Dazed and Confused

PET PEEVE THURSDAY--Irresponsible Pet Owners

Behind our house is a farmette, one of the few left in our suburb.  Unfortunately, they have barn cats.  Cats they don't neuter or spay.  Ten years ago, we took one of the cats to our vet to have it spayed, thinking it was a young cat in heat--thinking we would keep it.  Only to find that Mollie was Ollie, who was much older than we thought (by about a year).  We knew we could not have a formerly unneutered male cat introduced with our two male cats because one that sprays its urine to mark its territory will ALWAYS spray to mark its territory--and we couldn't live with that.  So we contacted our local non-kill shelter, paid the cost of all shots and turned Ollie over to them and felt terrible and horrible for a very LONG, LONG time.  (Okay, we still feel rotten about it.)

But . . . the farm cats seem to go on and on.  My mom's friend lives about a half mile up the road from us.  She lives on the south end of the farm and she's been feeding (and taking these cats to the vet) for years.  

We first saw Orange Kitty with Stumpy Tail last fall. We also saw her many times over the winter, and felt sorry for her.  And then we didn't see her at all until last week.  Farm cats seem to come and go.  The other day, we saw Orange Kitty in our front yard with a mouse in her mouth (at the time, we didn't know she was a she) and said, "Go, Farm Kitty--Keep those mousies from coming into our house." 

We've seen her coming and going since then.  But last night we were sitting in our enclosed porch when she came into the backyard, causing all kinds of kitty excitment.  Except that Bonnie saw Orange Cat and got so hot and bothered she attacked the first cat she saw--her ailing sister.  Then Chester and Fred saw Orange Cat on the deck and hot all interested.  You could almost see the thought balloons over their heads:  "Think we can kill this bitch?"

Orange Cat retreated to the rose campion portion of the garden.  Then suddenly we saw not only Orange Cat, but teenaged Black-And-Orange Cat and teenaged Orange Cat.  That's when we knew that Orange Cat was Mama Orange Cat.  And how many other teenaged kittens were lurking in the foiliage on the west end of our yard?  (Well, it turns out at least ONE more Orange teenaged cat.)

My family has a summer cottage in the next county, and I can't tell you how many ads there are in the weekly rag not only for FREE KITTENS but "Moving, please take our (aged) cat" ads there are every week and it breaks my heart.  What is with these people?  Why are pets disposable to so many damned people?

If you aren't willing to take on the responsibility of a pet for its entire life (or heaven for forbid for a HUMAN CHILD) DON'T DO IT!  This isn't rocket science.  Spay and neuter your pet.  I'm not a PETA maniac, whose agenda really seems to be to outlaw pet ownership altogether, but let's face it--not spaying or neutering your pet and turning their offspring loose to fend for themselves is nothing short of animal abuse.

PLEASE, PLEASE support your local no-kill shelters.  Please donate money so that people without means can have their pets neutered and NOT contribute to the booming population of unwanted animals that will either die from traffic accidents, or be eaten by other preditors (coyotes in my area), or die of disease.

If you have an ounce of compassion in you--please help these poor creatures.

And what's bugging YOU today?

PET PEEVE THURSDAY: Nothing is Safe

I love my cats.  They are a source of constant joy.

They're also a pain in the neck.

Each of them have their little quirks.  Fred likes to chill out in his carrier during the day.  Betsy likes to "work out" (pretend to claw) your foot.  Bon-Bon likes to hear the sound of water dripping from the bathroom tap.  And then there's Chester.  Chester is a "wool eater."

According to the cat book, wool eaters eat fabric.  Chester actually doesn't eat wool, but there's no doubt about it--he's a "texture" fiend and fabric of any kind is his friend.  He likes to lick the kitty cushions under the big (200 watt) light bulb.  He'll lick the afghan on the couch (if we don't catch him), and he's very fond of all his fabric (including Beanie Baby) toys.

But he's also fond of MY STUFF.  NOTHING IS SAFE.  My friend Gwen makes lovely woven bookmarks, and I have been the happy recipient of many of them.  But I can't leave them laying around or else Chester (the nosy) will find them.  Then he'll "kill" them (with much yowling) and then carry them around in great triumph before presenting them to my husband or me.  We don't dare leave a pair of socks on the bathroom floor. Next thing you know, they'll be in the kitchen or the dining room.  I have a pile of beautiful linen napkins in a basket--all set for a charity auction.  They've been ending up all over the house, too.  (Back in the laundry they go.)  Same with a dresser scarf I bought last week.  You never know what treasure Chester is going to find and redistribute.

Okay, as peeves go, this is a small one--but it's still annoying.  (And cute at the same time.)

And what's bugging you today?

  

Fred--annoyed

This is Fred.  It's not the nicest picture of him.  He was quite annoyed at the time.  See, Fred likes to chill in his carrier.  We think this is amusing.  I mean, we've never had a cat who actually LIKED  being in a pet carrier.  Fred is NOT like most cats.

As a matter of fact, Fred was a rescue cat.  He and his brother, George, were in a cage at PetSmart for THIRTY-NINE WEEKS before we brought him home.  Technically, he should be a basket case.  He's not.  He's quite a mellow cat, and extremely affectionate. 

But don't mess with him when he's snoozing in his carrier. 

Night of the Puking Cats

Four cats produce a LOT of hairballs. 

Perhaps I should restate that:  TWO of our four cats produce a LOT of hairballs.  And since this is shedding season, there are more hairballs than usual, despite almost daily brushing of the worst offenders.

When we returned from our trip to the Malice Domestic conference, we noted the lack of hairballs on the rug.  We’re good, we told ourselves, and swept up the litter in the laundry room.

But it was not to last.

