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.

"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.

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. 

"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.