Some of the cats I have loved

These two cats are roughly the same age. The only difference I know of is that the big 15 pound hoss on the left was found when he was about eight weeks old, (a month after the little 9 pound guy on the right, who was an itty bitty four or so weeks old when we found him in our bushes.) So when we found Walnut, Momo was already eight weeks old and they were roughly the same size. There are a lot of unfixed cats, with new litters every year. I can think of two homes right now the road that seem to have new kittens every year, so it’s not even out of the realm of possibility that they are related, since I found them both in spitting distance from my home.

I suspect despite my best efforts with the kitten replacement milk, that those four weeks are a huge part of the reason for their size difference. 💜 I just hope Momo didn’t suffer any developmental issues with his organs. Heart problems are already very common in cats, and is what took at least two of my last the kitties. As any cat lover can attest to, loving cats is a crapshoot. You never know how long you have with them. Not three months before we found the first of the kittens, we had adopted Newt from our local shelter, through Petsense. Initially she was sweet but very…bitey. Easily overstimulated. My poor kid was in tears because she got mauled every time she tried to love the cat. But when Momo came to live with us, that changed a lot. Newt took to “motherhood” with gusto, alternately grooming the little guy and kicking the crap out of him, and Walnut fit right into the little family when he came along. It was like suddenly, she had a place for all her…excess energy. They all love one another.

And the really cool thing about these cats is they each seen to have at least part of the personality of our last three. Walnut is the most like my beloved Methos. He’s big and pushy, super loveable, and delightfully weird. He’s figured out how to work the ice dispenser on the fridge and he plays fetch with the ice. Momo is my standoffish, skittish little puker, like our Bengal, Chloe, was. We had her nine years, from the time she was 3 years old, and she only really started to chill out enough to seek out our company in the last 3 years of her life (she’d had a rough start to life, passing between several owners, one of which had declawed her, to my horror). And much to my constant irritation, she was forever looking for the most inconvenient place to puke…like the Playstation for example. And Newt, the oldest, the one adopted from our local Petsense, is the most like Evangeline, my first cat as an adult living on my own. I lovingly refer to her as “my old lady cat.” You know, grouchy but dignified and generally loveable. Each of these new cats have brought joy to our lives, and having then around has been like having a little bit of our dearly departed kitties still in our daily lives. Sometimes I say it’s like we got the same three cats, only reincarnated. I’m half joking but it’s a comforting thought. Either way, I love them for both who they are and who they might be.

Gizmo aka Momo approx 4 weeks (2018)

Walnut (approx 8 weeks 2018)

Newt, Walnut, and Gizmo

Update on Methos

I’m just going to copy and paste the update I put on FB.  This weekend has been exhausting and I am going to give the cat his meds and go to bed.

Yesterday was a long and exhausting day, and the outcome was not as positive as I was hoping. My beloved boycat Methos has an enlarged heart and fluid in his chest; essentially he is in early congestive heart failure, resulting froma  condition called HCM. They put him in an oxygen tent to help him breathe better and wanted to keep him overnight, but ( I will be completely frank because I know no other way) we could not afford the $1000 deposit, so they gave him more oxygen and because his distress is only mild right now, they gave him lasix to help get rid of the fluid on his chest and they allowed us to take him home. I asked the vet repeatedly because I wanted to be perfectly clear, if there is a chance that medication could manage the condition but to find out we need the echo of his heart to find out what kinds of meds would benefit him most. I want to give him this chance.  I will call first thing tomorrow morning to set up a echo before we make a final decision. Thanks to everyone who has commented, contributed or shared our GoFundMe. If you can help, even a tiny bit, we appreciate it more than you know; if you can’t, do me a small favor and share this post. Right now I’m beyond pride; I just want to save my daughter’s best furry friend.

