiced and had pneumonia. Jenn thinks her little body just couldn't handle recovering from the spaying operation.

When one of my beloved cats who I'd grown up with passed away a few years ago, it felt like a small part of me withered inside, but I nonetheless at the same time found comfort in that he'd enjoyed a reasonably long but certainly happy life. I've been troubled by the sad realisation that I cannot find similar comfort in Celia's passing. Any shred of comfort is as tenuous as her eventual grip on life.

I don't know much about Celia's history except that she spent longer than she should have in a metal cage at a high kill shelter. When dropping her off to me from the shelter, Beth observed from Celia's behaviour that this one year old cat definitely must have been loved at some point, words which still resonate with me. I'll never know how she lost this love, but her never-to-be-won battle to properly regain it I suspect will continue to quietly haunt me.

Within days of having her, one name came to me out of the blue with curious gusto: 'Celia', a name so fitting for a cat demure and fervid in equal measures, so reflective of her playful nature and unquestionable femininity. My Ceeli, my Celi-Cat, my Sea Leaf, my little madame who so tenaciously asserted her self-assured, capricious status in the household for the entire three months that she was with us. So strong, so obstinate that I never imagined her to ever be anything other than an unfaltering constant. An admirable mother to her kittens, a grateful and unforgettable houseguest to myself and Matthew. A familiar radiant face in the back of my mind and memory, locked firmly in the only place she will continue to exist to me.

Thank you, Celia. Thank you for making my thoughts delve deeper into the idea and secrets of motherhood than any human being has. Thank you for fighting on long enough to make sure that Tilly, Elliot, Oscar and Mini-Cat were raised in the best way possible and in full health. Thank you for accepting an orphaned and sickly Rosey as one of your own and being the mum he never had. Thank you for presenting me with a challenge I never thought I'd take on, let alone succeed in, yet did. Thank you for making me realise that sometimes a cat's just got to have their own way. Thank you for doing all the funny, quirky things that will always remind me of you and make me smile even through my tears. Thank you for inspiring me to write a song about your awkward but entertaining ways. I must finish it some day. Thank you for opening my eyes to the struggles that stray and abandoned cats and kittens face and how it's possible to make a difference.

Most of all, thank you for being a gorgeous little black, yellow-eyed kitty and giving me a reason to pick you in the first place. You may never have found a forever home, but you'll always have a forever home in my heart.

Matters of the rear end

So Rosey has now pooped on the bed about five times at my mum's. It seems that whilst the bed is an essential component favoured above even the litter tray, he's not actually fussed about which bed he relieves himself on: the one in the spare room, the one in my room when I visit, the basement spare rooms etc. Well, this morning he apparently hit the motherload - my mum's bed. He also added a cheeky pee as an afterthought. Of course, my mum and her partner couldn't possibly have normal bedding, oh no. It had to be a $200 wild goose down duvet with sheets made of rare Madagascan glow worm cotton that was handwoven by leprechauns in the Andes (maybe). Needless to say her partner was anything but happy, particularly thinking of that cleaning bill.

The good news is that Rosey isn't entirely to blame. After his previous ill-placed stools, my mum resolved to keep him in the bathroom with the litter tray until he gets used to using it again (she also leaves a bit of water in the bath because that's his second favourite spot to defecate after the bed) but her partner failed to adhere to this and let him out, so I suppose if you let a cat that you know poops in beds on your bed, there's a good chance it will poop on that bed.

Anyway, they're giving it a few weeks and seeing if they can manage to retrain him, so fingers crossed, but it doesn't help poor Rosey's cause when his behaviour is in total contrast to Mini-Cat's, who is reported to even leave her dinner half eaten in order to visit the litter tray when she has the urge. They say she's a little angel. Poor Rosey.

Still looking back

Well, it's been a little while and I'm happy to say it's been getting a bit easier not having the kitties around, but only because I'm away. The morning after Celia, Oscar and Tilly went to get neutered and spayed before going to their new foster home was just ghastly. Our apartment was silent and there were no longer a set of furry heads looking at me from the sofa when I opened my bedroom door. I went about my business and kept coming across their toys that were scattered across the floor and taunting me. It was like an abandoned playground that was filled with laughter and chatter only moments before but now is just a swing gently swaying back and forth whilst a tumbleweed rolls across in the background from stage left.

On a happier note, Rosey and Mini Cat seem to be getting on well at my mum's. Well, I mean they're happy, but I think my mum could be a bit happier. She absolutely adores them but it's apparently been quite challenging coping with an old cat that hates the kittens and kittens than hate producing normal stools. Mini had diarrhoea, which seems sorted now (fingers crossed) after a visit to the vet, and Rosey has taken to pooing in the bathtub. Not nice, but still an improvement from pooing on the bed, which he did over the weekend. My mum says it also seems like the only time he bothers trying to cover up his poo is when he poos somewhere destructive, in which case he appears to go at it until it's smeared over a one metre radius. When he does poo in the litter tray, his loving sister Mini covers it up for him, bless her.

