Wednesday's Catcam -- Full of Woe

Sammy and Dobby

UKBB a.k.a. Little Boy

Okay, so... in my continuing efforts to avoid serious thought, I present an update of The Feline Remnant of Marlinspike Hall.

It's a traumatized Remnant.  We lost the Heart, the Center, of the Group last July when we euthanized Sam-I-Am, whose kidneys failed and who was suddenly stricken with an apparently voracious cancer.  He was such a sweet, intelligent, loving, and hilarious cat.  I miss him everyday.  He was the only Manor resident to be able to read me like a book.

Sniff.

The next unexpected feline death took Uncle Kitty Big Balls from us, just about a month ago. 

A word about how the atmosphere has shifted requires a word about genetics.  UKBB and his sister Marmy Fluffy Butt were two gorgeous homeless cats that Fred began to feed about 3 years ago.  The best guess of our vet is that they were 6-8 months old and abandoned.
When we met them, Marmy was awfully, fearfully, hugely pregnant.  She is really a very tiny girl, a fact well-hidden by her voluminous coat.  Anyway, at the time, we only had Sammy, and I was okay taking one cat in... We decided on Marmy, despite her nearly feral nature and her clear preference for being left the hell alone, because she looked absolutely miserable and other lives depended upon hers being saved.  I tried hard to come to the decision of adopting them both -- but the thought of TWO wild cats and a litter of kittens -- plus Sammy -- overwhelmed me.  Plus, I always tend to believe that others out there are going to do the right thing.  "Surely someone will take him in."  Later, I bolstered my arguments with the notion that he could hardly be disease-free after that much time on the street, and did not want to expose the other animals.  Yeah, I played the public health angle.

She terrorized Sam-I-Am and strategically took over any area that he would have to cross in order to get to his food and his litter box.  Marmy is a real piece of work, quite unaware of how difficult she is to love. 

It turned out that she also lacks any maternal instinct whatsoever.

Fred basically served as her midwife, and had he not been around, Dobby, possibly the most compassionate smarty-panted cat in the universe, would not have survived his own birth.  Dobby was the runt of Marmy's litter of five kittens, and she decided she was done with the delivery process about half way through -- the bubble over her head clearly communicated "Wake me when they are all here -- I need a nap."

It was quite the sight,  Marmy nursing those kittens.  They irritated her to no end... They would, for example, just latch on for a nursing session when she would snarl, get up, and stalk off... dropping valiant kittens every few steps.  The tried to hang on;  She was intent on shaking them off.  I lived in terror of running over a blind, mewling, tiny rug rat with my wheelchair as she scattered them willynilly.  We took over, pretty much, hand-feeding them, keeping them clean, trying not to badmouth Marmy in front of her innocent babies.  Little pitchers have big ears and all that, you know.

Marmy's Litter

You'd think that producing such a great, healthy litter might transform her into a less beastly beast, but no, if anything, she got worse.  And now, poor Sammy was terrorized by the five kittens in addition to Her Fluffy ButtNess.  Sammy was a timid, gentle soul.

Dobby was clearly different, and not just in a runt kind of way.  He was clueless, fearless.  He loved Sammy from the get-go, and seemed to have decided Sammy was more his mother than that Long-Haired Menace we kept returning him to...

Fred promised me before we took Marmy in that he would place all the kittens by 9 weeks.  As the fourth month of their lives passed, I began to take a jaundiced view of Fred and his promises.  Finally, I suffered a nervous breakdown after the bazillionth discovery of kitten piss in my closet and the covers of whatever books I was reading serving as their chewy pacifiers.  "They must go," I cried, as Fred slipped the straightjacket over my head...

He can get me to do most anything, Fred can.  Part of that has to do with loving him and wanting to make him as happy as can be and part of that has to do with me being the most gullible person alive.
Without cracking a smile, he asked, "So which one are we going to keep?"

Although worried about his health and possible developmental problems, we chose Dobby.  Actually, that was also why we chose him, as during our interviews of folks who wanted a kitten, we never found a situation where we felt he'd get the extra nurturing he seemed to need.  (He was just... different.  For instance, instead of searching out Marmy's teats, he preferred to climb her.  It was his favorite activity -- crawling and climbing in the opposite direction of whatever food was being served.  He was *tiny*.  And, we though, although gregarious as heck, maybe a little stupid.  I mean, Sammy, trapped inside his fear of little, clambering things, would knock him into the next week, and Dobby'd come bouncing right back to him, obviously thrilled at having been noticed...)

So we ended up with antisocial, always pissed-off Marmy Fluffy Butt, the intimidated Sam-I-Am, and the always up for a thrill Dobby. 

Fred actually had to carry Sammy to his litter box because Marmy would attack him viciously if he dared to cross the imaginary plane of her territory.  We had to feed him in our bedroom, too.  This went on for at least several months.  It ended the day he pooped and peed in the bedroom and I suffered my second straight feline-induced psychotic break.  Restrained in the Happy Chair, I howled that Marmy's Reign of Terror had to end... and that no one was going to toilet inappropriately from that day forth.

During all this time, Fred kept an eye out for Marmy's brother, still homeless.  He continued to feed him and would sometimes sit out by the moat late at night, talking with him.  They clearly loved each other and I began to feel like the Big Bad Meanie.

The following year, the next April, I was doing my usual spring fling, hanging out in ICU on a respirator, following one of the seven surgeries on my shoulders -- I was beginning to not do so well post op, pulling stunts like coding and refusing to breathe.  I was getting better but still couldn't manage off of the vent, and was very tired.  Fred arrived to visit one evening and was clearly agitated.  I was able to communicate by writing, so I set out to find out what was wrong.  "There is something I have to tell you," he began, grimly.   Honest to God, it crossed my mind that maybe he wanted to turn off the respirator and cut off my nutrition... He must finally have had enough of me...
But the actual "conversation" that ensued boiled down to this:  Uncle Kitty Big Balls had turned up at the Manor in horrible shape, all skin and bones, covered in abscesses and unable to walk on one of his hind legs... and Fred wanted my permission to take him in, permanently.  His timing was impeccable and his performance, flawless.  I was so relieved that he didn't want to "humanely euthanize" ME, that I nodded vigorously and wrote a great big "Okay!" on my writing pad.

(He claimed later that he couldn't read the scrawled "please don't unplug the breathing machine...")

UKBB and I sort of went through a few rounds of rehab together.  He had his surgeries -- I had mine.  He ended up having part of a foot amputated and required complicated dressing changes for his multiple fight wounds.  And yes, he had HUGE kitty balls... but not for long.  Just long enough to earn the Uncle Kitty Big Balls sobriquet.  Mostly, we called him "Little Boy."

Just as his sister Marmy was obstinately feral, Little Boy hungered for affection and almost could not get enough of Fred.  He became Fred's shadow and remained his raspy-voiced confidante to the end.  Me, he liked enough, but seemed to know that I was the one that had cursed him with an extra year as a suffering stray.  He showed me affection when I doled out salmon, chicken, kibble, or catnip. Ours was a utilitarian relationship.  He liked to watch me with Sammy, and learned the ins-and-outs of life in Marlinspike Hall by copying Dobby, his precocious nephew.

I discovered the Magic Spray we add to their food to take the stink out of their litter box leavings thanks to UKBB, as he produced stinky poops that defied description.  Having been undernourished for so long, he dedicated his life -- beyond The Fredster -- to food.  His coat grew back in, thick and luxurious, and he developed a muscular but quite round belly.  He looked not unlike some burly underworld figure who might keep a stogy clamped between his teeth.

So now we had Marmy and her brother, as well as her kitten, Dobby -- and Sam-I-Am, who sometimes looked at us reprovingly, clearly not one of The Family:

Marmy, Dobby, UKBB:  Related?!

It was easy to love the three boys, each with an engaging personality, each craving affection.  Marmy remained an enigma.  Every few days, I had to trap her so as to be able to comb out her matted hair.  You would think I was trying to murder her.  The thought crossed my mind as she hissed and scratched her way through that bonding exercise.  As hard as I tried to introduce her to Grooming 101, she still produced several python-like hairballs a week -- more fun for me, as apparently I am the only human within a 10-mile radius who ever noticed them.