Why is it that cats pick the most inconvenient times and/or places to eject their hairballs?  We took off for our cottage on Friday, taking the sisters (Betsy and Bonnie) with us.  Going to the cottage gives them a break from our exuberant boys.  We drove for about an hour, and just as we were pulling up, Bonnie started retching.  Yuck!  All over the towel in her carrier, and all over one of her legs.  Ick!  Good thing I have a box of tissues in the car.

We get inside, unpack, and sit down to relax for a few minutes.  Rukka, rukka, rukka!  Next up, it’s Betsy, and wouldn’t you know—she had just filled up on the dry cat food that we put out for the girls.

I don’t know how your cats react, but ours always puke at least three times.  The main event, and then parts two and three (not as dramatic, but just as aggravating).

Okay, we figured.  We’re good.  They’ve both had hairballs.  We should be safe for the weekend.

Nope.

There I was, sleeping in heavenly peace, when—Rukka, rukka, rukka!  Good heavens!  Who’s puking now?  Since both cats had been in bed with us when we turned out the light, I didn’t know which one to go after.  It was Betsy again!  And not only that—she had puked on the pillow between us! 

Wow—dodged a bullet.  Off came the pillowcase!  But Betsy wasn’t finished.  Onto the floor.  Into the hallway.  Next up, the kitchen.  She finished with one last volley on the living room rug.

I think I used half a roll of paper towel with that one, but figured she’d gotten it out of her system, and she’d be good to go for the night.  And I was right!  But I had not reckoned with her sister.  Two hours later, I was awakened with a familiar sound:  Rukka, rukka, rukka!

“Get off the bed!” I hollered, and Bonnie obeyed.  She only puked three times.  On the bedroom rug, the hall floor (which, thankfully is laminate), and the kitchen floor.  More paper towel, more cursing and swearing.

It’s time like these 

that I have to remind myself:  I love cats…I love cats…I love cats.

Hunger Strike!

When mealtime comes for our cats, they eagerly mill around the kitchen, waiting for the sound of the lid being ripped from the can.  Two, if not three of them show up, wanting to lick the lid.  Three of the four eagerly sit up.  (Chester looks like a little prairie dog when he sits up.)

But then three of the four cats sniff their food, glare at me, and walk away.

Grrrrrr.

Hey, this is Friskies.  And it's not like we feed 'em the same gunk every day.  Supposedly, we're giving them 10-15 different flavors.  We buy it in case lots -- usually 15-20 cases at a time.  Then I painstakingly separate them so that they get a different flavor for every meal.  They don't seem to like the "classic pate."

It used to be that none of our cats liked any form of tuna/fish.  But suddenly, it's only the tuna that immediately gets scarfed down.  And oddly enough, some times the food that was so repugnant in the morning, is totally gone in the evening. (And, uh-oh, wouldn't you know, the tuna combinations seems to be absent from the web site.  That does NOT bode well.)

Lately, I've tossed out more food than they've eaten.  In fact, I've come to ask them, "Should I save time and just throw this away now?"

They glare at me.

The problem is, you never know what flavor of food will be available when you hit the store.  We usually buy the food at PetSmart.  Sometimes they have LOTS of variations of tuna -- last time we only managed to find one kind.  (See above comment.)  Foolishly, we only bought one case.  The cats have let us know their disapproval.

I had a couple of coupons for Friskees Select cat food, and boy did they like it.  It disappeared in minutes.  The only problem is, that cat food is double the price of the regular Friskees. 

I know, I know--we really shouldn't be feeding our cats commercial cat food, especially after what happened with tainted pet food.  But our cats don't like "real" food.  Okay, Bonnie and Betsy will eat a piece of cheese here and a piece of ham there, but offer them chicken or any other kind of meat, and they act as if they're being offered poison.

Anybody else bugged by your pet's eating habits?

Hungry cats with no worries

Okay, we've got four cats.  That's not really all that much.  I like to think of it as two pairs.  (Two girls; two boys.)

Our cats like to eat.  Oy--do they like to eat!  And two or three times a year we head out to the pet store and fill up the back of the car.  Can you guess what we did the other day?

This last load of 336 cans ought to last us until February.  And wouldn't you know, a day later we got a $10 coupon in the mail.  That's okay, we're getting low on Special Care (urinary tract dry cat food) that they also eat.

Can you believe, if we get snowed in, the cats don't have to worry about food.  Meanwhile, we don't have that much stored up for us. 

Well, several kinds are pate.  We can always spread it on crackers if we get desperate.

A natural high

I am a pusher.  Yes, I dispense mind-altering substances at the drop of a hat ... or quite honestly, the drop of a tail.

Yes, I grow catnip.  And I serve catnip.  My audience?  Four cats who willingly surrender to the mighty aroma of this pretty-damned common mint leaf.

According to Wikipedia:  "Nepeta is a genus of about 250 species of flowering plants in the family Lamiaceae. The members of this group are known as catnip or catmint because of their famed effect on cats—nepeta pleasantly stimulates cats' pheromonic receptors."

Pleasantly stimulating?  Come on...my cats go NUTS--but to different degrees.

Backstory:  Years ago (possibly ten or more?) I bought a solitary catnip plant from the grocery store and planted it in the backyard.  It didn't do well.  By the end of the summer, it was skanky and shriveled up and turned brown.  It was a dismal disappointment.

The next summer, however, the children of most-disappointing plant said  "WEEEEE!" and took off like wildfire.  Said offspring of that one original plant are still seeding the backyard, much to the cats' delight.

Each kitty reacts differently to catnip.  Betsy, our little black-and-white princess (also known as "the Kitten" or "Baby") eats it and rolls and rolls on the floor.  But she usually only eats part of one leaf and is contented.

Chester, hubby's boy, thinks he likes fresh catnip, but he really doesn't.  He'll pretend to eat it, lick it a lot, and spit it out. It's the dried stuff he likes.  And not just any dried stuff.  We ran out of our own catnip around March of this year.  I bought him catnip from our local Petsmart.  He let me know that this catnip was vastly inferior to the homegrown variety and he refuses to eat it.  (Grrrr...and I bought two bags which he will not touch.)

