While browsing through magazines in the waiting room at the vet, I came across an article about Chartreux.
The article was in French, and my French language skills are not that great; thus, more questions were raised than answered, and so I went searching on the I'net for more info on the breed.
From thence, did some more I'net searching to find the nearest breeder ~ purely for fun, couldn't realistically afford the time/space/money for another cat ~ and found the nearest breeder to be a mere hop/skip/jump away, in Sainte~Marthe~sur~la~Lac. And as it turns out, the magazine article I had originally read was in fact a profile of this very cattery ~ right down to including all the photos on the website.
Perhaps if I had perused a bit more aggressively, I'd've noticed their website address somewhere in the article; let that be a lesson to me the next time I try to browse through French~language magazines.
"In keeping with the French tradition of naming livestock," says theCat Fancy website, "... breeders began the names of all kittens born in a calendar year with a specific letter of the alphabet, skipping the letters k, q, w, x, y and z. Therefore, the name of a Chartreux indicates age. Cats born in 2002 have names starting with t."
Should I ever be so fortunate as to have a Chartreux born in 2004, I'd be ever so mightily tempted to name her Vitameatavegamin Girl {being Veggie, of course, for short}; so, perhaps the world is ever better off that my whims are not ever granted.
Go to the Dollar Store.
Buy three quilted cloth placemats.
Cut one of the placemats lengthwise into four strips of equal width.
Sew the strips between the two remaining placemats to create a rectangular sack.
Stuff the sack with Buffalo Snow* {bought half~price after Xmas}.
Stitch up the end.
And voila ~ you have a teeny tiny kitty~cat~sized quilted mattress.
Now I just have to figure out how to make the box~spring.
~ ~ ~
* Always the Little Miss Cleverbottom, I says to my Boyfriend, shouldn't Buffalo Snow be yellow? I says, says I... Boyfriend is ever Mr. Tactful, and so he laughs obligingly but wisely says nothing.
The cat formerly known as The Old Man has been beatified by Boyfriend as St. Farticus.
I like that. It means that, come the inevitable, I'll be able to justify the devotion of a tiny shrine to his memory; perhaps I'll manage to inter him in a wee reliquary {reliquarium?}, endow him with a brief hagiography, maybe ascribe a few small miracles...
* * *
A few weeks ago St. Farticus made it known, politely but firmly, that he could no longer willingly participate in the bi~daily pill ritual.
Up to that point, he had been patience itself. He would willingly walk into the bathroom when I beckoned, knowing full well what to expect. {And don't tell me he not smart enough to know what's coming. Last Sunday morning when I called him into the bathroom, he dove under the bed ~ because on Saturday morning when I called him in, he wasn't pilled at all; he was bunged straight into the carrier and carted off to the vet.}
When I had to pill him, he never bit me, he never clawed me, he never growled, he never hid, and he never held a grudge; afterwards he was quite content to allow me to pick him up & cuddle him, and carry him to his food. {Some mornings he would jump up and ride on my shoulders as if he were a Maharajah in his howdah, and I the elephant that supported the world.}
But every day he became progressively more and more closed~mouthed; and then he began to place a paw gently against my hand as I tried to pill him...
I've seen him more than once turn around and whap one of the other cats when he'd been pissed off; often wondered why he didn't just turn around a whup me upside the head during a pilling session.
Usually I take it for granted that he understands what's going on, insofar as he's capable; so I don't often try to see things from his unique kittykat perspective. I just credit him with having a great deal of human wisdom, and I'm sure that's true to a respectable extent... however...
Years ago I heard an interview in which Jane Goodall discussed the early days of her research with primates. She had been studying a band of apes and sending her notes to her peers for review. And {if I recall correctly} she said they advised her not to make observations that anthropomorphized the apes; in place of saying something like, "the ape was angry" she was instead to say "the ape behaved as if he were angry."
