One evening I opened the door briefly to toss an item into the recycle bin which sits on my porch. It is necessary to keep it out there due to overly curious kittens in here. They don't try to go outside when I do this; just sit and watch.
I closed the door and sat down to my supper, when something brushed by my hair. So it was that I was the first one to realize I'd let a moth into the house. Usually they notice before I do.
Great. Just great. I had horrible visions of Thimble leaping after the moth, trying in vain to catch it and leaving havoc wreaked in his wake.
Well, I tried to catch it. This was stupid of me because it attracted the attention of all the cats, who were in the kitchen anyway just in case my supper turned out to be delicious and deserving of longing gazes.
I managed to contact the moth with a hand, but not catch it. This made the moth a bit less likely to fly high and brought it down to about my waist height.
Whereupon Apricot leaped up in a single graceful bound, pinned the moth between his front paws, and brought it down to earth in one beautiful, deadly arc. He bent his head down to where his front paws rested together on the floor.
Colby and Thimble were fascinated! Apricot had caught something! Yes, yes he had! And he wasn't sharing! Come on, Apricot, share!
It wasn't a big moth. By the time they got over to him and started pestering him, he'd already eaten it. No sign of it anywhere.
This whole thing happened so fast that I kind of doubted that he'd even caught it and ate it, but the evidence speaks for itself--the moth was nowhere to be found after that.
Apricot may not know what to do with a mouse, or even with a scuttling insect, but he sure can catch flying insects.
Friday, October 30, 2015
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Thimble Goes to the Groomer
One Tuesday morning while I was out on my hour-long walk, poor Thimble used the litterbox and had a less than pleasant time of it afterwards. I shall try to be delicate, but let's just say that a poop got stuck in the fur of his butt and the fur wound around it so tightly he couldn't get it loose.
When I came back I found the poor cat frantically scraping his butt along the floor. The fur was so tightly packed that he wasn't even leaving any residue for me to have to clean up.
Cats cover their excrement in order to keep predators from finding them (and killing them). It's a genetic imperative so intense even extremely ill cats who can barely move will still try to cover it up. If a cat isn't doing this, something is wrong--either the cat is sick or the litter box is. (In other words, the box is in a scary place like right next to the clanking furnace, or it's so stinky the cat figures there's no point, or it hurt to go there last time and the cat, not knowing any better, blames the location rather than his own physical health.)
So for Thimble to have that smell following him had him in an utter panic.
I managed to grab him and a pair of disposable gloves. In that order. I'm not the best in a crisis, I'll admit. I then had to put on the gloves while still keeping hold of Thimble, who is frantic. Then I fished the nearest scissors out of its drawer and removed the offending bit from Thimble.
That makes it sound a lot easier than it was; I had to hold him down on his side so I could see what I was doing. He kept trying to clamp his tail down across the area to muffle the smell, and trying to get away in order to try to fix it himself. None of this was helpful, of course.
And using a scissors on a cat is always fraught with danger. Their skin is very delicate and easily cut, and when they have such thick fur it's hard to tell where the fur ends and the skin begins.
But between the gloves allowing me to handle the "ew, yuck" bits with confidence and Thimble's natural trusting nature, I was able to get him cleaned up.
However, that wasn't the end of it. Thimble will eat anything that doesn't run away from him, including non-food items, so this sort of digestive problem wasn't going to be an isolated incident. And what if it had happened soon after I left for work, and he'd been that frantic and upset for the whole day? Something had to be done.
Much as I knew he'd hate it, I made him an appointment with the same groomer who took care of Colby's stomach trim. The conversation went something like this:
"Remember Colby and the tummy trim only that we did and you let me hold him?"
Answer in the affirmative from the groomer.
"Well, I need to bring Thimble in for just a sanitary trim, not his tummy, but Thimble is not Colby. You're going to need someone else to hold him, not me, someone strong."
Assurances of getting someone with a guy-name to help. (It was a guy, but you never can assume that over the phone.)
