Wednesday's KittenCam - Reposted One Year Later

hi ya, dear readers.  i'm in a rough patch, necessitating recourse to anniversary republications. here, for example, is buddy, the freakishly large kitten, taking on his nemesis, the blanket.  he continues to put the blanket in its place at least once a week.  as soon as my life expands beyond spasms and the lord's various names taken  in vain, i'll write something that flirts with new.  thanks for your patient understanding.


Direct from our reality of just 5 minutes ago:  Buddy the Kitten.

He is very, very tired but is obstinately refusing to rest.  You know the pattern -- he is racing around like a small, fuzzy lunatic at present, but in a moment will simply drop unconscious for a good hour or two.

Here he is, having decided that dragging around a heavy blanket was something worthy of beaucoup effort.  He is a focused little cuss.

wednesday morning catcam

You can never have too much cat.

Right?

Buddy the Kitten is huge now, and increasingly brave.  Not quite brave enough to confront Marmy Fluffy-Butt, yet, but getting there.  In fact, about the only piece of cat documentary that we lack is a feature length film following their evolving relationship.  Buddy recognizes Marmy's superior position within Marlinspike Hall, but still covets the fluffiness and innate playfulness of her magnificent, waving tail.

He always seems so shocked when reminded that this friendly piece o' hairiness is connected to Marmy the BeAtch -- as you'll see in this little video, when he finds himself perilously close to Her Highness after jumping on the couch.  (Oh my God, she's attached to her tail... Oops!)

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?

From the Cutting Room Floor

When I grow up I want to be an old woman
When I grow up I want to be an old woman
Oh, an o-o-o-o-old, an old, old woman

Then I think I'm gonna find myself an old man
Then I think I'm gonna marry myself that old man
An old, an old, an old, an old, a really old man

We're gonna have a hundred and twenty babies
A hundred and five, ten, fifteen, twenty babies
Uh huh, that's what I said a hundred and twenty babies

We'll raise 'em on tiger's milk and green bananas
Mangoes and coconuts and watermelon
We're gonna give 'em that watermelon when they starts yellin'

Here's what they'll yell...

In the summer we'll sit in a field and watch the sun melt
In the winter we'll sit by a fire and watch the moon freeze
Me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
Me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
I said, me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
Oh, when I grow up I want to be an old woman
When I grow up I want to be an oooooold...


--Michelle Shocked, When I Grow Up

Michelle Shocked is among those artists I like to listen to during ketamine treatments.  It's kind of an odd mix, I suppose, though maybe not:  Sam Cooke on gospel (he was there when they crucified my lord, y'know) The Stones prancing around on my cerebellum, Jacques Brel to satisfy that inevitable nostalgia for accordion-driven café music, Keith Jarrett's Koln concert, anything from After the Gold Rush Neil
Young --
(Hey, hey Cripple Creek ferry



Butting through the overhanging trees


Make way for the Cripple Creek ferry

The waters going down it's a mighty tight squeeze...)

-- early Bonnie Raitt, like before I understood how old she was, Jennifer Warnes, the bits of Laurie Anderson that crack me up, Marvin Gaye -- all the Marvin Gaye in the world, wanting to undo what was done -- but no more Motown because I shake the gurney in some kooky ketamine spastic dance craze, apparently -- though I bet I could tolerate some Temptations -- I don't so much want to dance to their music as pretend to be them, slick with moves... some Jackson Browne but always Your Bright Baby Blues --

(I'm sitting down by the highway
Down by that highway side

Everybody's going somewhere

Riding just as fast as they can ride

I guess they've got a lot to do

Before they can rest assured

Their lives are justified

Pray to God for me baby

He can let me slide

'Cause I've been up and down this highway

Far as my eyes can see

No matter how fast I run

I can never seem to get away from me

No matter where I am

I can't help feeling I'm just a day away

From where I want to be

Now I'm running home baby

Like a river to the sea

Baby if you can see me

Out across this wilderness

There's just one thing

I was hoping you might guess

Baby you can free me

All in the power of your sweet tenderness

I can see it in your eyes

You've got those bright baby blues

You don't see what you've got to gain

But you don't like to lose

You watch yourself from the sidelines

Like your life is a game you don't mind playing

To keep yourself amused

I don't mean to be cruel baby

But you're looking confused

Baby if you can hear me

Turn down your radio

There's just one thing

I want you to know

When you've been near me

I've felt the love stirring in my soul

It's so hard to come by

That feeling of peace

This friend of mine said

"Close your eyes, and try a few of these"