The idea behind this advice was to ensure first of all that her observations were not dismissed outright by those who firmly believed in the distinction between human and animal. But for those who just as firmly believed in the indistiction between human and animal, this was also an issue of objectivity; one must not project one's own perceptions onto the beings whom one observes.
What I took away from that interview was that we can learn more by interpreting animals in their own context than by imposing a human frame of reference on them; and that we shouldn't grade our respect for the dignity of animals on whether or not they have human qualities.
So while I'm happy to refer to St. Farticus as if he's a cat~shaped human, I understand it does him a disservice if I don't also try to see things from his particularly feline point of view.
And that's when I realize...
... this animal, who hasn't attended a single philosophy class in his life and has never been taught to "turn the other cheek" or that "patience is a virtue" because "the meek shall inherit"...
...this animal, who doesn't know his thyroid from his prostate and doesn't have the faintest idea what the heck a pill is for...
...this animal, who may or may not be able to surmise why the big hairless cats behave as they do...
...all this animal knows is that twice a day he was confined him to a room and had something bitter shoved down his throat. Every now and then he's caged up without breakfast and taken to where other big hairless cats poke cold thin noses right up his rear end, lick off a section his fur with an extremely sharp tongue, and stick a long thin claw under his skin. All this courtesy of yours truly.
And yet somehow it doesn't seem to have adversely affected his attitude towards me.
That just boggles my mind.
* * *
Because life~long medication is a possibility with feline hyperthyroid, there are companies who make pills in a tasty treat form. And when Old Man St. Farticus first began his medication, that was what I wanted to use.
For some reason, the vets at my clinic seemed to feel strongly that we ought to go with the normal pills first, and use the treats as a last resort. I don't know why. Perhaps they felt they were doing me a favour financially, as the tasty treat format is more expensive.
But they are worth every penny. Been using them for the last few weeks and nary a bad experience. I'm almost tempted to think that radiotherapy isn't really necessary now; we've hit the right dosage & he likes eating his pill/treats.
Still... I'll call up the DMV in February to find out where they're at with their Radiology program. And we shall see what we shall see.
And if we can cure it, I shall call St. Farticus the patron saint of radioactive felines. :)
*Finally* found a website for that place in Kanata that does the radiotherapy.
I called for an estimate, and the lady quoted me $1100 CDN ~~ I'm assuming that doesn't cover the cost of the pre~ or post~therapy tests/consultations, or any emergencies that might arise during treatment {thanks to radiocat for that heads~up}. Should've asked if that included tax...
At any rate, they will be faxing me more information soon.
The Old Man's reaction to his medication had so unnerved me that I delayed an extra day, and then started him off slowly ~ one quarter~pill in the evenings ~ so as not to shock his system.
But he's already been boosted up to the current prescription of a quarter~pill twice a day. I'd already forgotten {or mentally blocked out} what he was like before the medication. And he'd reached that point on the curve again, during the once~a~day dosage phase ~ always hungry, constantly irritable, ever restless... he even went back to his old behaviours, like mrowling in other rooms and incessantly begging for milk & cream. The Methimazole seemed to calm all that down.
One curious/interesting thing that I noticed: while he was on his meds, he stopped doing that little thing he used to do, the thing that used to worry me...
He might be sitting perfectly still, or in the middle of doing something; all of the sudden, his skin would ripple involuntarily ~ or sometimes one of his legs might twitch ~ and he would lick down that spot. I found this described as an obsessive~compulsive behaviour in cats; some theorized it was caused by an hormonal imbalance in the brain, and others postulated that was a nervous reaction to stress or conflicting stimuli. Mentioned it to the vet and he said, keep an eye on it, and make a note of when it happens; we can make a better diagnosis when we have more information.
Well, whatever the cause, His Old Manliness had no such nervous tics while medicated; so my current hypothesis is, his twitching was a result of the nervous energy he had from being hyperthyroid...
Perhaps the vet will concur...
