Lazy Days

What? You want me to move? Oh, okay...


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Just Cats

I'm still struggling with the rewrite of the first third of my book, so I thought I'd do an update on our new foundling and her babies.



Mama is slowly gaining weight--not an easy task while also feeding four hungry little ones.



The kittens all have their eyes open and are getting huge.



Here's a picture of big bad Huckleberry, being silly.



And here is a photo of my little sweetheart, Press Cat, that I found on the camera and didn't even know I had.

7+5=12

One of my daughters went up to a national park in Arkansas for a quick break before school starts, and called me on the way home to say, “There was this sweet little orange cat that someone had dumped in the park. The rangers said all the area shelters are full, and she was so skinny she’d have died if I hadn’t taken her. You aren’t mad, are you?”



“No. I understand.”

“Well, the thing is, you see, she was skinny everywhere except her belly.”

Deep breath. “You mean she’s going to have kittens?”

“Um… She kinda had them. In the backseat of the car when we were on the Interstate.”

So this family that already had waaaay too many cats now has five more.



She is an unbelievable little sweetheart. Mom and kids are doing great. The vet says that even though she is pathetically skinny she is healthy, and she ought to be able to feed them.



Know anyone who wants a kitten?

Goodbye, Little Sweetheart

Press Cat, 1999-2009

Losing a cat is always hard. Losing two relatively young cats within months of each other is…hell.

We always knew Press would never live to be an old cat. He started life as a feral waif who wandered into Steve’s factory and took up residence beneath the company’s giant press (hence his name). When Steve trapped him, he was so covered in oil and dirt that Steve thought he was a gray tabby. Petroleum and cats, needless to say, are not a good mix.

He spent the next four years of life running wild in Steve’s bachelor pad with the tuxedo cat twins, Nick and Nora. When we married, it took Steve five hours and several nasty bites and scratches to stuff Press in a carrier so the gang could move over to my house. In the nearly six years since then—wooed nightly with his favorite, tuna—he calmed down a lot. Every night when I’d lay down on the sofa to watch the Daily Show and Colbert, I’d trail my hand over the side and Press would come on the run. As long as he was sure I wasn’t in a position to grab him, he’d let me pet him until my arm (or leg—he also loved foot pets while I was at the computer) felt like it was ready to drop off. He’d purr and purr and purr. But try to reach for him and he was gone.



Because he was impossible to catch, he rode out Katrina in our house and lived in the flooded shambles for a week before we battled our way back in to rescue him. (Needless to say, he went with us for Gustav.) About five years ago he had a bout of ill health when the vet told us his kidneys were failing and he’d probably only live a few more months. So we always knew that each passing year was a gift.

He went down hill very suddenly. When he sniffed at Sunday night’s tuna and turned away, I knew something was wrong. Our vet told us just how wrong. Having just watched Nick take months to die of kidney failure, we’d already made up our minds we weren’t putting another cat through that.



But God, it hurts.

My Cat Monday: Nick

Our visit to the vet last week didn’t bring good news on Nick, our sick cat: seems his “numbers” are still bad. But he’s eating again, and they say that cats can live for a long time with kidney problems, so we’re hoping Nick has many years ahead of him. Here’s a photo of Nick being bad, up on the table. But then, what cat can resist a box?



Nick is a real sweetheart, but he’s also one of those cats who’s so dumb he’s always good for a laugh. For some reason, he likes to paw at the floor when he drinks. Only, sometimes he’ll forget and paw at the floor with both front feet at the same time, with the result that he pitches headfirst into his water bowl. His nicknames are Velcro, Duffus, Bubba, and Nicholas Pee Cat (the latter earned when he first encountered my Big Bad Huckleberry, and was so terrified that he, well, peed. A lot.)

Steve and I have a blended cat family. When we married five years ago, he had three cats (Nick, Nora, and Press), and I had two (Huckleberry and Thomasina). Since then we’ve acquired one half-dead stray, BC (now no longer a stray and very fat) and my mother’s cat, Angel (named after the vampire). When my mom and Angel moved in with us this last summer, Nick, Nora, and BC went with my daughter, Sam, to live in my mom’s house. But we still consider all seven our cats (and have the vet bills to prove it!)

Here’s a photo of BC (Bad Cat, Black Cat, Baby Cat—take your pick), our latest addition and another sweetheart, cuddling his sick friend.