A Year with Foster Cats

What follows is a tale of love, loss, and hairballs.

Background 
It all began last August, shortly after we moved into a bigger place so Junior can have his own room. Out of the blue, I remembered my friend Jelly (name altered to protect identity) from grad school and dropped her a line to see how she was doing. The next thing I know, I was on a Skype call with her, agreeing to take care of her “babies” while she was working overseas. Apparently, their current foster mum was not happy with the arrangement.

Even More Background
I’d met Charlie and Maetel when they were kittens, so I thought, “NBD.” They’re purebred Ragdolls, which are known for being docile and affectionate. I even went with Jelly on a couple of trips when she was checking out breeders. So me and these kitties have history, is what I am saying.

Charlie and Maetel when I first met them, six years ago

A Protest
Ever the wiser one, Fragrant Husband said, “No effing way!” We have a baby, he explained, in the patient tones of one explaining to an idiot. Cats are a lot of work, he reminded me. Why would you want to be running around after a one-year-old and two cats?

But in my new-mom haze, the only thought in my head was “KITTIES.” I overruled all objections.

The Pick-Up 
Hubby gave up. We went to the ‘burbs to grab our new foster pets from their temporary digs. These cats were very loved by their mom, who’d lavished them with toys, treats, and furniture, including a 6-foot-tall cat condo. Hubby had a terrific time lashing that onto the car roof in the summer heat, let me tell ya.

Cats circled. Everything else is their stuff.

 
Once home, Charlie and Maetel took the customary 24 hours to adjust to their new surroundings. Favorite hiding spots included under the couch and under the bookcase. Eventually, they started hanging out on their condo, especially once we fenced it off from Junior.

Settling In
The first few months were painful, because Hubby, still miffed at not being consulted about fostering the cats, refused to help with them, apart from buying a pet gate for the bathroom. The cats’ stay also coincided with super busy time at Hubby’s office, so he was barely home anyway. So in addition to caring for a tiny human, I also had to feed and water the cats, scoop kitty litter, and prevent Junior from eating the kitty food and litter.

Honestly, Junior was 99.9% of the work – cats realistically need only 30 minutes a day of care, max. Meanwhile, my newly-upright and mobile spawn was overwhelmingly curious and had to be watched like a hawk lest he use the 6-foot-tall cat condo as a climbing gym, or crawl through the pet gate to play with the “sand box.”

But sometimes, we would have these moments:

AWWWWW

Nadir
I was getting overwhelmed after several months. I asked Jelly when she would come back for them.

Can you keep them for a few more months? she responded. Red flag!

I turned into that girl at work, complaining about my lot in life. Which wasn’t fair to Jelly, since she was paying for the cats while they stayed with us. Still, I resented the uncertainty. Not knowing ties me into knots, just ask my poor husband, who has learned by now not to try and surprise me.

The Silver (Fur) Lining
The cats themselves are darling. Charlie is extremely friendly and will come hang out when we have guests, whilst Maetel literally just sits there and looks pretty. My dad-in-law keeps saying, “Which one am I taking home?” when he comes over. (Mom-in-law: “I’m not cleaning up hairballs!”)

Charlie's the goofy one and Maetel's the pretty one

And Ragdolls are fantastic with young kids. Once Junior got over the slap-happy phase of infancy, he and the kitties got along well. No claws were unsheathed; no blood shed; no allergies emerged. Junior got very good at cat anatomy, and could correctly identify which bundle of brushed fur belonged to which cat. And he was always eager to give them treats.

Yes, there was the near-daily vomiting by Maetel and the occasional hairball from Charlie, who hates being brushed, but these are typical cat behaviors. NBD. Even Hubby grew to love the kitties, despite being frequently surprised and dismayed at the sheer volume of their hair in the most unlikely places, such as on the to shelf of the closet. All over his dark suits, obviously.

The Move
Then we decided to move to a quieter neighborhood. We found a terrific place, but the catch was that it was pet-free.