Good news on The Old Man: the test results say the thyroid is way down, which means {1} it's under control, and {2} we were right to halve the dosage.*
Since His Manliness is still vomiting from time to time, the vet suggested a two~day respite from the pills; so now I feel vindicated for having skipped Monday night's dose.
Was out of the diet food this morning, so all the kitties got the Mature formula. Later this morning His Old Manliness vomited his breakfast; our grey kitten {aka Our Idiot Son} also vomited, though our other kitty {aka Little Miss Lippy Headbutt} is fine...
It raises the question of whether the freebie Mature food has had something to do with the vomiting ~ even though The Old Man had been two weeks on the Mature formula before the heavy vomiting started... Must check to see if it has a best~before date. At any rate, we will switch them all back to the diet food for now and see what happens.
Poor dear Old Man... I hope they still give out Xma$ bonuses at work this year; if they do, I will start up a Save Mr. Clicky! fund, and put it towards his radiotherapy.
Cats are mysterious thangs, and I've heard that ill cats can sometimes go into spontaneous remission for no discernable reason.** I don't recall offhand any stories about that with respect to hyperthyroid in particular; but the fact that The Old Man's thyroid readings are now so low gives me a wee speck of irrational hope. I'd love to think that this could be just a blip on the screen...
~ ~ ~
* The only difficulty with a quarter~pill dosage is that it's almost too tiny to handle ~ the last time he spat it out I nearly overlooked it, and it's not the kind of thing you want lying around for the other cats to find; on the other hand, it's so dissolvable that if I can keep it in his mouth for long enough, there's really nothing solid enough to spit out.
** Well, okay, there's always the possibility that such cases were misdiagnosed in the first place ~ cats are hard to suss out, after all.
Do~si~do, Do~si~don't?
Got a bit of a scare last night. Boyfriend reported copious kitty vomiting, & was unsure as to whether the dark matter in the vomit was digested food or blood; we hightailed it over to the vet's.
Fortunately, the vet found nothing; and so she took the blood sample needed for this week's thyroid testing. We agreed the best thing for now is to halve the dosage of medication until we get the blood test results back {which should be some time later today}.
I didn't pill the The Old Man last night; that was a judgement call on my part. The vet was very clear about not wanting to stop the medication completely, and she said it would be okay to give him a half of his usual half~pill that evening. And I agree with not stopping; but if we're halving the dosage because it might be too high, then it stands to reason that he should be allowed a brief reprieve in order to recouperate.
Various informative sites have differing biases re: missing a dose. Sites promoting radiotherapy claim that missing even one dose is asking for trouble, whereas the sites that discuss management vs. cure* say a missed dose is not the end of the world; I'll side with the latter in this one instance.
Heaven forfend it's not the dosage but a sensitivity to the medication itself... I am trusting that the vet will know the difference. Hopefully the test results today will give us a clue.
He was behaving as if he wanted breakfast this morning; I was awoken at 6AM by his sitting on my chest {the Gargoyle Stare routine} which he doesn't do if he's not hungry. And he did eat most of the food in his dish. I'd like to think it was because he was feeling better, but more likely it was due to the reincrease of thyroid.
I was of two minds whether to quarter~pill him this morning; he had vomited on an empty stomach, and he was still averse to the kitty treats, so he's evidently not feeling better yet... but I didn't want to completely contravene the vet's instructions, so, quarter~pill him I did.
Hope he's able to keep his breakfast down...
~ ~ ~
* According to some sources, a cat with renal problems actually benefits from being mildly hyperthyroid ~ look here, near the bottom of the page, for an explanation of how that works.
Note to self: When they contact me to inform me of the test results, I must remember to ask them if they've checked up on his kidney function...
Yesterday, I stroked The Old Man's back and realized that ~ for the first time in a long time ~ I was not able to feel all the ridges of his spine...
It's remarkable. Only a week & a half ago {when we started the hyperthyroid medication} he was quite bony; now his face looks round & full, like a Campbell's Soup Kid. His fur feels more soft & plush. Maybe it's my imagination, but even his purrs seem throatier & more content.
