I'm leaving on a jet plane........
Charlie finally slunk home when his tummy rumbles started to give away his hiding place.
Thank fuck for that. He came out of the bushes and gave such a relieved miaow when he saw me - I suspect he got scared when it got dark and was too frightened to come out of his hidey hole.
I didn't know whether to risk lacerations and scoop him up for a cuddle, or shake him for all the worry he put us through! I opted for a scoop up and a feed up.
All my kitties are safe and sound in cattery. The house seems so empty without them here. I was cleaning and the black bag wsa rustling in the wind. I could have sworn I saw Frankie standing there.
But alas. I shan't see them now until 14th August.
My bags are packed. Florida, here we come!!!!!
Bad day
I've just spent ten minutes trying to send an e-mail. That is the pattern my working life has taken there last couple of weeks.
Turn up for a centre regularity review. No manager.
Go to a meeting, which I have waited for all damn day, and can't do anything until I have the information due to be revealed. Person is off sick and no-one thought to let me know.
And now, to top off everything, Charlie has gone missing. It seems that the trauma from the vets and the forced pilling has been too much, and he has disappeared.
Fuck.
Poor Charlie
My big fat baby has been deemed to be very fat. Stunningly fat. Now I did know this - it is somewhat hard to miss, and we don't call him Lard Arse for nothing. He was this way when we adopted him, and he still wolfs food down like there is no tomorrow as if he were still stray. Charlie looks a few pounds short of collapsing to form a black hole as a result of this.
The vet feels that his bleeding is due to:
- acute colitis of an unspecified nature.
- chronic something. Very helpful, but hopefully his sample will reveal the something.
- stupendous fatness.
So I am under orders to diet Lard Arse and have been given a special diet food for him. And the bugger will not touch it. Neither will the others, so if Ellie is refusing it, it must be absolutely foul!
To make matters worse, she has put him on antibiotics as a precaution. I have to pill Fat Boy twice a day, and due to his sheer mass, he needs two tablets a day. And he bites.
The vet has helpfully suggested that I coat his tablets in cream cheese to make them more palatable - yes, the same vet who wants him on a strict diet. I can't see it working, but for the sake of my fingers, I'll try anything. Thankfully, the cattery will have the responsibility for the last three days of his course.
I have been holding off putting him on a diet, simply because with the combination of cattery, moving house, and two new cats I thought that would be enough stress for all of us without trying to feed them all separately and restricting the food of the greediest cat alive.
However, the bleeding means that he needs to start losing weight now rather than later. I'm sure he'll cope with it all. It can't be worse than living on the streets for him.
In more uplifting news:
- as yet, my hair remains;
- we have our holiday money. Not exactly a vast personal fortune, but not too shabby;
- I bought 60 organic free range eggs today (the only eggs I eat) for a mere fraction of the price because someone buggered up when ordering them. I'm going back for more later.
- The Baron has still not touched a fag. It turns out he doesn't have an ulcer after all (great news) but had a bout of gastritis.
- Our suitcase is packed. I know it is early, but Mum did it as I have so much work to finish this week. I'd like to point out she offered, I didn't ask.
- I've just finished a report. One more and I am done for the day.
- Willow passed her blood tests and is reserved for me. I spent half an hour in her cage with her on Friday and she is the sweetest, friendliest cat I have met. She isn't bothered at all by her eye, which is removed tomorrow.
Happy weekend, people!
Little whine
You are all more than welcome to skip on by and do something more fun. I feel a bit sorry for myself this evening. Take five minutes and I'll be done moaning.
Charlie is passing blood. He seems fine in himself, and he has always suffered from bowel problems. The blood is new, and I am worried. Not just because we are leaving for the US next week and he will be in the cattery, but he has already been through so much.
If he needs treatment, he needs to be taken to the vets. And that means the carrier. After having been trapped, caged, transported, caged again and then brought here, he is terrified whenever it comes out. His breathing is affected and you can see sheer terror and panic in his eyes. It is so hard to do that to him. He doesn't hold a grudge, but he finally trusts me, and I have to do that to him. I'm scared that he will lose that trust and we will back at square one.
