more cats and more names

 Some time ago, I posted a list of names of cats we have had. It's been a while and there have been a few new cats. So it's time to post an updated list. Following is the text of the prior list, updated with the new names. As before, these names are in chronological order. Copper is the last cat that was on the old list. The new entries start with Wilko

• Bungee: When I first brought this cat home, I started playing with her. The way she went after a string toy, she looked like she was bungee-jumping.
• Speck: One of his distinguishing features was his pink nose with a black speck on it.
• Lena: Ethan picked out the name Lena. I have no idea why.
• Hrothgar: Ethan was studying Beowulf when we got this cat, and I really liked the names of the characters.
• Tiger: This one looked like a miniature tiger.
• Morgan: We got Morgan used, so I have no idea how he got his name.
• Red: He had a beautiful red coat so we started calling him "Red." We never got around to giving him any other name.
• Cream: He had a beautiful creamy coat so we started calling him "Cream." We never got around to giving him any other name.
• Snowflake: She was white, so...
• Spiderman: This was Asher's first cat. He was into Spiderman and had picked out the name before the cat was even born.
• 18: Asher was understandably upset after Spiderman died as a kitten (while we were in Florida). As a way of consoling him on the thousand-plus mile drive home, we talked about him getting another cat. When we asked what he would name it, he suggested "Please Don't Die, Baby." That seemed a bit awkward. 18 is a lucky number in Judaism as it symbolizes life*, so I suggested that it would be a good substitute. I'm very glad that Asher went for it.
  
• Wiglaf: This name was another name from to Beowulf.
• Copper: He had a beautiful copper coat.
• Wilko: Named after British guitarist, Wilko Johnson, who was in the original ,lineup of Dr. Feelgood.
• Copic: Named after Sharon's favorite brand of professional quality markers
• Bugsy: Named for Bugs Bunny
• Tarantula: I'm not sure how Josh came up with that name. The alternative was "Brick," which I prefer.
• Tuli: "Tuli" is a diminutive form of "Khatool" which is the Hebrew word for cat. So "Tuli" is, essentially, "Kitty."
  

of cats and men

 I've recently seen a lot of comments and posts on social media asserting that cats don't recognize humans as being fundamentally different from cats.

This assertion is made in service of describing differences between cats and dogs. Dogs, the argument goes, know that people are not dogs. Cats, on the other hand, think that people are just incompetent cats.

I call bullshit.

Full disclosure: I am a cat person. Growing up, I had both dogs and cats. And I preferred dogs. But I -- and my family, once I got married -- have had cats since 1995. Right now my family has four -- Red, 18, Wilko and Copic.

I have seen how cats react to new and unknown cats and I've seen how they react to new and unknown people. If you bring a new adult cat into a home with cats who are already established, there's a lot of hissing, growling and swatting. The established cats make it clear that the new one is not welcome. If a new human comes into the house, the cats don't mostly ignore him.

Don;t tell me they don't know the difference.

wilko in mourning?

Wilko has developed this habit of crying over fuzzy toys.

In the video above, it's a bunch of feathers that had been tied to the end of a stick. Sometimes it's a fuzzy glove. Sometimes it's a sock.

Sometimes she'll hunch over with the toy between her front paws. Sometimes she'll carry it around. But she keeps meowing miserably. And she'll do it for a long time. I started the video above about a half hour after she started.  And she continued long after I stopped recording.

I have to wonder if she had a kitten who died?

copic

 And, a month after I brought Wilko home as my new used cat, the family has a new addition: Sharon's kitten, Copic.

Technically, she's "The Brewery Copic," because the cattery we got her from is registered as "The Brewery" and that's the naming convention. She's a British Shorthair, a breed that's way less floofy and more chonky than Maine Coons -- my preferred breed. But this wasn't about me or what breed I want. It was about Sharon. I point with pride to the fact that both of Copic's parents were grand champions, but Sharon doesn't care about that.

Copic definitely has an alpha personality, and it's not hard to see that she will eventually be the top cat here. But for now she's mostly trying to get used to the place. She spends most of her time in Sharon's room, which is perfect. For a couple days, Sharon was keeping the door closed, so Copic could only leave when Sharon took her out for a tour. By now, though, the door's open. So Copic spends some time exploring. She's ventured into the office a lot to look around while I work from home. But when something spooks her she runs back to Sharon's. And apparently she spends her nights in Sharon's bed. So the bonding is well underway.

And, during the day, when she's not exploring she's hanging out with Sharon, taking over the desk.