I told Jelly and she said she’d found someone else to take them. Great! Said person even came over to check out his two future housemates. But alas, this arrangement fell through.

So I cast a net. My buddy Crispy pointed me at someone, so we schlepped the kitties to the north to meet their prospective new parents. Also alas, a family emergency had just occurred and no one was home. And anyway, it seems they were hesitant about keeping the cats long-term since they already had two cats of their own.

Who wouldn't want this???

Or this???

But third time’s the charm, as they say. My buddy Special K volunteered her services. Her beloved dog had met the cats plenty of times, since she always brings him when she and her fiancé visit. But she also had half a set of ninja turtles. “Are you building a menagerie?” I joked.

She was serious, y’all. She didn’t want them to go to a shelter, which is where I would’ve had to leave them if no one wanted them. And they would very likely have gotten a disease and/or separated as a result.

Special K is a true friend and a lover of animals – back off, she’s taken!!!

Epilogue
This past weekend, Special K, Vitamin B and Henry came for dimsum, board games, and the kitties. After two cutthroat rounds of Monopoly Deal and two rousing rounds of Istanbul – while K and B kept checking on their Pokemon Go – it was time for the send-off.

Hubby had hurt his back, so his default role was management, while we were labor. From his perch on the sofa, he barked out instructions such as: “Get both cats at the same time! We don’t want them to hide under the bed!” and … actually, that was it. And good advice it was, too!

We somehow shoved the cat condo into their Jeep, and everything was easy after that. Our little family, back down to three members, waved goodbye as they drove away.

Thus endeth our year of fostering two cats.

Looks like Maetel is settling in well at her new home.

 ---

This post brought to you by IT'S ALMOST LUNCHTIME!!!

Oscar: A Eulogy

Oscar was a very handsome cat who lived to be 20 years old, due to his mixed ancestry of Norwegian Forest cat, gray wolf, jaguar, and crankiness. This post is a celebration of his very full life and the joy and terror he brought whenever he came into sight.

Oscar was a large kitty. The picture above shows the contrast between Sheba with room to spare in a bed, and Oscar spilling out of the same bed. In his prime, Oscar weighed 20 pounds. Being the same size as a small dog, he was utterly fearless and once claimed victory over a chocolate Labrador.

Another doglike quality Oscar had was his love of water. Or perhaps his jaguar ancestry sang in his veins. Whatever the reason, it was not unusual to find him actively trying to join a preferred human in the shower, or just hanging out in the tub, possibly plotting the demise of the unwashed and unwary.

Oscar's favorite water fountain was the sink. Legend speaks of his curling up in the guest bathroom sink during a party and remaining asleep as various humans used the faucet. That must've been some catnip his owner slipped him beforehand.

Another tale, this one verified and evidenced by the photo above, is about that time Oscar managed to get himself entangled in a bra. He was just sitting at the edge of the bed one morning, sporting feminine lingerie on his distinctly masculine frame. The how remains a mystery to this day.

What is known, however, is that Oscar was very adventurous. His human claims that he could easily jump from the ground to the top of the fridge when he was young and spry, despite packing on the pounds from the generous amounts of kibble he got fed every day.

Oscar was very clear about what he liked and did not like. He liked his human and rewarded him with exactly 10 minutes of lap time on a daily basis, longer if he happened to pass out. He also liked cheese and Doritos.

Oscar did not like: other humans, other animals, the vet, and receiving more than 1.5 minutes of petting. He expressed his displeasure through vomiting or biting. For example, he barfed on a guest's suitcase because reasons. He also bit through the leather glove of a vet tech, then peed on her for good measure.

But, like all cats, Oscar was absolutely adorable when he was unconscious. Bathed in the warm glow of sunshine, curled up like a furry crescent moon, he was positively angelic.

Oscar was a fighter, a jumper, a biter, a vomiter, a water-lover, a cheese-eater, a ball-chaser, and a constant friend to his human for nearly as long as it took for the Wheel of Time series to be completed. For the uninitiated, that is a very long time. We honor him for his strength, his tenacity, and his uniquely grouchy lovingness.