I brought Thimble in the carrier, not the kangaroo pouch. And I didn't even go in the room with him, but instead stood outside, right outside, where I was out of sight but I could hear what was going on.
The problem is this. Thimble is quite aware of his duties as my therapy cat. But since he is responsible for helping take care of my emotional well-being, he's also of the opinion I can't really take care of anything properly. Colby looked to me for reassurance during his trim. "Mama, is this an okay thing that is happening to me?" and when I said it was, he calmed down and let it happen.
Thimble would look to me for rescue, and when it was not forthcoming, he would have decided to rescue himself. And he's probably twice as strong as Colby even if he's only half a pound heavier. (I swear, I think Thimble runs laps around the house during the day when I'm gone.) But if I wasn't there to look to for rescue, he might remain in a confused state of not knowing if this was something to fight full-out or perhaps something to put up with. That's what I was hoping, anyway.
The grooming itself was funny from my point of view.
Sounds of Thimble being extracted from carrier. "Damn he's big." (comment from the guy helper).
Sounds of the shaver start up. A momentary pause with some mild scrabbling and then a comment of "and strong."
I metaphorically pounded my head against the wall. I'd tried to warn them.
A little bit later. "would you look at the size of those paws!"
I suspect that at this point, Thimble got his front paws over the edge of the table and had widened them to give him the best grip possible. Thimble's feet don't look that big (not when you take into account his overall size) until he spreads his toes apart, and then they look monstrously huge and way too big for his sixteen pound frame.
But the trim only took a few minutes, all told, and Thimble was fine, if a little ticked off.
Thimble is quite capable of taking care of his own fur, and he did not appreciate me having someone else do things to his fur. He remained ticked for the next three days. For Thimble, this meant that although he followed me around as usual and stayed with me and hung out as usual, he also remembered he was ticked every so often and pulled away to just beyond arm's reach, in order to express his displeasure. He also walked around with his tail clamped to his butt enough to cover the shaved spot--and then the rest of his very long tail went back up into the air.
He's back to normal now. Tail in the air, cuddling as usual.
When I came back I found the poor cat frantically scraping his butt along the floor. The fur was so tightly packed that he wasn't even leaving any residue for me to have to clean up.
Cats cover their excrement in order to keep predators from finding them (and killing them). It's a genetic imperative so intense even extremely ill cats who can barely move will still try to cover it up. If a cat isn't doing this, something is wrong--either the cat is sick or the litter box is. (In other words, the box is in a scary place like right next to the clanking furnace, or it's so stinky the cat figures there's no point, or it hurt to go there last time and the cat, not knowing any better, blames the location rather than his own physical health.)
So for Thimble to have that smell following him had him in an utter panic.
I managed to grab him and a pair of disposable gloves. In that order. I'm not the best in a crisis, I'll admit. I then had to put on the gloves while still keeping hold of Thimble, who is frantic. Then I fished the nearest scissors out of its drawer and removed the offending bit from Thimble.
That makes it sound a lot easier than it was; I had to hold him down on his side so I could see what I was doing. He kept trying to clamp his tail down across the area to muffle the smell, and trying to get away in order to try to fix it himself. None of this was helpful, of course.
And using a scissors on a cat is always fraught with danger. Their skin is very delicate and easily cut, and when they have such thick fur it's hard to tell where the fur ends and the skin begins.
But between the gloves allowing me to handle the "ew, yuck" bits with confidence and Thimble's natural trusting nature, I was able to get him cleaned up.
However, that wasn't the end of it. Thimble will eat anything that doesn't run away from him, including non-food items, so this sort of digestive problem wasn't going to be an isolated incident. And what if it had happened soon after I left for work, and he'd been that frantic and upset for the whole day? Something had to be done.
Much as I knew he'd hate it, I made him an appointment with the same groomer who took care of Colby's stomach trim. The conversation went something like this:
"Remember Colby and the tummy trim only that we did and you let me hold him?"