Fred, my tiny son, loves fresh catnip.  All I have to do is walk out the enclosed-porch door and he's sure I'm going to come back in with a whole handful of fresh catnip leaves.  (NOT!--or not always, at least.)  He's really good at being hand-fed fresh "nep" (as my hubby calls it).  He will gladly eat whatever Betsy and Chester leave behind.  He never gets silly, and he's always appreciative.

Bonnie, our gingerbread girl (because she has a nose the color of gingerbread), takes catnip best of all.  She's not greedy, but she will patiently stand there and munch as long as you want to feed her.  Often, she gets more than every other cat (despite Fred's vacuum-cleaner ways).  Poor Bonnie has never adjusted to Fred's and Chester's arrival (and Chester arrived ten years ago).  She's fearful of boys and constantly looks over her shoulder, anticipating attacks that usually don't happen.  But all they have to do is LOOK AT HER and she will scream bloody murder.  She particularly likes to do this in the dead of night when you're asleep, waking you with the sure knowledge that the house is about to explode!

I have never felt guilty supplying mind-altering substances to my cats.  Hell, hubby and I observe happy hour every evening...why shouldn't the cats indulge, too?

And how do you spoil your pets?

Bullied

There's a lot of talk these days about bullying.  Even though I'm a grown-up, I'm bullied on a constant basis.

You're looking at the face of a bully.  I'll be sitting at my computer, working away, and then in comes Bonnie and she wants one thing:  my chair.  Why?  I think because it has a cushion.  To Bonnie, any cushion belongs to cats.  (We do have kitty cushions scattered around the house--so I guess it's not surprising that she thinks this way.)

First she walks in the room, marks the legs of my desk and then she pulls that killer move:  she looks at me.  With kitty eyes.  If that doesn't work, she meows.  That meow says, "Get out of my chair.  NOW!"

I'm just a helpless human being.  I get out of the chair.

My father thinks that cats run our house.  (He might be right.)  But look at this face.  This is the bully that rules Dad's house.  Jessie demands food.  I can't walk in the door without her nag, nag, nagging me for a treat.  (She prefers M&Ms.  Don't tell me chocolate kills dogs, she's been eating them for 11 years.)  She demands to sit on laps.  She demands (and usually receives) half of my mother's lunch.  Sometimes she gets impatient and starts carrying on when she thinks my visit has gone on too long.  "Get out of that chair.  Go home!  But first--more M&Ms."

My name is Lorraine, and I'm bullied by domestic animals.

Just being lazy

Not me--those silly cats.  Frank has a lamp with a 200 watt incandescent light bulb in it.  He needs good light to work.  Only since the day he got it, it has been a cat magnet.  Even in the summer, the cats will sit under it and look annoyed until we turn it on.  THEY WANT TO BE WARM.  (The bulb does put out some significant heat.) 

Meanwhile, I'm putzing along on a rewrite that's going nowhere (not the work, the book.  There's nowhere I can send it at this point in my career.  I'll finish up today or tomorrow and it goes back on the shelf for at least another year), while contemplating all the promotion that has to get done before the end of this month.  And brother, there's a lot of it.  Approximately 1000 letters will be mailed before April 1st.  I need to get the material into final form and start printing it out.  (Then doing envelopes.  Then assembling the stuffers. Then applying stamps.  Then....)

Meanwhile, there's still another book to be written.  (I have exactly two paragraphs so far.)

Oy.

(BTW, the cat in the foreground is Betsy, well known on this blog for being "sick kitty."  She's not sick (right now) and she's even got some padding on her ribs once again.  Go, Betsy!)

Ellen & Iggy -- Me & George

I can well understand why Ellen regifted her little dog Iggy to another family.  He didn't work out with her cats and she wanted to do what was right for the dog by placing him with a family she thought would be a good fit.  And it would have...if the shelter she'd gotten him from hadn't found out and done a power play.

I am guilty of "regifting" a pet myself.

Let me say that I was very proud to say that every pet I'd ever owned had always worked into my home...until we got Fred and George.  They were named after the Weasley twins from the Harry Potter books.  I have chronicled their tale on my website, here.   If you aren't willing to jump there, then I'll give you the 50-cent version here.

Like Ellen I signed a contract that said I would give the cats back to the rescue organization if they didn't work out.

The rescue agency that took them in demanded these two boys be adopted as a pair.  George was full black.  Fred was a (black & white) Tuxedo.  As essentially "black cats" they were pretty much considered unadoptable--but the agency still refused to split them up.  They remained at that rescue agency, in a very small cage, for THIRTY NINE WEEKS.  Can you imagine two full-grown male cats stuffed into a tiny cage for more than half a year???  I'm surprised they weren't totally neurotic. I noticed Fred (who I immediately fell in love with) in the summer.  In the fall I went back to Petsmart and saw him again. I thought he was another cat.  Then in January, when I realized how long those cats had been in that same damn SMALL cage I mentioned it to Frank. He thought it over for 12 hours and said, "We have to rescue those boys."

Then the nightmare began.  You can't easily bring in two adult male cats in a home where another adult male already lives.  George, tiny as he was, made Chester's life a living hell. (Trying to break up a fight between them, I got bitten, and my thumb swelled to double its size, plus turned black with infection.  DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME).  But it wasn't until he'd beaten the crap out of our baby (Betsy) that we knew we could no longer keep him.  (And that was also at the point when he decided he needed to mark every inch of the house as his own.  Do you KNOW how really awful cat pee smells like on a hot July night?)

After Fred, my own little Prince, had marked my brand new Eddie Bauer denim couch, RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, we knew the line had been drawn in the sand.  I did not want to give up on Fred...but George, his ringleader, had to go.