I know this sounds really silly; but it used to be that when I laid hands on him, the energy in his body felt... hm... it's difficult to describe such an enigmatic thing... deadened? Hollow? Stagnant? At a low ebb? Where the other cats felt like running water, he felt inert; yet at the same time he was restless, in constant need of playtime interaction... writing cheques his body couldn't cash, as they say.
And now it seems his body is thrumming, almost crackling with renewed life energy ~ it's like putting my hands on a tiny feline Van de Graaff generator, makes me all goosepimply.
The medication hasn't turned him into a Stepford Pussycat or anything like that; he still gets grumpy with the other cats, and he still wrawls in the bathroom. But it has mellowed him. Whether that's due to him feeling better or more lethargic, can't say for sure...
Who knows? Maybe in his own mind he thinks he's finally getting the extra~special attention he deserves: kitty treats twice a day, just for him & only him; and his very own food at mealtimes, no sharing with the other cats.
And maybe we'll get another decade & a half out of him.
The Old Man is finishing off the course of antibiotics from the teeth~cleaning and has started on the Methimazole for his thyroid; and so far, the tactic of combining the pills with the treats is going very well... almost too well...
So as not to have the other cats underfoot while I'm trying to medicate The Old Man, I sequester us both the bathroom; and then I put a towel on the floor as a sort of a cue to say, hey, it's that time again...
Quite understandably, he's now become most reluctant to leave the towel.
I'll shoo him off, fold up the towel and put it on the shelf ~ and then he'll jump on the shelf, park himself on the towel, and fix me with a significant stare.
Ah, well; at least the treats are healthy.
When I went to the vet, I was told that the doctor wanted to speak with me before I took my cat home.
So the veterinary technician escorted me the the examination room where I was to wait; and then she stepped out, telling me she would be right back with my cat. A moment later I heard a low but piercing hissy sound that abruptly rose to roiling screams ~ a sound normally emitted from a coffeemaker steamer attachment while it is frothing milk.
And I was actually thinking, oh, how nice, they must have a cappuchino machine in the back, when the technician opened the door a crack, poked her head in to say, don't worry ~ that wasn't him, and slipped out again, to the sound of staff soothing a scowling kitty...
OR... then again... there's also the possibility that they left a message at my home number, instead of calling me at work... which... is, in fact, what they had done.
Sometimes the most obvious answer escapes you. Or, at least, they tend to escape me... slippery little things, shooting like greased pigs through my grasping brain, those obvious answers.
So. Now, the good news is: the Old Man, aka His Old Manliness, aka Farticus, aka WhoDaPoopyhead?, is not dead. And his teeth are clean.
The bad news is, Grandma's on the roof...
I'm actually happy that it's been diagnosed; heretofore, His Old Manliness has been an unhappy cat, and this diagnosis means that there are things we can do to make his life much more pleasant...
The three little options are: {1} medication for the rest of his life, {2} surgery, and {3} radiotherapy.
Surgery is too cold... even my vet recommends against surgery {he admits quite frankly that the few times he's done it, the results have not been good}.
Radiotherapy is too hot... my vet says it's the best {if rather expensive} option; however, there's nobody in the entire province of Quebec who is qualified to do it, so His Old Manliness would have to endure a two~&~a~half hour trip to Ottawa... which we may yet do. But, says the vet, the DMV around the corner has all the equipment ready to go, and if we can just hold out until they get somebody trained, maybe in a year or so, then The Old Man will only have to go a hop, skip & a jump down the road. Therefore, for now:
Medication is just right.... or, rather, it will be... after we spend a few months tweaking the dosage... *sigh* poor dear poopyhead...
Since the medication can be a lifelong prospect, the manfucturers make it in many different flavours & forms ~ besides the usual pill, it comes as a liquid, or as a soft treat, or even as a gel that is rubbed on the ears. And The Old Man is mad for the Medi-Cal treats -- I just have to put a pill next to a treat in my palm, and he'll wolf 'em both. So at least the medication ritual won't be a horrid daily experience.
