Writers and their Cats

Tortoise Cat Thisbe  - a 'fraidy cat

Orange Cat Rulon, a power napper

Friday is traditionally cat blog day, but I wanted to offer a link an alert reader sent about writers and cats.  Above are my two.  Rulon thinks a friendly act it to give chase with maybe a few swipes of his paw.  Thisbe thinks otherwise.  Mostly they ignore each other.  He always horns in when I try to groom Thisbe.  "Horns in."  A great expression which has been reinforced by observing the feeding antics of the Highland Scottish cows.  But I digress.

The Masterpiece Mystery last night (Hercule Poirot) showed a flat with a crazy cat lady.    I haven't reached that stage yet.  In my dotage, perhaps.

In the meantime, here is the link to writers and their cats. Writers and Kitties.  
We enjoyed touring the Hemingway House in Key West and seeing all the cats with an extra toe. 

In Disgrace

I went batsh_t and chased one of the houseguests up the stairs this morning, spitting and growling.  My mistress called the vet.  I overheard her talking while I was sulking and having private time in the cedar closet.  When I emerged I was very lovey and hiding my Attila the Hun on Steroids side.   I can't believe it myself how fierce and protective of my turf I've become.  The Vet said it was a territorial thing.

I don't know where the other cat it, but I can smell him in the living room.  As long as he's not in my face, everything is just fine.  As long as no one is in my face, which I am currently washing.  I find that vigorous grooming relaxes me.  It's what a cat does, after all, and  A CAT'S GOTTA DO WHAT A CAT'S GOTTA DO. If I could paint or knit or whatever, do anything except clawing, I would put that on every wall in the house.

I'm going upstairs for a snack and to watch the Red Sox, which is something else I always do.  I  sit on the rug and my mistress reaches down and pets me and all is well.

Anti-anxiety meds were mentioned and I don't want no pills.  Egad, my diabetes shots are bad enough.  I feel like I could demolish 40 chipmunks and take on a fox.  Well, maybe not.

Attila on Steroids, aka Thisbe

Typical Day in the Life of a Retiree

Awake at nine and a half-hour in bed with coffee and the still-with-us Boston Globe. Cat comes up for lovey time. Plunks herself down in mid-paper. How sweet it is.

Down to the kitchen and make blueberry pancakes out of yesterday's waffle batter. Two slices of bacon per person, our idea of dieting. It warn't turkey bacon, either.

Clean up kitchen, spot clean tablecloth and throw in a load of laundry. Monday is still washday.

Give Thisbe her insulin shot.

Onto computer for email, blogging, and working on today's reading for the writing group. Wrote 4 pages yesterday. Good for me.

Shower, etc.

Off to Walmart for cat litter, insulin needles, cat food and a few assorted groceries. I used to scorn Walmart, before retirement and the cats many needs.

Looking for rhubard for rhubard bread later in week. Hope it's not $5.99 per lb. again.

Drop off key for cat sitter with instructions.

Baking food processor bread, and freeform blueberry tart. Dinner is a salad with grilled steak (cooked last night) on top.

Watch a little Wimbleton.

Water houseplants.

Print out reading for tonight.

Wine and cheese, then dinner. La-de-dah!

Off to writing group.

Blueberry tart. Maybe a little reading or TV. Insulin to cat again.

Read more of Eat, Pray, Love on Kindle. Lights out!

Thisbe comes out of the closet

As everyone knows, Friday is Cat Blog Day

And Thisbe is out from under the bed, too. After years and years, Thisbe has finally accepted our young houseguest who appears three times a year for various vacations. Usually Thisbe spends these weeks sulking under the bed or in a closet, wherever there is darkness and privacy and one can't (Thisbe hopes) be seen or detected.

Annie is the Tabby. Thisbe is the tortoise. She has a cross on her chest, and she hopes that the Pope might visit someday, as she knows he likes cats. But I digress.

When discovered under the bed, Thisbe used to hiss, "Get outta here. My space."

While we were in Europe, we shut the bedroom doors so that Thisbe's caretaker could give her the twice daily insulin she requires. After a few days Thisbe warmed up to the caretaker and didn't hide when the front door opened and the unfamiliar tread was heard in the house.

So on this occasion of our small guest's visit, we shut the bedroom doors again. Thisbe could "hide" behind the sofa in the home office or under my computer desk or in the cedar closet. She made several appearances and let the small guest pet her, a milestone. Then, three nights ago, Thisbe approached the small guest and said, in cat, "I would like to be petted." And it was accomplished. So Thisbe has been hanging out in the home office with the rest of us. The doll house is set up here and the small guest is busy night and day rearranging dolls and furniture.

Thisbe's old terror has abated. Of course sometimes a cat still likes her privacy and a trip to the furnace room or behind the couch or especially the cedar closet is still required.