And, damn she's a cutie. 

wilko, part iii

This is a quick follow-up about Wilko the used Maine Coon I got a little over a month ago. For anyone
reading this now who wants some background, my earlier posts are here and here. 

Att this point I can happily say that Wilko has integrated into the family. She walks around the house like she owns the place. And, best of all, she acts like I'm her person. I described her behavior in a series of texts to a friend:

Such a transformation. When I work from home she spends a lot of the day hanging out in the office with me. Some of it just chilling under my desk near my feet. Sometimes she gets up and kind of walks around me, rubbing against my legs. I think that in her old home she wasn't allowed on the tables. When I see her on the dining room table and come over to pet her she runs in a panic. She lets me pick her up, but won't stay on my lap. So I pick her up and lap-put her, but she jumps down. The thing is, she doesn't run away. She gets down and stays with me.

So she has gotten to the point of normal cat behavior. I consider this a victory.

I feel kind of sheepish about being so happy to have her, my own kitten in a house full of other cats. Blair notes that I've wanted my own cat for quite a while, and having Wilko around makes me happier.

Of course, on Sunday Sharon is getting her new kitten, Copic. I have seen the pictures, and Copic is very cute. But I'll have to resist the lure of the kitten's siren song. While everyone else in the family makes a fuss over her, I'll have to stick with Wilko and give her my attention.

wilko, continued

A few weeks ago I wrote about my new used cat, Wilko. I figure we're due for an update.

Wilko still needs more time to fully integrate herself into the family, but she's making progress. To put things in context, I picked her up from her prior home on May 5, and posted about it on May 6.

In the few weeks since, we've spent a lot of energy trying to get her comfortable. She quickly found the basement, and for the longest time she didn't want to leave it. She spent most of her time hiding behind the boiler. It became clear that wants attention but is scared. Sharon could coax her out for pats, and she would occasionally relax enough to truly play. She would also let Blair pet her, but not as much. She was much slower to warm up to me, though I could coax her out with Friskies Party Mix. But with all of us, any sudden move would startle her back into hiding.

By now, she will sometimes come out of the basement to explore or to watch us, but she's still very cautious, and ready to run away if anything startles her. And she startles easily.

On the plus side, she's not hurting anybody or urinating anywhere inappropriate. Her fear is only hurting her. So I guess we can deal with it as she slowly warms up to us. I just with she would warm up faster.

wilko

When your wife says "I probably shouldn't show you this," you know it's something you want to see. In this case it was a social media post from CoonAlley, a cat breeder in southern New Jersey. She had two retired female Maine Coons that she was looking to rehome.

Ever since Wiglaf disappeared some years (six?) ago, I've wanted another cat. One of my own. Each of the kids has a cat.* But I haven't had my own since Wiggy.

Ethan has taken every opportunity to push me to get a cat. When Sharon's classmate enlisted her to help rehome a stray, Ethan wanted me to adopt it. When our breeder told Sharon there was a litter she could pick from, Ethan urged me to ask about getting one of them for myself. Though I have been repeatedly tempted, I have resisted the urge.

But this time it just seemed right. Or not. I didn't really want to get another cat right now. But I had to look. And, damn, those two cats were beautiful. One in particular, a four-year-old named Fancy, caught my attention.

Some text messages followed. And a phone call. I told CoonAlley that the breeder at The Brewery (another Cattery in New Jersey) would vouch for me. And so, I spent Thursday taking a six hour round trip drive to pick up a used cat.

I need to admit that I wasn't crazy about the name Fancy, so I had to rename her. I gave plenty of consideration to lots of candidates. These included such possibilities as Brilleaux, 20% Zdarma, Lotsalegs, Fek'lhr and Brisket. But somehow Wilko** just seemed right.

Right now, Wilko is not a happy girl. Pulled from her home and the people and cats she has known, she was taken to a new house with people and cats she doesn't know. We've been trying to give her space, but slowly ease her into the family.

When we got her home she didn't want to leave the carrier. So she spent most of last night in the back of the carrier, in my bedroom. By this morning she had moved, and had positioned herself in a corner, under an armoir. She spent most of the day in the office near me, but cowering under the desk. She's a little more relaxed by now, but still not happy. She seems to like getting stroked under the chin, she let me pull the gunk out of the corners of her eyes and sometimes as I brush her she looks up with an almost-not-unhappy look in her eye. It'll take some more time, but I think she'll get used to us.

In the meantime, world, say hello to Wilko.