Speaking of her, my mum says she is just adorable. Of course I knew this, but I'm secretly pleased that I picked her such a charming cat (she wanted Rosey but I insisted she have Mini too, who I paid for). She cuddles up to my mum all the time and purrs her little head off. She also never scratches, even if she wants to wriggle free. Everyone fell in love with her at the vet apparently too, which, by the way, was surprisingly cheap. They gave her antibiotics, a thorough examination, worm treatment, special food to take home, clipped her claws and gave her a cute little welcome pack with her own purple octopus toy, flea comb and various other bits and bobs, all for $65! Mind you, this is Innisfil, so I guess you don't get the Toronto prices and they probably don't have as much demand.

Anyway, I thought I'd leave you with some pictures of the two rascals in their new home, which is about twenty times the size of the home they had with me.

Going their separate ways

As the day's worn on, I've been feeling more and more melancholy. Rosey and Mini Cat are now in their forever home at my mum's and spent the past two nights chasing each other round my bed whilst I tried to sleep before curling up next to me, a luxury they didn't get the opportunity to enjoy while they were in Toronto with me.

I made my way back home tonight to a cheerless apartment containing Matt and the three remaining cats: Celia, Oscar and Tilly. Elliot went to his new home a couple of nights ago where he's getting used to his new name: Spyro. The sombre feeling here is down to the fact that this whole thing is over now. Tomorrow morning a driver is picking Celia, Oscar and Tilly up and taking them to the vet to have them neutered/spayed. After that they will recover at a Toronto Cat Rescue worker's home before going to their new foster home.

In a few days' time I will inevitably be occupying my mind with plenty of other things during my time away, but right now it feels like I've lost something. It's like I feel sad for everything. I feel sad for Rosey and Mini Cat because I won't see them often, I feel sorry for Elliot because he's having to adjust to a new home, I feel sorry for Oscar because he doesn't even know how much we want to adopt him but can't, I feel sorry for Tilly because it's like we've left her at the bottom of the pile of her litter and I feel sorry for Celia because she's striving to find someone to love her permanently but, realistically, the chances of that happening any time soon aren't great. I also feel sad for TCR for having to move these cats about and for struggling to keep their charity financially afloat and I feel sorry for Matt for having had this little cat family forced on him in the beginning, only to have fallen in love with them and suffer the heartache of never seeing [most of] them again. And yes, I admit it, I feel sad for me too. Sad and guilty, as if I could have done more.

Well, I guess it's the end of this particular journey but I don't feel it's anywhere near time to disconnect from it all. I'll try to stay in touch with as many of the kittens are possible, their new homes permitting, and will of course follow the course of Mini Cat and Rosey growing up at my mum's. I have also offered to do fostering for cats whose foster families go away on vacation at times when I'm back home here, at least until my schedule is a bit freer some time next year. I also want to help TCR raise some money, so I am going to have a good think about ways in which I can do that. I want to paint some paintings for them to sell at events later on in the year, so I guess I might as well start gathering some catty inspiration.

And so with a sigh of resignation tinged with quiet optimism, I'm going to bed. My heavy heart would be lifted if only Celia, Oscar and Tilly could sleep in our room tonight, if it wasn't for the Godforsaken tomato plant that lives there (and, to add insult to injury, hasn't even had the decency to sprout more than two feeble pea-sized fruit over the last two months).

I think I'm going to compile some nice photos to post soon of the past three months.

An actual adoption!

Well, I hope I'm not speaking too soon, but I do have a good feeling about this. Someone replied to our Kijiji ad earlier on this week, expressing interest specifically in Elliot. I know! He'd taken the time to look through all the profiles we made for the kittens on their blog and had obviously decided that a muscleman beast of a cat is the kind of cat for him. I must say Matt and I were apprehensive at first because of this guy's short, snappy e-mail responses (this is entirely irrational, of course) so when we finally set up a time for him to come meet Elliot yesterday, we were almost expecting him not to even turn up.

But turn up he did, and what a surprise. It's not that either of us had any particular expectations, but I suppose we didn't exactly expect to see a young tattooed man at our door with a tall, immaculate, skinny jean-clad friend in tow with better sculpted eyebrows for a man than I've seen on any woman. I instantly liked them both. Don't ask me why, I guess it was "the vibe".

They both plonked themselves on our living room floor (not that we have more than three rooms) and observed the cats for a while before gently engaging in some light play. Fifteen minutes of chatting revealed that this guy knew more about cats than I do, but more importantly, it was clear that he cared for them a hell of a lot and had always adopted rescue animals throughout his growing up. He lives in central Toronto with a couple of people who already own a cat and a dog that are getting on a bit so wouldn't mind the buzz of youth injected into their furry lives.