I thought I flying like a bird

So far above my sorrow

But when I looked down

I was standing on my knees

Now I need someone to help me

Someone to help me please

Baby if you need me

Like I know I need you

There's just one thing

I'll ask you to do

Take my hand and lead me

To the hole in your garden wall

And pull me through... )

Sometimes there's some Dylan, sometimes there's not, often he's replaced by Nina Simone -- it is necessary to assess my mood, to make those all-important last minute decisions, sitting in the fume-filled parking garage, getting my last swigs of diet root beer, feeling oh-so-glad I quit smoking all those years ago.  I'm not concluding anything from it, but I get the same feeling at this hospital for catastrophic brain and spinal cord injuries as I did the times I dragged a long ago roommate to AA meetings.  We started going the evening of the day she crashed her orange Vega through the garden wall and smack-dab into my bedroom.  Anyway, I am referring to the coffee and cigarettes.  The smell of them is everywhere, and because they're molecularly linked somehow, not even the coffee smell smells good.  I mean, like, you'd never slip up and use the word "aroma" for it.

My second ketamine treatment, I had not yet made a playlist for the occasion, and managed to land on Jethro Tull's Aqualung.  We're talking major depression.  I mean, there I am, losing myself, falling into the K-hole, serenaded by...

Sitting on a park bench

eyeing little girls with bad intent.

Snot running down his nose

greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.

Drying in the cold sun

Watching as the frilly panties run.

Feeling like a dead duck

spitting out pieces of his broken luck.

My mp3 player selections for the ketamine experience are hardly remarkable... but they are mine, you know?  A little something of me to have, in case I get lost and can't find my way back -- to Fred, down at the end of the bed, to Nurse Monique, so sweet and learning not to promise me anything, to my brothers, to my friends, to Dobby and the Rest of the Remnant.

We had our first early morning session this week, on Thursday.  You will note that it is now Saturday and that the only blog piece I've published in the interim was something already pieced together.  And I am not sure I should be writing this post, even. 

I've been in a world of pain.  Past caring, really.

Ah, but Friends, I ask you:  Might the fact that I somehow managed to delete all of my music during the ride to the hospital -- Might that devastating loss be at the heart of how awful that treatment turned out to be? Might being stuck with just the radio have set me up for days of suffering, for nights of... well, for plain old long-assed nights?

I did give the experience a try -- honestly.  I lay there and tried to focus on something besides listening.  But I cannot focus on seeing and looking because I cannot... focus.  My vision BENDS with these higher doses -- bends as in I-can-see-around-corners-but-not-right-down-the-middle-of-the-visual-field.  Also, there is the issue of foreshortening.  When I tried to zero in on Fred's legs, which I knew to be stretched out from his nasty plastic chair and propped on my wheelchair seat, they were as badly elongated tooth picks. 

And I know you'll understand that I could only see around the corner (the far left corner, of course) when I trained my eyes straight ahead.  It was, in fact, Nurse Monique who occupied that just-around-the-far-left-corner spot.  Sometimes she popped up at bedside, asking me probing questions like "What's wrong?" and sometimes she was striding -- she has an officious walk -- toward the supply room behind the nurses' station.  I never saw her actually enter the supply room because the supply room extends past the line ending the square of permissible vision.  You know it is there, kind of a humongous maw of emptiness, its door a blind rectangle to my visible square.

It would be ideal to just sleep.  I can't, though, not even with the pre-infusion 10 mg of valium.  I can't because of pain.  Funny, huh?! 

The dose was a hefty 155 mg and we noticed that they gave me considerably longer than the others to try and regain some equilibrium after it had run in.  Normally, everyone gets about 20 minutes, then it's on with the shoes and outer clothing, flush the portacath with saline and heparin, transfer to the wheelchair and weave one's shaky way out.  My shaky way out.  Part of the wait was also due to the doctor failing to show up to sign my discharge paperwork... Even so, I couldn't have left any sooner than I did, and even then, wanted to spew, weep, and be unconscious, all at the same time.

It only got worse as time went on.  We stopped at Home Depot, since we were right there near Tête de Hergé's Lone Alp -- and lone Home Depot store.  Fred ran in "just for a minute" and I pretended to read Dorothy Allison's Cavedweller.  It was hot, people were streaming by, the sun hurt my eyes.  I had to pee and got to, an hour later, when we pulled into The Manor service road and zipped right up to the Emergency Secret Loo nestled in the Orchard Wall.  (There was no toilet paper!  Arg!)