Fred and George lived in the enclosed porch for a month, separated from the other three cats, until we decided what to do.  (And lots of tears happened in that month, let me tell you.)  It was then Frank's cousin (in Buffalo) said she had a friend who wanted a companion for her girl cat.  We were worried George might be mean to the new cat, but we were desperate to live in a happy home once more.

We contacted "Cindy" and she agreed to take in George.  Mind you, we'd signed the same kind of contract as Ellen, but we were NOT prepared to see George go back in a cage if he could have a shot at a happy home. 

George and I cried all the way to Buffalo--a 70+ minute trip.  We didn't know Cindy from a hole in the ground, but she seemed like a very nice woman with a very nice home.  We let George out of his carrier and from that instant, he was master of his new domain.  He made it clear that Cindy was his new Mom and I was nothing more than a memory to him.  After we left (me in tears, and I cried for three whole weeks afterward--and still can't bear to hear Josh Grobin sing lest I burst into tears--another long story), he bonded to Cindy like superglue.  On day two, he was at the door waiting for her when she came home from work.  He never attacked his housemate.  Four years later they still are like two peas in a pod.

And what about Fred?  He has thrived without George, and George has thrived without Fred. George is Cindy's barnacle in the night.  Fred is mine. 

I shudder to think what would have happened if George went back into a cage without Fred.  And now I know that I will never feel guilty for separating sibling cats again.  We got Betsy and Bonnie as a set because they had their little arms wrapped around each other when we first saw them at the Humane Society as kittens.  But the truth is--in the long run--each would say the heck with you and happily live without the other.  Cats are not people.  They do not need siblings to survive in a world where humans will love and FEED them. 

Cat's are extremely adaptable creatures. 

Sick Kitty Update - 10/16/07

Betsy's last cancer treatment was two weeks ago.  It was the worst.  She was shaking so hard, it was hard for the vet to get the needle in her vein.  The vet also commented on how thin her hair was getting.  (Betsy used to have the thickest, softest coat.)  We brought her home and she was was a very unhappy little kitty.

By then, we were giving her five pills a day and she was sick.  In fact, so sick she would not eat and had really bad diarrhea.  We thought she was dying.  We knew (Oct. 6th) that we could not put her through that torture any longer.  We were convinced we'd be taking her back to the vet on the 8th for the final time.  As it turned out, we did end up at the vet's on that day, because Betsy's sister (Bonnie) needed her asthma shot.  Our vet asked us how Betsy was doing and we told her she might be seeing us in the next day or so.

But then an odd thing happened.  Betsy perked up.  In fact, by Friday (the 12th) she was back to being Betsy.  I mean the PRE-illness Betsy.  Her appetite was back (and this was without the appetite stimulant) and she was sleeping again.  (For the past couple of weeks she'd just sit with her legs tucked under her and stare at nothing.)

We think the BIG cancer pill she got at the end of September is probably the reason for her perkiness.  But in addition to that (and the intravenous drug), she's supposed to be on a daily predisone pill.  We've cut that off. 

We're pretty sure that when that big pill wears off the cancer is going to come back with a vengeance.  But we couldn't in good conscience torture the poor cat anymore.  If she's going to die anyway, she might as well have a few happy days.  And she has been happy. 

We went into this knowing there wasn't going to be a cure, and now we have to live with losing her.  We aren't going to get an extra two years like my friend Sandy got with her cat.  But at least we know she's not suffering right now.  That'll have to be good enough.

Torture

Torture is against the Geneva convention.  Yet, our government has authorized torture as a way to a means.

I can't subscribe to that thought.

And yet....

I wonder if I'm torturing my cat.  Poor Betsy's life is sliding ever closer toward death.  We're reaching for straws as we now are pilling her twice a day...with up to 5 pills.  We're not good at this.  We try our best, but she knows we are AFRAID.  Our fear becomes her fear. 

Our vet has been great.  She's been e-mailing her colleagues looking for ways to make this easy on our cat, but it still comes down to being the GREAT EXPERIMENT.

We've got one last shot at remission for Betsy.  A new WONDER DRUG that has worked for people (first experimented on cats).  We're praying it works--but, truthfully, are not hopeful.  Our vet has told us we can discontinue any time...but what if we give up too soon?  Our vet learns with every new treatment she tries.  We hope that she learns enough to save some other cat.  To spare some other cat-friend/owner of the pain we are going through.  But there comes a time when enough is enough.

Betsy was not happy this weekend.  She let us know this.  So this last ditch at treatment is probably more for us than her.  And yet...there is a LOT of guilt.  Are we prolonging her agony?  Is our love for her making it worse for her in the long run?

We're doing the best we can, and living with the fear that it is not enough...and worse, knowing that trying to save her was way too much for her to bare.

I really don't know.

Freaked out!

The above title pretty much explains how our cats spent yesterday.  Once the roofers arrived, they wasted no time tearing off the old roof.  This consisted of taking shovels and scraping it off.  Needless to say, four cats went flying.  Bonnie ended up under the guest room bed until Happy Hour (when peace finally reigned), Betsy (our sick girl) fled to her traditional hiding place behind the file cabinet.  Fred (who likes to think of himself as Mr. Brave) ran from the safety of his carrier to under the guest room bed (much to Bonnie's displeasure) and then hid under the family room couch. 

Only Chester, who's deathly afraid of thunderstoms, managed to overcome his fear of roofers.  He sat on the guest room bed for a good portion of the day, gazing at the skylight overhead, seeing people walking around and watching debris fall on the glass.

Needless to say all that banging wasn't condusive to getting an excess of writing done.  But I did manage to get in my minimum daily word quota on my Work In Progress.

Whew.  But I've run out of ideas.  I sure hope something comes to me before I face the blank page this morning.

Sick Kitty Update - 8/15/07

It's not so amazing to me that the ups and downs my sick kitty experiences affect me, too.  Our whole household, in fact.