Charlie needs me in a way the others don't. They have known nothing but a secure and happy home. Charlie knows what things can be like, and he has learnt to trust me. Trust that I will feed him. Trust I will let him in the house whenever he wants to come in from outside. Trust that I won't hurt him. So it hurts to think that I might have to do some things that although with the best of intentions, might hurt and scare him.
The Baron is also driving me mad. I know that giving up smoking is hard - I don't doubt that for a minute. But his constant mood swings and persistant whining is just doing my nut. And of cours, I can't say a word. All I can do is hold his hand, hug him, kiss him and tell him how amazingly well he is doing.
And he is. I am so proud of just how well he is doing. I just need to have some time by myself, but he is suffering little panic attacks when the cravings hit hard and he doesn't want to be alone. So I am finding this tough. Not as bad as him, of course. And he can't know.
There you have it. Moan over.
In other news, I am debating chopping all my hair off.
Holy crap!
The Baron has given up smoking too! So far he's managed 48 hours without a fag, or any of those give up smoking aid thingies.
Heaven help us both!
(and the latest from the RSPCA is that Willow is to lose her eye on Monday. Along with her girly bits too.)
Hum
I thought a little guitar practice would cheer my soul. It did, at least until something in my wrist snapped.
This isn't as bad as it sounds, by the way. I have highly suspicious hands and wrists - several breakages, several dislocations and two confirmed torn tendons on top of eighteen years of playing musical instruments have left me with creaking, clicking and snapping joints that don't always behave as they should
So the guitar will be resting on its stand for a little while, whilst my badly behaved wrist goes into detention.
Instead, I shall cover the cat tree in nip and watch the madness unfold. That is always good for a giggle.
Justification
It appears that the majority of the world thinks I am mad. Let me explain a little.........
Hollie was the first of the two additions. Neither have arrived yet, but she was the first new furbaby on the horizon.
Her owner cannot keep her any longer, and was looking for a new home for her. I stupidly buggered up my laptop and had to take it to head office to have it repaired. Since all the staff know about my "thing" for kitties, I was told all about the lovely lady. She is nine years old, and is basically a tabby version of Charlie. So no-one bugger in their right mind is going to take her....since I am not in a right mind I am the perfect candidate.
So it was agreed that after my move in September, Hollie would come and live with us.
So far, so good.
But over the weekend we were a little bored. And decided to visit the RSPCA centre. Now, the Baron banned me from going there alone, as last time I returned with Charlie. but he felt he would be a calm, restraining presence.
Was he bollocks!
Willow is a one year old tabby, who has lived mainly as a stray. She was brought into the centre with her eye hanging out of the socket, by a single thread. It was stitched back in, but isn't looking very good at all. And she was surrounded by cages and cages of kittens.
No-one was looking at her at all - everyone wanted kittens. And she is so beautiful.
She has had her blood tests today, and we shall hear soon if she can mingle with my monsters. Wednesday will seal the fate of her eye, and then she still must be spayed. So if everything works out, she should come to us shortly after we get home from holiday. But she is not certain - our move may be too much for her on top of the loss of her eye (which is how it is looking) and we may have to leave her open for adoption. Of course, if she is still available once we have moved, then that is another story.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my justification. I guess you have to love cats to agree with me on this one!
Confession time
Our household is about to grow. Oh yes. It has happened.
I've adopted two more cats! So that makes six. Proof that I have indeed completely lost my mind.
In other news, Miss Ellie is one today. Happy birthday, Smellie Ellie!
Ulcer
The Baron has been diagnosed with a peptic ulcer. Which is odd given he went in with earache.
So he is to give up Coca Cola. He of the two litres a day habit. And he is to give up smoking - after 13 years of twenty a day. I am thrilled! Not with the ulcer per se, but the lifestyle changes it has wrought.
The Baron is actually embracing these changes - which means he must actually be in some pain.
In sympathy I am renoucing diet Coke. I do have some niceness in me after all.
Househunting
We have found a house we like, offered and been accepted. We did a fair bit of paperwork today relating to that to speed things up. And to celebrate, we went to peek at our future house.
The current owners were outside, and saw us. Not only did they see us, but they recognised us, and so we have spent the afternoon drinking tea, being shown round in detail, going through the fixtures and fittings that will stay and getting the gossip on our future neighbours.
