A Man and His Cat ( Post Gout Attack)

You  may sing songs of a man and his dog,

 Companions in work and in play.

But consider a tale of a man and his cat

Together for hours each day.

The man is book-writing, his cat's in the way.

 She's hungry for notice, just won't let him be. 

 Fluff-Ums needs petting and now would be best. 

"Pet Fluffs, Sir, and I might just cease."

"Fluff-Ums, I'm busy, I'm writing," he grumps.

"I'll pet you when this chapter ends."

"Now," she says, " Now, I simply can't wait!

I thought you and I were best friends"

Fluff-ums attaches herself to his shirt.

A wet spot appears on his chest.

She's nursing for comfort, and smacking aloud,

When kitty needs solace, this man is the best.

They dream of a time when Fluff was quite small,

 An orphan who needed his care.

When life gets too hard, and the stress is too much,

Fluff knows that her man will be there.

If her man is dead tired, is hurt, or not well,

She's busily kneading his chest,

Repaying his kindnesses present and past.

  She's purring him better, then best.

Orphan Kitten Update-- The Gift

"Boat" gifted us with four kittens three weeks ago.

They're chow hounds just like their momma. She used to grab onto the bottle fiercely when we hand fed her and her sisters after their momma, Halloween, disappeared last year.

Poor Boat, thinned out badly from kitten nursing, breathes a sigh of gratitude as babies learn to eat Kitten Chow. KC works well for Momma Kats, too.

Quite mobile now, babies try to help humans do laundry. Perhaps they search for scorpions, a favorite snack of our older cats. Small kitten-people need to be bigger before they try hot and spicy snacks!

"OOOOH! This shirt smells like the lady who brings the food!"

Another generation of porch cats joins the HomePlace. Invincible mousers, they work to clear the farm of rodents, keeping the number of snakes down, so "The Lady that Brings Food" will be safe. Thank you, Boat, for these beautiful and useful children.

P.S. Should anyone desire to adopt one, we would not stand in the way of a kitten's life of leisure in someone's home.

Peed On

This is probably the last picture of the three kittens together in the house. I was sitting with 'Boat in my lap this morning when I felt a warm, wet sensation. The little beggar peed on me! He's the orange striped one on the right.

Understand this wasn't the first incident of peeing outside the box. He's peed on the bed twice (once on Art-bad idea), annointed Art's chair, gotten both beanbag pillows, the floor and any clothing items he found on the floor. We've tried spanking him, rubbing his nose on the wet spot, and locking him in the pet carrier. Nothing works. The other kittens use the boxes, which are kept clean daily. He chooses not to.

'Boat became a porch cat this morning. He has food, water, and a litter pan. He looked Art in the face, ambled over to the pan and used it as if to say, "See, I know what this is for. Let me back in?" Not likely, since I just let him in this morning from an evening on the porch.

We brought him some snacks at dinner time, but outside is final unless anyone has any ideas. I feel really bad about this, but I don't want the place reeking of cat urine.

Helene

Worst Person in the World

According to kittens, I am the worst person in the world. I am the bath lady.

A rat-like, soggy kitten has no sense of humor. Laughing at one doesn't help my popularity, but how can you not laugh? Horror dawns on the little face as its toes touch the warm water in the porch sink. Then baby shampoo is applied and massaged into the fur, with even more water. Scrambling and crying, the baby twists and stuggles. Water flies everywhere. On to the rinse basin, where more water is poured over the tiny body with one hand, while the other firmly holds the victim.

I do try to keep water out of the ears, nose, and eyes, but struggling cats make it a challenge. When I finish the last one, I'm as wet as they are.

Art dries each with a soft towel, and makes much of his/her ghastly experience with the bath lady. They cling to him with relief and shoot "how could you" looks at me.

Think the bath lady is bad, babies? Tomorrow the claw trimming lady has planned a visit.

She comes while you're sleeping.

Helene

Kittens on the Move

We've brought in a large cage to keep the kittens
safe from themselves. These babies have the courage of lions and the common sense of a loaf of white bread.

They peer through the wire at the three big cats who register as toys in the kitten brain. Bad plan. Once released from their cage, kittens rush to their new playmates. Ock, the senior cat, loses air in a mighty hiss whenever he sees them. He escapes after slapping whoever is in his way.

The teen cats alternate between tentative play and streaking over the barrier closing off the living room. If either of the teens is cornered by a baby, she explodes into a hissing ball of fur. Hissing means little to these kittens.
They stand on their toes, puff up, and skitter around, crashing into big cats, each other, and furniture.

Everything is amazing to a kitten. Things tower above babies barely six inches tall. Mysterious things call . There's always a pair of hands snatching a kitten down from the top of something.The hands lock them into the boring cage to recharge for the next outing.