Unbelievably, he seemed to really warm to Elliot straight away and was totally sure of his decision to adopt him. He filled out the adoption forms and said he'd spend the next few days getting everything together for Elliot and come back with the adoption fee later on next week to pick him up. We were so, so, so happy. It seems Elliot was too, because he's been so loving and grateful-looking ever since. And, as is typical of fate, I now come to regret my negative words about his aesthetics, even though it's mostly tongue-in-cheek, because he really is a beautiful boy, if not a little beefy, as the above picture proves.

Oh, and the reason for Elliot's new daddy's short, snappy e-mail is because he uses a BlackBerry, the same BlackBerry he got his friend to take pictures of him cuddling Elliot with so he can send it to his family and friends.

So, happily, with the money I'm going to save on not having my cables chewed, I went and got my hair highlighted today.

Everything's a toy

Before I go and do the 4,000 things I have to do today, I thought I'd share this video with you. We discovered recently that Oscar tries to catch your breath when you gently blow in his face. Here, he also gets a little excited and catches Matt in the face. I don't know why, but this video tickled me more than anything has in a long time. Playing it again and again, I weep with laughter each time. It's the way he extends his arm to grab Matt's face, it's the way he unsolicitedly attempts to reach out for it a second time, it's the way he turns his little head beforehand in a plotting way, it's the way he looks like a right numpty grabbing at the air with his mouth open. Oh, I wish I could keep him.

All kinds of bad

So let me explain. Before I even took these foster kittens on, I knew I'd be travelling a lot come the summer. Well, my first trip is in just over one and a half weeks' time and I only found out last week. Where does this leave the furry gremlins? Gosh, if only I knew. I let Toronto Cat Rescue know in case they need to find them all a new foster home by then. I say "in case", but that makes it misleadingly seem like there's a good chance they'll all be adopted. Well, Matt and I have been unleashing quite an extensive marketing campaign for the little blighters and whilst we've not even got it all out 100%, there's little chance someone will want to adopt a sick kitten.

You see, the latest debacle is ringworm. Suspected ringworm, at least. First Mini Cat and then the rest. Mini Cat isn't too bad now but the rest of them all have it. Except Oscar. But then Oscar still has an upper respiratory infection that hasn't even budged with another course of Zithromax. Typical. Poor cats. I was told by TCR to buy some ringworm cream for them from the drug mart, which I've done, but it's just impossible to apply it twice a day to every single tiny bump hidden beneath the kittens' fur, and getting them to let me cut their fur for easier access, as suggested, is about as easy as getting a disabled tortoise to jump through hoops.

I dropped by at my local vet today to display some posters and asked them about ringworm. They gave me the impression it would be difficult to cure ringworm for sure without getting the chemical wash from the vet ($62 per kitten for a consultation plus $100 minimum for the treatment itself). Well, that's out of the question, seeing as I hardly even have money to treat myself to the occasional piece of jewellery from H&M.

Worse still, we've got someone coming to see the kittens tomorrow and they look like balding geriatrics. I can't lie to them about it, but who will want a ringworm-infested cat? Annoyingly, the term "ringworm" sounds scarier than it is, so all people think of is that they can catch these awful skin-burrowing worms off of cats, when really it's a harmless and purely cosmetic skin fungus that's meant to pass after some time on its own anyway. So again, who will take these kittens before we have to give them when they've got ringworm (because you can sure bet it's not the kind of thing that goes away in one and a half weeks)?

To make things even worse (for me, at least), if it's possible, yesterday one of the kittens chewed through my laptop charger. I went to the Apple store and through some welcome serendipity somehow managed to blag a new one on the warranty, thank heavens. I took extra special care to keep the new one away from the kittens since then and it's been out of their reach all night. What I didn't notice, however, is that for the one hour that I had the charger in the same room as them tonight, a tiny bit was poking out where they could see it. Well, three months and never before a cable casualty until yesterday despite all cables being exposed for all that time, and now the same offending kitten chooses the one hour and the five inches of cable that is available to him to chew through it yet again.

To say I was distraught is an understatement. I sobbed for a full 20 minutes. There'll be no more blagging at the Apple store this time and where the $100+ will come from to pay for a new cable is anybody's guess. So at 56% battery charge and no promise of anything more any time soon, I'm signing off.

[half-heartedly] Oh, check out our blog page for promoting the kittens. *Sigh*

Tilly

Aaaargh things have been crazy but I'm going to leave all that for an other post and instead talk about someone far more deserving of a mention...

Like a triumphant prosecutor, Matt pointed out recently that I've never so much as mentioned Tilly even once throughout my blog. No, he's not an avid fan of my blog and as such knows its entire content by heart, he's just set up "labels" and various other analytical whatsits with his marketing skills/geekiness and can therefore easily notice things like this.