_______________________________

*Technically, Sharon doesn't; her cat, Cream, died last year. But we've been in touch with a breeder and Sharon will be brining home her next cat, Copic, next month.

**After Wilko Johnson, the original guitarist for one of my all-time favorite bands, Dr. Feelgood.

sharon and the birb campaign

 Sharon wants a pet bird. Or, "birb" as per some subset of the social media world (for some reason I don't know).

So this week she forwarded me something about birds being cute with a message that it was reason #262 that we should get a birb. I responded that she should put together a Powerpoint and we'd discuss. A little bit later she emailed. I have not edited or cleaned up these slides (except to redact her email address).

As persuasive as it is, I still don't think we're getting a bird. Another cat, maybe later this spring. But not a bird. Sorry...birb.

what we have left of cream

Back in June when we took Cream to the vet for what we all knew was his final trip, Blair and I were assuming that we would bury him in the yard. We're Jewish, so our mindset is to bury. We have buried a bunch of cats in the yard over the years. And we just assumed that that's what Sharon wanted too.

We should have discussed it with her.

As we got close to home with Cream's body -- with normal traffic, this vet is about 45 minutes away -- Sharon finally told us what had been on her mind. She wanted him cremated. As I would later learn, she didn't like the idea of bugs eating his body. I have some thoughts on that, but the fact is Cream was her cat so Blair and I respected her wishes.

So we drove back to the vet, dead cat in the car, and filled out the forms. But it's not quite as simple as that. You can have your pet cremated with a whole batch of other similarly situated pets. For an extra fee, they'll cremate your pet by itself and return the ashes to you. And, of course, the crematory has lots of memorial souvenirs you can purchase to remember your pet. Cream was Sharon's first pet -- she barely remembers life before him. So Blair and I pretty much gave her carte-blanche to get what she wanted.

So Sharon has a little urn necklace, with a little bit of Cream's ashes in it. And a yin-yang pendant with Cream's noseprint and pawprint engraved on it. And the ashes (except for what's in the urn necklace) are in a satin bag in a box. At least until such time as Sharon decides to spread them out in the front yard where Blair created a Cream memorial garden (mostly flowers with white or off-white colors).

I am thinking about this now because of the timing. Cream took his final ride in June, right before Sharon went to California. When I heard from the vet's office that they have our Cream souvenirs, I asked if they can hold on to them for a bit -- Sharon didn't want someone else to pick them up without us. So yesterday -- Sharon's first Saturday at home after her trip -- she and I went to the vet to pick up Cream.

And somnetime soon we have to go into Manhattan and find a suitable chain for the yin yang necklace.

In the meantime, we have our memories.

cream, 2008-2021

Sometimes, when a pet is in decline, there's a discrete event that makes it clear the end has come. That's how it was for Bungee. And for Morgan. And, as painful as that is, the decision is easy. For other pets, you never get a discrete event. The pet's health and quality of life gradually deteriorates. And you keep asking yourself and your vet -- if you're lucky enough to have a good vet -- the same questions. What's his quality of life? Is he in pain? Is he enjoying life? That's how it has been with Cream.

We made the decision this week. Early this afternoon, we had him put to sleep.

My purpose here is not to document Cream's decline. I'm not writing this to justify our decision -- or the fact that it took so long to make it. This is to write about some of my good memories of Cream. For the record, his official name was The Brewery Cream, because "The Brewery" is the name of the cattery where he was bred.

When we first visited The Brewery, we were looking for two kittens. Blair was pregnant with Asher, and we thought that getting cats for Ethan and Sharon would be a good idea. Having played the role of kitty hospice for a Maine Coon* and having done some research, we wanted Maine Coons. Ethan picked one of the kittens because he loved the energy. That kitten (who would become known as Red) was bouncing off the walls, though he occasionally checked in on us. He seemed to like when Ethan picked him up. Sharon also had her eye on one particular kitten. But then this cream-colored one came over and kind of sat next to her. We don't know why, but he seemed to show a real interest in Sharon. And that was how Sharon was picked by her cat.

Cream was particularly docile. I remember a time that Sharon was carrying him down the stairs. She tripped, and the two of them went tumbling down. He didn't bite or scratch or anything like that. He spent a second or two looking around puzzled. Then, when he got his bearings, he went to Sharon (who was, herself, just getting her bearings), and waited for her to pick him up.

And yet Cream was (before he wet deaf and blind) a great hunter. To this day, Sharon will tell you that her favorite birthday present was the mouse Cream left on her bed on her birthday.