We love you, too, little buddy.

RIP

Oscar Mitton

1994-2014

Our little buddy

Sheba: A Eulogy

Sheba was sunshine who spread love and happiness wherever she went. She was a gentle soul who was adored by every human she encountered. This post is a celebration of her wonderful existence.

Sheba was a tiny weirdo. She got her name by stalking like a queen of the jungle when she was first adopted. Then she returned to her default mode of clumsy kitty. She once hit her head trying to jump out from under the coffee table. Many's a time when she failed in her leap to the couch, scoring the leather in her frantic attempts to hold on to it and to her dignity.

Despite that, she was a surprisingly excellent hunter. She killed two mice living behind a fridge. One she left in her human's shoe, and the other she played with for a little while. Only fish were safe from her claws, although she did try to improve access to the ichthyoid by drinking out of its fishbowl.

She also preferred drinking out of human glasses. If a glass of water were left out, chances were she'd already slurped out of it.

Sheba charmed our pants off when she head-butted her cage door at the shelter, purring like a lawnmower. All it took to get her laryngeal and diaphragmatic muscles going was a look from one of her humans, or the merest touch. Nothing could compare to the joy she brought by settling on laps and purring. The purring only stopped when she slept, which was often.

She kept a tight schedule and expected everyone to follow. If her bedtime came around and the bed was lacking humans, she would come downstairs and lodge a complaint with the authorities. If it was breakfast time and the feeder was unconscious, a paw on the face would solve the problem.

She loved string. She eschewed expensive cat toys for old shoelaces or some kitchen twine. She would chase a piece of string around on the bed or even through the house.

Sheba had three teeth and was deaf as a post. She had a host of health problems but valiantly fought all attempts at medication. Still, she always lived up to her original shelter name -- Sweet Pea -- by never using her claws or, let's face it, her gums, against human hands.

She was Gandhi-like in her passive resistance to Oscar's hostility. Mostly because she couldn't hear him hissing at her. Her dominance was unquestioned. She would insert her face into his food bowl while he was eating, driving him away. She would occupy the human lap he currently sat on, forcing him to jump down. And she did it all ever so sweetly and endearingly.

She was an adoring kitty who liked to be as close to her human as possible, especially at night. A human pillow was her pillow, too, and if unavailable, a human shoulder or cheek would do. The sight of her tiny head poking out from under the covers first thing in the morning was the best way to start the day.

Sheba loved the sun. She went to sleep forever in the middle of a howling blizzard, but this is how she will always be remembered: as the softest, sweetest, most chocolate-y baby girl.

We love you, Sheba. You'll always be with us.

RIP 

Sheba "Sweet Pea" Foreman del Castillo Boyd Santa Maria Mitton

2000 - 2014

Our baby girl

Job Searching with Cats: Oscar

Oscar followed in the fine tradition of cat-blocking begun by Sheba. I suspect they both want me to stay homebound. Sheba likes having me around to pet her, while Oscar is charmed by the cheese I offer him as blood sacrifice treats.

Le sigh.

Job Searching with Cats: Sheba

This happened a couple of days ago.

I was in the middle of answering a typical interview question -- "Why do you want to work here?" -- when Sheba suddenly launched into a concert. I had petted and cuddled her beforehand to buy her silence during the call, but I guess it's never enough. She finally ran away after I made furious kicking gestures at her.

She did the same thing when I had another interview today, but this time I just kept moving around until she gave up following me and went to sleep on the couch.

Next comic: Oscar the ninja also gets in on the job-blocking action!

How to Brush a Cat

ANOTHER CAT VIDEO ON THE INTERWEBZ!

Watch on YouTube-- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztl_MLxYhYE

Sheba Turned 12!

Her adoption papers say she was born on September 1, 2000!

To celebrate her latest year alive and purring, Sheba treated herself to an extra two hours of sleep, for a total of 20 hours! Check out her birthday face.