Tilly is one of the five kittens I'm fostering. I've not mentioned her before because, truthfully, I've never had much reason to. Although it may seem on the contrary, she's not a mediocre little cat at all, in fact far from it. The shameful censoring has simply been due to the fact that she is such a good kitten and therefore there's nothing noteworthy to write about her, unlike the others who get into all sorts of scrapes, do silly things and unleash their claws on your limbs with questionable fortuity.

No, Tilly's just perfect: She's more or less always been healthy, she eats well, she's never pooped anywhere forbidden, she loves to play, she's gentle, she's perfectly behaved and she loves to purr and be cuddled. Because of this, I half expect her one day to reveal that she works for the CIA in a secret agent capacity, possibly in a Russian accent, but this inkling could just be because I'm slightly mad.

Look at my little black and white princess Tilly:

Guess who's back

Oscar. Yes, Oscar. The lady who took him isolated him from her other cat for one night because of his continuing sniffles and he was crying so much on his own that she felt too sorry for him. The very next day, Matt and I missioned it on the subway to Kipling to pick him. The day after that, I walked 6.6 km in my pretty shoes just to pick up medicine for him. ("You can't walk walk that!" Ferne at TCR exclaimed. "Pssh," I said, examining my nails coyly, "That's nothing. You should see how far I walk for human medicine." I didn't really say that). Listening to The Bugle podcasts en route and getting a tan made it all the more worthwhile.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh. Don't get me wrong, we actually really missed Oscar and were really happy to have him back once more, plus the lady said she will still take him once he's better, but I can't help but think I will be stuck with six full grown cats in my 2m x 2m flat for the rest of their lives. Christ, the way I'm going, it'll probably be for the rest of my life. I'm convinced I'll have to raise my future children in this cat house, constantly attempting to prevent them from attacking the baby in its crib or eating its food when I turn my back. On the brighter side, maybe I could get them to help me raise it. You know, a bit like Mogli. There are many feline values that could be appropriate for a child to learn, like... uh... getting what you want by looking cute and speaking nicely... uh... being assertive and feisty... uh... begging soul-destroyingly for food and... umm... developing cunning. Yes, cunning is always important if this kid is to become a mastermind in this day and age, and who better than Celia to be the meticulous tutor for that purpose? And when the kids are older, they can call her Mum too and refer to the former kittens as their uncles and aunties. I'm just wondering where Matt falls into this. I'm suspecting he falls out of this some years before conception has taken place. 

*Sigh* 

Well, I just hope my friends and loved ones will recognize the vital signs when I'm confined to a rocking chair in my 80s enduring several debilitating illnesses and the cats start eyeing me up suspiciously.

NB: If you think this picture's intriguing, check THIS out.

And the Oscar goes to ...

... a lovely lady from Burlington who fell in love with him straight away!

Sorry, Matt told me I had to put that joke in. He was so pleased with himself.

It's not a laughing matter, however. We miss him so much. I was actually fine with it until Oscar's new mum phoned me after getting home and said that he's been crying for the past hour. He's still got some sniffles from getting over a URI so she thought it best to isolate him from her other two year old cat, so he's been crying non stop! It broke my heart to hear him in the background and it's awful to think he'll never snuggle up to me again and purr his little grey head off, but then I remind myself that it was always going to be difficult for them to adjust to a new home and in the end it's the best thing that could happen to him. Well, one down, five to go. Hmm... and then what?

Silly Celia

Despite her general grumpiness, little madame Celia is an ever so funny cat, so I thought I'd share some videos on my blog. For example, I've noticed that when I make kissing noises, she pushes her whiskers forward but remains otherwise largely unabashed. She does is every time and it certainly doesn't look as though it's because I'm stressing her out or she's displeased. Take a look:

And then less surprising is her habit of trying to get into the kitchen drawer in which her treats are kept. I know most cats do this but it's so amusing to see the focused determination on her face and her paw actions that resemble someone whose craft it is to scratch away at kitchen drawers. Here she is "in the zone":

Celia used to cause us no end of trouble with her persistence in jumping onto the kitchen surfaces. With that level of determination, if she was a human, she'd have already completed several PhDs and been lecturing at Harvard by now or discovering the cure for cancer or something. Anyway, we tried everything we humanely could to discourage her from jumping up: simply removing her repeatedly, telling her off, spraying her with water and other things that were probably flirting with the boundaries of animal abuse (of course I'm joking...) but she still wouldn't learn. She was even sneaky with it - she would jump up and then of course we'd shout at her to get down but she'd just look at us and unless we actually got up and made our way to her, she would just carry on going about her business up there (sniffing things, licking things, removing objects that no other cat would be interested in, all the while yowling triumphantly). Even when we mock stood up to take her off, she'd realise that we were just being lazy and almost laugh at our insolence with her golden saucer eyes.  