Answer in the affirmative from the groomer.
"Well, I need to bring Thimble in for just a sanitary trim, not his tummy, but Thimble is not Colby. You're going to need someone else to hold him, not me, someone strong."
Assurances of getting someone with a guy-name to help. (It was a guy, but you never can assume that over the phone.)
I brought Thimble in the carrier, not the kangaroo pouch. And I didn't even go in the room with him, but instead stood outside, right outside, where I was out of sight but I could hear what was going on.
The problem is this. Thimble is quite aware of his duties as my therapy cat. But since he is responsible for helping take care of my emotional well-being, he's also of the opinion I can't really take care of anything properly. Colby looked to me for reassurance during his trim. "Mama, is this an okay thing that is happening to me?" and when I said it was, he calmed down and let it happen.
Thimble would look to me for rescue, and when it was not forthcoming, he would have decided to rescue himself. And he's probably twice as strong as Colby even if he's only half a pound heavier. (I swear, I think Thimble runs laps around the house during the day when I'm gone.) But if I wasn't there to look to for rescue, he might remain in a confused state of not knowing if this was something to fight full-out or perhaps something to put up with. That's what I was hoping, anyway.
The grooming itself was funny from my point of view.
Sounds of Thimble being extracted from carrier. "Damn he's big." (comment from the guy helper).
Sounds of the shaver start up. A momentary pause with some mild scrabbling and then a comment of "and strong."
I metaphorically pounded my head against the wall. I'd tried to warn them.
A little bit later. "would you look at the size of those paws!"
I suspect that at this point, Thimble got his front paws over the edge of the table and had widened them to give him the best grip possible. Thimble's feet don't look that big (not when you take into account his overall size) until he spreads his toes apart, and then they look monstrously huge and way too big for his sixteen pound frame.
But the trim only took a few minutes, all told, and Thimble was fine, if a little ticked off.
Thimble is quite capable of taking care of his own fur, and he did not appreciate me having someone else do things to his fur. He remained ticked for the next three days. For Thimble, this meant that although he followed me around as usual and stayed with me and hung out as usual, he also remembered he was ticked every so often and pulled away to just beyond arm's reach, in order to express his displeasure. He also walked around with his tail clamped to his butt enough to cover the shaved spot--and then the rest of his very long tail went back up into the air.
He's back to normal now. Tail in the air, cuddling as usual.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
One For Each of Them
One morning I came out and found a cockroach on the floor, on its back, one leg waving feebly.
There was only one leg waving because the other three legs were gone.
A leg for each cat?
"Why can't you guys clean up after yourselves?" I asked as I disposed of the insect. Everybody pretended they had no clue what I was referring to.
Pippin used to eat camel crickets and leave the legs. These three eat legs and leave the body. I think I prefer the old way of doing things. Insect legs are much easier to get rid of. Less cringing involved, anyway!
There was only one leg waving because the other three legs were gone.
A leg for each cat?
"Why can't you guys clean up after yourselves?" I asked as I disposed of the insect. Everybody pretended they had no clue what I was referring to.
Pippin used to eat camel crickets and leave the legs. These three eat legs and leave the body. I think I prefer the old way of doing things. Insect legs are much easier to get rid of. Less cringing involved, anyway!
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Pounce and Rebound Pounce
Thimble stuffed his front end into the cat tent. He doesn't fit completely anymore, but he got into it up to his middle. And like he often does, just stayed there.
Colby had recently been drive-by pounced upon in such a way as flipped him head over heels, and he noticed Thimble "blind" inside the cat tent with much glee. He came running in that crouched way cats do, across the living room, and leaped upon the tent (and Thimble).
Thimble yanked himself out of the tent and looked around in affronted startlement. I was stifling laughter and not succeeding, as I pointed out to him that he did have it coming.
Colby had stayed where he landed, right next to the tent. He would have been on the tent but Thimble had moved the tent out from under Colby when he'd backed out of it so suddenly.