With all that sleep, she naturally didn't get as much food in her, so guess what time she woke me up for feeding? Four o'clock in the morning, of course! I tell ya, this cat is practice for having a baby.

Happy Labor Day!

Vibram!

I run so I can eat like a truck driver. A couple of years ago, as part of my campaign to get my lung cilia back after quitting smoking, I decided to increase my running speed by getting the famed Vibram "toe-shoes." My local City Sports had a sale going on, so I got some green-and-grey ones. (Pictured above are Boyfriend's ninja black ones.) The shoes fit my feet--and toes!--like gloves. I zipped through three miles in about 25 minutes, which is absolutely ridiculous. I was delighted. I ran through the winter, and drew admiring stares from passerby. I basked in their respect for my amazing athleticism. "They look so comfortable," said a woman reclining on a bench. "Hohoho," I replied, in my best Japanese noblewoman laugh.

Then, sometime in the spring of '10, I woke up and could not walk without pain. I limped to my chiropractor, a crusty New Yorker who, in between tales of how dangerous the NY subway was back in the seventies and eighties, informed me that I had tendinitis, and had no business running with my special shoes. I weakly protested that the best Kenyan and Nigerian athletes trained barefoot, and she pointed out that they run on clay, while I ran on pavement.

Ohhhh.

Little Brother was visiting at the time and very kindly bought me a bucket so I could dunk my calves in ice water every night until I could walk normally again. After that, I only used my Vibrams for hiking, which apparently was what they were designed for in the first place. Well, excuse me for innovating. Anyway, I sprained my ankle last time I hiked, so obviously Vibram wasn't the product for that activity either.

And then, a couple of weeks before my company charity basketball tournament, Boyfriend and I slipped into our Vibrams so he could teach me to run properly. Apparently, running full speed with your arms out like an airplane with each foot stamping firmly on the ground was not correct. What can I say, I learned to run by watching Sailor Moon. Boyfriend went into his terrifying Teacher Mode and explained the biomechanics of impact transmission in excruciating detail. I eventually figured out that he was talking about how the muscles in my calves will absorb the shock when I spring forward on my tippy-toes, and barely stopped him from scratching out a force reduction equation on the ground with a twig.

And then we ran a couple miles and sure enough, I was limping for a week afterward. See, Vibrams will force you to run correctly, because there's no cushion for heel impact. Also, you are encouraged to jut out your chest and run faster because people are staring at your shoes and assuming you are super awesome. Running faster in Vibram means running on tiptoes and not letting your heel strike the ground at all. My calf muscles, furious at my inability to learn from past mistakes, went on strike and refused to talk to me until I promised to only run in real shoes.

And that is why my Vibram shoes will henceforth be Sheba's playthings. As you may have noticed from the photo above and the one in my last post, she loves shoe-related activities, like sitting, cuddling, rubbing, and rolling around. Cats have it figured out.

Happy Memorial Day weekend!

---

Edit, 05/31/2012: BBC has an article describing Vibram's valiant efforts to shut down counterfeiters.

Electionerd: Romney's Running Mate

Internet:

Our time has come. We are now the dominant pet species in the United States. Soon, the world will be ours.

But first, a word from our sponsor:

In this ELECTIONERD post, we will tell you who Mitt Romney's running mate should be: Nikki Haley, governor of South Carolina. She is a bastion of conservatism, fighting tirelessly against illegal immigration, abortion, cigarette taxation, regulation, and allegations of extramarital affairs. Most importantly, her Tea Party scent complements Romney's new-yacht smell.

Yes, the depth of our olfactory information surpasses belief. We have a network across the nation, sniffing humans at the most inopportune moments. An early report indicated that Chris Christie smells like cheeseburger, which catapulted him to the top of the contender list, until our agents came to the conclusion that in fact, he smells like meatballs.

We approve of self-education. Here is a slideshow of other viable running mate options. You may review them. But first, it's mealtime, and where is our tuna?

-The Cats

Sheba Wants to Love You

She likes people. But sometimes, when the sun is shining...

SHUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Danger! Deaf Kitty!