And hopefully, the "increased irritability" mentioned by the FAB information sheet is indeed a symptom of hyperthyroidism, and will be ameliorated by the medication... he is so tetchy with the other cats right now...
I have to let a few days pass, to let him recover from the anesthesia; and then he starts on this course of pills; and then in three weeks we have an appointment with the vet and we see how he is progressing.
Well.
He can't stay with us forever, and the best we can do is to ensure that the time he spends with us is happy, and that his passing on is dignified; but if we do this right, then he'll be happy with us for quite a few years yet. Bast willing...
The Old Man, my eldest cat, was dropped off at the vet's this morning for his annual teeth~cleaning.
They said they'd call when they were done.
They haven't called...
Cats have to be lightly anesthetized for this procedure; and the older a cat gets, the more likely it is that there might be dire complications with the anethesia.
The Old Man is getting on, almost 14 years or so now, and so I'm a bit worried...
That's the darker side of the worst case scenario. On the lesser end of "what's the worst that can happen?" is the possibility that they didn't do the procedure because they found something in the blood test which merits a delay.
And then there's the possibility that they have to keep him for another day because he hadn't been fasted for long enough. That's what happened last year... ooo, and they looked at me like I was a bad cat mommy... but I followed their instructions, I did, I really did... so this year I fed him his last {! ~ whimper} meal earlier, and tried to exercise him a bit...
{The poor dear... to go on an empty stomach... even the mafia will wait until you're eating...}
But you see, last year, when they had to delay it a day, they called to let me know...
Maybe they just forgot. They probably forgot.
We'll be going by the vet tonight to pick him up.
Boy... will he be happy to see us...
Ran across the stories about the Designer Cat Habitat, and ever since have been surfing for ideas on how to make my home more cat-friendly. I've also been looking for ideas for cat furniture that don't involve the usual boring geometric shapes covered with rope & carpet.
Below are some links to stuff. Unfortunately, most of them are commercial sites. Please don't take this as any kind of endorsement or encouragement to buy anything; I just want to show examples of designs I found interesting or curious.
In fact, I encourage you to build you own cat furniture. You can start getting ideas here.
I got some ideas from these:
This is innovative; ugly as all get out, but it still scores points for being able to make something out of next to nothing.
I don't really like this either; but {1} no rope or carpet, and {2} it would be easy to keep clean if cat hair allergies are an issue.
And it might look cool if, say, you wanted to create an indoor rock garden, maybe with a water feature, some tufts of tall cat grass, and some boulder~shaped kitty pillows... is that the theme to Ground Force I hear?
Hey look, no rope or carpet.
Designed particularly with fat cats in mind...
The KittyPod, or the ArchiPod, would be excellent for the sophisticated loft-owner with minimalist tastes. Make your own, you've got cardboard.
And then there are the igloos. You can make one of those. And this is for you Sandman fans. Looks simple enough. The baby grand, however, looks daunting...
Bringing new meaning to the word housecat: If you can't afford a small house for yourself, you can have a small house for your kitty. Literally.
I can see the appeal if I were filming a short student film about a fifty foot feline, but other than that they're just a wee bit too prissy for me. Still, they're a hell of a lot better than plain old carpet & rope... carpet and rope, carpet and rope, bloody everywhere, carpet and rope...
But if you've got a lot of carpet & rope, and you like to make dollhouses, then maybe this will inspire you. Yes, that is an Airstream. Make a cactus and a pueblo to go with it, throw in a little siisal~wrapped ox~skull, put Georgia O'Keefe posters on the wall and pretend you & the cats have retired to New Mexico.
And you may as well try your hand at making a litterbox house while you're at it.
'Twould make a good collection of cat furniture for people who feel guilty about keeping their cats indoors. "Why, it's like having a whole neighborhood inside your home."
If you like the idea of bringing the outside inside, take a look at Jungle Rooms. For the big cat in your little cat.