The draft contract relating to the sale of our house went out today, so we should exchange before we go away.
So not only is it two weeks to a holiday (on Friday), but our move is looking a lot closer.
Can I hear a huge WOOHOO??!!!!!
(As for gossip........not much. Our new neighbours are the daughter and son in law of the current owner)
Three weeks to a holiday
Three weeks to a holiday. Three weeks to a holiday.
That is today's mantra.
'Tis official
I am a small child magnet.
Five minutes ago, I heard childish mutterings outside the front door. Aimed at Harvey.
Now, remember. Harvey is pure evil. During daylight, he bites, he scratches, he hisses and he swats. If you are under five, he does this after dark too.
So fearing an angry mob and their weapons of choice, I go to warn the kidlets not to bear tender young flesh near the psycho cat.
Not only are they trying to poke him out, they are chasing Miss Ellie round the garden. Frankie and Charlie are hiding under the car. There is no angry mob in sight, let alone any responsible adult. Hehehe.
I'm mentally preparing my child friendly tirade, when......
"You're the cat lady? You have so many cats! Do they poo a lot?"
Shit. Even children under five in the neighbourhood know of my reputation, as a cat shit shoveller. Methinks that letting them try to poke Harvey will be sweet.
But do they continue? No. I'm more fun to torment.
They sit on my doorstep and tell me about their cat, Tigger. I know Tigger. Tigger sneaks in the catflap and eats my cats food. I know all about Tigger.
(In fact, I plan on stealing him.)
Then the conversation moves on to my cats. My car. My overgrown front garden. My rather cool nail varnish.
I am sat on the front doorstep with a five year old and a three year old (in snazzy Bob the Builder 'jama's) and there are no parents in sight. I was watching the delivery of a set of triplets on tv, and they had just made the first incision. Can I leave them? Can I?
Bollocks can I leave them. So we sit and tell cat stories. I show them how Harvey plays catch and fetch. Normally we do this with flowerheads, but thanks to my new friends, we found out that Harvey will chase a plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
We chat about how important it is to be nice to animals (might as well indoctrinate them early) and then I see Daddy in the distance chatting.
Thanks mate! You enjoy your evening, whilst I prevent your kidlets from being savaged by the Wild Beast of the West. I don't mind. Well, actually I do.
So I watch the kidlets trot off to Daddy. Peace. In I toddle and start feeding the cats. I turn around and.......
The kidlets are back. In my house. Shit. It's like a bad dream brought to life. I really must remember to shut the damn front door.
As if that wasn't bad enough, they settle down on my sofa and start watching the tv. What the hell do I do?
Finally, luck shines upon me and Daddy is at the door calling them out. Thanks Daddy.
Why do I always get left with other people's kids? The Boy. The children at the wedding. The strange little girl from up the road. Now these little boys. Do I emit some honing signal that they tune into? Answers on a postcard if you will.
The bird is gone
Frankie was the reprobate who brought it in. Sadly for the bird it was very much alive.
Ever seen a deer caught in the headlights? That was the look on Frankie's face when the bird started trying to peck him. So the bird escaped and hid under the sofa. Frankie ran outside and hid under the bush for the remainder of the afternoon.
Birdy was retrieved with a dustpan and brush, and an empty box and removed to the outside world. I stood guard whilst I tried to call the Small Animal Rescue Centre.
I'm not cut out for guarding. One of the little girls from down the road came over, and in trying to keep her away from the bird to avoid any further distress (birdy was going into shock), Harvey Cat pounced.
So the bird went back into the house. Harvey wasn't bothered by the pecking and the crying and carted him on a sight seeing tour of the house.
A quick stop in the study came first. Well, it isn't a study so much as laptop on the sofa, but Harvey thought it as good a place as any to stop for a breather. He left a feather sticking out by the space bar.
Next was a whistlestop tour of the bedroom, mainly since I was chasing him at that point. Up the ladder, across the bed, down the bookcase and down the stairs to the kitchen. Across the worktops and then out the door.
Birdy was still alive.
But not for much longer, although I'm sure the bird would argue it didn't come quickly enough. Harvey finally did him the kindness of finishing him off, after a little bird torture.
Bloody cats. Remind me why?