Her last bloodwork was better, but not great.  She had a bad weekend where she would not eat.  We tried to entice her with coldcuts (turkey and ham...okay, she ate a couple of small pieces of ham), and chicken and lamb baby food.  Nope.  Nope.  Nope, she said.  I will not eat.

Monday she did eat a little beef baby food.  She licked up half of what I gave her (about a heaping teaspoon--twice), but soon walked away.  In zoomed the other cats who said, "Hot damn!  This stuff is good!"

Yesterday, though, she showed up for breakfast.  (She hasn't been doing that for months.)  She even ATE breakfast.  I tiptoed out of the kitchen because any noise will make her scatter.  She did real well, ate half her Friskies Salmon.  (And I saw her head back and take a dip from Chester's bowl a couple hours later, too.)

It's inevitable we're going to lose her, but while she's still doing Betsy things and eating, we're cheering her on every day.  But thinking of what's ahead does weigh on my soul.

 

Sick Kitty Update - 7/25/07

Things are not going well for our baby kitten, Betsy.  Two weeks ago we got a call from our vet’s colleague.  Mind you, we should’ve known better than to listen to one of these “colleagues.”  She’s had a few of them over the years and all of them have been not ready for prime time.

He more or less told us that things were in a wait-and-see mode.  Well, they aren’t.  We saw our vet yesterday and she was NOT happy with the results of Betsy's last blood tests (the ones her "colleague" called us about). 

Our vet has always been straight with us, but the clueless fingerlings she takes on as vets-in-training aren't as honest as they might be.  Or is it they just don't care? I wonder if she knows what they tell her decades-old clients?

After a few months they leave her, open their own CATS-ONLY practices and people with no inkling of their inexperience go to them, mores-the-pity for their patients.

I trust our vet.  She’s a damn fine cat doctor.  The fact that our cat isn’t doing well, despite what her still-in-diapers colleague thought we wanted to hear, was a stunning blow yesterday.  We knew our Betsy was still losing weight.  And soon we'll have to face another decision.

Do we torture her and take her to the Azkaban of cat medicine (Cornell), or do we let her go gracefully and with dignity?

It’s going to be damned hard to let go of our girl, but we're determined not to let some wanna-be vet talk us into letting her be Dr. Frankenstein’s next great experiment.

We love her too much for that.

Another Sick Kitty Update

Betsy has been on chemo now for two weeks.  The news so far is mixed.  While the enlarged lymph node is now back to normal size, she has lost weight and appears to be jaundiced.  More blood was drawn and we'll have the results sometime today.

Meanwhile, she still does all her Betsy things.  Hangs from chairs, Frank's foot (like a bowling ball), naps in the sunshine, works out my feet (that is, pretends she's scratching her claws on my Crocs), eats her food (she likes it all dried out and crispy.  Ick). 

We got a lesson in pilling.  Now to see if we can carry out these instructions.  (Cats do NOT like to be pilled.  Why can't you just slip it in a piece or ham or peanut butter like you can with a dog?  Dogs, the fools, will eat anything.)

More news as it happens.

The Word's Worst Mum

That's me.  Cat Mum.  A long time ago I figured I wouldn't be able to cut it as a mother to human children, so I figured I'd stick with cats. 

It's very easy to be a good cat Mum when your 'kids' are healthy.  But the minute they aren't--watch out!

So our baby girl (Betsy) has been diagnosed with lymphoma.  As an adjunct to her chemo, she's supposed to take Prednisone.  We told our vet she wasn't likely to be good with pills.  The protocol was two Predisone pills a day for ten days and then one a day--FOREVER.  The vet said if all we could do was one a day, it would be adequate.

Adequate is all we can handle.  But starting tomorrow we have to give a chemo pill AND the Presnisone pill.  HOLY CRAP!

At the vet, Betsy is Miss Submissive.  Our vet can tap a vein to take a blood sample or administer liquid chemo and Betsy is so afraid of being handled by strangers that she won't struggle.  But we mere mortals (her Mum and Dad) are putty in her paws.  She smells our fear and makes it her own.  Pill Time is Terror Time.  WE are the villains in the Panama hats with no other motive than to TORTURE her.

And for hours after we give her her pill(s) she musters a look that says I LOATHE YOU!

It's a pity she can't understand that a pill a day will improve her quality of life, and that for four days a month the chemo pills will lengthen and give her a better quality of life.

In the meantime, she glares at me because for 10-20 seconds a day I have to wrench her mouth open while Frank uses the piller and shoots in the medicine. 

In her eyes I am a BAD MUM

It makes me cry.

Sick Kitty Update

And so Betsy has had her first chemo treatment.  Wow--first came lots of Math.  Who knew a vet had to make so many calculations before giving an injection?  But, we have the world's best vet (Betsy Arnold at Caring For Cats) and I trust her.

We got some answers to a bunch of questions.  My friend Sandy has been through this with her beloved cat Simon, and she suggested Betsy might have a good quality of life for as long as two years.  Our vet was careful not to make any promises, but she has had very good luck with this therapy and even has seen a couple of cures.  And it seems like we caught this in the early stages because only one of Betsy's lymph nodes seems to be affected.

Naturally, Betsy was as good as gold.  (Although she didn't want to come out of the carrier.  She knew where she was the minute we walked through the door and hid her little face in the back of the carrier.)  But she took the shot well and was happy to come home.

Then came the pill.  Cats on chemo also go on Prednisone.  Betsy had never been pilled before.  She did not like it.  I've got to figure out a way to give her her pill and make it a pleasant experience.  (I tried rubbing catnip over it, but it didn't help.)  Unfortunately, she isn't a cat who goes for treats (like the others), so that's another snag.  But...we'll figure this out.

In the meantime, she's still doing all her usual Betsy things. 

She's happy. 

Let's hope she stays that way.