The bottle is retired and cat crunchers are almost the best thing invented. One of them will hustle to the food dish, throw an arm over it and start gobbling. The other two come up and get batted with the protective arm, while the busy jaws don't miss a single chomp. Bring in a dish of goat's milk, the supreme food of the universe, and the process repeats. Milk is harder to protect than crunchers; it can't be scraped up into a pile and laid upon. Kittens can growl while drinking, but yowling comes out bubbly. Whacking and slashing still works, but milk flies everywhere.

Once the kittens are out of the cage full time, the goat's milk will be discontinued. We're not feeding six cats on milk that's more expensive than the milk Art and I drink. There are limits to my generosity as the Mother of All Animals. Limits exist even for animals that get cuter every day.

Helene

Not Enough Milk in the World ...

...to wash away the taste of wormer.

Our vet says feral kittens need worming every two weeks at first. The wormer is flavored with banana to make it tasty. This baby votes "NO!"

Everyone is named: Motorboat, Bright Eyes and Ferrari.

This past week has been full of kitten firsts.

Tiny scalpel-claws have been trimmed to save our ragged, punctured cuticles. Desperate at feeding time, they flail their "arms" and clutch at the bottle and our fingers. There's only one bottle left. 'Boat and Ferrari started teething and 'Boat gnawed the nipple off their favorite bottle this morning.

Solid food, kitten crunchers soaked with water, have given all three something to chew on. They growl and smack as they seize the pieces, walk through the dish, and create messy mayhem. There's never enough food, even when their bellies are tight and round. An aftermath of Mom-cat's dissappearance, and two days without her milk.

They've discovered play. Wobbling on tip-toe, fur bristling, Bright Eyes charged her larger brothers for the first time. All fell down to gnaw upon ears, tails, legs or whatever was in reach. The jingle ball made for a short diversion, but a nap of several hours was needed to recharge before another feeding. The cycle repeated through the day.

Wally, their father, closely supervised their feedings at first. Apparently we're doing is as well as can be expected from humans. His shouted comments from his perch in the porch rafters have diminished, and he seems pleased with our efforts. The temperatures top 100 degrees daily, so we've moved the kittens inside for most of the day. Wally doesn't approve. When the kittens were outside in their carrier they answered his calls for Mama Halloween. Without them to meow back he's even more lonely.

The inside cat population is now up to six. The senior cat is not pleased with the teen-aged cats we adopted last month. The teens are not pleased with the new babies. When these three are fully mobile, I forsee the house in shambles. I can't imagine putting the little ones out after the hours of feeding and care. We employ "porch"cats to kill rodents here on the farm, but I think I've bonded with these babies and so has Art. I worry bout Wally being alone, too. I am the mother of all animals, just ask Art.

Helene

Kitten Rescue

"Halloween" cat didn't come back. After two days we had to assume the tri-color striped female wouldn't be back. She left a litter of four kittens, eyes just squinting open. My husband and I have been kitten foster parents for over a week.

This was labor intensive at first. Kittens don't drink cow milk; the next best available choice was goat milk. No milking goats here, just a cranky mini buck goat. Off to the store for condensed goat-milk-in-a-can. The vet box we keep here at the farm had one pet nursing bottle which would do until Monday. Milk appeared every two hours, as the babies made up for missed feedings.

Then there were bugs - fleas and lice crawling through the babies' dirty coats. At the hottest part of the day I shampooed them with the baby shampoo. The shampoo Art went back to the store to get. After they were clean, we had to wipe on flea spray to kill the unwanted livestock. Fleas and lice weaken infant critters.

Monday (6/8) Art leaped into the truck went to the vet for KMR (kitten milk replacer) and an extra bottle. The goat's milk wasn't working out, digestively speaking.

Kitten bottoms must be wiped after each feeding until their elimination systems become automatic. Four bottoms every two hours. I'm so tired.

Wednesday was Writers Group, and the babies needed a sitter. Fortunately our son lives nearby and agreed to kitten sit. We packed bottles, KMR formula, paper towels, terry towels to wrap them in while feeding, and smaller towels for their nether regions. It brought me back to safaris to the sitter when Matt was a baby. Good thing he doesn't charge. Going to Writers involves a 120 mi. round trip, so we packed in as many errands as we could, then picked up the babies at midnight and drove home for the next feeding.

The runt died Friday. He felt so still, small, and cold as I stroked him, then wrapped him in the pink towel he nursed in. Death is not unexpected on the farm, but it still affects me.

The three"tiddens", as we call them, put themselves on a five to six hour schedule now. Screams and shreiks of delight echo on the porch when the bottles are presented. They purr and wriggle as they suck and smack on the nipple. Their tiny arms wave in the air, and their fuzzy ears pump as they nurse. It feels good to see them thriving.

Helene