Cream particularly enjoyed carb-heavy people food. Which meant that bread wasn't safe around him. That's not so bad. But when he was young -- three or so? -- he ate a big chunk of corn cob. This got lodged in his intestines and made him sick. So sick, in fact, that he would have died without surgery. Afterwards, the vet reminded us: "Remember. He has learned nothing from this incident."

There was a time a few years ago that Red was missing for several months. I wrote about his return here. When we got him back, Cream -- though blind and deaf -- was beside himself with joy.

In the last couple years, we've occasionally taken Cream outside to enjoy the sunshine. In his declined state, we felt there was really no risk of him running away. So we would sit with him in the yard as he sniffed the air and rubbed against the flowers or the clover.

During the time after he lost his hearing and vision, but before his mobility deteriorated, he would still move around the house. He seemed to have a good mental picture of where everything was, so he generally didn;t need help -- though he took things slower than he had when he could see. Occasionally he would lose his bearings. When that happened, he would sit down and meow very loudly until someone came and carried him to some familiar point. We stared calling that "resetting the cat." I was once on a work meeting, when someone made a suggestion. At that moment Cream, who was in my office, decided he wanted help and yowled particularly loudly. The guy who had made the suggestion quipped "I guess someone thinks that's a bad idea." Cream yowled again. I had to sheepishly excuse myself with "Sorry. Gotta reset the cat." I suppose I should have been on mute.

It's painful to lose a beloved pet, especially when you have to make the decision, which leaves you open to second-guessing. But I am very glad that Sharon had a cat**. And I'm particularly happy that Cream picked her. Cream was a great cat.

We loved you, Cream.

____________________

*That was Morgan. We got him used. He was about 12, and had spent most of his life as a lap cat for an elderly lady. Her last words, spoken to her husband, were "Take care of Morgan." The husband did his best, but couldn't hack it. So Morgan bounced from home to home. Eventually we answered an ad in Freecycle, and adopted him. We had him for the last year or so of his life.

**Which should not be read to imply that she won't have another

a cat by any other name

and that's why we called him "Red"

One of my Facebook friends posted something about the different types of cat-namers out there. In the comments, we got into a discussion of our cat names. And I promised this blogpost. Here are the names of the cats that I (and my family) have had in my adult life, along with the stories behind their names. Since this post is just about the names, I'm leaving out all backstory (except what is necessary as background on the name. This is in chronological order, so the order should not be interpreted to indicate the cats' relative length of stay with me/us.

• Bungee: When I first brought this cat home, I started playing with her. The way she went after a string toy, she looked like she was bungee-jumping.
• Speck: One of his distinguishing features was his pink nose with a black speck on it.
• Lena: Ethan picked out the name Lena. I have no idea why.
• Hrothgar: Ethan was studying Beowulf when we got this cat, and I really liked the names of the characters.
• Tiger: This one looked like a miniature tiger.
• Morgan: We got Morgan used, so I have no idea how he got his name.
• Red: He had a beautiful red coat so we started calling him "Red." We never got around to giving him any other name.
• Cream: He had a beautiful creamy coat so we started calling him "Cream." We never got around to giving him any other name.
• Snowflake: She was white, so...
• Spiderman: This was Asher's first cat. He was into Spiderman and had picked out the name before the cat was even born.
• 18: Asher was understandably upset after Spiderman died as a kitten (while we were in Florida). As a way of consoling him on the thousand-plus mile drive home, we talked about him getting another cat. When we asked what he would name it, he suggested "Please Don't Die, Baby." That seemed a bit awkward. 18 is a lucky number in Judaism as it symbolizes life*, so I suggested that it would be a good substitute. I'm very glad that Asher went for it.
  
• Wiglaf: This name was another name from to Beowulf.
• Copper: He had a beautiful copper coat.

______________________________

*This has to do with Hebrew numerology. Each letter in the Hebrew alphabet has an associated number, and a word or name is often associated with the sum of the values of its letters. The Hebrew word, חי, which means life, is thus associated with the number 18.

monday art break -- wiglaf

I used to have a cat named Wiglaf. For a little over a year anyway.

The picture accompanying this post is a portrait Sharon drew. It's based on a photo of Wiglaf sleeping on the papers on my desk. When Sharon started selling her artistic wares via fiverr (please check out her account), I thought about commissioning a picture. But she offered to do it as a birthday gift.

We got Wiglaf as a kitten from the breeder that we got our other cats from. Wiglaf was a mix -- half Maine Coon and half British Shorthair. His parents managed to get together despite the breeder trying to keep the Maine Coons separate from the Brits.