Sick Kitty Update

It's definite.  Our little Sweetheart Girl, Betsy, has cancer.  Fortunately, our vet says she has successfully treated this type of cancer and there's a good chance for remission.  It's a three-week course of chemo.  Week one:  injection.  Week two:  pills.  Week three:  injection.  Week four:  nothing.  Week five:  see week one.  It starts on Tuesday.  (Sadly, the 11th anniversay of when we lost our Katie Cat.)

Not that I want something like this to happen to any of my cats, but something in my brain keeps asking, "Why her?"  She is the most inoffensive little cat in the world.  A very sweet nature, and very loving.  Why should she have to suffer?

Mind you, her sibling also has health issues.  Bonnie has asthma and needs to get a shot every couple of months.  We figure Betsy was the runt of the litter.  Her back legs seem underdeveloped and she has a hard time jumping onto anything higher than table height, whereas Chester could leap tall buildings in a single bound--and do it with grace and dignity.

This wasn't really unexpected news...but it's still very unhappy news. 

We love our kitty.

Sick kitty?

On Monday we took all four of our cats to the vet for their "well kitty" visit.  Two needed rabies shots, all needed distemper and fe-luk shots.  (They don't go outside, but can you be too careful when you have an enclosed porch?)

We were worried about our baby, Betsy.  She's lost weight.  Not a lot.  She's been up and down as our vet pointed out to us.  But...she has this enlarged lymph node. 

Didn't Linda McCartney start out with an enlarged lymph node?  Didn't she end up having breast cancer?  Didn't she DIE from it?

So we were terrified when our vet gave us those words.  Some years before she'd said, "What's this on Larry's jaw?"  Larry was Frank's tiny son.  It ended up being cancer.  It had spread to his lungs.  We lost him a scant two weeks later.

So we were terrified when our vet said she was "concerned."  She took a VERY LARGE blood sample.  Betsy was as good as gold, never flinched or made a peep.  Our vet manhandled her for close to ten minutes, unsure of what she was feeling as she palpated.  But damn she's a good vet. 

So the sample analysis came back today:  not good.  I didn't understand everything our vet said, but it didn't sound good.  So back Betsy will go on Monday for a "day-long" evaluation, which will entail a needle aspiration and an x-ray.

We're terrified.  We remember how fast we lost our Larry.

Our kitten, Betsy, is Little Miss Perfect.  We don't want to lose her. 

We are very much afraid.

Chatty Catty

Much as I love him, my cat Fred is high maintenance.  He has the kitty equivalent of obsessive-compulsive behavior disorder.  Not all the time, mind you, but most frequently between the hours of 4-7 p.m.  That's when he'll get all twitchy, lick, lick, lick himself, and then run, run, run all over the house, bouncing off the walls and toppling small furniture.  He wears himself out and then is calm until the next time it happens.  (Sometimes he goes for days without an "attack.")

Fred also has another quirk.  He talks a lot.  I've had other cats who'd talk to me.  My Katie-Cat was a great little chatterbox, but she didn't initiate conversation, just answered questions.  I'd be getting ready for work in the morning and ask if she'd had a good night; she'd answer "Yow!"  Or what did she think of the weather?  "Yow!"

Fred's different.  He doesn't really talk to anyone in particular, just roams around the house making all kinds of yips and yaps--sounds I've never heard a cat make. And he likes to do this between the hours of 3 to 5 A.M.!!!

Needless to say all this nocturnal yipping and yapping can be detrimental to one's sleep.  At home, he can wander far from our bedroom to have his little personal chats, but at our cottage, which is considerably closer quarters, his talking gets pretty annoying.  And if he decides to shut up, he usually decides it's time to annoy our other cottage kitty, Betsy.  All he has to do is look at her in a certain way and she'll continue to growl, even if he leaves the room, and she likes to do this growling from under my side of the bed.  (You'd think the mattress and bedding would muffle the sound, but for some reason it seems to amplify her displeasure.)

We have excellent cat sitters who look after our other cats while we're at the cottage.  We could just leave Fred and Betsy home.  (They other two don't travel well.)  But aside from actually getting them in the carriers, they're good travelers and seem to enjoy their home-away-from-home.  They know where everything is (litter box, the best windows to look out of to see hummingbirds, squirrels, neighborhood dogs, boats out on the bay), and they have their favorite sleeping spots (Fred on his little afghan at the foot of the bed, and Betsy on the shelf behind the bed).

Both cats are extremely affectionate when they're at the cottage.  We might see Betsy for 2-3 hours on a normal day at home, but at the cottage she's there 24/7.  And some days when it's cold, I'll get both cats on my lap--something that would never happen at home.

But I need my sleep!!!  So next time we head for the bay Fred will stay home.  We'll bring Miss Perfect and hopefully get a good night's sleep.

Fred On Myspace

Yup, Fred has his own page on MySpace.  And he's been collecting a lot of new friends.  Most of his pals are other cats, but there are a few dogs in there as well.  (Fred's an equal-opportunity friend.)

A lot of people want to be Fred's friend, too.  Particularly scantily clad young women in provocative poses.  Fred has been neutered, so not only isn't he interested in these young woman, but he's not even interested in "girls" of his own species!

People (mostly women) wanting Fred to obtain unique ring tones are also eager to be his friend.  Some people are filling out a lot of surveys and they want Fred to know he can make $Big Bucks$ if he'll just fill out a few, too.

But some of those who wish to be Fred's pals are also pages featuring animal rescue organizations.  Some of these pages show heartbreaking pictures of cruelty toward animals, like a female pit bull that had acid tossed in her face "just to make her mean."  Apparently it didn't work; it just burned her muzzle.  She was dumped in a shelter because she wouldn't fight other dogs.  (And happily rescued and now has found a good home.)

I have to admit, reading that "success" story turned my stomach and made me cry.  If I'd just read the text, I would've been okay, but they showed before and after pictures.  That site had LOTS of before pictures that turned my stomach.  So much so, I had to quick click back to a more frivolous page (but not before approving the "add").