Annie is always tranquil but has been heard once this week to offer up five mad meows. Don't know what that was about. She also escaped, opening the sliding door with her paw and exclaiming, (in cat) "spring is here; free at last!"

A household with cats is a complicated one, with brooding and sulking and periods of extreme lovingness. Cats are crazy. They fit right in.

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Friday is Cat Blog Day

A well-behaved Proustian cat. . .

We seem to be getting the knack of the injections (Thisbe and I). The secret seems to be don' t
swab her fur with alcohol. I suspect she knows the smell of alcohol from the vet and the Proustian memories it calls up are not the equivalent of tea and cookies in cat.

No, the latest crisis, well, mini-crisis, is the Eating Of The Christmas Cactus. Our Christmas cacti almost never bloom at Christmas. We've already had the Halloween cactus and the Veteran's Day cactus and now the Thanksgiving cactus. I hope these plants save something for the Holiday they are SUPPOSED to bloom for.

We've been out of cat grass for weeks, and both cats decimated the Baby's Breath that was part of a bouquet. I put the Christmas cactus on the library table where said plant will be easy to admire. Ooops! Thisbe admired it and ate a blossom or two. Probably a spent blossom. Eeek!

I don't wish to gross anyone out, but the vomiting from this little snack was profuse and disgusting and lasted several hours. I was beginning to think "Call Veternarian on a Holiday" when the cat appeared to be all right and stopped tossing her cookies, or in this case her cactus. She actually came upstairs and slept on the bed last night, and seems fine this morning.

Today I will brave Black Friday at the pet store (how bad can it be?) and buy cat grass. Yesterday when I mentioned "Black Friday" on this blog, it immediately received a comment which was actually an ad in not very great disguise. I guess that's why some blog sites make you copy the crooked numerals and letters before you can post. Not a bad idea.

So Black Friday! Black Friday! yada yada.

Apropos yesterday's food contributions: The Brussels-Sprouts-Cauliflower casserole was a winner. I took it from the oven just a few minutes before we had to be out of the house, neglecting to take a picture. It was toasty and brown and a little cheesy (in the good sense) and the pine nuts had turned a golden hue. If you ever need a holiday side dish that is not lo-cal, this one is a winner. And the veggies tasted so good.

The cheese cake was to die for and we probably will, with all that cream cheese and eggs clogging ye olde arteries. I dare not get on the scale today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe Jan. 2nd.

Shop till you Drop, but personally, I'm buying lunch and a couple servings of cat grass.

Meow!

Just A Spoonful of Sugar or Maybe Moist Food

Last Thursday morning, we jammed Thisbe into the cat carrier for a vet appointment. She has been eating and drinking like crazy, and we thought that maybe her diabetes was back. It is.

This means I have the honor and privilege of giving her a shot of insulin every day. Just one.

So, the fun began. First of all, a huge (to me) vet bill for the exam and the test. Then I picked up the prescription which could be filled anywhere. We headed to Walmart, hoping that was cheapest.

Oh God, then the fun really began. First of all, the pharmacy was closed for lunch from 1:30 - 2:00. So we cooled our heels buying potting soil and looking for cat grass, which nobody but the pet stores carries anymore.

The pharmacy opened and the pharmacist was very nice, and he didn't say anything when I blanched at the $100.00 price, and the thing is, the medicine is only good for one month and Thisbe only gets one millileter. I got needles and meds and we came home after an expensive detour to Kohl's where everything was so cheap you just had to buy stuff.

Back home, I did a trial run on the needle and the medication, and all was not well. I couldn't seem to make the plunger take the smallest amount. In the meantime, Thisbe got the wind up(who knows how) and disappeared under the bed.

I decided to call it a day.

Yesterday, I practiced with another needle and water, and became quite adept at getting the itsty-bitsy amount of insulin into the needle. Thisbe disappeared under the bed about the time I was thinking about the first shot. She came out to eat, took one look at me, and disappeared under the bed again, into the basement, anywhere, anywhere but in the vicinity of her mistress.

In the meantime, I had somehow expelled the insulin from the syringe.

Today we decided to take a day off, but Thisbe was not fooled and disappeared under the bed after breakfast. When I went up to get dressed, she usually comes out and we have some Mommy/Kitty time. Not this morning.

The damn cat really does have ESP. We're going to play it cool until tomorrow. Maybe she'll calm down.

The fact that the insulin has to be kept in the fridge and the needles sterile and the cat swabbed with alcohol first add to the complexity, as this point the impossibility. Maybe the smell of alcohol triggered a bad memory. Or a new memory from the vet. Maybe she remembers her former experience, when I used to distract her with catnip or get her while she was eating.

She has the wind up. Don't know what to do. And we have $300+ worth of meds, tests, exams and needles going for naught.

Some days you just want to drown your troubles with a cup of hot cocoa. Or something.,

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