"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...

Mini Hunter

I came home today at lunch to feed my little chorus of meow-machines and to do a general tidy up (it's like there was a party in the litter tray and I don't mean the kittens). 

I found a little orange mouse toy in the kittens' redundant basket that a nice lady at my local pet store had given to me for free, so I removed it and threw it on the floor.  I served them their lunch a few minutes later and this time there was a voice missing from the preemptive chorus: Mini-Cat was mesmerised by the mouse toy. She was carrying it around in her mouth and wouldn't stop growling! Usually emitting a high pitched squeak, it was strange hearing this tiny little fluffball produce such a deep growl, but nonetheless I couldn't stop laughing. 

I brought her fun to an end and took her to the food bowls and after gobbling up her lunch, she returned to the mouse and continued creeping around the flat tentatively with this mouse in her mouth and growling. The other kittens were quite perplexed and dared not come near her.

In other news, Elliott dashed up my legs and shirt while I was preparing their food, made a two foot leap towards the kitchen countertop, scrambled momentarily (and desperately) on the granite before plopping to the ground. Now, obviously I would have stopped him from falling if I could, but as I couldn't, I had to laugh at his yet-more-courageous attempt at filling that already bulging belly of his.

Kittens everywhere

The little critters are growing at an alarming rate, particularly Elliott, who seems to be dwarfing the others more and more each day. He's got a crazy appetite and lately it's been hard to fight back the tears of laughter as we watch him desperately scrambling for his dinner. We have to give Celia some pills twice a day in her food, you see, so we give it to her first and watch her to make sure she eats it. No matter how hard we try to keep the kittens away from her bowl during this time, they're somehow always there in a flash, like homing missiles with claws and teeth. It's almost concerning the lengths Elliott goes to to get to Celia's bowl. He literally throws himself at it and if you dare get in his way, you'll be lucky to emerge unscathed.

With this tremendous growth spurt comes the awkward habit of the kittens roaming around the flat at surprising speeds, most often underneath your feet. As a former ballet dancer (6 months worth of lessons at the age of six), I am understandably light on my feet and cautious of everywhere I tread, however the same cannot be said of Matt's limbs, which seem to clamber more blindly through the flat than the kittens themselves. In the past week, he's stepped on two kittens and yesterday sat on Mini-Cat. I have no idea how it didn't turn out horrifying, but I am thankful that it didn't nonetheless. All I remember is seeing his rear end, again, blindly moving towards the sofa when I spotted a black blob directly in his derriere's path. Too late - he'd sat, but nothing happened. No squeal, nothing. I relaxed and realised it must've been the remote control. Moments later, his bum finally picked up the necessary signals and he stood up to reveal poor Mini-Cat looking - get this - not angry or confused, but mildly inconvenienced. She curled back up to sleep and I screamed at and lectured Matthew for several minutes before popping Mini-Cat on the floor to see if she was OK. She was totally fine and was abusing her brothers and sister again only minutes later. Naturally, if this happens again, Matt will be advertising on Craigslist for a roommate.