Cat Uses for the Human Face (Sheba Version)

#1: Crosswalk

#2: Lollipop

#3: Bed

Cold Like My Heart

Last night Sheba and I came home to a chilly apartment. At first I didn't notice anything amiss, because I immediately flew into a flurry of sweeping and mopping. Before you allow yourself to be dazzled by my dedication to next to godliness, let me add the disclaimer that 400 square feet only takes about 10 minutes to tidy up, before the next wave of hair, fur, and dust comes along. Anyway, I finished up, teeth-fully and facially hygiene-icated, and plumped myself into bed.

Then I realized it was cold. Like my heart. I checked and it was 56°F (13°C) inside my apartment! I cranked the thermostat to 70°, but couldn't hear the pinging sounds of my baseboard heater working. I shoved my bed aside and peered at the poptop control valve, which looks like a little box with a skinny lever poking out. I fiddled with the lever a bit and accidentally lifted the top of the box off, exposing the thingybob inside, you know, the doohickey connected to the pipes. It was warm. So why wasn't it heating my apartment?

I texted my predicament to Boyfriend, who offered to come pick me up. But as a modern independent woman, I had to take a stand. No chill will drive me from my home! So I put on my comfy socks stolen acquired from a friend's hospital stay, and my stylin' North Face running hat, and settled down to outfight the cold with my body heat. And of course there's my Super Sikrot Weapon:

BAM! Take that, lack of heat! I have my own personal space heater, and it's the size of a breadbox and responds to visual cues!

But Sheba alone is not my Super Sikrot Weapon. No, it is the combination of her microJoules of energy, my Tempur-Pedic® bed, which as we all know is really alien technology, and my Comforter of Friendship, bequeathed unto me after grad school. (Hmm, it's been that long? I should probably wash it...)

Anyway, when these three become one, they utterly destroy the second law of thermodynamics, which states that heat cannot spontaneously flow from a cold location to a hotter location. So instead of poor me miserably and unwillingly losing heat like a frying pan left to cool on a stove top, my Super Sikrot Weapon sucked in all the heat in the room to power my deep slumber, also known as the sleep of the innocent.

I called my apartment manager this morning and was assured that they'll look into it because it's probably a building problem. In the meantime, if you would like to rent the mobile component of my heat Weapon (pictured above), she is available during the daytime and only costs a can of high-end cat food! Due to neutering, I only have one in my supply, but I'll get on the waiting list for a cloning program and perhaps you too can have your very own Sikrot Weapon! Bed and comforter not included.

I'm so moving out this year. First the laundry machine is dead for three weeks, now this... (grumble, grumble)

Happy Monday!

Fleeeaaaadom!!!

Bug bites suck. They're itchy. They hint that you are dugyot. And because people react differently to bug bites, it's hard to figure out which bad boy did it, so figuring out the right solution becomes complicated.

I first noticed a bite on my right forearm on Monday. The next day I saw another one near my elbow. Yesterday I was irritably scratching a third one on my upper arm when it hit me: some tiny creature is feasting upon my delectable freesia-scented blood! Over fish tacos at Papagayo, I revealed my bug love marks, because I'm classy that way. Crispy, polite young woman that she is, said nothing, but Boyfriend instantly scooted as far away as his chair allowed. (Please note that I refused to watch Contagion with him because he would never touch me again.) He tried to use his iPhone to convince me that I had bed bugs, but ha ha ha, the signal is crappy where I work, so there! Besides, Crispy pointed out that bed bugs leave linear marks, and my bites were quite some distance from each other, at least by insect standards.

I did some research Google Images and decided they were flea bites. Flea bites??? Hmmm, now how could I have gotten those?

The usual suspects.
Or really, the only suspects.