The breeder was bringing a few kittens for Asher to choose from. He was picking his second cat after Spiderman died. As soon as I saw Wiglaf (the breeder had named him Simon) I was in love. I wanted Asher to pick him. But for some reason, Asher was taken with Alvin -- which we renamed 18. I was disappointed, but this was to be Asher's cat, so we let him pick the cat he wanted. Ethan and Sharon managed to talk me into getting the cat I wanted as well.

Early on, Wiglaf had his share of health problems. He would go into sneezing fits. One. two. three...up to a dozen or more sneezes in quick succession. And by the time he was done, he'd have given himself a bloody nose. Also, shortly after we got him he seemed to have an ear infection. The vet told us he had a ruptured eardrum. Just great. The vet said he'd recover, though he was likely to be subject to illness. I asked if he was likely to just have one health problem after another. If life with him would mean a never-ending stream of worry and veterinary bills I would bring him back to the breeder before I got too attached. But if we could expect him to have a happy, relatively healthy (even if short) life, then I could deal with it.

The health problems cleared up, but they left their mark. Wiglaf never could walk straight or meow. He'd look at me, and move his mouth as if he was meowing, and no sound came out. And he loved the cold. During the winter we had to be careful opening the front door because he was always trying (sometimes successfully) to get out. But there was one time, when we had a deep snow, he shot out the door right into a snowdrift. A second later he strutted out  and back to the door looking immensely pleased with himself. Ethan picked him up and tossed him into the snow. He disappeared beneath the surface, but quickly came out and ran back to Ethan. Ethan threw him again, and again he came back. They played this tossing game for a half hour or so, until he had had enough and went inside.

Wiglaf quickly caught on that I was his person. He would spend his nights in bed next to me. And when I worked from home he would sleep on the papers on my desk -- hence the photo that served as the basis for the illustration above. He was fine with the rest of the humans in the family, but never as close. And he was a terror for the other cats. He was very food oriented, and wanted all the food in the bowls for himself. But he didn't simply eat it. When there was fresh food, he'd go to the kitchen and wait in ambush. When another cat came by, he would pounce. Only after another cat ran away he would eat. Blair would have to hold him back so that Cream (the blind, deaf one) wouldn't starve.

Wiglaf would, occasionally, get out and stay away for a few days. But he always came back -- until he didn't.

I miss Wiggy.

when i tried to get speck to take antidepressants

In my last post I talked about how Ethan's cat, Red, was stressed out by having to take pills.

It reminds me of a cat I used to have. Speck was an unhappy boy. I had gotten him and his litter mate, Bungee, at a shelter and they were both neurotic. Bungee was OK as long as long as I let her sit on my lap. Anytime I'd sit down she would jump on my lap. If I pushed her off, she'd jump back on. Over and over.

Speck wasn't quite as affectionate. He was more like a regular cat. He did show affection -- headbutting me every morning, for example. Well, maybe he just wanted food. Anyway, he had some behavioral issues which concerned me. I won't go into detail here, since there's no need.* I had an animal behaviorist come over to observe Speck and the apartment and assess the situation. She prescribed antidepressants. And this is where the problem came in.

I couldn't give him pills like we did with Red. Speck would bite and scratch if I tried to catch him to give him a pill. As much as I loved him, I wasn't about to submit to that. The behaviorist suggested I try mashing up pills into his food. Now, this meant that I had to start giving him canned food. Have I ever mentioned that I think canned cat food is disgusting. I go with dry. All. The. Time. But, OK, if my cat's emotional well-being was at stake, well, desperate times and all that hooey.

So I got him canned cat food, and gave it to him. At first I didn't adulterate it with the pill because I wanted to make sure he was happy with it. He was. After a couple days, I tried mashing up a pill into the food. Other than that step, I did everything the same. When I put the food bowl down on the floor, Speck came in to eat. He stopped and stared at the bowl. He sniffed it. Several times. I ended up with wet cat food all over the kitchen walls, and a grumpy cat. Bungee ended up eating the food -- she wasn't nearly as discerning as Speck.

*Yeah, like that's ever stopped me.

no more pills for the reticent cat

the reticent patient

Some time ago, Ethan's cat, Red was diagnosed with arthritis. At first, it was very mild -- hardly noticeable (by us at least). But it has gotten worse. We often see it when he walks. Even more so when he climbs stairs. Sometimes he looks more like he's hopping, rabbit-like, to avoid pain.