Thank heavens there are compassionate people out there saving abused animals.  I wish I had the intestinal fortitude to be on the front lines, but I'm afraid I'm too big a wimp.  I couldn't face seeing that kind of abuse first-hand.  If nothing else, the best thing I (and you) can do is to support no-kill shelters with money and or other things they need.  (Some advertise for blankets, towels, etc.) 

Fred came from a no-kill shelter (at age 18 months).  Sisters Betsy and Bonnie came from the local Humane Society.  Chester was (is) a neurotic cat who'd been returned to a pet shop.  (How many other saps would buy a full-grown, returned cat from a pet shop?  Yes, we do have SAP written across our foreheads.)  They've all made wonderful pets.  Cats nobody else wanted.

Imagine that.   

The Kitty Happy Dance

Joy doesn't happen enough in this life.  If you're able to bring joy to any creature on this Earth--even for one moment--jump at the chance.

Two years ago I picked up an insignificant little yellow beanie bunny toy called "Tulip" in a garage sale free box.  I figured one of my cats might like to play with it.  Little did I know now much kitty joy a bit of cloth and a few beans could bring.

Fred, my Little Prince (and my tiny son), took to this little bunny like a small child to a beloved toy.  Fred tosses his bunny in the air, flings it high and low, and hides the bunny beneath furniture to assure other cats can't play with it.  His favorite hiding place is beneath a chestnut commode we have in our entryway.  Once out of reach, Mr. Bunny becomes an object of great desire.  Fred sits before the commode and cries piteously until I move it so Mr. Bunny can be free once again.  But sometimes Fred forgets where he puts Mr. Bunny, and always expects it will be hidden under this piece of furniture.

Last fall Mr. Bunny disappeared for a full three months, during which time Fred became very depressed.  Several times a day he'd show up in front of the commode and cry.  He learned to open the door on it, thinking if he got inside he'd find Mr. Bunny.

I'm not the world's best housekeeper, but I try to dust at least once a year--whether the house needs it or not.  Needless to say I found Mr. Bunny behind a shelf that holds my Santa carvings.  Fred must have tossed him in the air and he landed behind a big fat Santa and out of his reach.

Fred had at least an entire week of pleasure tossing and flinging Mr. Bunny around before he lost him again.  We looked high and low, under all the furniture--at least a dozen times.  Meanwhile, the ritual of pawing the commode until it opened started once again. 

Mr. Bunny was lost for another two months.

Earlier this week, Fred sat in front of the fridge and cried and cried.  I ignored him (because he's always telling me Mr. Bunny is here, and then bunny wouldn't be there), poured my tea and went back to work.  But for some reason, yesterday I took out Mr. Yardstick, swiped him under the fridge and out popped Mr. Bunny, totally covered in (what else?) dust bunnies.  We vacuumed him off and then gave him a quick bath in the sink and let him dry before we presented him to Fred.

Pure kitty joy.

Bad Boy

Fred, my Little Prince, is a bad boy.  It's hard to face this because I love him to pieces, but he is (to quote that British nanny from TV) "very, very, naughty."

He chases Bon-Bon.  He chases and bites Chester. He makes Betsy growl.  And HE WILL NOT SLEEP!

Both the boys sleep with us.  Chester curls up on an afghan between our pillows, and Fred likes to sleep right by my feet, which means I'm scrunched up and uncomfortable for most of the night.  But that's not what bothers me. 

Fred likes to get up very early.  And often once he's up, he wants everybody else up, too.  Not only that, but once he's up, he likes to talk.  Yip, yap, squeak!  I have never had a cat with such a wide vocabulary.  God knows what he's saying, but I think it's something like:  "Get up, Get Up, GET UP!!!"  And "Pay attention to me, Me, ME!!!"

The worst thing, though, is that he scratches on the closet door.  At 2:19 a.m. this is akin to fingernails on a chalkboard.  Frank keeps a squirt bottle on his side of the bed, but Fred is fast!  He hears the water slosh and he's on the run. 

Lately, Fred has had a string of "bad nights."  Not for him, since he sleeps most of the day to make up for it, but bad for us.  I'm such a pushover that when I'm most angry with him he goes and does something cute and I fall in love with him all over again.

Happy Halloween and other stuff

Happy Halloween!  I hate it.  I mean, I love the candy, like the decorating, hate answering the door.  In fact, I won't!  I make Frank do it.  (And as a reward he gets to eat most of the leftover Reeces Peanut Butter Cups.)  He likes it.  He likes seeing the kids in costumes, but then he's a Dad and he dragged his kids around the neighborhood when they were little. 

I have cats.  In fact, I have two black cats and they NEVER go outside.  And on Halloween I worry about all the black cats out there running free and could be harmed by nasty, evil people.  And make no mistake, they're out there.  (Hey, I know these things.  I write about it.)

On other news:  Within the next couple of days I hope to announce the FIRST winner of the "Win the Wing Sauce" contest.  (The book has been ordered.  Now it just has to show up!  And I want to get a picture of the winner for my web site.)  All you have to do is get your local library to order a copy of MURDER ON THE MIND.  Click here for the contest rules.

MURDER ON THE MIND has now shown up in Bellingham, Washington.  (So far, no one is taking credit for that one.)

I had good intentions to work very hard on the new bookseller book yesterday.  (Damn, I wish I had a title.)  Unfortunately, I only got 1/3 of my words and I raked leaves because it was WARM and SUNNY, something that hasn't happened much around here lately.  I also had to rearrange the pictures over my computer.  (They called to me, I listened.)  I put up the painting Frank did of the view from our cottage so that it can inspire me during the upcoming L-O-N-G, COLD winter.  I also put up a very sweet (very old) print of a man with his flock of sheep and these wonderful (almost bare) fall trees.  Hopefully these changes will inspire me to write more.  (Well, it sounds good, anyway.) 