Sammy and Dobby were so tight, it was amazing!  Dobby brought out the kitten in my old guy, and he was often sighted flying through ballrooms and libraries, grinning and skidding around corners, Dobby hot on his heels.  It was a happy time for the two of them and who knew that Feline Hide-'N-Seek had so many rules?  Still, Sammy saved his best for me, and got me through many a long afternoon or night.  He was a large-boned cat but stepped so delicately around my feet and legs that he never hurt me... except when he absolutely had to -- you know, like when it is 5:05 AM and breakfast has not been served.

Dobby turned out to be an angel and we take complete credit for every one of his amazing attributes.  A frequent refrain around here is any variation of Dobby is so wonderful because he's never known anyone but us, never known anything but love...  (I know, I know -- Saccharine Gag!)  He is a mediator and protector, and has a huge heart full of concern for the welfare of others, species be damned.  He can figure his way through, out, or into any physical obstacle.  He opens doors, he turns light switches on and off. He fetches and "sits" on command.  He comes when he's called and if you don't understand what he wants, he will tap the item and then you, in turn.

When Sammy lost his appetite at the end and I was ridiculously frenetic about getting nourishment into his dying body, there were a few occasions when Dobby carefully walked him to the kitchen in the middle of the night, and reminded him how to eat and drink.  It broke my heart.  Sammy would do his best for Dobby.  Yes, I am weeping.  I miss him and loved him that much.  Most days, I would gladly swap human companionship for a chance to be with Sam again.  Let's put it this way, Friends -- I probably kissed that cat more times than I've planted one on my Darling Fred.

After Sammy's death, Dobby went into a depression that he hasn't quite gotten out of yet.  He still strolls the grounds late at night, calling his friend.  He still sometimes has a thought of him and runs to me with questions in his eyes.

UKBB, Little Boy, suddenly went into ketoacidosis.  We had noticed that he was drinking a lot, and decided that we were going to make an appointment with the vet.  He became deathly ill the very weekend we made that decision.  It struck him quickly and we did the best we could for him, got him the best of care, but too late.  We have that guilt and can't get rid of it.  Fred is heartbroken.

A phrase that is antithetical to my nature keeps occurring to me, though, regarding UKBB, and Fred does seem to understand it.  Because of Fred, Uncle Kitty Big Balls had his thirty minutes of wonderful.  Because of him, he knew warmth and care, healing and fun, love and friendship.

You may accuse me of anthropomorphism all the live-long day, I don't care.  To quote Paul Simon, and why wouldn't I?  -- I know what I know.

The day after UKBB died at the emergency vet ICU, I had my first ketamine treatment.  I know now that I wasn't anywhere near as "high" as it seemed then, but I was definitely disinhibited by the experience.  We found ourselves admitting that the hole left by Little Boy's death was too much, and that we each had already entertained the notion of adopting a kitten.  This flies in the face of what's "right" to do, of course.  So we did it -- that being how we came to have Buddy the Kitten.

It's not fair to give an animal (or a child) a "job" to do in exchange for their admission to the fellowship of family... but we have done that, I confess.

Buddy is responsible for comedic relief, for offering his soft kitten fur to absorb our tears, and for cheering the desolate Dobby and the sad Marmy Fluffy Butt.

A word about Marmy.

You'd not know she is the same cat that was so wild and totally insane for... what?  Almost 3 years. She was changed by Sammy's death.  That very same evening, she came straight to me, climbed into my lap, and... stayed.  She chirps instead of meowing, and her inflected bird calls were a strange comfort.  She clearly had years worth of things to say.

For the longest time, she literally attached herself to me, to the point where I almost longed to be catless.  Whatever happened in her self-centered little soul that day has lasted... Well, until we brought Buddy the Kitten home.

We figure he brought back her nightmare of giving birth and being constantly accosted by needy sucking mouths that demanded she put herself last. "I ain't doing this again," read the cartoon bubble over her head.

Below are four (4) cat videos.  Surprise!  You being as smart as you are, they are self-explanatory -- except for the long one, the third one. 

Yes, it makes me laugh out loud!  I went into my tiny "office" in search of a book, and was followed by none other than the aforementioned kitten.  As I turned to leave, I noted several things:

-- Buddy the Kitten was cowering in the corner under a stool, between two bookcases;  and
-- Marmy was sprawled on the rug in the small hallway outside my office, clearly pleased with herself for having trapped the hapless baby while appearing to be all innocence and light to the Dumb Human.

This little scene is repeated over and over all day.  She (innocently) blocks his path, and gets extremely pleased with herself for doing so.  He slinks into a corner, shaking with fear (for she has introduced him to her claws). 

And then, TA DA!  Dobby will arrive and help defuse the tension, often either running Marmy off in a game of chase, or simply escorting the frightened kitten out of the area (and back to me).  It is a HOOT.  He's like a United Nations' Peacekeeper, but more effective.

The other vids are just... stuff.  The day the kitten dedicated to learning how to leap.  Dobby's continual patronage.  Marmy strolling by, exuding oppression.  The usual stuff.

I know cat vids are boring and cat stories more so... but that's about all I can do today.  I have a doctor's appointment to talk about more pain-killing measures and frankly, I keep breaking down and don't really want to go.  The Pity Party will end, I promise.  I'm thinking... tomorrow?

Wednesday Morning Blahs

What a long night. I would sleep maybe 40 minutes at a stretch, then get up (and getting up ain't easy), wander around a while, get back in bed (again, not easy), lather, rinse, repeat.

There is a lot on my mind but none of it is new, none of it is particularly remarkable.

There is pain, unremarkable pain. There is spasticity, funky jumpy spasticity. There is something that doesn't qualify as pain -- not discomfort, no, it's more mobile than your ordinary "oh my..." It shoots by; It pivots, twists, turns; It burns.

Visual trickery drags my mood down low -- When I wake and turn on the light, the lamp goes in and out of focus, is confusing, has no depth. That's what is happening more and more -- a loss of light, a loss of depth. I did not realize how much we depend on depth in the not-so-simple activity of identifying the things around us, the familiar things we don't have to mull much over... usually. In the last few days, I have not been able to identify the following: an overhead fan, a foot, a pillow.

I am having great fun, however, with the many misreadings I make of novels, blogs, instructions, and even traffic signage.  (Not to worry, I am not driving.)  Sometimes it is fun to just go with the misperception -- very revealing, too, as all is supplied by one's own errant brain. 

Sometimes.
Not today, though.
It's raining, a little on the cool side. It is early, even for me, and my eyes are so messed up that subjecting them to close reading seems cruel and pointless.
Besides, someone needs to use this Flip Video thingy. 
Hmm, let's see.  I'm not dressed, Fred is still abed, and I don't hear any Domestic Staff bustling around.  It's just me and the cats.  Hmmmmmm.

How are the cats these days, you ask?  (And aren't you the Sweet One!)  In the ongoing battle with our environment here in this wing of Marlinspike Hall, we are making a concerted effort to wean The Extant Felines {{waving to Sam-I-Am, my Heaven-based liege lord}} from their habit of scratching furniture.  In our wisdom, we decided this would best be achieved by eliminating even the whiff of boredom from their daily fare.

Since, absent Sammy, they are a familial unit, there's not too much rivalry among them, it's mostly a matter of not letting them succomb to ennui. Marmy Fluffy Butt and Uncle Kitty Big Balls (a.k.a. Little Boy) are siblings. Marmy rules, but only because she went through the fiery initiation of surviving on the street for eight months, the last weeks with a hell of a big belly on her tiny frame -- a belly full of kittens. We don't know what she went through out there, but it wasn't sweetness and light. So what Marmy wants, Marmy gets.

She has done the proverbial 180 since Sammy died. Suddenly, I was her greatest find since kibble. There are nights when it is *precisely* Miss Marmy Fluffy Butt's doing that I fail to sleep, for she must be attached to me, on top of me, head-butting me, murmuring her *ack*-*ack*s and staring, with great intent, deep into my burning red eyes.

                                              Ms. Marmy Fluffy Butt, Sister to Uncle Kitty Big Balls, Mother to Dobby

We have a relationship based on Attention Paid to Marmy, Marmy's Grooming, BellyRubs of Marmy, and, most of all, Whispered Expressions of Admiration for Marmy.  She does not much like boys of any sort, lacks -- completely -- maternal instincts, and is about as blatantly manipulative as they come.