Our vet recommended something called Cosequin. I don't know if that's a generic name or a brand name, but it's a "joint health supplement" for cats. It contains glucosamine, chondroitin and manganese. So, every morning, Blair would give Red one of these pills. Suffice to say he didn't like them. Fortuntaely, he's a red male Maine Coon. And he's 11 years old. So, while he would struggle and resist the pill, he never bit or scratched. We'd been seeing some progress. He seemed to be more comfortable on the stairs. But, who knows -- maybe we were imagining it.

But we stopped this week.

We'd been starting to wonder if the benefits of the pill (which we couldn't be sure were real) were outweighed by the stress that they were clearly causing. Until we started this regimen, Red was always friendly in the morning. He was always on someone's bed, and was happy to be held and pet when people started getting up. But after we started giving him pills, he started spending his nights downstairs. I'd go down in the morning and find him on the sofa, eyeing me suspiciously. And if I went to pick him up, he'd try to get away. Now, it's easy to say that he doesn't know what's good for him and we should just force him -- having less pain will improve his quality of life. While that last point is true, constant stress is bad for his quality of life. And he was clearly stressed out. And, of course, we don't relish the idea of repeatedly dealing with cat pee in the bed.

So, for now, Red doesn't get pills. And we've embarked on the slow process of getting him to accept that.

Now, I see on Amazon that there's a chewable version of the pills. Maybe they're formulated to taste good. I think we'll try those and see what happens.

worry for wiggy

So now, at Midnight on a Sunday night, we're up waiting for the police. The kids founds puddles of blood on the backyard patio. With smaller splatters going up to the back door.

It's most likely that this is animal blood -- the neighborhood raccoons and stray cats get along like, well, like the Sharks and the Jets.

OK. That was in bad taste.

Anyway, the fact that the blood goes up to the back door was kind of creepy, so Blair felt we should call the police, who said they'd send a car. But with no active crime going on, this isn't a high priority.

My fear? I had a cat, Wiglaf, who disappeared a little over a year ago. And when I say "I" had a cat, I don't mean that we, the family, had a cat. Wiggy was my cat.

A few days ago the kids saw a cat in the neighbor's yard who kind of looks a little like Wiggy. They managed to get a picture on a phone. I said it's not him. Most notably, he's not long-haired like Wiggy. Of course, as the kids point out, a year on the streets could leave his fur matted.

Yesterday they saw the cat again. This time he was hanging by the front door. But he got spooked and ran off before they could get close enough to him. This time there was no picture, but they say it was the same cat. And I'm thinking about how Wiglaf would, if he were to return, go to one of our doors.

Now, tonight, this. Blood -- most likely animal -- in the backyard, with spots going up to the back door. What animal, other than Wiglaf, would go to our back door? We know this blood is fresh, since it was raining today.

I hope Wiggy didn't die tonight.

stack-up cream

Sharon's cat, Cream, has become a sort-of unofficial mascot for our chapter of Stack-Up.

It happened because, through the summer, the Friends of Cunningham Park (a local civic group that focuses on the local park had a series of evening events in the park -- movies, plays, concerts and the like. We go to a lot of them and set up an informational table. We got permission to do so from the leadership of FoCP, One local politician told us we don't technically need permission. First amendment and all. Fact is, we don't need permission. We know that. But if we're setting up our table right by someone else's event, it seems only right to ask permission -- especially since we want to have a good working relationship with FoCP.

Anway, We've been bringing Cream. He clearly like to get time outdoors -- we've been taking him out onto the lawn ever since we first realized that he's blind, and he likes the fresh air. Because he's blind, he doesn;t try to run away, so sticks with us. He'll pad around slowly, but as long as we keep with him there's no problem.

And, with his Stack-Up shirt, he's the belle of the ball. Kids come up to pet him, which lets us talk to the parents . And he seems to love being pet.

The most recent such event is described on Stack-Up's website, here.

speck and bungee on the wall of fame

Two of the women I work with have devoted one wall of the cubicle they share to pet pictures. I believe this started with pictures of their dogs. Then other people gave them pet pictures. I have never seen the display myself, since they work in Charlotte and I'm in New York. But the
display includes several of our cats and former cats: Red, Cream, 18, Spiderman and Morgan. Apparently this includes brief biographical information; when I emailed pictures of the cats, I included some information about each cat, and the colleagues dutifully printed out the information and put it up with the pictures.