I went home filled with righteous righteousness. As Sheba's meow(s) of welcome washed over me, I vigorously ripped the sheets off the bed, the pillowcases of the pillows, and the cover off the comforter. All went into the washer. Then I attacked my head board and the floor under and around my bed with wet wipes. For the coup de grâce, I filled a bucket with warm water, grabbed the kitty, and shampooed her like there was no tomorrow. Good Lord, you'd think I was skinning her alive, the way she howled and yowled. She was like a freaking trumpet. I guess she compensates for her non-violence through volume abuse. So I scrubbed her, rinsed her thoroughly (can't have her licking shampoo suds off!), and bundled her up in towels. And then the fun part: the blow drying! She didn't like that either, but the hum of the machine thankfully masked the sounds of what must seem like cat torture. The upshot is, she now feels silkier than usual, and she smells fantastic.

Then my building's fire alarm went off because the couple upstairs had a cooking accident, but that's another story. The point is, my cat better be flea-free, my home better be bug-free, and Boyfriend better remember to get his cat a flea collar. (Oscar has not been ruled out as a suspect, but he'll slit your wrists if you try to give him a bath.)

Happy Friday!!!

Kitty Tales

The wall is actually brown. Weird, huh?

Sheba and Oscar are starting to get along. His incidents of hissy fits have diminished dramatically, and his hiss-to-ignore ratio has started to even out. Sheba, like Ghandi before her, has serenely ignored the threats of violence and advocated her position through peaceful means, e.g. cluelessly wandering around. Today I caught Oscar making a swipe at her, but it was probably just for show, since he missed her face by a couple of inches.

This is clearly a case of territorial aggression, which Sheba has previously demonstrated. You wouldn't think the sweet little fur ball had it in her, but a neighborhood cat once followed me into my old apartment, and Sheba hissed with such venom that it scampered back outside. Since this is Oscar's territory, she isn't upset -- he is. But one day, they shall be found curled up against each other. And on that day, there shall be much cooing. And afterwards, a framed photograph.

I'm not a cat lady at all, I swear.

Cat vs Human

Sheba: In the Darkness, Water

I crouched under the bed, shouting defiantly at my tormentor in the pre-dawn light. I am growing old; my memory does not reach so far; and so I cannot understand what triggered this attack. I can only stay here, safe from the waters of rage, and cry out, stop! stop! I am innocent!

When Current Human Person (or "CHumP") whisked me away from the Big Place with Cold Floors to the Tiny Smelly Place, and now to this Nice New Place, I thought we had reached a level of harmony that pointed to our long and warm companionship. I let CHumP know whenever it was time for her to pet me; and CHumP seemed perfectly content to have me on her lap after she came back from wherever she goes during the day. I always used my litter box properly, and she had an array of brushes to help with the all-important task of keeping me clean and shiny.

The only point of contention between us is that she insists on a regular feeding schedule of once in the morning and once in the evening, instead of what nature intended: free feeding. But we had worked that out, I thought -- we would communicate, so she would know whenever my food dish content was unacceptably low. This arrangement has worked, up to this point.

From whence does this water come? What instrument of torture is this? What compels my dear human to take up arms against me?

Nicole: STFU! 

Seriously, cat? You wake me up at two in the morning and then at five in the morning and not expect a spray bottle aimed at your face? Get out from under the bed -- now! now! -- and for God's sake stop meowing! Whaddaya think this water's for? STOP THAT BLOODY MEOWING!

Sheba: I am a Burmese Cat, and My Genetic Code Compels Me!

MEOW! MEOW! meow! meow! meow! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! meowmeowmeow! MEOW! MEOW! meowwwwww! MEOW! MEOW! meow! meow! meow! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! meowmeowmeow! MEOW! MEOW! meowwwwww!!!!!!!

Nicole: OMFG I'm Gonna Kill You!

I can't spray you from under there! What the hell are you yelling about? Look, I stopped spraying you! Shut uuuuupppppp!!! It's 5 am and I left you food at midnight, you fatass! It's your own fault you ate it all up!

Sheba: I am a Voice for Free Feeding!

MEOW! MEOW! meow! meow! meow! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! meowmeowmeow! MEOW! MEOW! MEOWWWWW! MEOW! MEOW! meow! meow! meow! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! meowmeowmeow! MEOW! MEOW! meowwwwww!!!!!!!