I've tried taking my pain meds. 
I've tried not taking my pain meds.
I've tried opiates, no opiates, biofeedback, crying.
I've slept.
I've made myself get up and work.
I baked a batch of awesome scones, not too sweet.
I promised and failed to deliver on a soup.
I put a kitten under my chin.
I paid bills.
I shooed the kitten away, and felt the urge to hit him.
I ate.
I abstained from eating.
I overate.
I ran fevers, had sweats.
I cut my hair.
I stopped saying "I" -- as a verbal and moral exercise.

The only thing that helped, and then only for twenty minutes or so, was darkness. And silence.  As if my entire body had a migraine.

Some years back, I remember feeling this way -- physical horror wrapped up in depression and regret.  I tossed the remains of my dissertation, and erased the evidence from my hard drives.  I burned photographs. I ran the air conditioner at obscene temperatures, applying ice air to my burning dystrophic body.

The ketamine isn't working.  It's failed.  I came out of this one worse than I went in.  Fred says it's too early to say, that I did get some benefit from the fourth infusion but it showed up way late -- as in the day before receiving the fifth one.  I cannot say if he is right.  (That means that I think he is wrong.)

I'll do the next one as the last one and then keep my appointment with this doctor... who promised me a miracle.  No, I am not angry.  It's what I wanted to hear and longed to believe.

There is one song that will never make the Ketamine Playlist -- I'd never disrespect it so.  But it might be the one and only piece of the Post-Ketamine SongFest -- the only song worth remembering after bathing the brain in toxin, Dylan's I'll Keep It With Mine. This is not the cover I'd choose but it's certainly more than okay:



And so it was in this sorry state that I got up this morning, and then got up again two hours later. I had the urge to DELETE, beginning with videos... before I gave in to it, I made myself do a "Magic Movie" treatment of about 15 meaningless cat clips. This is what the FlipShare do-hickey program came up with, this is what has been preserved.

Buddy has been going through a "leaping" phase. He will suddenly leap in the air, sometimes from a dead standstill, sometimes adding a quarter turn or a twist, always exuding Extreme Joy. Marmy has begun to accept him and now he gives her this really scary, mean hiss-s-s-s when she frightens him, and she never fails to frighten him, just by showing up. He has mounted Dobby several times, and Dobby fairly sighs -- Sammy used to do the same thing. Poor Dobby. Poor Buddy. Sexual confusion is never fun.

I am *this* close to deleting the blog.  It is a tough call.

 

Sunday's KittenCam

So I thought I'd do a very little mopping.  Buddy thought he'd help.

Clearly, the following things are true in BuddyLand:

1.  Nothing bad can happen on Buddy's Blanket.  Buddy, himself, has positioned (and repositioned, ad infinitum) said Blanket with an eye toward strategic advantage.  It lies next to the refrigerator, a tremendous source of wonder for him, and, paradoxically, warmth.  The little square of cloth is always carefully situated between the trash can, from which goodies may fall, and the Food and Water Bowls, the center of Buddy's Universe.
2.  Only an attack on the Food and Water Bowls is sufficient cause to go to war.
3.  While #2 is true, it is also true that he who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day.  These conflicting truths make the decision to go to war much too much of a decision for a very small animal and leaves only #1 as uncompromisingly reliable -- Nothing bad can happen on Buddy's Blanket.

Sunday CatCam

I thought I'd see what the "magic movie" feature on the Flip camera turned out -- and it's fine, I suppose.  It's also kind of hard to screw up video of a bunch o'cats.  (It *did* botch the list of credits, but -- again -- it's a matter of crediting a bunch o'cats, so no big whoop.) 

The song is "Love Will Guide You Home" by Deadman.

Anyway, at least there are shots of the recently departed Uncle Kitty Big Balls, and even a few of the Reclusive Marmy Fluffy Butt.  Dobby, Our Little Idiot, is, of course, everywhere, and there's plenty of footage of our newest inmate, Buddy the Kitten.  Despite "Buddy" being his official moniker, I cannot seem to stop calling him "Numbnut." I am also calling Dobby "Sammy," and anyone who will listen is liable to hear "Little Boy."

You there!  Feline! 

[I know it's not fair to compare but I surely do miss Sammy.  Now *that* was a mighty fine cat.]