Yesterday I came across a picture of Speck and Bungee, the cats I had when I met Blair. After some IM back and forth, I sent a scan of the picture along with a brief bio. Apparently the biographical tidbits actually get people to stop and read.

Anyway, here is the picture and what I wrote about the cats.

I got Speck and Bungee from a shelter in 1995 after a broken engagement. Yes, they were rebound cats. I gave Speck his name because of the black speck on his otherwise-pink nose. Bungee got his name because she looked like she was bungee jumping when she chased a little toy that I got for them.

Bungee was very affectionate, always wanting to be on my lap. Actually, it was quite annoying; I’d push her off and she’d jump back on. Over and over and over. Speck wasn’t quite so demonstrative, but did have a habit of headbutting me in the morning when he thought it was time to get up. One morning when I tried to ignore him, he gave me a bloody nose with that head of his. Speck was (to date) the only cat I ever had who needed a therapist. The therapist prescribed an antidepressant, but that didn’t work out particularly well. The drug only came in pill form, and I had to mash it up and mix it with their food. As an aside, that meant giving them canned cat food. Yuck. Anyway, Speck could smell the drug in the food, and didn’t want it. So I’d give the cats their food with the medicine mixed in. Bungee ate it without concern (the therapist said it was OK if she ate it, even if she didn’t need the drug). Speck would sit by the bowl and stare at it. Then he’d glare at me. He’d get a bit on his paw and sniff it, then fling it across the room. He repeated that several times, covering the cream-colored walls in a mix of catfood and antidepressant. Eventually, he’d give up and eat a bit. I hated cleaning the walls afterwards.

So we went on like that. When I started seeing Blair, she went out of her way to get the cats to like her. That meant (among other things) feeding them. Speck got used to her easily. Bungee became intensely jealous. After Blair had moved in, Bungee would thank her for her food with an angry hiss.

When we moved into a house, Speck had trouble adapting, and kept getting out. One time, in 2002, he escaped and never came back. We had Bungee for another three years, until she suffered a stroke and had to be put down. We buried her in the backyard.

to chip or not to chip

In the aftermath of Red's disappearance and return, we've been talking about a new issue -- whether to have the cats chipped.

It's something we've talked about before. Every time one of the cats gets out -- and it does happen, since, well, they're cats -- we talk about getting them chips. This time, the lady who had taken Red in mentioned that he "wasn't even chipped." But Ethan has been against the idea of chipping. Based on his research, it's uncomfortable for the animal and therefore detracts from its quality of life. And, he said, it's illegal to remove the chip once it's put in.

But our vet suggested it this time. "Maybe," he said, "you should consider getting him chipped. I pointed to Ethan's objection that it causes discomfort, and the vet said that's not true. So that's something to consider.

One thing to keep in mind. The chip isn't like kitty lojack; there's no GPS on it, so it's not as if you can just call up a service and have them say "Oh, he's in your neighbor's yard, under their pool." In fact, it's a radio-opaque chip with a code. So if someone finds your pet and brings him to a vet who checks for a chip, he can then call the company that monitors the chips, who can then contact you.

But there are a couple of things to remember. The vet cannot call the chip company and report the pet found, as that is a violation of medical privacy. So the finder can refuse to use this obvious path to locating the owner. Also, you getting your pet chipped does not make you the owner. Legally, that is.

So for the chip to work, the following sequece of events must occur:

• Your lost pet is found by someone who takes him in.
• The finder brings him to a vet.
• Either the finder asks the vet to search for a chip, or the vet suggests it.
• The vet finds the chip and gives the finder the information to call the chip company
• The finder makes the call, and the chip company informs you so you can be reunited with the pet.

There are a lot of things that can short-circuit the process, notably the finder may think you (by virtue of your pet having escaped) don't deserve to have the pet, or may simply want to keep the pet. If your pet is particularly sweet and beautiful (as is Red), then I can see a finder wanting to keep him and then rationalizing it by convincing himself that you are irresponsible and don't deserve to have him.

I feel very lucky that Red's finder had the decency to return him, despite her son being somewhat attached.

FWIW, our vet told us of an anecdote. Someone brought in a beautiful Persian cat who showed up at his door. They found a chip, but the finder said he wasn't going to call it in, since the owners didn't deserve the cat. But he made a mistake. He called the chip company to have the ownership changed to him. The chip company, not bound by medical privacy issues, called the owner of record to ask for his confirmation of ownership change. The police were called, and the cat was returned. I asked the vet about the fact that chipping the cat doesn't establish ownership. He said that the finder could have fought, but decided not to.

the cat came back

Back home: Red

Well, he didn't really come back so much as we went to get him.