She's a hard girl to love, and her delight at having Master SamWise disappear from her competitive world did nothing to endear her.  Of all the group, she is the most strange, estranged, separate.  But then she will go and do something silly, and most all her hardness is forgiven.  Lately, that has been her wild trips on slippery new floors, trips begun back in Fred's work room, full speed achieved while weaving her way through our tiny wing's living quarters, dodging tables, leaping over rugs, sliding under the odd davenport, sling-shotting her way around tight corners, and slamming on the brakes about 15 feet from the book case packed with old, soft paperbacks...  Chin in the air, paws prancing, a red glint peeking out the corner of an eye, she accepts your admiration, your glee at her uninjured state, then she goes all cartoon on you again, and reverses direction...

We are not sure she realizes that she is mother to Dobby. It doesn't matter.  He is, in any event, acceptable to her as a playmate from time to time.  She has been known to slap him silly for no discernable reason, behavior that makes her a frequent object of his contemplation.  He is a forgiving little soul, is Dobby.

He was the runt of the litter.  Marmy, in fact, had just up and quit the birthing process with Dobby's arrival in the queue.  Fred delivered him -- she took no interest.  We were convinced he'd never make it, as his contrary nature showed itself from the very beginning.  He would bypass a teat in favor of climbing as high as possible and often ended up perched on her confused head while his sisters and brothers gorged on milk.  Like most runts, he could be found either excluded and alone, or surrounded and smushed at the bottom of a pile-o'-kittens.  He was the one who promptly fell off the bed, thought the litter box a fine place to sleep... oh, and he was the one who was fascinated by the great big cat, Sammy.  Very David and Goliath.  A weeks old kitten purring at the hissing, wild-eyed (terrified) grown boy.

[Sammy was so afraid of Marmy and her kittens that we had to CARRY him past them in order to get him to the litter box.]

So, of course, Dobby and Sam-I-Am became best buddies, and spent most of their time together, sleeping and playing.  It was wonderful to witness how Sammy grew into himself at long last with the help of this weird little star-faced runt.

Dobby and Sam-I-Am

Dobby definitely rules the roost without knowing it.  His needs are easy to meet, his desires mostly reasonable. 

He still spends several hours each evening looking for Sammy, going from room to room, calling.  We try our best to distract him but lately it has started to piss me off.  I don't want to think about a dead cat every evening.  I don't want to repeatedly comfort this little manipulative elf, not when it drags me down to do it.  Anyway...

We haven't filmed it yet -- but we will.  One of Dobby's massage sessions.  They are... um... weird.  Fred started it when he was but a gaseous kitten and now The Dobster insists upon it several times a day.  What?  Well, I guess you could call it an intestinal rub, a very deep tissue massage.  He promptly assumes the position, a sort of intense in-folding, living origami.  It looks, frankly, like a sexual torture session, except that there is no genital contact, no sexual overtone, undertone, nada.  Just a strange, wild-eyed look upon a feline's face while his body contorts with painful pleasure.

If you can keep your hand from cramping, at about the 5-minute mark, the little guy usually falls asleep.

Uncle Kitty Big Balls, Dobby's uncle, has made a remarkable recovery from the sorry state he was in at the beginning of his stay here at Marlinspike Hall.  Mostly bald with weeping sores, severely underweight, abscessed -- he lost most of one foot and just generally had a tough time.

I had refused to allow his adoption at the time we took his preggers sister Marmy in -- he looked rough and mean.  Plus he didn't like me.  He loved Fred.  Didn't like me one bit. 

Convinced he would do well as a sort of "neighborhood cat," I chose to ignore his obvious love affair with Fred.  You could hear Fred crooning to him as they sat by the moat late at night in the warm summer months.  Then he disappeared.  The cat, not Fred.  Without discussing it, we each concluded that he must have been hit by a car...

Last April, I was hanging out in the ICU, being lazy, letting a ventilator do the hard work of breathing, when Fred charged into the unit and announced that he had something vitally important to discuss with me.

"He wants to turn off the machines and let me die...  Hmm.  Wait a minute.  I thought I was doing better!
Oh, God, he's having an affair..."

No, it was the cat.  "He's back!  It's a miracle!  I am going to trap him and take him to the vet.  I want to adopt him.  I know it is extra work, extra vet costs.  I will take care of him... I'll pay the difference... blahblahblah." 

What did I care?  I was on a freaking respirator.

So Uncle Kitty Big Balls began his own private medical odyssey while I eventually got back to my stunning baseline, and we both came "home" on the same day -- me from the fancy-schmancy medical center, and he from the vet.

He's a gentle soul, it turns out, and so content just being warm, dry, and fed.  If you add affection and the familial predilection for the tummy rub, he's ecstatic with joy.

He went, however, from underfed and sickly-looking to overfed and excessively corpular.  Robust.  I call him El Gordo when Fred is not around.  He clearly has plans for avoiding any future episodes of hunger.  Because he sincerely seems hungry and because feeding three cats is enough of a headache already without individualizing one of those diets... we aren't putting him on a diet.  Per se.

I found the perfect thing:  The PetSafe SlimCat Food Distributor Ball, Blue.  $5.65 at Amazon.  What could be better than a food-based exercise program?

So I introduced this new bit of higher education to the Extant Felines this morning... and this is what, ummm, "happened":  

i need Marmy

so i think i may lose my right leg.  good morning!

it's not imminent, nor eminent.  as a leg, it achieved some fame in my teens and twenties, primarily on the tennis court.  and while i have several meltdowns a day and repeatedly schedule its amputation out in the Paisley Sheep pen (lots of clean straw and that fresh, cold air to make that outdoorsy party atmosphere -- we can pile pumpkins around and serve hot chocolate), i'm trying to get over some bronchitis.  you gotta prioritize.

i keep rediscovering that people are pretty nice, that most everyone is doing their damnedest.  some could use a little *focus* but everyone is trying.

ms. marmy fluffy butt (a cat) is, however, breaking my heart.  it's been months now that she'll have nothing to do with me.  i can take such treatment from human family, but my marmy dear?  i miss her.

[i'm sure you want to refresh yourself on my few and far between cat posts (yawn!) but this one does a good job of summarizing the topic, though it lacks details on our beloved Monaghan and Ms. Pruddy Prudence. I stole the video of Marmy from it, in fact, as she is notoriously hard to capture on film: Wednesday Morning Blahs. ]

it started out understandably enough:  i was dubbed the human who was to "goop" her eyes because she had a nasty ocular infection.  i would hate me, too, but i would get over it, i think.

then it got complicated.  somehow, territorial rivalry set in, with Dobby the Runt and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten, boys both, claiming me in the name of... well, Creature Comforts.  i am the source of greenies and belly rubs, grooming with kisses on the nose, and gourmet-grade bonito flakes.

Marmy Fluffy Butt has not reverted to the feral gal we first knew her to be, but she is more and more hiding
-- i look behind furniture for her, often missing her petite self staring sullenly my way just a few feet off.

the boys won't let her on the bed.  the boys won't let her eat until they're done.  sometimes -- lately -- she and i lock eyes, then do a simultaneous eye roll.

i've taken to rolling the wheelchair just to the edge of the Permissible Zone and just talking to her.  world events, politics, the local hullabaloo over proposed speed humps.  i am pretty sure she and i are on the same side on the speed hump thing.  we have a prototype set up -- thank you, Tante Louise! -- and already, three Cistercian monks have taken ungainly headers over the handlebars of their pre-WWII bikes.

sometimes Marmy gifts me with a squint of affection that will carry me through the day on a cloud of alrightness.  i make sure she has a clean warm blanket on the best chair in our living quarters here in the manor -- i change it twice a week under her watchful eyes, her infection-free eyes.

Dobby is her son.  Buddy spent his entire babyhood hiding from her.  we must return to filial fealty, we must return to respect for her speedy, speedy claws.

and we must return to Marmy glommed to my side, beautiful, warm, well-groomed, and opinionated.

i need Marmy.  happy thanksgiving, my dear.