Thimble got a gleam in his eye and with all innocence, launched himself back into the tent. And incidentally, pouncing on Colby through the closed end of the tent.
Colby bounced straight up in the air and then back across the living room, to eye the tent with much distrust. I swear I could hear Thimble giggling. (No, not really.)
And here's the thing I find really amazing. Thimble set this whole thing up. He knew he'd ticked off Colby earlier--I don't think he meant to startle Colby so badly that he went head over heels. He knows Colby doesn't usually start things unless Colby feels safe. So Thimble made himself vulnerable in order to let Colby pounce on him with impunity.
Of course, Thimble, despite his best efforts, is still a kitten, and couldn't resist continuing the game ... but Colby didn't have to stay there, either.
Colby had recently been drive-by pounced upon in such a way as flipped him head over heels, and he noticed Thimble "blind" inside the cat tent with much glee. He came running in that crouched way cats do, across the living room, and leaped upon the tent (and Thimble).
Thimble yanked himself out of the tent and looked around in affronted startlement. I was stifling laughter and not succeeding, as I pointed out to him that he did have it coming.
Colby had stayed where he landed, right next to the tent. He would have been on the tent but Thimble had moved the tent out from under Colby when he'd backed out of it so suddenly.
Thimble got a gleam in his eye and with all innocence, launched himself back into the tent. And incidentally, pouncing on Colby through the closed end of the tent.
Colby bounced straight up in the air and then back across the living room, to eye the tent with much distrust. I swear I could hear Thimble giggling. (No, not really.)
And here's the thing I find really amazing. Thimble set this whole thing up. He knew he'd ticked off Colby earlier--I don't think he meant to startle Colby so badly that he went head over heels. He knows Colby doesn't usually start things unless Colby feels safe. So Thimble made himself vulnerable in order to let Colby pounce on him with impunity.
Of course, Thimble, despite his best efforts, is still a kitten, and couldn't resist continuing the game ... but Colby didn't have to stay there, either.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
A Discussion With Thimble
Thimble has discovered that he can reach my hand if he stands on his hind legs and puts his front paws on my leg. He likes to do this, as he can sniff my hand and/or get petted. He especially likes to do this at the kitchen counter when I'm preparing supper, as my hands will end up having all sorts of interesting smells on them.
I don't mind him doing this. I think it's cute, actually, and as long as he realizes that I do move around, we're good. I like being able to reach just an inch down to scritch behind his ears.
The problem, and the discussion we're having, is that once he stretches out all tall and thin with his paws on my leg, he realizes, ooh, this feels good, like being at the scratching post, and transitions into scratching mode.
I am not a scratching post. And, paws, not claws, dear. These are the sorts of things that get said as I'm detaching him from my sweatpants. Also, as they have an elastic waist, he gets told, "now, look, when I have to pull my pants back up you've pulled too hard."
He's a bit puzzled, but I think he's catching on. He does it less than when he first discovered how tall he'd gotten, anyway.
And Colby sits on the kitchen stool behind us and watches calmly, being Colby. He likes Thimble doing this because that means Thimble has vacated the stool and Colby can have it!
I don't mind him doing this. I think it's cute, actually, and as long as he realizes that I do move around, we're good. I like being able to reach just an inch down to scritch behind his ears.
The problem, and the discussion we're having, is that once he stretches out all tall and thin with his paws on my leg, he realizes, ooh, this feels good, like being at the scratching post, and transitions into scratching mode.
I am not a scratching post. And, paws, not claws, dear. These are the sorts of things that get said as I'm detaching him from my sweatpants. Also, as they have an elastic waist, he gets told, "now, look, when I have to pull my pants back up you've pulled too hard."
He's a bit puzzled, but I think he's catching on. He does it less than when he first discovered how tall he'd gotten, anyway.
And Colby sits on the kitchen stool behind us and watches calmly, being Colby. He likes Thimble doing this because that means Thimble has vacated the stool and Colby can have it!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)