"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.

I should've been a vet

Rosey stood out not just because she was the outsider tabby, but because she is so incredibly beautiful.  Her dumpy fluffball physique is the exact opposite of Mini-Cat's, but this makes her inexplicably cute, especially as she waddles around confidently. The perfectly symmetrical markings on her tiny face showcase the masterly skills of an enigmatic force that so intricately laid each tiny strand of fur in just the right place (nature? God?). She waddles around meowing her head off, much more vocal than the others, and loves to be cuddled, at which point she nuzzles right into your neck, stares into your eyes and meows at you periodically, almost scolding you for even thinking about putting her down again. It broke my heart over and over again to see her sitting alone in the corner of the basket, watching her foster brothers and sisters nursing with Celia. She had no interest in nursing and no amount of coaxing could get results.  Celia groomed her, but she just wasn't interested. Eventually, her instincts couldn't be fought and she was soon unstoppable when it came to finding those teats and having a good dinner. They soon became one big happy family and with Tilly now brightening up, the worry subsided somewhat.

From the time I first got the kittens, Rosey had some respiratory problems: she was wheezing and sniffling constantly. Presumably, this was not looked at because she'd only just arrived at the shelter when she was dispatched to me. After the first 3 days, she hadn't got any better, despite putting her in the bathroom and running a hot shower every day to help her with her breathing.  By the time she got diarrhoea that became very nasty and wouldn't go away even after 3 days, I knew it was time to visit the vet.  As a fosterer, Toronto Cat Rescue pay for vet bills, so they quickly arranged for me to take Rosey to the vet, along with Celia, who had vomited the day before and had a potbelly, and Tilly, who had strange nodules on her ears and nose.  These two were sorted quickly enough, but the vet soon realised there was an issue with Rosey's health. An X-ray revealed she had bronchiolar pneumonia and they insisted on keeping her in. Coupled with the diarrhoea, her chances didn't look great, the vet said. With a kitten so small, things like this can rapidly go downhill and tend to go one way or the other. Heartbreakingly, they gave her a 50/50 chance of survival. 

That night, Rosey came home with us because the vet was shutting for the evening. I couldn't sleep with worry and kept checking on her. I had to put the poor mite into the bathroom because she was pooping all over the flat and all the other kittens were stepping in it if I didn't catch it soon enough. She also needed to be separated from the others to prevent them from getting her illness, if they hadn't gotten it already.  Rosey wasn't eating and was very lethargic, which I knew was not a good sign.  The next morning, she perked up a lot and even ate a bit, so we took her back to the vet with higher hopes. The vet arranged for a lady from Toronto Cat Rescue to take her until she got better. They did strongly suggest taking her to a 24 hour clinic over the weekend to give her intensive treatment, but of course TCR are a charity and already the vet bills were nearing $1,000. 

So Rosey was receiving all the necessary antibiotics in this lady's home and we were all crossing our fingers, including the vet staff who, of course, also couldn't resist falling love with her stupidly beautiful face.  This was on Saturday, nearly a week ago. I am told that Rosey is doing better in that her diarrhoea has gone and her wheezing has improved drastically, but yesterday I learned that the cold had resurfaced in her nose now and she is all bunged up. She ate heartily yesterday morning, but didn't seem too interested in the evening. Her course of antibiotics is coming to an end tomorrow and I was told by the TCR lady that they might not be able to give her a longer dose as it's already so strong. What does this mean if she doesn't get better by then? I will get an update tomorrow, but I really don't know what I will do if she doesn't recover. I am trying to tell myself that if she's just got a nose cold now then, well, that's not pneumonia so surely it's not as dangerous(?). The usually opinionated people on Yahoo! Answers did not have an answer for me on this one.

Meanwhile, of course, the rest of the kittens developed cat flu.  Celia had it first and at her lowest point she was lying on my bathroom floor all day sneezing, sniffling, coughing, refusing to eat or drink and at the same time nursing the remaining kittens. Her eyes had swollen into red bulges and weeped uncontrollably. Mercifully, by the morning, her monstrous appetite had returned and she seemed a lot better. She was already on some antibiotics for cat flu so there was not much more I could do. Then the other kittens got it and continue to have it now. I tell you, it is not much fun when you're looking after four kittens who each decide to not eat for 24 hours at different times, struggle breathing, pee in odd places when they were fine with using the litter tray just the week before and cannot stop sneezing. Oscar (Dave) and Tilly's eyes swelled up to enormous proportions. I feel guilty about saying this, but Oscar in particular looks like he's actually had his eyes extracted and only his red, weepy sockets remain. It's dreadful looking at the poor little blighter, yet his gusto for playing with his brother and sisters and wolfing down his food is more than admirable.  

Yes, yes, I took them to the vet, all of them. Yet more time off work, but of course it's worth it.  I could hardly get to the place on time what with all the people stopping to comment on the kittens. Even in the clinic several of the reception staff asked to come in to have a quick play with them because they heard they were going to be there (I've built up somewhat of a rapport with the vet staff after the Rosey saga).  At one point, the vet and the assistant left me in the little room with them while they went to get some meds and by the time they returned, all four kittens were perching on my shoulders and arms like furry parrots. They're little monkeys, I swear.  Thankfully, the vet didn't seem quite as alarmed by Oscar's facial appearance as I'd expected, and casually prescribed some ointment as well as a course of antibiotics both for the kittens and for Celia. Feeling like a mobile pharmacy, I headed back home with them (2 km walk) before returning to work and the suspicious glances of my boss, who's convinced I'm interviewing at every other company under the sun by now.  

So here I sit, the first bit of 'me time' I've had in nearly three weeks and I am just about ready to go to bed. The kittens have all been played with, fed, medicated and nursed and in seven hours time, I get to do it all over again.

Surely actual parenthood cannot be any more stressful than this.