   Ms. Marmy Fluffy Butt

None the Worse for Wear

The felines strike again, and that always leaves me feeling better, usually for having laughed and laughed and laughed. They're a bunch of nutters.

I am in a Period of Inertia. Not unrelated, but not exactly coincidental, either, is the fact that I am spiking fevers over the 101 mark, and doing that daily. It is, to put it mildly, depressing. As of the first of October, I'll cease to have health insurance coverage. There are several important things that need doing before this happens, and I've not done any of them.

As usual, when I am too self-involved, the antics of our pets manage to both help pass the miserable time spent shivering and lost in febrile headaches, as well as to simply keep me amused and somewhat distracted.

Of what significance, then, this gnawing in the pit of my stomach, this trembling of my hands?

[One very good thing of late? The pain I am in has nearly normalized -- I am back to what is a baseline state of being, and am oh-so-grateful.]

We're gifted with four cats: Sam-I-Am, Marmy (a.k.a. Fluffy Butt), Dobby, and Uncle Kitty Big Balls (a.k.a. Little Boy).

Sammy is the Elder Statesman -- which would be news to him, of course. He is a sensitive soul, which is to say, neurotic -- and needy. Marmy and Uncle Kitty Big Balls are siblings. They were both Street Urchins who began dropping by The Manor for the odd meal and a round of petting. Fred, playing on Sam's need for company and on Marmy's very pregnant condition, lobbied for Marmy's adoption, and won. She was essentially a feral cat that put up with us. Her five kittens were as foreign to her as Moon Rocks. We feared for their little lives those first few days -- they would latch on to her and begin nursing, which would trigger a fit of pique in Marmy, and the next thing you knew, she would take off... leaving blind and bald kittens scattered throughout Our Wing of Marlinspike Hall. I nearly flattened a few with my wheelchair. Anyway, we managed to socialize her but it took a tremendous amount of time -- and the trust we earned risks destruction everytime her routine world is rocked. She has a vet visit scheduled in a few weeks and we dread the impact of that on her -- the vet does not figure among her Facebook Friends.

Dobby, Our Little Idiot, was the runt of Marmy's litter. After the birth of the first four, Marmy lost interest in her last delivery -- Fred served as obstetrician. We were sure that Dobby would either not survive at all, or would be terribly damaged. He barely nursed -- indeed, that whole operation seemed to go right over his little bald and blind head. He showed a strange interest in climbing -- no matter where he was, he seemed determined to hike to the highest available altitude. He was roughly two days behind the others in all the developmental landmarks and could often be found struggling to emerge from beneath a fuzzy pile made up of all his siblings. (That might have fed the desire to constantly climb...)

Once it was apparent that he was going to live, he quickly became our favorite due to his courageous Little Spirit. He would be the first to attack My Red Angora Leg Warmers (I'll give you a moment to visualize), the first to leap from the strange heights of The Gigantic Bed to the antique Persian carpets below, and the first to respond to any cries of distress. Because he has remained such an intelligent, small, and social creature, very dedicated to The Common Good, we named him after the House Elf in the Harry Potter series.

And so, there were three. This suited me just fine, although Marmy could be irksome, and keeping her lucious long hairs off of The Captain's finery was a never-ending task.

Marmy's brother remained a stray and we saw him in fits and starts. His health began to go downhill and Fred suffered pangs of guilt for not having taken him in at the same time we adopted his sister, Miss Fluffy Butt. He suffered bouts of mange, then obvious injuries from fighting. Just before going into the hospital in April, I saw him hanging out by The Moat, and realized that he was limping badly. That hospitalization was difficult, and included time in ICU, on a ventilator.

As I lay there, struggling to breathe, Fred came to my side, looking grave and troubled. I couldn't talk to him, but recall thinking I would do most anything to take that worried look from his face. He said, "There is something important I need to talk to you about..." and thoughts of oh-my-God-he-wants-to-turn-off-the-machines-and-let-me-die went through my head, closely followed by fears of Marlinspike Hall having burnt to the ground.

"Uncle Kitty Big Balls came by this afternoon and was looking horrible. I can't stand it anymore; I want to adopt him. If we don't, he is going to die."

Yes, it took me a minute to switch gears. And then I was so profoundly glad that he wasn't planning to euthanize me and that our current home remained standing, that I mouthed and nodded "yes, yes, yes..."

$3,000 later, Uncle Kitty Big Balls was on the road to recovery. He, like me, had a bad case of osteomyelitis and required amputation of a toe, and removal of some infected bone. The famed Big Balls were gone, too, as were the three or four terrible abscesses from his various street fights. (He has an awesome record, his preferred style being a rustic, yet oddly elegant vale tudo.)

His fur was almost completely shaved off, and he was emaciated.

Unbelievably, though, he suffered from none of the terrible illnesses I'd expected -- no feline leukemia, no feline AIDS, no kidney diseases. And week by week, then day by day, he healed.

The cat follows Fred around as if he were some sort of Feline Deity, which I guess he is, from UKBB's point of view!

Whew. So that's the gang. Sometimes I feel for Sammy -- he's up against a family dynasty... But then I watch him enjoy the comaraderie and fun, and so long as we provide him with one-on-one attention, he really benefits from the company. I mean, just look at this picture -- evidence of the Benefits of Dobby -- Nuggler Par Excellence:

Oh, My God. I put a caption on a photo of my cats. I am Cat Woman. Oh. My. God.

Anyway.

I'm pretty much blind without my glasses. Yes, that's right -- go, ahead, picture it -- glasses, purple legs, and a Pressure Sore, Alma de Cuba of the Ischium. Dress that image up with My Red Angora Leg Warmers. Lucky Fred, eh?

Dobby gets bored easily. Because he's such a sweet-natured creature (We figure because he has only ever known us, and we are such good influences -- imagine if we had human progeny, what delights they might be!) -- because he's such a sweet-natured creature, Dobby is clueless sometimes about right and wrong.

He has boundary issues.

Of course, he's also a cat.

He delights in stealing things. It's comical -- he's so tiny and yet will grip whatever booty he's absconded with in his mouth, and fly like the wind through Our Wing of The Manor, eyes bugging out of his little pin head.

We excuse every lapse in etiquette on The Dobster's part by reminding ourselves that he's got a really tiny little head.

He makes off with pens, tweezers, combs (a real favorite), MP3 players, thermometers, and small paring knives (*once*). His larger conquests include my grabber, which he perceived as a mortal enemy when a kitten, Fred's Crox, and just yesterday, the hefty 2010 IKEA catalogue.

He occasionally steals my eyeglasses.

If that were all, it'd be fine. The thing is, once the theft goes down, Dobby loses interest and his fastidious and freaky mother takes over.

Did I mention that without the aid of glasses, I am essentially blind?

So, this morning, when Marmy got the glasses in the hand-off, I glared and yelled in her general direction. Fairly leaping from bed to wheelchair, I sped off in that same general direction, colliding with two walls and one door frame on the way.

Upon arrival at said general location, I realized that I was chasing... a lambswool duster that La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore had left propped in the corner of The Hallway To Our Rustic Kitchen.

Behind me, I heard the taletell sound of an amused *ack*-*ack*-*ack*. Slowly I turned...

and saw the rapidly receding end of Ms. Fluffy Butt, my glasses astride her fluffy fat head.

And so begins another day, here at Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé. If Marmy is true to form, she'll eventually return my spectacles by dropping them in the communal water dish, none the worse for wear.

Though temporarily blind, I am blessed. All that remains is to realize it.

Dobby, Marmy Fluffy Butt, and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten

I think we have more fans of The Manor Cats than we do of any human inhabitants, which is as it should be.

Dobby remains the perennial favorite.  He was born here, after all, as the very confused runt of Marmy Fluffy Butt's first and only litter. He is imbued with a generous spirit and serves on the Marlinspike Hall Hostage Negotiation and Intervention Team.  He has few vices -- the main one being a propensity to demand over-brushing;  He lives to be groomed.  Dobby is our secret weapon in the training of the more difficult felines:  a model of decorum for his Mother, the original Wild Thing, and a living "how-to" guide for Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten, who has been with us since March.

