Category Archives: Cats
Oh. It’s HER. She found mouse, dammit.
When mouse first arrived, it was pretty – red felt body, little green ears, dark yarn for a tail. Catnipped, of course.
A year down the road, it’s been rubbed, body-checked, drooled on, stuffed under the oven, and now has no resemblance to a mouse, cute or not. And we can’t throw it out. She finds it. She wanders with it in her mouth, yowling, late at night.
If you’re easily icked, I’d suggest going elsewhere right about now. Go read about a well-behaved cat. I’m sure one exists somewhere in the universe, if only in the eyes of a love-blind cat person. Otherwise, feel free to stay.
Our sweet little Yowler has been having a bad week. Intensely cranky this past weekend, he alternated between aggressive and listless, and seemed off his food. He had issues with his cat-box. He didn’t wake me a half-hour early for our traditional joust de yawn that precedes my official 5:30am wake-up time.
All signs pointed to another rousing round of kitty stress, and the fun vet bills and car trips that go with it.
So… off we went to the vets on Monday with both kitties in tow (may as well get them both checked out, just in case). An hour later, armed with knowledge and an assignment, if not the foresight to realize that this would end badly, we headed home by way of Bosley’s. Our assignment? To isolate his Yowliness until he provided a urine sample we could take back to the vets for analysis.
He’d had so much water, we actually thought this would be easy.
What the hell were we thinking?
He was indignant at his incarceration, to put it mildly. There was howling, yowling, clawing and random thumps as he threw his little body against the door in protest. All within the first ten minutes.
Oh, this did NOT bode well.
We ended up pulling shifts, sitting in the bathroom with him while we waited for him to do his thing in the nice new box we’d purchased.
… and passed…
… and passed…
… but the urine, it did not.
By 2am I was so tired I was punch drunk, muttering curses under my breath, wondering if threats of bodily harm could scare him into doing the wee dance, and thinking very dark thoughts about the darling boy, who I’d sent off to bed at midnight since there was no reason for both of us to stay up and be miserable.
By 2:15 I’d tossed in the towel, thrown some litter in the box and let the yowler out of confinement. How I made it to bed without passing out or crashing into something is beyond me.
Tuesday afternoon he went back to the vets, showed himself to be nothing if not predictable in his stubbornness, and had to be left there for a few hours before he’d give up the goods.
Wednesday evening we were out at a photo shoot, and got a message from the vets that the results were in and there were a few things they wanted to discuss. By the time we called back, all the vets were gone and we were asked to call back the next day.
Called back in the morning, but no vets were yet available. Someone would call us. We waited the whole day.
By the time we finally got the results, I’d simply shut down, and decided that no matter what, I was not going to freak out.
The end result? Someone has to go back in two weeks to get blood tests to make sure his kidneys are in good shape.
This would be me breathing normally again.
And oh yeah – he decided to wake me at 3:40 this morning for breakfast and play time. I think he’s feeling better.
Last week duck #405 arrived from the States ready to be photographed as part of the Duck Project on Flickr.
My main concern? That she (I decided right off that it was a she) would not survive her time in my apartment with the Yowler of Yaletown, who, apparently loves duckies so much he nibbles them….
I have a list of places to take her, and my trustee camera in my bag. So I put to you two things:
1/ If she were your duck, what would you name her? Names that have already been suggested are Lola, Dalai Ducky and Hodgson (first name of one of my favourite authors and a current Vancouver resident, Barbara Hodgson).
2/ If she were your duck and you wanted to show her your city, where would you take her? I’ve been told she must go sample the java delights of both the ubiquitous Starbucks as well as the fiercely indie coffee shops, go to at least one protest at the Vancouver Art Gallery, and take a dip in English Bay.
I’ve a slew of things I’m writing about, but they’re all in the mole. The yowler is currently sorting through the detrius, and will probably choose something worthy enough once he’s done making the bookmark his own.