Anyhow, it got to the point where there really was no point adding stress to this poor cat's life when it was clearly to no avail, so we've now totally overlooked this little thing of hers and decided that if she jumps up onto a hot stove, it's her problem. Just kidding. But since we've allowed her free reign on the countertops, she has become such a jolly cat, as if everything she ever wished for was to sniff around on a 2x9 foot countertop and it's materialised. She's even started purring again (it was like discovering Atlantis) and she now lies there a lot of the time looking like a furry black princess. Ah, how we really hope she finds a lovely home. And, actually, that she'll stop nursing her kittens. For heaven's sake they're practically like teenagers and it's rather reminiscent of the "bitty" skit in Little Britain.

"Take them! Take them all!"

Gosh, I thought none of the kittens would ever find homes but it seems that God has finally been smiling upon this little brood. I had an e-mail from a lovely lady a couple of days ago who was interested in taking Elliot or Oscar.

My first thought was "Why them?", which, yes, is slightly shameful, even though I am like one of those fiercely proud parents who see their kids as being beautiful, even if said kids have seven ears and a tail growing out of their heads. Of course I think all my foster kittens are cute and unique blah blah blah but have you seen the TCR website? Some of the cuteness on there makes me weep (partly in awe, partly in a sense of hopelessness for my own, less attractive kittens) and I even see a lot of those ones gathering dust on the website week after week. Poor little gremlins, I think, all they want is a good home, and as unique and deserving of love as each one may be, if even the cutest ones aren't snapped up, what hope do my lot have? 

So again, why had this lovely lady picked Oscar and Elliot out of that sea of fur?  I'm told she can only take one of them (who will be a playmate to her existing 2 year old boy cat) and apparently she couldn't tell Oscar and Elliot apart on the TCR website, so I am wondering whether the fact that Elliot can walk on a leash swayed her decision and it is in fact he who she prefers but doesn't know which face belongs to him.  Lucky for her, they can both walk on a leash (I'm only joking: I very much doubt she's that superficial).

So after the initial puzzlement came the glee at the prospect of some interest in the kittens, then the slight sadness about having to split the two grey boys up, then a more intense sadness due to the realisation that they are all going to have to go at some point. I'm torn between screaming "Take them! Take them all!" to her when she comes on Monday and coolly telling her she's got the wrong address (I'd have to put the kittens in the bathroom and sedate them in order for them not to blow my cover). 

Anyway, so she's coming over on Monday night with the intention of taking one of them home with her. Who will she pick? They're so different now. Elliot is a giant, muscly beast (I'm wondering if Matt's secretly obtained a cheeky supply of creatine to enhance his "manly charm" and Elliot's gone and found it) with a face inexplicably not unlike a bull dog's. Forgive me, God, but if Elliot were a human of school age, I suspect he may be bullied for his looks (children can be so evil), but luckily he's a cat and even ugly cats are accepted in our society. Moreover, I know people who specifically enjoy ugly cats (no, not just to make fun of). Of course, his unfortunate oversized face might be to do with the fact that he's currently overcoming yet another bout of Inflamed Eye Syndrome (not its official name, I'm sure), a popular companion of cat flu. Elliot is more interested in running around like a greyhound on steroids (in fact, if not for the fat head, he's not dissimilar to one of those), whilst Oscar is smaller, a lot lighter, much more loving and seems to have stolen Elliot's former beauty, facially speaking. The malleable quality of these kittens' faces really is extraordinary. 

Anyway, so I guess we will wait and see. I'm just hoping she won't make up some colourful excuse come Monday and leave empty handed when she sees these illness-ridden, leg-climbing kittens.

Uh, in my next blog post, I will try to abstain from using unnecessary parentheses.

No one messes with Celia

On Canada Day, Matt and I decided to have some friends over who live in the same condo complex. They have a cute little dog named Farley, a jack russell/chihuahua cross, who is a total little sweetie (one must gush like this in such a dog owner dominated neighbourhood as ours). We suggested bringing Farley over to ours as he doesn't like being left alone much and we also thought it would be good for the kittens to get used to being with a dog. Farley was reportedly fine with cats and, as a precaution, we put Celia in another room in case she got a bit protective of her kittens.

Well, within minutes of them arriving and the kittens acting remarkably nonchalant around Farley (friendly, even), Celia magically appeared under the coffee table and alerted us to her presence by her hissing in Farley's direction. Unsurprising, but nonetheless slightly concerning, so I made a move for Celia in order to remove her from the room. Mere inches before I managed to get my hands on her, she literally darted three feet in the air at Farley, all four sets of claws and teeth poised for attack. Poor Farley squealed like a banshee as Celia what I can only describe as viciously attacked him. Our friend hastily lifted him up by the collar onto his lap whilst, shockingly, Celia remained attached to him with all four of her limbs. Matt managed to pull Celia off and place her back in the bathroom, but not before one of the animals released a revolting-smelling spray of liquid that impressively managed to project all over our sofa, floor and coffee table as well as our friend. Needless to say Farley went straight home, where I'm told he quickly recovered 

from his shock. For the next five minutes, Celia resembled a bloated squirrel with her bushy tail and spine as she patrolled the flat looking fierce.  