We were pretty much insane the day we got nine-week-old Buddy from the shelter.  Uncle Kitty Big Balls, Marmy's brother and Dobby's uncle, had suddenly taken ill and died the previous weekend.  Fred and I had invested a lot of time, money, and loving energy, first rescuing UKBB from the street, then having his hard-used body patched up.  We were glad, ultimately, to have been able to provide him with a year of comfort.  Still, it was hard to believe he had fought back from such a difficult life only to die just when he was discovering fun.  I was beginning the subanesthetic ketamine treatments for CRPS, and Fred was exhausted by all of it.

We're well versed in when not to go kitten/cat-hunting but we did it anyway -- things were just too freaking hard and diversion was needed.  Like taking care of Marlinspike Hall, the moat, the outbuildings, the errant Cistercians, the livestock (miniature, normal, and oversized), the orchards, the labyrinth -- Like all of that wasn't enough to distract us!  No, we needed a kitten.

Distract us, he did.  I managed four months of treatment, without success, and went broke in the process.  We'd each break down, tour à tour, but after, at most, a minute of weeping, giggles of "oh, you numbnut, you" would take over, as Buddy decided to attack a toe or a tassel, jump in a bag or a box, leap on Marmy Fluffy Butt's fluffy butt or sit on Dobby's head.

Buddy the Kitten has turned into a Maine Coon, that ultimate in Americana.  We grew suspicious when his growth came less in spurts and more in onslaughts, and when his tail assumed a separate identity that even his head could not understand.  He is, it seems, having a war between his front end and his rear, with that tail flitting about to truly confuse things.  One end has been known to attack the other, while Buddy the Kitten rolls his eyes wildly about.

He thinks himself tiny which is ridiculously cute but frequently irritating.  I am thinking of my bedside table, mostly.  Not entirely in control of his body, when Buddy decides to take a leisurely stroll along the invisible roundabout on my bedside table, most everything ends up on the floor or between his jaws.

He deconstructed the blinds that were custom-cut for our windows so that he can slip behind the headboard and ogle the birds, and when he outgrew the opening he'd made, he renovated.  I made lots of noise about making repairs but have not a clue how to prevent him from tunneling back in...

Anyway, the Maine Coon, for you non-cat people, doesn't follow the rules of kittenhood.  Instead of maturing in the first year of life, they continue to grow well into their third year and can keep going until age five.  He will end up being between 15 and 25 pounds.

His racoon tail has already encountered my wheelchair wheels on three occasions, and they were not happy moments.  It's not going to get better as he seems comfortable challenging the chair.  He doesn't yet make the connection that I am driving the thing, else he would be afraid, very afraid.

This week, he has been contemplating his poop production.  He does not play with it, eat it, sniff it, or do anything disgusting at all.  He just sits outside one of the three litter boxes, with his head poked through the front opening, and... contemplates.  This activity appears to be very soulful and satisfying.  He will maintain his meditative state for up to twenty minutes at a time.  I only hope his next project is as quiet and non-destructive.

Marmy remains all about Marmy.  She wants what she wants, when she wants it.  We hang together, me and Marmy.

In case you've forgotten what Buddy looked like a few months ago, here is a photo of that engaging and innocent young thing.  The tail, even then, should have been a clue.  We were clearly in denial.

There Are Worse Things

Ah, the acrid pineapple-y smell of cat pee emanating from my favorite quilt. The pineapple-y-ness of it is peculiar to Sam-I-Am, the eldest cat of The Feline Triumvirate.

Yep, that's him in the photo on the left. He was trying to stare the camera down that day.

He's had a rough week and I hope this most recent attack on my quilt is a territory issue and not the return of his kidney disease. He is nestled next to me now -- but he does not look quite right.

His nose is wet. Not too wet. Just the right amount of wet. He's not dehydrated.

He lets my hands gently probe his body, though he is giving me warning glances, and one love bite. The next bite may not be so kind.

We worry, as we spring clean The Manor, that perhaps he got into some of the chemicals necessary to the endeavor. Degreasers. Sealants. Various forms of detergent, waxes, paint, lacquers.

But he's a very smart cat and I don't think he will ingest anything he doesn't recognize, although in a period of intoxication, who knows? And I admit to dosing all three cats with the new kick-ass Cosmic Catnip that Fred picked up at the Tête de Hergé Pet-O-Rama. He had a 10% off coupon but doesn't use it to buy cat FOOD, no! The Fredster gets kitty marijuana.

Anyway -- background, you need background. Little Boy, who is Marmy's brother, showed up on the drawbridge as I was doing its annual weather- and water- proofing. He looked horrible -- an absolutely filthy long-hair with some bare patches and a wound on his left rear leg. Little Boy was walking gingerly. Like the rest of his relatives, he's a talkative guy and we had a nice chat.

He has the biggest balls I've ever seen. On a cat.

Really prominent.

Fred befriended Marmy and Little Boy two years ago, back when Sammy ruled the roost. It was a very cold Spring and the two of them were miserable and homeless. Sammy, of course, has been neutered and the prospect of bringing in an non-neutered male to live with this already neurotic feline was not appealing. Besides, Marmy's belly almost touched the ground, and she was sway-backed and frustrated to no end -- so very pregnant. So we brought her into Marlinspike Hall to live and have her litter, but remained committed to feeding Little Boy and generally looking out for him and his big balls.

Marmy proved to be essentially, fundamentally psychotic. The psychodynamics of The Manor were complex.

Sam-I-Am was so afraid of her that we had to *carry* him past her to the gilt litter box. And back again -- he refused to come out of our suite. As the weeks went by, her reign became more and more imperious and, possibly -- though it pains me to admit it -- Socialist.

After an interminable wait, she had five kittens: Pretty Girl, Pretty Boy, Mascara, Speckle-Belly-White-Foot, and The Runt (who became Dobby, Our Little Idiot).

Actually, she had four. Fred delivered The Runt, Dobby -- she had completely lost interest in pushing out the last one. The whole affair seemed to bore her to tears.

Outside of my own human biological mother, I have never encountered a creature with less maternal instinct. Of course, Marmy was only eight months old, herself. Babies having babies... the scourge of our society.

She would do things like stand up and walk away while the five kittens were latched on to her, busily nursing. As she walked, they would drop off of her, one by one -- their eyes weren't even open. We found poor mewling babies everywhere, with no Marmy in sight.

She would hiss at them (this was before she perfected her *ack*-*ack*-*ack* technique).

Anyway -- about that time, Little Boy up and disappeared. I wasn't worried but Fred had major guilt at having taken in his sister and leaving the big balled guy to fend for himself. From then on, we only had sporadic visits.

So, Monday, he is back and looks awful. We have fed and watered him every day, and I believe he is recovering somewhat. It is clear that he values a relationship with Fred that goes beyond food -- they sit and talk to each other late into the night. We have some antibiotics that were prescribed for his sibling at some point, but are holding off giving them. I am not sure he would take kindly to being given a pill.

Then, Sammy began his Dark Days of the Soul. He howls at the windows -- yes, cats can howl. Hyena-esque. Also growl -- which is what he did all night last night. The scent of Little Boy is driving him nuts, poor thing.

He is pissing inappropriately. On. My. Stuff. Apparently, he owns me.

There are worse things.

This evening, Sammy failed to do his Dinner Routine, and this is a cat that places a high degree of currency on things like "Liver and Bacon" and "Ocean Whitefish." He campaigns for his dinner starting at 5 pm, usually, and we relent at about 6:30. Tonight, he didn't budge from the warmth of MY pillow. Most nights, he picks out the can he wants -- it's hilarious! Tonight, he walked away from me, who had food in hand. His gait was stiff and he just didn't look right.

But he downed all the food (Marmy and Dobby eat in the kitchen) and I stopped worrying. Until I saw the tell-tale Assumption of the Position -- known by cat-worshipers as The Assumpsiation.

That makes two days in a row that he has relieved himself on that wonderful quilt. The whole while, he fixes me in a frightening stare. I feel like crying out: I get it, I get it! There is another boy here and he's scaring you and you don't see me doing a blessed thing to help you out! I get it and I promise to do better, my old friend!