As promised…

Okay, I gotta be quick; my friend is graciously allowing me to use her phone as a hotspot. As promised, I saved up some blog posts for you on my hard drive and am uploading them now. Here is the first, and it is about none other than my dopey boy cat Methos. No time to link. If you’re curious, just type his name into the search bar on my blog. He is featured regularly.

Orig date:11/10/14
Clearly, my mother was right, and I have no fucking common sense. (Don’t tell her I said that.)
The cats have fleas– big, ugly, brown, hoppy bastards! We got some of that Hartz stuff and put it on their necks. (One of my vet tech friends told me I might as well have spit on them.) Maybe it’s worked some…maybe…but not fast enough. The cats (especially Methos–) have been driving me batshit with their scratching and biting and flaking bits of scabs and flea junk all over the place. Hubby and I are getting bitten. Darling Daughter prob is too, but she’s too happy being four to notice or care.
So yesterday my friend told me to salt the carpets and vacuum after 12-24 hours and she also gave me the [dubious] advice to bathe the cats in Original Dawn. Now, some of my more regular readers may already be shaking their heads and chuckling. They are no doubt recalling what I myself managed to forget (it was probably a defense mechanism,) and that is the traumatic event that was the last time I attempted to bathe Methos.
Don’t get me wrong; I knew it would be brutal. I even bought a pair of rubber dish gloves in preparation, a lame attempt to protect mine or my husband’s hands, (whoever was unlucky enough to have to hold him in the water,) until the fleas try to jump ship, so to speak.
Supposedly animals have three responses to fear; flight, fight, or freeze. With Methos, it’s fight and flight, and fuck up anyone in the way. He seemed to believe, despite our having taken loving care of him for almost eight years, that we intended to drown him– either that, or the water was lava.
Hubby had the gloves, (Methos still bit the shit out of him) and I ended up bleeding. DD wasn’t hurt at all but she still ended up screaming, in sympathy I guess, (sympathy with us or the cats, I don’t know.) I don’t think anything but his legs and tail even got wet. We chucked him in the cat room and shut the door, leaving him to recover emotionally.
Chloe was easier. She chose freeze (and cry.) Still, her undercoat never got wet. There was not a single flea in the water from either cat, but both were wet and upset, and we decided to just take the flea comb to them to see what we’d come up with.
As you may have guessed, the cats still have fleas.

The Methos Chronicles: Episode [Nonoxynol] 9

I think I may have stumbled upon something here, folks.  An idea with real potential here:

A method of birth control more natural than pills, more reliable than “natural family planning…”   And the only thing you have to do is remember to feed it and scoop its litter.  Yes, I’m talking about my cat of course.  But seriously, for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, let me introduce Methos:

He’s lovable, he’s large, he’s dopey…he likes to wear shoes (sometimes on his face)…

And he has no qualms whatsoever about making himself comfortable in the bed (or on the couch) while hubby and I have sex.  The other night, I practically used him as a pillow, since he didn’t feel inclined to move.  But at least he wasn’t staring right at us this time.   That can get pretty damn awkward.  It’s like I can hear him thinking (perhaps in a British accent), Ugh, they’re at it again.  They’re worse than animals… that’s fucking disgusting…   Except, as I said, he can’t be bothered to get up and leave.  But we’ve adjusted to it.  Mostly we ignore him, and sometimes we kick him off the bed if we find him too distracting.

But there was this one time he happened to on the bed and there was a contraception… mishap.

Women who have experimented with different types of contraception may be familiar with a spermicide foam sold in a pressurized can with applicators.  So, for those needing it spelled out, the applicator can be filled quickly and with little preparation, by applying it to the top of the pressurized can and release it when you see the applicator is full.  Voila!  You’re ready for safe* sex.

*this foam is for prevention of pregnancy only, and does not protect against HIV or sexually transmitted diseases*

I don’t know where on the bed the cat was; I wasn’t really paying much attention to him.  Hubby and I were getting busy, and one of us was attempting to fill the applicator.   It wasn’t anything new, except this time, we held the applicator to the nozzle a bit too long.  Suddenly, the pressure from the can became too much.  The plunger rocketed out of the top of the tube in a plume of contraceptive foam and bounced off the ceiling.