Nicole: AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!

The scene from five this morning.

Lesson: Damn the vet and his diet restrictions, I need to start free-feeding my cat.

That is why Sheba gets +1,000,000,000 points

This morning I almost fell asleep while watching Sheba blink blearily at me, my chin propped uncomfortably on the cardboard of her scratch lounge. There's so much noise in our lives, noise that we take for granted because it constantly surrounds us: cars whizzing past, horns honking, people chatting, TVs blaring, air conditioners humming, the voices in your head judging you, and so on. But when Sheba's around, all that becomes muted; the world becomes fluffy around the edges; and everything is all right. My most vivid memory of Sheba is also my only memory of perfect silence: in the winter of 2009, I opened my eyes one morning to soft sunlight and her little face right beside mine, her head pillowed on my arm. There was absolutely no sound, just light and cat.

Sheba is a tiny creature who patiently endures my constant need to touch her silky fur; who licks my nose when she realizes it's there; whose whiskers vibrate when she purrs extra loudly; and who coos like a dove when she's especially content. All she needs is food, water, her kitty litter, and lots and lots of petting, preferably on a warm lap, or on the closest laptop. In return, I get peace. And that is why Sheba gets an extra one billion points just for existing.

Monday Madness

After a whole day of being crushed under the sandal heels of the bosses, I returned home to find all the furniture upside down and my roommate and her friend busily plugging all the carpenter ant holes in the wood with some cancer-inducing substance. After making sure the kitty was safely out of the way in a kind family's apartment, we finished killing ants and I went for a run, as a group trooped up the stairs to watch the "Batman fruit bats, they're THIS BIG!" I saw the flying rodents and I was not impressed by their size. Afterwards I had to reassemble my bed plus mosquito net stand, cleaned the whole apartment, had leftovers, had diarrhea, had tea, and grabbed kitty back. He's been playing with the stuffed cat, Jiji. Just watch the video below and imagine him doing it for a whole hour. I love this kitten.

Cat vs cat

Shannon gave me a stuffed cat (Jiji from Majo no takyuubin) that now serves as Disco's playmate slash biting bag. Funnily, they're roughly the same size. I usually toss Jiji at Disco to keep him occupied with biting and kicking for half an hour. The purpose of this exercise is to train Disco to become a good mouser, once he finally becomes bigger than the rats here. Currently the rats would laugh him out of their hole. Maybe in a few months...

The Joys of Pet Ownership

I named my kitten after I gave him his first bath in the guest bathroom sink. As I held his tiny wet shivering body under the forearms, I had an epiphany that I then spoke out loud: "I shall name him Disco."

Disco has a streak of pink on his left side that we have decided is paint and not, in fact, ring worm. Two ringworm experts (=they've had ringworm before) judged it so. Still, to be safe, I scrubbed the sucker again yesterday. Still pink.

Disco seems to be a good boy. When I'm in the shower, he walks into the bathroom, politely turns his back, and guards the door. When I'm in the kitchen, he will sit in the middle of the floor and patiently wait for me finish. He does not, like other cats in my life *cough*Sheba*cough*, orbit around my head at 5 in the morning. Instead, like me, he will laze in bed until food magically appears.

Speaking of bed, he doesn't actually sleep with me per se. He can't figure out how to get past the mosquito net. So he steps on top of the net and settles down near my head, and I'm sure the mosquito net prevents flea transference. Right? Right? Not itchy yet...

Of course, the boy sometimes acts like a bat out of hell. Yesterday I discovered that the little bugger had pooped on my orna, which I'd left on my computer chair. I'm still soaking it in a bucket. Then last night, our flat completely lost power because our fuses blew. So I was sitting in the darkness, illuminated by the light of my laptop screen, writing a report, while Disco gamely tried to eat all my fingers. As my roommie put it: "ah, the joys of pet ownership." Indeed.

The culprit sleeping peacefully on the innocent orna before The Incident.