Now, though, I am so worried about him that there was no fussing. Instead, I've wrapped him in a soft throw, stroked his beautiful grey head, and he has drifted off. I cannot explain what is wrong -- I "just know" that we are in for a scare. He gets pretty ill with this kidney crystal thing about every two years. We have nursed him back to good health at least a half dozen times (under the guidance of our dear vet).

Only now, his physical discomfort has psychic dimensions, psychic symptoms, and he doesn't understand what's going on. His eyes tell me that if I would just ban Little Boy from The Grounds, he would be fine again.

I'm gonna go start the washing machine -- so he'll have something clean to desecrate later.

He is My Good Buddy. He is Fred's Poopy-Head. He is a crazy kitten when with Dobby, and he and Marmy have developed a deep respect for one another.

When I am feeling poorly, he stays by me. He tends to listen when no one else will. He craves love and I love to love him. I don't care about his few episodes of confusion about his sexual orientation.

I don't care if I am a Cat Lady. Again, there are worse things.

*******************************************************************************************

Update: Sam-I-Am seems to be back to his perky self today. Absolutely fine. Laughing and winking at me, even.

Cat 1, Cat Lady 0.

The Family

Fred snapped this a few hours ago -- finally, these three together in a photograph. In order from the left: Marmy Fluffy Butt, Dobby, and our newest addition, Uncle Kitty Big Balls.

That they are related is clear. Marmy is Dobby's mother and Uncle Kitty Big Balls' sister. We took Marmy in when she and UKBB were both strays, and she was about as hugely pregnant without bursting as possible.

She had a litter of five, of which we kept the runt, Dobby. Marmy remained almost completely feral for another year, but this past year she turned some mental corner and became a very loving and sociable cat. She's not particularly bright, but she seems happy. She has become a real girly girl lately, and demands more one-on-one time than any of them. Very, very coy is she.

Dobby, you've met.

Uncle Kitty Big Balls. What a guy. He remained on the street for another year or so, although he came to visit now and again. The visits were becoming fewer and he began showing up with wounds, loosing hair, etcetera. There was a long stretch where he seemed to have disappeared and we feared the worst. I had put my foot down after three cats, but felt horribly guilty.

Last April, I was in ICU on a ventilator (just hanging out), and Fred came into my room looking terribly distraught. He said there was something he needed to talk to me about.

"Oh, my God, he's leaving me. He can't handle this anymore."

"Uh-oh. Maybe he wants to disconnect the respirator, the bastard!"

So I wasn't exactly the Reigning Queen of The Cogent!

He informed me that UKBB had turned up just as he was leaving to come to the hospital to be with me, and he was very sorry, but he simply was going to have to take him in. He looked to be near death, and was holding a rear leg off the ground, and clearly had abscesses all over another leg. He barely had any fur left and he was almost skeletal.

How wonderful that acquiescing to such an easy request could make someone so happy. So he left me there in ICU, and ran home to trap this wild and dying cat.

UKBB and I recuperated in syncopated time. Both of us needed a long convalescence. Sadly, part of a rear foot had to be amputated, and he battled severe infections post-op. We dutifully downed our antibiotics together, though it was clear from the beginning that I was just some girl... whereas Fred? Fred was his saviour! He still suffers something akin to a feline panic attack when he cannot locate Fred within the bazillions of rooms and acres of land here at Marlinspike Hall, deep deep in the Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).

He has become our first overweight cat, though if The Castafiore and Fred are to be believed, no one is feeding him little treats shaped like fishes, tasting of eggy tuna, and designed to prevent furballs -- because his fur! His fur is thick and beautiful, the softest thing we have ever felt, our friends have ever felt, even the parish priest is astonished by the silky nothingness of his mane...

So, he's fat and we are not to blame. It is perversely pleasing to see him eat to his heart's content, after all his time hungry and cold on the street.

I cannot keep from laughing out loud when he looks at me. He looks like a Wise Guy, a mafioso. All banged up, eyes crossed. When we're not around, he likes a good stogie. We don't promote smoking but somehow his humidor is ridiculously well stocked with the best cuban cigars. That Bianca!

He has a very sweet and sensitive spirit. He spent almost no time acting ridiculously feral like his sister Marmy had done. No, he took to domestication as if he were the original housecat.

Here is his mugshot:

Our fourth cat, the awesome Sam-I-Am is the eldest now, which is a shock to him, and to us, as he spent many years in the position of postulant. Dobby has been a new life force to him, and I catch them playing like maniacs, Sammy behaving like he was but a few months old, and not a decade into this affair.

But this post seemed more dedicated to The Family: Marmy Fluffy Butt and her valiant brother Uncle Kitty Big Balls, and The Dobster.

Cats Trump Writer's Block

NOTE: A just discovered gem buried in the Drafts folder, dated 8 August 2012, 10:27 AM, Tête de Hergé Super Standard Time.  The "gem" is not the writing, but the cat photography.  I think this blog has been entirely too grim of late, so a CAT POST is just the thing.  And since I don't feel much like posting today, or perhaps ever again, finding something that claims to have broken through "Writer's Block" is terrifically helpful to the me of today, 21 January 2015.  And it's a darned shame that Tante Louise's video cameo appearance didn't make it to the page -- but she is surely getting all things aligned in Heaven (which is, as Townes Van Zandt reminds us, "where you find it.").  And I do also miss the original Crack Whore Organic Pig Farmer Lady, taken down by the Fugitive Squad/Aunt Louise. An unfortunate, but historic, Community Event. Memories are slippery things!

Enjoy this serendipitous break from an Excessively Somber Period of Blogging!

*****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****

Dobby

So,  when I made the masterpiece of a video about flushing PICC lines, the astute observer will have noticed that I dropped the recording device into a sink full of nice, hot soapy water.  Cleanliness, godliness!

I don't have much money.  I'm poor, in fact.  Not entitlement poor, more like, receiving 60% of my 2000 salary with no adjustment for cost-of-living or any inflationary trickeroos poor -- and using that money to support a household, pay a caretaker, fork out over $15,000 on health care (with insurance, even the blessed PCIP), and all the usual -- maintaining the sexiness of Ruby the Honda CRV, and keeping her legal, paying the mortgage, and having every animal in our care up to date in shots and vet exams.  Hell, the year of Little Boy (Uncle Kitty Big Balls), because of Fred's deep love for him, we payed close to $5,000 trying to save the dear soul's life.  I have to say, though, that had the vet involved been a better vet. a more honest vet, we might have stopped torturing him several thousand dollars earlier.

Lest you scoff at my "I'm poor" by pointing your pointy finger at my list of financial accomplishments, I should add that I never eat out, haven't been to a movie theatre, much less La Scala, in over a decade, and some claim that "generic" is my middle name.

Also, I make my money grow by playing the market.

That's right.  The socialist owns GOOG [but the rest of her portfolio is so deep in risk that she ain't revealing anything more, lest your mere scoffery turn to disgust].

Anyway, this is my way of explaining that I bought a new video camera.  It was a deal, a steal, and a good choice according to Fred's Bible, Consumer Reports, Tête de Hergé edition.  There was much ado about how easy it is to use, though I admit there was not a specific warranty of ease of use when the photog has one good hand, and a fumbling one, at that.

So far it is defeating me.  I don't get the zillions of icons offered on the LED screen.  Just tap!  It's easy! Without proof that one of those symbols won't launch an ICBM, I cannot willy-nilly start choosing picto-signifiers.  I have a conscience.

But this morning, which came too early, I thought I would at least try to take some still photos.  And then show them, describe them, say things, any things, to help destroy the iron bars behind which I pretend this writer is penned, blocked.

So... like many of my kind, after I inject myself with a few drugs, take 7 pills, go pee,and climb into the wheelchair, my first act of the day is to make coffee.  As you ought to know, we harbor three cats in our wing of Marlinspike Hall -- Captain Haddock issued orders that they no longer are free-ranging throughout the Manor, what with the claw-sharpening activity in the Tapestry Alcoves and all:  Marmy Fluffy Butt, Dobby (her son, the runt), and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten (no one told us he was a Maine Coon).
These three insert themselves boldly, and sometimes rudely, into the coffee-making plan by performing intricate death-defying patterns around the wheels of this power chair.  "Feed us, feed us, feed us," they chant.