It was a mess.  There was foam on us, foam on the bed, foam on the ceiling…   But we’re all adults here.  We know sex in real life is often not as sexy and graceful as Hollywood makes it look.  I don’t think that alone would have derailed us for long.  When I really lost it was when I looked over to see Methos, still sitting placidly on the comforter, a look of calm confusion on his face, and contraceptive foam dripping off his head.

Needless to say, it took a little work to get back in the mood after that, but the comedic value was priceless.

Methos; also now known as “Sleeps with Face in Shoe”

Saturday Morning First World Problems

Nothing to improve a Saturday morning like stepping in a steaming pile of cat puke.

This after virtually a whole night spent feeling like Donald Duck in one of those old Merry Melody cartoons.  You know, the one where Donald is trying in vain to sleep but one thing after another seems to confound his efforts?

My first mistake was eating a snack too late.  I’ve discovered, much to my dismay, that if I eat much later than 8:30 or nine at night, I will invariably wake in the middle of the night even hungrier.  It must kick-start my metabolism, kind of like a second wind for my appetite.  And in case you’re not a regular reader, I have a very low tolerance for being hungry.  It makes me cranky and miserable, especially when I’m trying to sleep.  So then I eat a little “mid-night” snack, which is really nothing more than me grabbing something as I make a small circuit from the bedroom, to the kitchen, to the bathroom to pee, and then back to the bedroom.  And since I usually wake up multiple times a night, catalyzing this routine usually results in several repetitions of this routine, as the more I eat in the middle of the night, the hungrier I am each time I wake up.  I’m usually okay if I can fall right back to sleep; I can take a sip or two of juice and be fine. I try to drink juice or milk or even water in place of eating, but sometimes that just aggravates my bladder and then I can’t sleep because I keep having to pee…  And then when I get up for good in the morning, I already have five hundred calories under my belt (pardon the pun) to try to work off for the day.

And then the damn cats– Methos, specifically.  He’s always doing irritating shit, like butting into the black out curtains and letting in light from the lamp outside my window.  He’s learned that he doesn’t have to run away unless I actually get out of the bed, so after like the fifth time he opened my blinds, I finally got up to lock him in the laundry room.  Chloe hears the door shut, knew she was next (cuz that’s where the litter boxes are), so she led me a merry chase around the coffee table trying to evade capture.

It sounds ridiculous even as I type it.

So, last night was spent in a semi-comatose swirl of eating, drinking, peeing, tossing, and turning.  All of J*’s stirrings made me anxious, as I dreaded her waking early and me having to get up and stay up.

Hubby had a headache this morning, but I managed to beg him into getting up with J* so I could at least get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep.

So I get up around ten AM and, as I make my coffee in the kitchen…squish…

Methos-neko?

Most of you are probably familiar with “basket cat,” AKA the most relaxed cat in the world, or zen cat…   Shironeko (neko means cat(s) in Japanese)is known for not only being an extremely tolerant cat, allowing his owners to stack almost anything on his head and feet and take pix, but also have a goofy, happy,and completely relaxed look while doing it. I love Shiro.  Seeing his sweet “smile” never fails to lift my spirits.

Shironeko

Today, Hubby and J* were playing with Methos…and the Duplos.  You see where I’m going with this?  Well, after taking the first pic or two, this gave me a brilliant idea.

Methos is tolerant…but he sure doesn’t look zen yet.

Methos and Duplos

Methos and the Pelican

Methos and the alphabet blocks

“Hello Methos”

Methos and the plastic tub turtle

So, yeah… I guess he’s a work in progress.  One day he’ll let us take the pix without that I’m going to kill you in your sleep look on his face.

Happy Friday!

