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.

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.

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.

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. 

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

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.

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.