After years of non-scientific testing, we’ve decided that contrary to popular belief, cats don’t have dander. They have an as-yet-unidentifiable sleep-inducing compound in their fur, that when in contact with a human lap for more than ten minutes, will catalyze and induce the most profound drowsiness possible without the use of chemical compounds.
I can go to from reasonably functioning to completely zonked out in less time than it takes to get through the opening sequence of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (on DVD, with no commercials!).
They of course have the ability to fall asleep just about anywhere, at any time, and still be exhausted by the time we need to go to bed. I have no idea how they do it, but next time round, I wanna come back as a cat.
Anyways, our sleeping arrangements have been years in the making, but only recently have the L.C.’s managed to get us trained so completely.
Used to be that the little one would start her bed-time routine at 9:30 or so; chirping, she’d take a few steps to the bedroom, make sure I was following, then chirp and walk some more. This would go on until it was fully established that she wanted to go in bed, and I was expected to go with her, like some lady-in-waiting.
Nowadays she takes a less aggressive approach, mainly because she’s spent the last few years beguiling my sweetie to the point where he knows he’s wrapped around her paw and doesn’t care. So now she reposes on ‘her’ chair until she’s picked up and cuddled in to bed with us. By the next morning, said sweetie is clinging to one side of the bed, and I am either curled into a tiny fetal position or trapped between two furry cat bodies, afraid to move without waking them.
Either way, the L.C.’s have taken over the other 3/4 of the bed. Typical.
One of the first things people point out about cats is their ability to groom themselves. Generally speaking, it IS nice.
Except on those days when you realize they’ve shed so much in a week that you’re nice cream couch is now woolly and tabby-coloured, and there’s enough fur on the bathroom floor to make an extra cat, but then you’d be outnumbered and that would be a BAD, BAD thing.
So we attempt to brush the L.C.’s every day.
There are days when they both appreciate the brush, and all that excess fur is dealt with in a couple of minutes. It amazes me that so much comes off, but I’m so grateful I don’t want to think about it too much.
Then there are the days when the big one decides this is a contact sport akin to rugby, and I end up chasing him round the apartment until he’s tired, at which point his bones melt and he slithers under the couch. Sometimes this is accompanied by some colourful language – from me, not him. So far as I know he only understands, but doesn’t speak, Spanish.
Once in a while they need a bath, but those occasions are rare and not even spoken of in whispers – too traumatic, too undignified for all of us. Except the part where I laugh and say they look like soggy rats.
Here’s the rub though: If we don’t at least attempt to brush them, we get the opposite of the silent treatment.
I swear they’re trying to make me nuts.
I share my tiny apartment with an oftimes-fabulous partner & two little tyrants. They have proper names, but just as often are referred to by various nicknames, including the ever-popular @#$% Cat! or gato juevon if they’re really getting on my nerves.
Lately I’ve taken to calling them the little criminals, as their two-cat Mafia has taken over the way our home, our daily schedules, and even our sleep patterns are run. I joke about it, but they truly do run my life, and I’ve lived with them long enough that I no longer struggle against the bondage.
Feeding & Watering:
It no longer seems strange to me that on waking, I pad blearily to the washroom, turn the cold water tap on so it’s at the perfect trickle level, and wait. I’ve been known to lean on the doorframe,eyes half-closed with pillow memories, waiting for the small one to make the jump from ground to counter. She doesn’t always make it, in which case she complains loudly, probably that we’ve raised the counter height or something, and waits impatiently for me to pick her up. The large one is better at the jumping and maneuvering (particularly on or into things he’s not supposed to, like the top of the fridge or the inside of the dryer) but he too has plenty to say.
Especially when he doesn’t think he’s been fed enough, which is always.
Feeding is almost always accompanied by head-bonking (his & hers) and fanging (his). For those of you without cats of your own, these are signs of affection, especially the fanging, a toothy swipe against hand or the ticklish part of foot that basically tells other animals “watch it, this one’s mine”.
Not for the ticklish.