Now obviously it was a silly thing to have allowed this to happen (although I am wondering whether Celia's cunning has now extended to achieving the ability to open bathroom doors) and it was a truly horrendous scene to watch (and scent to remove) but it does astound me that a cat could get this violent. I suppose my message is never to underestimate how protective a mother can be, because even for a petite, sleek little cat like Celia, her "moves" have certainly made me more weary of pissing her off (and believe me, I can be annoying).

Look at her. Butter wouldn't melt.

In other news, Rosey is eating like a trooper and growing admirably, whilst Oscar doesn't seem to have regained much weight since his dramatic weight loss and diarrhea, despite also eating like a trooper. They both still have URIs and it's been weeks if not months. Their noses are all snotty, they're sneezing and Oscar is finding it hard to breathe. I am not overly worried though because they're both still very lively, eating well, have good stools and I keep them well hydrated, but it's still a little unsettling that they continue to be ill. Their eyes are getting gunky again, although thankfully I have ointment for that from last time. I've been told there's not much I can do about their illness as I've already used strong medication in the past so they just have to see this through. 

"Walkies!"

From a young age, I'd always wished with the annoying vehemence of a child that I could walk Zack and Tiddles on a leash. After some casual experimentation, it was clear that neither would do much more than just lie there and resent having something attached to them. 

We've all seen the odd cat (along with its odd owner) walking on a leash or chilling on a pub chair in the summer and have no doubt been wowed by it, or intrigued at the very least, yet many have deep reservations about having a cat do this because, okay, cats aren't dogs, but I don't think it's cruel and I am hoping that my Canadian peers will be more understanding than the Brits, considering most Brits are against cats being kept indoors (and therefore believe cats should roam free outdoors sans leash) whilst Canadians seem to promote house cats (from my observations, anyway). 

I obviously don't intend to take any cat on regular hikes around the park or anywhere where there is traffic or crowds of people, but if I am to have a cat (fully vaccinated, of course) that I'll be keeping indoors to keep them safe from Canadian wildlife, sub zero temperatures, feral cats, a hunting reputation and the actions of crazy neighbours with guns who dislike cats on their property, I might as well enhance their little lives a bit by letting them venture outside supervised. 

So anyway, it suddenly dawned on me a few weeks ago that now is my opportunity to teach these kittens how to walk on a leash. My mum is actually adopting Mini-Cat and Rosey so I've admittedly been selective with their training, but my God is it easy to do if you "get them" at a young age.

When it comes to wearing the harness, I knew Mini wouldn't be fazed even if there were an actual 120 lb rottweiler strapped to her back, and as you can see from this picture, she is indeed so comfortable with wearing it that she doesn't even mind sleeping with the harness on. Before PETA get at me, I obviously don't let her wear it when I'm not around. The last thing I want is a hanging kitten. 

So I am now at the stage where every other day I take each kitten for a little walk down the corridors just outside our flat. Mini-Cat is the most advanced. I say "Mini-Cat, come, come" and make kissing noises, which prompts her to start walking alongside me, then when I say "Stop, sit" (or more often "Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop. Stop, Mini-Cat, stop. Okay, sit. Sit. Sit, sit, sit, sit"), she does as she's told and sits. Then I tickle her chin and she starts purring like a maniac. Of course, all this "obedience" could just be a happy coincidence but the contrast between her behaviour and that of a motionless, stubborn Tiddles ten years ago is already vast, so I'm happy. 

On a handful of occasions, same-floor-dwellers have emerged from the elevators, spotted a kitten on a leash and quite obviously questioned their sobriety (their own, not the kittens'). I have also sometimes caught a glimpse of the old "What are you doing to that poor kitten" face, to which I've felt like shaking my fists in the air and shouting "You've gotta start them young, you do!", possibly in a Devonshire accent. 

Anyway, with time, I hope to get Mini-Cat and Rosey comfortable enough to have a bit of a venture in a quiet leafy green area downstairs without getting scared or me being judged. By the way, PETA, no I don't ever tug the kittens by the leash. I can assure you that the amount of baby-voiced coaxing I do would make even Mary Poppins vomit.

A magical place

I was transcribing a program today at work that was partly about a remarkable lady in California who devoted her life to caring for animals. Over a decade ago she'd been invited to visit a sanctuary for elderly cats and was surprised to find a place she described as cold and clinical. She thought surely it's not too difficult to improve on these conditions and give cats a safe, happy, loving environment to live out their lives in. Soon afterwards, Gail Pope and her husband Richard transformed their home into BrightHaven*, a sanctuary open to all animals that are elderly, sick or no longer wanted. 