*all pix of Methos belong to alienredqueen; please do not use without permission/credit

More Methos

“Interesting…a cat that likes beef jerky…”

He’s getting stranger all the time.  He’s always been…different.  “Special.”  I’m talking about Methos, of course.  He’s lovable, adorable, affectionate… loud, irritating, persistent…

He’s been whining a lot more lately, following us around, tangling under our feet, meowing loudly at night… and the only explanation I can come up with is that perhaps he is reacting to my husband’s increasing impatience with him, and it’s all for attention.  Methos is always pushing his presence, climbing on laps, headbutting, stepping on balls…   If at all possible, he will attempt to sit on me, Hubs, and the baby at the same time as we sit on the couch.   And lately Hubs seems to be forever pushing him away, and not always politely.  On the increasingly rare occasions that Hubs does allow Methos to sit on or with him, the stupid cat looks so content it‘s pathetic.  

But anyway, like I said before, he’s always been bizarre.  Lately here he likes to jam his face into a corner or crook when he sleeps.  And he’s been making himself comfortable in all sorts of bizarre yet adorable ways.

Let’s call this Exhibit A: upside-down on hubby’s crotch

I think here the appeal is perhaps obvious; belly rubbing and cerebral hypoxia.

Exhibit 2… I mean B: The Invisible Ottoman

Nestled into the arm of the couch, feet hanging off…

Exhibit C: Anticipatory Bellyrub Posture

and finally…

Exhibit D: The Supervisor

The screen of my Netbook makes a lovely pillow.

Yes, despite his tendency to constantly get into shit, his repeated attempts to escape every time we open the front door,  habit of stepping on sensitive body parts…  he’s a sweet little bastard.  And he’s getting better about allowing my two year old to “hug” him in a strangle hold or use him as a body pillow, so that’s “Plus Points” for him.  And he does put up with my stupid bullshit, like when I accidentally try to excise a body part, or spray him with a household cleaner, thinking it’s a water bottle.  I guess I’ll keep him around a little while longer.

 

 

In Which I Unwittingly Try to Mutilate the Cat

So…the other day, and not for the first time, I was rubbing the cat and discovered a mysterious “bump” hidden in the fur.  This time it was on his belly.  the last couple of times I found suspicious lumps in his fur, they ended up being nothing more than a lose piece of skin and fur, or maybe a small scab from a healed abrasion.

To his credit, Methos lay calmly and let me dig through the fur on his belly to isolate what I now thought of as “the weird growth.”  I think he just assumed he was enjoying a very localized belly rub.  I isolated the growth, this dark little brown lump that looked not unlike a mole.  I considered and then briefly dismissed the possibility that it was a nipple, as when I felt around I could not locate the other nipples.

So I did the only rational thing I could think of; I poked and squeezed at it to see what I it would do.  It was kind of odd.  At times it seemed to stick half in and half out of the skin, almost like a small tick (I frickin’ hate ticks, by the way.)  Then I got the tweezers, determined to detach it from the cat.  I tugged and tugged, but it was a slippery little sucker.  I’d think I had a hold of it only to have it slip through my grasp.  Whatever it was, Methos didn’t seem to be having any discomfort from my “ministrations,” and I eventually came up with a little scale of what looked the skin or scab from the top of the “lump.”  But still the brown lump remained.  So I called hubby over to look.  I squeezed the skin around it again, and it sort of protruded out from the surrounding skin.  The following is the general conversation that following, albeit, probably not verbatim:

HUBBY:  I think that’s a nipple, hon.

ME: But I looked for his other nipples and couldn’t find them.

HUBBY:  I think that’s a nipple.

ME: {pause}  I think you’re right.  {second pause}  Ohmygod! I tried to mutilate the cat!  {to cat} I’m so sorry, buddy!   

{Then follows five minutes of shame and horror, probably for me and the cat.}

Lesson learned?  Don’t try to detach things that are attached, unless you are positive of what they are, or at least what they are not.