At which point the absurdity begins.  I manage to get three bowls filled with fresh and tasty kibble and on the floor, in the required layout.  Marmy will only eat out of the red plastic bowl;  Dobby and Buddy prefer the metal bowls, but then purposefully set out to eat from each receptacle.  The two water bowls must frame the three food bowls like parentheses.  Change that and one of them will make the subtle point of their dissatisfaction by, for example, eating with one paw in one water bowl, and filling the other water bowl with half-chewed bits of kibble.

But, finally, coffee.

Oh, here is a picture of my new kettle.  I broke my café press a few weeks ago.  Might have been the same day I killed the video camera.  So I dug out one of our many Melitta drip cones and went back to that most honest form of coffee-making.  In the process, I noticed that my Paul Revere kettle was leaking.  As in, the solder was breaking down, the seams were separating.  So I went online to my new favorite pastime -- FAB -- the rule in force being "no purchases allowed, because you are poor, no matter how well GOOG is doing."

But they had this kettle, and it was cute, and it was on sale, and it is now on my stove (in our private kitchenette, as it is hardly appropriate for the more demanding heat requirements of, say, the Medieval Kitchens).

New red kettle from FAB

If confession is truly good for the soul:  I also bought some stationary.  I have a weakness for good stationary, and may be the last person on Earth to continue to send handwritten letters and cards, delivered to brick-and-mortar, or daub-and-wattle, or hand-chinked stone domiciles.

Okay, so... it's heavy, the kettle.  I have already poured boiling water onto my lap, neatly missing the Melitta cone, because I couldn't hold the lovely shiny red thing up high enough to pour the water in over something not made of my flesh, like the counter.  But I will figure it out.  This morning, I put my coffee-making stuff in the sink, reducing the height requirement of the kettle heft.  [You will either understand that last sentence or you won't.  I can't help you.]

The video camera, when plugged into the limping-along computer, has lovely edit functions for my visual artistry.  Unfortunately, the red of the kettle was lost in the necessity to tone down the severely dominating whiteness of the stove top's enamel, even the whitey glare of the pitcher and old cookie jar that hold my cooking utensils.

The red, the red, it is not right.

Okay, so the cats are fed.  The coffee is made and, if necessary, burn balm applied to my upper thighs.
I turn the wheelchair in the direction of early morning television news, the computer, and a bed into which I can dive when pain spikes.

Dobby always disappears about five minutes before I make my slow journey to the bedroom -- slow because I'll be damned if any more coffee is leaving the mug, unless headed for my caffeine-starved self.

The photo at the top of this post?  That's what I find waiting for me on the bed -- without fail, and thankfully so, for it makes me smile like no body's business.  Dobby, laid out, and ready for his requisite ten minutes of loving.

He wants, first, a fierce belly rub, then a sensual ear massage, easy on the right one.  He then finds the comb and brush dedicated to his use, and his use alone, and knocks them on the floor.  Why we have to go through this particular part of the ritual, I dunno, but I don't change things because he's cute when he tries to get tough.

The grooming begins in earnest, and lasts as long as my right arm can wield the brush and comb.

After ten minutes, usually, of attention, Dobby is faced with three options:

• He can play with Buddy, who has taken his place at the foot of the bed, and is vocalizing like a loon.
• He can curl up and take his first nap of the day.
• He can grab the comb, freshly cleaned of his fine gray hairs, growl, shake it, and run off with it looking like a 19th century train robber who scored gold.

Okay, back to my pitiable photography.  Marmy has sworn me off.  She doesn't come to cuddle any more, she runs, in fact, when I draw near.  Oh, she is conflicted, that is for sure.  She talks at me when we're together in the kitchenette, and lets me pat her head.  She relies on me to clean up her hairball offerings, which have become frequent, because she won't let me help her with her decidedly difficult grooming.  (She's a long-haired beauty.)

My crime?  She has a recurrent eye condition -- herpes, actually -- which requires "gooping" with medication.  She managed to go several years without a problem but a few months back, poor thing, it returned with a vengeance in her left eye.  Now... Fred is a loving pet caretaker but he lacks finesse when it comes to administering pet medications.  As in, he scares the crap out of them because he believes they must be captured for the process to have meaning.  My philosophy is more one of waiting for them to come to me, then faking them out, but following my evil up with a good nuggle, a nice treat, something to confuse their nascent desire to hate me.

Marmy, though, has that incredible ability to read a human's mind.  Before you make a move to pick up the eye ointment, before you even allow yourself to entertain the thought of eye ointment, she's on to you, and she is GONE.

So we had to go with the Fred Method.  For some reason (a phrase I'd love to be able to eliminate from my life, or at least reduce its aptitude), he'd trap her, then carry her to me, and I would get to apply the goop to her eye.  

Now, I don't know, but it is my strong suspicion, having gooped other cats with this same medication, that Marmy is a bit, you know, Castafiore-esque.  She yelps, she cries, she squirms, she gives you the Look Of Death.  Every one else shakes their tiny feline heads, maybe gives a brief glare, and then they're over it.

Marmy Fluffy Butt has yet to forgive me.

This is how I get to see her first thing in the morning.  Peering at me, half-hidden behind the doorway, wondering if I am gonna drop the cherry bomb of a new kettle in order to swoop over, grab her by her Fluffy Tail, and stick some acid-like substance in her eyeball.  It's been months now.  I've decided to ignore her, and that is beginning to work, as, again like The Castafiore, she cannot bear the lack of attention.

Marmy Fluffy Butt, giving me the Evil Eye, and badly in need of grooming

It's unfair not to remind you that Marmy has her reasons -- we took her in when she was heavy with kittens, to the point where her belly almost dragged the floor.  She's tiny -- barely 8 pounds, and she had five little ones inside her.  She was only 8 months old at the time, or so figured the vet.  We figure that she started as someone's pet, and then was abandoned, and had been on the streets for a good bit.  

It's unfair not to note that we "took her in" by following one of Fred's Grab Scenarios, using a yummy bowl of kibble as bait.  Marmy will not eat wet food, something we wish someone would explain to us.  She refuses real chicken, etc.  Anyway, we kidnapped the poor, freezing pregnant soul and so began life with Marmy.  She was essentially feral for almost two years.

In the first few months of her stay, Fred had to CARRY my sweet Sam-I-Am (now deceased) past her to the litter box or she would beat him up.  Sammy weighed about 14 pounds.  It was ridiculous.

We don't know, beyond rape, what she endured out on the street, but it wasn't good.  When she decided we were okay, it was wonderful.  She made up for lost love time.  She domesticated as no cat has domesticated before her.

So when she reverts to her fearful state, it hurts my heart.  She and Fred were never nuggle partners, and he doesn't groom unless brushes are actually thrown at him with loud verbal encouragements, so their relationship is still stable.  

I hope my next photo of my girl is a pose of her purring and stretched out on my belly, all sleek and smooth, with fun, and not fear, in her eyes.  And God forbid that her eyes ever need treatment again.

O Lordy, Lordy!  Good grief.  Moving right along.  Those of you who have followed Buddy's growth, here's how big he is now, and still growing.  The vet says he will continue to grow for another two years, one of those weird bits of Maine Coon trivia.

Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten

Note Marmy sneaking in behind him, and actually eating out of a metal bowl and not her beloved red plastic thang.  Buddy has become her pal, for which we're very thankful, as he's the only living organism in Marlinspike Hall who can successfully defend against the swift application of her claws, or achieve the speed of light.  The two of them love to vocalize, and they streak by in blurs that even make Dobby look perplexed.

Well, after I conquer the "photo" mode on this bleeping camera, I will give the video mode another try.  

Fred was sorely disappointed in me a couple of days ago, when the Crack Whore Organic Pig Farmer Lady who lives across our country lane was raided by the Tête de Hergé Lone Alp West Fugitive Squad -- you would have bust a gut at the sight of Tante Louise in SWAT gear.  She had managed to move about a yard by the time her team had rushed the Pig Farm Cottage, captured the ne'er-do-well, thrown her into the back seat of the Fugitive Catcher Car, an orange Vega, dodged a few angry free-ranging hogs, wrapped a few muddy acres in yellow cop crime scene tape, and jumped back into the Fugitive Squad station wagon.