Betsy is still convinced there's a mouse in the kitchen, but still nothing has been caught in the traps.  And there's no tell-tail signs of droppings.  (Ick-poo!) 

Getting ready to head for Saratoga Springs on Friday for the MWA-NY Chapter's presentation to the New York Library Association.  I don't know if I'll sell many books, but I'm sure going to pass out as much promotional stuff for MURDER ON THE MIND as I can.

Tomorrow is DECORATE THE BOOTH day at The Craft Antique Co-Op.  Time to haul out all the Christmas stuff and get ready for the Dickens Festival, something we do every year.  The "festival" starts on Nov. 8th.  And we've got extended hours.  (We're going to be open Wednesday, Thursday and Friday evenings until 8 p.m.)  Doesn't it make you want to just run right out there and buy books as Christmas gifts!  (Hint, hint.  And not just mind.  Take a gander on the right hand side at all my chums' books!)

With all this going on, it's a wonder I have time to blink!

Fred Update

Recap:  Fred, my little Prince, has been racing around, licking and biting himself, and generally not being himself now for over three weeks.  We had to wait to get him an appointment.  (That's what happens when you have a popular vet.)  In the meantime, they wanted us to try treating him for fleas.  (I knew he didn't have them--and he didn't.)

While we were waiting for our appointment, I asked my Aunt Michele if she had any idea of what was wrong with him.  She's practically a vet she's had so many animals with health problems; she takes in rescued dogs and other "discarded" pets (usually older animals nobody else wants) and she and her husband Graham transform these often unloved animals into wonderful happy pets.  Honestly, they've got a gift for it.

Anyway, Michele diagnosed the problem from 3,000 miles away:  Feline Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.  The article she sent me listed everything that was happening to Fred:  skin rippling and muscle spasms/twitching, often accompanied by running and jumping.  Boy does he run!  Boy can he jump! 

So today he got a cortisone shot.  If that doesn't work, it's pills (Phenobarbital).  I'm not happy about either remedy, but if it give the poor boy some relief....

We'd been home half an hour when Bonnie had an asthma attack.  It just doesn't quit.

Like a Switch Thrown

Anyone who's read this blog for a minute and a half knows how much I love my little Prince, Fred.  Never have I had a cat who loved me as much.  But on Thursday afternoon, everything changed.  I was working on my rewrite and he was looking out the window in Frank's office.  Suddenly, he bolted, running the entire length of the house.

He's been running for days.  Running and stopping dead and licking his legs furiously. And when he isn't doing that, he's hiding.  This was a cat who wanted to be with us 24/7.  If I went in the kitchen for a glass of water, he'd get up from his chair (he usually spent the day in Frank's office on one of the office chairs) and follow me.  He'd lie on the kitchen floor and wait for me to go back to my office.  Then he'd go back to work, too.

Everytime I'd leave the house, he'd be waiting for me behind the door when I got home.

Every night he'd look forward to his cookies at happy hour.

Not anymore.

While he's never been a particularly brave cat, now suddenly any noise frightens him.

We haven't taken him to the vet yet because we're afraid she'll say:  "I don't deal with behavior problems."  (Which is what she told us when Fred's brother was spraying the house with wild abandon.)

At the end of the day my sales for Murder on the Mind still sucked, but I had my little boy who loved me.

I want my cat back.

My Only Sunshine

Okay, so I love my cat Fred more than a woman probably should. I have had the world’s best cats: Katie, Cori, Larry, and Henry (and many more before them). And then came the current bunch: Bonnie, Betsy and Chester. Then we adopted the two most incorrigible boys in the universe: Fred and George, named after the Weasley twins in Harry Potter.

We tried mightily to integrate Fred and George into our cat family, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Although tiny in comparison, Boy George was determined to murder the girls and Chester.

Thanks to Frank’s cousin in Buffalo, George found a new home. Her friend had recently lost a cat and was looking for a companion for her resident cat. I can’t tell you how many days (months) I cried at losing George. He was my little boy; he sat on my lap by the hour, looked into my eyes with love I have never seen from a cat, and much to my sorrow, he transferred that love to his new Mom within minutes of arriving at his new home.  (It's been three years and George still rules the roost!)

So. That left Fred. Without George, Fred was for the first time in his life an independent entity. Suddenly, he had no one to bond with. (They were together in a small cage in a Pet Smart adoption area for THIRTY-NINE WEEKS!) So, Fred decided to bond with me. (Oh, like that was such a HARDSHIP. NOT!)

Okay, it was Fred’s beauty (he’s a gorgeous Tuxedo) that first attracted me to the two boys in the cage. The rescue agency wouldn’t let the boys be adopted separately, which was a huge mistake, since they both have thrived without the other.

So, here’s Fred. My tiny son. My Little Prince. And how I spoil him--worse than any other cat I’ve had (and let me tell you, I’ve had more than a couple of cats who’ve been spoiled royally).

And then there’s Bing Crosby.

Frank and I have what we call "loser songs." Thanks to a really, really OLD oldies station, I got to like some of Bing Crosby old songs. I even bought a couple of CDs. One of the songs is: "You Are My Sunshine." Oy! what a loser song! We can’t abide lyrics where the singer is lamenting love gone wrong.

"You are my sunshine; my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away."

"OH, GET OVER IT!" we shout! "Find someone worthwhile!" we taunt while listening. "Move on to someone who will love you for who you are, stooopid!"

So I changed the words: "You’ll always know, dear, how much I love you, cuz I’ll tell you every day."

Just about every day for the past year I have sung this little ditty to my tiny son. He can be in another room and if I sing that refrain, he’ll show up: He knows that if he hears those words, that tune, that it means he’s loved. That he will be picked up, and petted, and kissed.

He’s a pretty smart boy.

Of course he is. He’s my Little Prince.