These animals, mainly cats, aren't kept in cages or lack the attention they seek and deserve. Instead they have the run of Gail's entire house and garden, socialize with all the others animals, get fed a high quality, natural diet and most importantly are loved and looked after by Gail, Richard and a team of selfless volunteers who promise one thing: that this place will be a nurturing, comfortable home for them for good. There are currently over 70 cats at BrightHaven, as well as dogs, goats, horses and birds. These are all animals that have been abandoned, injured, abused or simply given up on. As you can imagine, many of the cats are from shelters where they'd otherwise have been euthanised.  

When I saw Gail talking on this program, I couldn't help but be struck by what a kind, giving lady she is, not just because of her extraordinary efforts, but also because of her general demeanor and obvious gentle, caring nature. All too often she is picking up the pieces of another person's selfish actions, yet she comes across as humble and understanding of them. She says that sometimes people feel it's best to put their animals out of their misery because, for example, the pet has the onset of kidney disease or has sustained a bad injury of some sort, but often it's the owner that is being put out of their misery, not the animal, so why should they not be entitled to carry out the rest of their lives in a comfortable, happy place where they are loved?

It would be a fantastic thing if places like BrightHaven were commonplace rather than a brilliant rarity, but I guess it all comes down to the issue of money. At least I know who'll be on my list of organisations to donate to when I have some spare dollars, and in the mean time I feel more uplifted than I would have two months ago knowing that, albeit small, I do form a piece of the jigsaw with my six little foster cats who may not otherwise have been given a chance.

* I urge you to visit BrightHaven's website. Their work is so inspirational and getting a glimpse into this feline dreamland, at the risk of sounding saccharine, really is magical.

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Uninvited guests

There's no fancying this up: this morning I woke up to several visitors in the litter tray. They were stunningly long and squirmy-looking (or at least looked like they used to be) and I was transfixed for several moments as I pondered how these things could have actually been living inside my furry little babies. 

Anyway, needless to say I was very grateful that Ferne from Toronto Cat Rescue had come over last night to deworm all of the critters, and by golly was it a mission and a half. Honestly, I admire anyone who can put up with and indeed be apparently oblivious to that many sets of needle sharp claws and teeth hacking away at their skin. On a positive note, Ferne confirmed it would be a good idea to clip their claws. Once this was confirmed, an evil laugh unfurled itself within me (inaudible, of course: I had to at least wait until I was alone) at the thought of the kittens trying and failing to mount and consequently draw blood from my bare legs in the mornings.

So they had worms, it transpired. Roundworms, to be exact, although they didn't look particularly round to me. This is all a bit of a mystery, really, for all the cats except Rosey had been dewormed, albeit at different times. Reassuringly, this worm fiasco might explain Celia's repeated vomiting as well as Oscar's weight and appetite loss over the past week. I imagine any fosterer would agree when I say there's nothing worse than a cat or kitten being ill, especially when the cause is mysterious. Unfortunately it happens a lot with shelter kitties, but at least it's all good preparation for when Matt finally gives in to buying me a ridiculously big diamond and we have a bambino of our own.

Anyway, so I'm hoping some good times will ensue now this worm saga's come to an end and that I won't have to be jamming KMR-laden syringes into unhungry mouths much longer.

Let's have some happy pictures to bring the mood back up, eh? Cue jaunty kitten music I composed with Matt last week.

Mini-Cat's more interested in what's not hers, like an envious socialite

Mini-Cat wants to do everything I do but knows secret and destructive key combinations that I don't.

Elliot pretending he's never mounted and consequently drawn blood from a single leg in his life.

Rosey just being... Rosey

Mini Monkey

For some reason I've gotten into trying to capture the kittens' comical antics. Frustratingly, they never do their "thing" as well as usual when a camera is pointed at them, but I did manage to catch Mini-Cat doing her monkey impression. Had basic science not proved this impossible, I'd bet there was gibbon in her ancestry, or at the very least lemur. 

Check her out:

In other news, I forgot to announce officially that Rosey is back with us. And is a boy. The latter detail is proving troublesome because he looks such like a fluffy little girl. The fact that we can't physically bring ourselves to call her anything other than Rosey (because it's so fitting) doesn't help matters. We must keep an eye on this because everybody knows there's nothing worse than a cat with identity issues.  He's been doing great though. The vet checked him over and said that apart from his snotty nose, he couldn't even tell he'd had pneumonia. He confirmed Rosey's masculine status and even had a surprisingly good old feel of his, er, assets. Then he lifted him up to his face and cooed "Look at your little head, look at your gorgeous little head. Look how small it is." Matt said (later) that that kind of thing must be attractive in a man, loving animals and all that. Well, it was, but was then promptly spoilt by the two of them discussing British football for ten minutes. I had to literally interject with "So, Rosey's eating. Can I give him something that he'll eat more of?" Honestly, you think you can move to Canada and get away from such disgusting football nonsense.

Anyway, here's a video of my precious Roseykins:

Literally driving me insane

I never knew that mild neurosis was a side effect of fostering, but there is no other explanation. The last week or so have been absolutely crazy what with trying to juggle the lives of six cats, my boyfriend's, and my own all under one roof. 

