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.

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.

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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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.

Introductions

When the shelter volunteer turned up to drop off the mum and kittens (involving the first big chunk of time off work of about 10 more to follow to date), it turned out that I'd also gotten a "freebie" kitten. She was a tiny tabby of around the same age as the other kittens (about four weeks) and was apparently found on the streets and brought into the shelter by someone who happened to stumble upon her. Because she was so young and had no mum, she was also due to be euthanised. She was thrown in with the litter before being dropped off to me and the many crossed fingers seem to have paid off because the mum cat took to her straight away. So Matt and I had welcomed one black mum cat and five tiny kittens into our life and equally tiny flat.

Two of the kittens are grey and white and are very obviously boys, if you catch my drift. We named them Elliott and Dave/Oscar (still can't decide). One girl is black and the other one is black and white. We named them Mini-Cat and Tilly respectively. The "freebie" tabby's gender remains a mystery, but we settled on insisting she's a girl and named her Rosey (I stick firmly to my guns on this spelling, even though it was by mere chance/miseducation that I didn't think of "Rosie"). The mum cat we named Celia because it seemed to suit her sleekness and feminine charm.

The two kittens that stuck out the most were Mini-Cat and Rosey. Mini-Cat is not a particularly inventive name, but merely an accurate description of this kitten's appearance. Her proportions are almost exactly that of an adult cat but in miniature. She seems less fluffy than the others, so you can really see her beautiful catty contours. Her sister Tilly was apparently the runt of the litter and looked a bit despondent when she first arrived with us. I asked whether she might die and was shocked when I was told that this does often happen, actually. I really, really don't think I can handle anything dying in my care, let alone a gorgeous little kitten. This petrified me even further about the whole thing, but it was all done and dusted by then. There was no backing out. If I did, I might have to face the responsibility of having all these kitties put to sleep. Hello dark, scary dead end.

The story

I'm a 23 year old girl living in downtown Toronto with my lovely boyfriend, Matt.  Just over two weeks ago, I was absent-mindedly indulging my recurring fixation of getting a puppy by looking for puppy ads online. All of my friends, family and indeed myself know that I cannot possibly get a dog with my condo-dwelling, full time working lifestyle, but it was still mildly enjoyable looking at pictures of cute puppies when there were no new home renovation programs to be watched. I found myself on Craigslist, specifically on the Toronto pets section when an ad claiming to be "URGENT" caught my eye. There was a picture of a beautiful black cat nursing tiny grey kittens in a small steel cage. This little family was at a high kill shelter in Hamilton, where they were shortly due for euthanasia because of overcrowding.

The infamous picture from Craigslist:

Just over 24 hours later, the cat family was in my tiny condo on the 28th floor. Matt was displeased, my mum fuming and my mouth dry from disbelief that I'd actually done this. I am only fostering the cats, not giving them a permanent home, you understand, but for some reason it didn't quite seem real at the time: I didn't really believe that anybody would get back to me about saving these cats, or perhaps I thought that plenty of other people would have stepped up to the challenge before me. But no, one day I was young and carefree and literally the next I was, well, still young but carrying a whole load more responsibility.

You may wonder what the big deal is. After all, a cat is little hassle and a mum cat especially is very good at looking after her babies. This is exactly what I thought, yet the all-encapsulating masseuse-like fingers of dread still kneaded at my skin, and still little was I to know exactly how hard this venture was to turn out.