More faux fauna: I thought these were pretty cool... that is, until I saw THESE. Check em out: outside; inside. Massive.
Embarassing though it is to admit, while the tiny houses do not really appeal to me, this scaled~down furniture really does.
{I don't care what you say, it is not dolly furniture. It is not dolly furniture. La la la, I can't hear you, la la la.}
With this stuff in the house, the cats will finally break out the cocktail shakers, martini glasses and Rat Pack music they've been hiding all these years. Now if only I could get them to wear the little Dean Martin tuxedos...
Wouldn't mind having a Mousehat~size version of this one myself.
~ ~ ~
In the end, I'll probably cobble together a feline~friendly environment with whatever packrat~hoarded materials I have on hand, along with anything I can scrounge or pick up cheap.
But hey, it's nice to dream...
A dear friend gave me an early birthday gift: a magnetic poetry set, the Cat Lover edition.
When I got home that night {in the wee hours of the morning} I opened the set up at once; plopped all the magnets atop an old metal box for photographic slides, sat in bed and played with 'em for an hour. Later that morning, after some sleep, I transferred 'em to the fridge and played with 'em 'til noon; that has to be the longest I've ever stood in front of my fridge without the door open.
I have an inordinate fondness for my own poetry, bordering on the Vogon {both the inordinateness and the poetry, that is}; so I can't resist blogging the poor little blighters.
Since there is as of yet no authoritative body to which I can be reported for having commited Cruelty to Poetry, and since my readership is mercifully below scant, I believe I may indite with impunity.
Someday a group of people may band together to stop me; perhaps they'll call themselves something like the People's Parliament for Promoting the Protection & Preservation of Proper Poetry (PPPPPPP), or some such. Maybe some Superhero of Scansion will head up a Poetic Justice League; or some Self-Appointed Vigilante* will crusade to save the world from poetasters.
And then I'll stop.
'Till then, if you can't bear to see poems being so cruelly treated, then you'll just have to look away.
~
* "When they speak of him aloud... they call him The Laureate. But he just signs himself 'Bob'."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~
.
.
.
{i} still life with cat
.
hair . ball
no . not . my . chair . no
.
wild . hunter . stalk.s . a . pillow
pounce . swat . cough
sofa . is . tricky
.
how . do.es . fur
sense . color
.
pad.d.ing . soft.ly ... grace . my . lap ... almost . above . affection ... suffer . me . to . scratch . your . ear
give . in ... with . a . whisker . stroke . kiss ... ... sleep.y . face
leap . across . at . that . short . gift . of . string ... ... ... live . full . life
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... nip . on . by
.
{ii } note to self
.
after . litter
wash . feet
.
I
never
did
break
this
purr
.
mischevous
play
mice
though
wonderful
are
soon
quiet
.
... ... ... ... ... curious . dream
... ... ... ... I . ate . yarn . birds
... ... ... drank . heaven . out . of . a . fish . bowl
... ... special . little . can.s ... only . pure . mouse
... could . feel . like . home
.
{iii} unity of purpose
light.ly . place.d . paw
... up
must . feed . feline
.
.
.
Why am I late to work in the mornings?
Because my thirteen~year~old kittycat will snag me as I pass, grab my hand with both paws, and snudge his face against it with wild abandon; much as a street urchin kisses the hand of the nobleman who has saved an entire extended family from the workhouse:
I owe you my life, I am crazed with gratitude, I love you beyond all comprehension. Love me. Now.
Because my thirteen~year~old kittycat jumps on my shoulders as soon as I am dressed; then, it's:
a sigh of release, full weight & maximum drape, kneading claws, purrrrrs purrrrrs purrrrrs, squinty~eyed wrinkly~nosed slack~jawed drool, the whole kit & caboodle of cuddleworks.*
Because my thirteen~year~old kittycat will park his beloved arse** in front of the door as I am leaving; and he will look up at me as if to say:
no, no, please, don't put me in solitary confinement, don't put me down in the hole, you are breaking my heart, how can you leave me after everything I've given you, the other cats mean less than nothing to me, what can I do to make you stay?***
It's the terrible, terrible guilt. That's why I'm late for work.