I had the camera out but it was just the second time I'd ever had it strapped to my quivering, spazzing right hand.  So we ended up with a lovely montage of light glinting off the moat, close-ups of hog jowls, and lots of footage of Tante Louise stuck in the mire.

It would have gone viral on YouTube.

© 2015 L. Ryan

Dobby's Sermon on the Mount

It was Dobby's turn to wake me at the Point of Ridiculous Amount of Sleep today.  We've been poking fun at Dobby, relentlessly rubbing his soft white belly until he almost faints away in joy.  He gained half of a pound!  Fred reported, and I take umbrage with this statement, that the vet actually said, "That's about as much as you want him to gain." Our runt!  That Fred himself birthed because Marmy, frankly, was just done with this birth thing.  "I pushed out four, what more do you want?"  

"One more, Marmy, just one more!" And there was poor Dobby, half-here, half-there, as confused then as he is confused now.  So Fred became midhusband, gently drew him out, broke the sac, rubbed the non-breathing kitten until that kitten complained.

Marmy frequently would do unmotherly things, like get all pissed off at kittens that wished to suckle.  They'd all latch on (except Dobby, who went a long time without nourishment, as he preferred climbing to Marmy's head than searching out a milky teat), and she'd heave a sigh of exasperation, toss Dobby across the room with a flick of her head, then stand and stalk away, strewing mewling babies across the floor, eyes still closed, completely lost, and cold.  I lived in fear of rolling over those tiny yelling things with my badass power wheelchair, in fear that retrieving them with grabbers would mar their sweet perfection like a jackass obstetrician man with forceps.

Dobby has a tiny head.  But, yes, okay, maybe he now has a chin that was not there last year.  An Elizabethan ruff of sorts.  My theory of Dobby's success is that he strives, in this multi-cat environment, to remain steadily at Number Two.  Let Marmy and Buddy fight, challenge and re-challenge, for the rights to being Number One, Dobby is always right there, a sweet but ferocious Number Two.  Whenever we settle things, and it's rare, whenever there's a Number Three, an undisputed Number One, Dobby treads with care.  He does not offend in either direction and he gets to do one of his favorite things -- make and maintain peace.

But I think he has a near-primordial memory -- well, okay, maybe a pre-first-gasp memory, before he felt Fred's warm hands warm him -- of that terrible place of being half-here, half-there, which is very different from striving to stay Number Two, please understand.

Dobby panics when he cannot find my arms.  Dobby nears frenzy when I cover my face in a desire to be as much left alone as left unseen.  But Dobby throws his extra one-half pound around when I am gone away in sleep too long.  "Enough," Dobby cries, "is enough."

Fred had just taken one of the Haddock Corporation miniature submarines, stuffed with five of the genetically indentured Domestic Staff, who always get religion when Lent creeps into view, Bianca, whom we found (and who needs repentance badly), Sven, and Cabana Boy, who really just wanted to get off the grounds -- and descended carefully down the moat and into the physics-twisted time tunnels, all headed to what they call "church."

Dobby was left with me -- probably snoring, definitely yelling every few minutes (I do that when I sleep, because the Screaming Ninny CRPS Spasms are back, and I am in pain, even asleep).  My arms were hidden from the dear runt, which he considers worse than putting one's elbows on the dining table.  My head was graced with a lovely, light, soft, sweet-smelling quilt -- which suddenly was not so light (he's gained half a damned pound, youse guys), nor so soft, as he ventured forth a... clawed paw, basically into my open mouth.

My first thought was, weirdly enough, "Serial killer!"

I don't know.  Maybe it came from the bad novel I last read, when last I was conscious.

What would you think if so wakened?  A quilt being shoved in your mouth, eight and a half pounds sitting on your face, your left leg (Are you sure, prof?  Left leg or right leg?  Where the hell is the leg that is doing that Screaming Ninny CRPS Dystonia dance?  And who the heck gives a flying burrito, prof, when there's a serial killer on your head?) spasming to beat the band?*  You'll note my usual fascination with the origin of phrases, and I learned, in reading about "beat the band," that a better option, in this case, might be "beat the banshee" -- because, well, banshees are probably as loud as my snores and cranky sleep complaints, and "banshees in legend...wail loudly; but... they traditionally do so only when somebody is about to die..."

But Sweet Dobby quickly identified himself as my attacker and set about to help me disengage from the killer quilt.  He issued encouraging purrs, and used his talons to pull at the rude, rude covering that separated him from She-Who-Feeds-Me.

Finally eye-to-eye, he kissed me on the nose.

He put the Big Lovin' on me and then delivered his Sermon on The Mount (still pretty much my head).  "We don't care how you feel -- good, bad, tired, depressed, high or low -- you must still wake up and do your job, and in an outwardly happy and friendly way.  Got it?"

"Yes, Dobby," I croaked.  "And if you will kindly get off my head, may I go the bathroom, and then serve you in any way you please?"

He kissed me on the nose again, and whispered:  "A few reminders, Sleeper, The Walking Dead returns tonight, and you know how Fred loves his zombies, so prepare yourself.  Marmy had a hairball or two, so watch where you roll in the main salon, and Buddy is feeling neglected, so do whatever it is you do with him, sniff.  And we were all kinda wondering... do you feel like doing a little cooking after you clean the Quarters?  Something in a nice salmon sashimi or a delicately herbed roast chicken?"

I love Dobby the Runt, forever Number Two.

Dobby's beautiful star face, as he was being dominated by a sibling,
 back when his old soul weighed just a feather...

to beat the band.*

BEAT THE BAND

Q From Tracey: What is the origin of to beat the band, as in phrases like it was raining to beat the band. Is there any reason — beyond muddling one’s phrases — why one would use to beat the banshee instead of to beat the band?

A I’ve come across a few examples of to beat the banshee; it makes a sort of sense, banshees in legend being known to wail loudly; but as they traditionally do so only when somebody is about to die, it’s perhaps not a good analogy when you are trying to say that something is being done or is happening to a superlative degree. But you’re right, of course, to suggest that it’s a variation on the older to beat the band. There’s quite a history of attempts to explain this phrase.

Eric Partridge (whom several reference works follow) suggested it was linked to a yet older expression to beat Banagher, to surpass everything, which is known from 1830. Banagher is a town on the Shannon in County Offaly, Ireland; before the Great Reform Act of 1832 it was a rotten or pocket borough, one which sent two members to Parliament but which had a tiny electorate controlled by the local magnate, who therefore had the election “in his pocket”. It is said that when somebody referred to a particularly egregious example of a rotten borough, say one in which every voter was a man employed by the landowner, the reply might come back “Well, that beats Banagher”. The story sounds highly suspect, not least because there’s an entry in Captain Francis Grose’s Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue of 1785 which says: “He beats Banaghan; an Irish saying of one who tells wonderful stories. Perhaps Banaghan was a minstrel famous for dealing in the marvellous”. So it’s far from certain that the original had anything to do with Irish rotten boroughs.

Whatever the original form, and despite those who advocate it, it’s unlikely to be the true origin of to beat the band, for two reasons. Firstly, the American version of the Banagher story always seems to have been in the form that bangs Banagher, as here from The Living Age of 1844: “That bangs Banagher, and all the world knows Banagher bangs the devil”. Secondly, to beat the band appears only at the end of that century (it’s recorded first from 1897) and originally seems to have turned up in direct references to music making. As here in a story, The Transit of Gloria Mundy (ho, ho) by Chester Bailey Fernald in The Century magazine in 1899: “Then it was ‘The Sweet By and By,‘ with all hands going as ye please in the chorus, and she belting the little music-box to beat the band”. And here in a little skit of 1900 by Guy Wetmore Carryl,The Sycophantic Fox and the Gullible Raven, in which he humorously retells Aesop’s fable:

“Sweet fowl,” he said, “I understand
You’re more than merely natty:
I hear you sing to beat the band
And Adelina Patti.
Pray render with your liquid tongue
A bit from ‘Gotterdammerung’.”

I’m fairly sure that to beat the band originally meant that you sang or played or shouted louder even than an orchestra and so, by later extension, came to refer to anything superlative. Just for once, the common-sense explanation may be the correct one, and there’s no need to invoke Irish towns or Irish storytellers, let alone banshees.