Methos, in one of his “comfortable” positions on hubby’s lap

A cat’s nursery rhyme:
1,2..1,2,3…
how many nipples do you see?

 

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Blood and Claws (not a horror story, just bathing the cat)

…okay, maybe it is a horror story.  Methos has been scratching and licking and biting a lot more than usual lately.  I also saw a flea on my baby’s head a week or so ago when I was changing her diaper… at least I think it was a flea.  It was fast and I couldn’t squish it between my fingers, and then it disappeared, never to be seen again.  I have even gotten a few random “bites” that, with help from my frantic scratching, have turned into formidable patches of irritated skin.  I didn’t have any bites on my ankles, evidence, said my neighbor, that the whole house wasn’t infested, just the cat.  My other cat seems completely fine.

So, after several nights of kicking the cat off the bed due to his incessant scratching and biting (shakes the whole friggin’ bed), I decide he needs a bath.  I’d been told by more than one person that Dawn dish-washing liquid kills fleas.    He’s not routinely bathed, because he grooms himself well enough usually. In fact, he normally has some of the softest fur of any cat I’ve ever seen.  It’s thick and shiny.  I request hubby’s help to bathe the cat, cuz I know it will be a…process.   He basically laughs at me, and then wisely declines.  So the next day I enlist the help of my lovely- and unsuspecting- neighbor.  Actually, she has cats and knows what it’s like to bathe a cat who isn’t “into” baths.

Never, EVER have I heard noises like this come from my cat.

I won’t give you a blow by blow.  Let’s just say it was probably a lot like putting a rabid honey badger in a toilet and flushing…I’m guessing.  I’ve never flushed a furry animal in my life.  My husband was home for lunch at this juncture, and as I haul the cat back to the tub again (when the claws start pinwheeling, you let that bitch go!!!) he decides to come in to help… gee, thanks.

“I eat venomous snakes for lunch! You want a piece of me??!!”

By this point, the cat has already lost at least part of a claw trying to wrest his way free.  He’s making some yowling/growling/mewling sound deep in his chest and has tracked tiny dots of blood on the tile floor from his wounded claw.  He uses anything in which his claws find purchase to try to win his freedom, including but not limited to our skin and clothing.  And he’s panting like he might have a stroke.

I can not understand for the life of me WHY this should be so traumatic for him.  He can’t actually think I intend to drown him.  I try to soothe him with words, but he doesn’t seem interested.  Cats are the only animals that will literally damn near kill themselves trying to get away from something… that’s not even hurting them.

So anyway, as there is only room for two of us by the side of the tub, I step back and hubs wedges in next to my neighbor.  In two seconds flat, hubs is bellowing expletives and the cat is– once again– out of the tub.  Hubs is bleeding profusely from several not horribly deep but deep-enough-to-bruise scratches on his hands and arms.  All of us are wet, the cat is traumatized, the bathroom is half flooded.

After toweling Methos off as best as possible given the circumstances, we decide to leave him in the bathroom for a while to dry off (and because I’m hoping he’ll calm down and decide not to piss on any of my stuff in retaliation.)

My neighbor gets away relatively unscathed; I’m glad because I’d have felt bad if she got hurt.  I think the cat and I have both stopped bleeding.  Not hubs– he’s torn up and has to change his clothes and bathe in Bactine before going back to work.

I actually feel guilty for upsetting the cat so badly, and worried that maybe the dumb bastard seriously injured himself trying to get away.  Now I’ll spend the rest of the night kissing up to him.  He took a nap with me later on in the day, so I guess he forgives me for the bath.

So I won’t tell him that the whole time this was going on …I saw… Not. One. Flea.

Fuck.

PS.  Note there are not actual pix of Methos in this entry.  I didn’t think of it at the time, and even if I had, we were all too busy trying to keep from sustaining any grievous wounds to bother taking any pictures.  Besides, I’m almost positive he’d never forgive me for having hard evidence of his humiliation.

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