When Sharon asked me to work with her to make "lost cat" posters and put them up, I wasn't particularly enthusiastic. Two of our cats had gone missing -- one (Wiglaf) last spring and one (Red) last fall. And I felt bad about it, but I'm not big on putting up lost pet posters. I mean, can they really work? Actually, we tried putting up posters for Wiglaf last Spring. The only bite was a neighborhood woman who was feeding strays and though Wiglaf might be one of them. We never got close enough to the maybe-Wiglaf to be certain (which I take as evidence that it wasn't him). At any rate, even if lost pet posters can work, I figured that there was no way that, after this long, we'd have any luck. Oh, yeah, I should mention that a neighbor had mentioned putting poison bait in their yard to kill raccoons (who were interfering with their attempt at getting sod to take root. So there was plenty of reason for skepticism.

Still AWOL: Wiglaf

But Sharon really missed the cats and wanted to try posters again. Maybe a reward would help, she guessed. And, though I didn;t expect any success from the venture, I didn't want to give Sharon the idea that her feelings don;t matter. So this afternoon I went out with her, putting up posters. They had beautiful pictures of Red and Wiglaf, and an offer of a reward.

I promised Sharon that, if she wanted, we could put up more posters next weekend.



Back at home, we were getting on with our afternoon, when Sharon burst into the office -- someone was on the phone. He has Wiglaf. Blair spoke to him, and the next thing I knew we were on our way to a house about a block and a half away. All five of us, a ragged but hopeful band hoping for a reunion. Ethan, though hopeful, was still feeling bad; they may have Wiglaf, but no Red.

We went into the house. It took me a couple extra seconds to grasp what was going on, but there was Red, strolling around the basement like he owned the place. Ethan whisked him up into his arms, and held him tightly. Red was burying his face in Ethan's neck. At this point, I still don;t know if the guy who called had told Sharon the wrong name (the poster had two pictures and two names, but didn't specify which was which) or if Sharon was just assuming it was Wiglaf.

Apparently Red showed up at their house a while back looking sick and emaciated, and he needed a bunch of medical treatment -- worms, fleas, I'm not sure what else. So there was a bit of a veterinary bill to reimburse them for. But I have to admit that he is looking well-cared for and well-groomed. Ethan noticed that he has a couple of ingrown claws, but he can take care of that.

Red and Sharon's cat, Cream, have gotten reacquainted, and appear quite happy to be together again. Asher's cat,18, has his nose out of joint, and has been hissing. I'm not sure why, since I can't imagine he's forgotten Red. It may be that he's been enjoying his role as alpha kitty, and doesn;t want to relinquish it to Red. We'll have to let them sort it out together.

Meanwhile, if only someone would call about Wiglaf...



cream's stairway to sharon

It's been a few years years since Sharon's cat, Cream, went blind. And he generally gets around pretty well. Actually, we're often amazed because he adapts very well to the frequently-shifting furniture.

Cream contemplates his staircase

He's not perfect, mind you. As he pads around, slowly making his way through a memorized house, he sometimes gets things wrong and bumps into walls. When that happens he adjusts and tries again until he finds his way. Sometimes he seems to get completely disoriented. When that happens, he sits and meows until someone gets him and brings him to one of a few familiar spots. We call that resetting him. And he doesn't seem to feel bad about it. As the vet explained, he doesn't know that he should have his sight, so he doesn't mope about it.

Cream exits from the bottom

But the big problem is Sharon's new bed. It's a loft bed, five feet off the floor. He can't climb up. And Sharon can't bring him to bed for the night for fear that he'll try to climb off (as he does Blair's and my bed) and have a nasty fall. This, Sharon's inability to have her cat with her at night, has been the one big drawback of the new bed.

Enter a clever work-a-way couple from Australia.

They started with an old Ikea Ivar shelving section. They cut a whole in each shelf, and arranged them in an alternating fashion -- one shelf with the hole at one end, the next shelf with the hole at the other. A sighted cat (or, we hope, a properly trained blind cat) can climb up or down by going back and forth, and through the holes. They added some carpet for better grip, some vertical pieces at the ends and plastic mesh all around (to prevent nasty falls). Voila! Cream has a staircase.

Sharon has been working with him to teach him that he can go up to her bed, or down to the floor. Cat treats are helpful in that regard. The hope is that we can get Cream to the point where we are confident that, if he's on the bed and wants to get down, he will know to do so via the staircase.

Fingers crossed!