Even though the music ended up overlain so as to drown out the inevitable squeaks and moans that I seem to always add to a soundtrack, it was actually playing while Buddy the Kitten was lullabied to sleep. He seems to like Brett Dennen's voice, find it relaxing. Me, too.


I just didn't want you to hurt yourself trying to figure out some significance to this music being paired with pictures of a kitten snoozing.

The KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall

I suffered Kitten Meltdown this afternoon. It's difficult to say what event or behavior, or combination thereof, pushed me over the line. Everyone else in The Manor seemed to be in excellent spirits.

Trust me to be The KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall.

Before my eruption, I was documenting various Feline Antics: the chewing of the purse, stupidly left within Kitten Reach -- and a couple of the very frequent skirmishes between Dobby and Buddy.  Dobby is coming out of his funk and enjoying the Wee One, until he doesn't, at which point he flees in a serious way or sneaks into my closet (he can both open and close the door).

Oh -- not to worry, we have plans to paint all the doors and trim that were ruined in the early days by some fool lacking the dexterity to steer her wheelchair.  Nightmare days, those were.  With Captain Haddock's permission, we may even paint an accent wall or two.  Fred wants to grace our Private Quarters with a triptych of mural work -- but a critical ear and some funky past experiences with sheetrock, plaster, and gesso suggest that he may go all Diego Rivera in the bedroom.  I mean, I can be as nationalistic as the next Tête de Hergéen, and probably more revolutionary than most, but social realism all in my befuddled, sleepy face would might render insomnia a permanent condition.  Burly workers arm-in-arm with thunder-thighed cultural icons?  Can you say "gastroesophageal reflux"?

Umm, yeah, so back to CatCam for Sunday!

I don't know if Fred is going to drop in to elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle anytime soon, but if he does:  Sweet cheeks, I love you!  I appreciate you, am grateful for your constant gifts, and am so sorry not to convey that love and gratitude anywhere near frequently enough.  You bless me. 

Thank you for saving me from the insane kitten.  Oh, and from self-pity, from self-indulgence -- that, too!

There is no way that we could keep up this pace of moving from one stressful thing to the next without some correction -- of ourselves, and with a helpful sharp nudge to the diaphragm of the other!  (With our connections, we can always schedule a celiac plexus ablation...)

Is there any wonder that small, funny moments with cats are moments of grace?

And what do you think of maybe a trompe l'oeil ceiling, Dear One -- à la Jacob de Wit or, ummm, Andrea Mantegna?  Not that your work, my Darling Muffin, could ever be considered derivative.

Wednesday CatCam: Buddy's Growing, Marmy Mourns, and Dobby Does What Dobby Does

i have failed to mention the enactment of a new law here at elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle:  please watch these precious, precious (oh, shut up!) cat videos with the sound OFF, or, failing that, promise to never, ever mention the juvenile anthropomorphic mindless nattering that tends to serve as a soundtrack.  also... never, ever speak of, describe, or reproduce the ersatz porky sausage links attached to the beefy ends of what may or may not be human arms. that's a foreshortening distortion that is, well, frightening. 

okay? okay!

sign here:  _________________________
name of first-born child OR VIN number of your red sports car:  __________________________
VISA card number and 3-digit security code:  ___________________________

The Feline Remnant continues to show signs of sadness and trauma.   We've yet to see both Marmy Fluffy Butt and Dobby the Wonder Runt behaving normally on the same day.  

And yes, Marmy continues to want to murder the kitten, making at least one violent pass at the Fluff Puff per day.  Of course, given that the Fluff Puff lives on, her dedication to his assassination is suspect.

Dobby functions perfectly, of course, in his role as Big Brother -- he willingly models the behavior we are wanting to see in Buddy, and has yet to show any aggression, fatigue, or boredom in his dealings.  Of course, what he says in private might be a whole 'nother kettle of fish.

Marmy has taken to lying on the scrap of rug that her brother, Dobby's Uncle Kitty Big Balls (a.k.a. Little Boy), occupied in his last days.  Dobby has even taken to curling up there some mornings.  They are both putting on weight, a function of stealing kitten kibble.

Dobby, and this truly touches my heart, still calls for Sammy at night, and then will come to me with i-don't-understand written all over his wizened old young face.  That's when a distracting belly rub comes in handy!

This last video, and you have probably figured out that I am bored this evening... This last video is going to serve as a reminder to The Dobster of Those Few Days When He Was Larger Than Buddy.