I've had precious little sleep and it's not been helped by the fact that about five times out of ten I wake up in the middle of the night, look around me and become convinced that the kittens are in my room. They're not, of course, but my favourite thing to do, alarmingly, is to "see" them in bed with us and start shouting at Matt not to roll over in case he squashes one. He's possibly more alarmed than me when this happens but he tells me he's used to it now. I've also been known to stare for long periods of time at corners of our room, utterly awake yet utterly convinced that I can see the exact contours of a kitten, if not several, sitting on my chair. I've had to physically get out of bed and grab the offending boxer shorts/discarded shirt/hairdryer to prove otherwise.

And it doesn't end there. Only yesterday both Matt and I found ourselves sat on the floor of our apartment with all of the cats around us, trailing bits of string and plastic mice around for them and - wait for it - singing a jaunty little tune together that we'd made up ourselves. We were convinced that it was exactly the type of tune you'd expect to hear accompanying a comical video clip of kittens playing on You've Been Framed or YouTube. 

Anyhow, I must remember to check the sound insulation of our front door. If I can often hear the neighbours talking, I suspect they can hear us singing to our six cats too.

My favourite old boy

I know it's Thursday and I am about to write about last weekend but the kittens have kept me REAL busy this week, plus I actually did write the below at the weekend without publishing it. Oh it's a long one...

I escaped from work earlier than usual last Friday and headed to my mum's in Innisfil for the weekend, leaving Celia and the kittens in Matt's hands, which are of questionable capability. My mum and I went for a walk by the lake with our champagne glasses and caught up on some girly chitchat, which is just what I was looking forward to after a busy week. I was also looking forward to seeing my favourite kitty of them all: my baby Tiddles. He's not actually a baby, I was in fact nine years old when I got him, but he still is and always will be my precious boy. 

For my ninth birthday, my parents had actually bought me a fish tank and four goldfish. Bizarrely, one died each day until they were all dead, leaving me with mild but significant traumatic scars (I still remain a sensitive, sensitive soul), so my devastated mum decided to crank things up a notch and bought me two little black kittens. 

Although I never forgot the fish (Misty, Moddy, Mardi-Gras and Goldie), my dream had come true. My older brother and I named the kittens Zack and Tiddles. Back then we lived in a fairly small house in Hampshire, England, and my mum was very house proud, so the cats weren't allowed on work surfaces, furniture or upstairs and were sent out into the garage to sleep in a heated box at night. 

Zack and Tiddles saw many years pass by in that little house, and saw both my brother and I grow up, become adults, move out, go to university and our parents separate. My mum eventually moved in with her new partner in High Wycombe before they planned on moving to Canada. In light of this, and because her partner didn't want to keep the cats in his house, we gave them to a rescue shelter. I know, it's awful and there's no excuse, but after a few days, we couldn't bare being apart from them, including my mum's partner. We took them back, much to the understandable annoyance of the shelter worker ("I hope you're not just going to abandon them again.") but it still upsets me to think how close we came to not having them in our lives anymore. 

They then lived like kings in High Wycombe, enjoying a bigger house and marvelling at the strange looking horses in a field the house looked onto, but the bliss wasn't to last too long. I'd just moved to London and started a busy corporate lifestyle when my mum called and told me that Zacky had died. He'd had a stroke right in front of her and was dead within literally seconds. I was inconsolable, to say the least. 

Zack & Tiddles in High Wycombe

Tiddles in Canada

Zack was always the friendly, bossy one who liked his food above everything else, whereas Tiddles was more reserved, slimmer and had affection for my family that stretched beyond just pursuing food and warmth. Throughout my troublesome teenage years, he'd always find me when I was upset and rub his face against mine as though he just knew I needed comforting. 

After Zacky's death, Tiddles soon became the centre of attention, enjoying a spotlight he'd not got a fair share of before. A few months later, my mum and her partner moved to Canada and took Tiddles with them. Since they've been living in Innisfil, Tiddles has been spoilt beyond belief. My mum is more house proud than ever, yet Tiddles now has complete run of the huge house, goes and sleeps wherever he likes and is fed fresh prawns and chicken breast. In fact, he expects no less. He is cuddled and cooed at and stroked by all of us all of the time and even gets fought over, each of us begging him to come and sit in their lap. At his ripe old age of 15, he even caught a finch just the other day (I'm not particularly for this type of hunting, but we believe the bird must have been weak. Natural selection, then?)

Each night I'm here at my mum's, he insists on sleeping at the foot of my bed, where he purrs until he falls asleep and sneakily crawls up towards my face and curls up as close to me as possible in the middle of the night. I don't think I could love a cat more. And bizarrely, having now got used to Celia, seeing Tiddles is like seeing a giant bulldozer of a cat because she is just so small in comparison. I wonder if they'd get on if I were to convince my mum to adopt her...