"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.

"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.