Some day, some day soon, I'm going to call into work and say:
I'm not taking a sick day. I'm not taking a personal day. I'm taking the day to be with my cat.
~ ~ ~
* also known as purrs & spurs {purrspurrspurrspurrspurrs}
** to be known, sooner or later, as the dearly beloved, dearly departed, dearly missed arse.
In human years, he is approximately in his late sixties/early seventies ~~ not quite one paw in the grave; but definitely putting a scent mark on the tombstone.
Yes, I am dreading it. It's bad eneough when I have to leave him for a day; how will it feel when he has to leave me forever?
*** that look which is known around here as Ne Me Kitty Paw.
Some small soft thing was gently bounced off the bridge of my nose this morning, and it woke me up.
Opened my eyes to see a catnip mouse resting two inches from my face.
Just past the catnip mouse sat La Mamacita Grande.
mrow?
[breakfast?]
Six Impossible Wake-Up Calls Before Breakfast.
The cats have many techniques for waking me up in the morning when they want to be fed...
...from the violent (pouncing on the full bladder, or attacking exposed feet) ~
...to the subtle (licking the eyelids/nostrils, or nonchalantly walking back & forth & up & down over & over again & again across the body like fumble-footed four-legged fanatical geishas) ~
...to the persistent (placing a well-judged paw, slowly extruding the claws, and then enexorably pulling as slowly & smoothly as an hydraulic piston ~ done everywhere, but most effective when done to the bottom lip).
I eventually learn to sleep through all of them, and so they're forever forced to change their tactics {I ought to keep track of all of 'em, and write a treatise: 101 ways to rouse your caregiver for an earlier breakfast}.
Lately it's been: *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? *poke* are you up yet? I'm HUNGRY.
So being pelted in the face with a catnip mouse was actually a refreshingly pleasant wake~up call.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It reminded me of the tool-based IQ experiments through which chimps are assessed. I've always thought La Mamacita Grande was very smart but too shy to show it; call me doting & dotty, but I think the fact she used a tool to wake me up reveals a rather sophisticated thought process.
Kittycats.
They'll be perfectly content to snooze on your lap; and then they'll jump off, stroll into another room, and start caterwauling. Non-stop crying, it would tear out the hearts of the dead.
So you follow them to see what's wrong.
.
~ & you're thinking: are they hurt? ~ are they complaining about old, achey, arthritic joints? ~ are they giving vent to some stoically suffered chronic pain? ~ what are they trying to tell me?
~ are they yielding to some deep inner urge to yodel for potential mates?
~ are they hungry? ~ they've just been fed ~ are they peckish? ~ I just gave them treats.
~ are they bored? ~ how can they be bored? ~ when they want to play, they find a toy and play* ~ when they want to play with me, they bring me a toy.
~ are they lonely? ~ how can they be lonely? ~ I was right there, and they left.
.
Just before you come in, they stop; and when you look at them as if to say ~ what's wrong?
they look back at you as if to say ~ did you hear that sound? ~ I heard it too.
.
So you give them a little scritch, and through slitted eyes they seem to say:
~ooop ~ wait a minute ~ are those shoulders? ~ without a cat on them? ~ I'm supposed to be perched on those shoulders.
And !Allez Up! they go.
~ it's a darn good thing you came by. they say, your shoulders could use a cat.
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Sometimes I think what they're singing is an Ode to Becel (as in the margerine commercials). The point seems to be to get me up off the couch, walking around, & doing something ~ something like, oh, I don't know, pumping kittycat weights, maybe.
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~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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*Or, they're all over each other like Mexican professional wrestlers... we want to give the kitties appropriate stage names, but we don't speak Spanish... so they're stuck with names like La Mamacita Grande! El Dulce! and El Pollo Loco!
