I volunteer with a feral cat rescue group that I'll call "Small Town Cat Savers" here on E&P. Our mission is to trap, neuter, and release as many local stray and feral (wild) cats as possible to humanely reduce cat overpopulation in the county. In addition to the trap-neuter-release thing, some group members visit a few locations with large feral populations to feed them in order to neuter or spay, and then release them back out into their areas. Every dollar donated to STCS goes straight to vet costs and cat food.
In the short time I've worked with Small Town Cat Savers, I've done only simple things: donate $20 here and there, design a group business/calling card, rewrite some website copy, plan a short YouTube video to show the community what we do. Today, though, was the first time I've tried to round up kitties for our monthly Spay Day. (For Spay Day, local veterinarians donate their time, facilities, supplies, and skill to spay or neuter as many as 25 cats in one eight-hour day.)
The two female cats have long (and shamefully) been holed up in my storage shed out back, and today was the day to catch and then get them fixed and immunized. Gray-tabby-with-splashes-of-orange Tiger Lily, or T.L. for short, is one of Stripeakura's legendary litter. Skunk, a black-and-white spotted cat named so for the white stripe down her back, was trapped by a friend who works for Small Town Parks & Rec.
T.L. is wild as can be, but generally a non-violent sweetie. It's Skunk who did all the damage you see here.
The tally so far (updated at 9:41pm):
Was it worth all this trouble? Ask me again when the swelling on my left wrist goes away.
In early July 2010, the vet removed nearly all of her back teeth due to a nasty dental/gum condition most succinctly explained as "gingivitis meets kudzu." It was very difficult and painful, and Hobo refused to let me pick her up for months afterward. (Can't say I blame her.) She improved some in the months that followed, but back in the spring the telltale drooling started again. To try and ward off another traumatic surgery, Dr. Bill recommended a low-power laser therapy to stimulate the growth of healthy new gum tissue. And for a while, it worked. At the end of a weeks-long series of treatments, however, Hobo's mouth took a turn for the worse.
So today finds my sweet, cranky "peanut-butter-and-chocolate" tortoiseshell girl at Dr. Bill's yet again. This time, he's removing the last of her back teeth, since they (and her gums) are so diseased. Oddly, her front teeth have remained rather healthy, knock on wood and scritch ears. After today, Hobo will have no back teeth...and will be very, very upset with Mama for a long time to come.
Even though she's been in a lot of pain over the last year or so, there's been an unexpected benefit to Hobo's tooth problems. She's turned into a loving, friendly kitty who enjoys people's company and attention. She's left behind her aloof, street-smart persona—honed under bridges and behind dumpsters in Atlanta's famous Little Five Points neighborhood. (That's where my friend Kasia rescued her and her last litter of kittens in 2006.) No longer a hard, cold gangsta, Hobo has become a friendly, sweet, and affectionate cat. The vet techs at Dr. Bill's love seeing the blue kitty cage in my arms when I walk in: "Awwwright! You brought Miss Hobo to see us again!"
Many cats freak out in the exam room. They start shrieking like the Tasmanian Devil on crystal meth. Perhaps they drool uncontrollably, or soil themselves. Some try to hide in their person's armpit or coat pocket. Others quiver like a tuning fork, or shed like the last dehydrated Virginia spruce on the Elm City Masonic Lodge fundraiser lot at 11pm on Christmas Eve.
But not my Hobo. Once she realizes that she's finally out of that infernal pet carrier, she loves on anything and everything—the stainless steel corner of the exam table, the paper towel dispenser, the prep sink, the resinized feline skeletal model, pictures of Dr. Bill's family, the laser wand that he and the vet tech are trying to run gently along her gumline. The entire time, Hobo's purr is set to 11.
Only Bastet knows where this new adventure in feline dental surgery will lead Hobo Kitty. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.
EDITED TO ADD, SAT 23 JUL 2011: Thanks for all your kind wishes and thoughts and prayers. So far, Hobo's feeling all right. She was cranky, groggy, and pissed off when I brought her home yesterday evening, but she let me pet and love on her after she hid under the recliner for a while. Dr. Bill wants to see her in a week for a post-op check.
While traveling on business Tuesday afternoon, I stumbled upon an independent fabric store whose new owners also happen to own a textile printing plant. Driving to my appointment, I saw the brightly-colored banner out front—UPHOLSTERERS' WAREHOUSE! OPEN TO THE PUBLIC!—and said out loud, "If I'm done by 4:00, I'll stop by. No, I have to stop by. Pleeeease let me be done by 4:00!" So my appointment went very well, wrapping up at 3:30, and on my way back out of town, I whipped the car into the rutted, sandy parking lot of the former railroad warehouse.
In the back of the store, three huge racks marked SILKS / 54" WIDE caught my eye. Probably 17 or 18 bolts of shimmering, glowing douppioni held it there; fuchsia, crimson, emerald, turquoise, cerulean, navy, sand, umber, chocolate, burgundy, sunset...and this stunning color that looks charcoal gray until the fabric moves. Then it becomes magical, nearly metallic.
And yes, it IS 100% silk. I felt and tugged on it to make sure it wasn't high-quality poly or microfiber masquerading as the real thing. The manager explained that since the owners run a textile plant, they can work fantastic deals such as this wide, heavy drapery silk at just under $10 a yard. "You could certainly use it for garments," she said. "It would be a pity just to keep it at home, hanging over the window."
Four or five yards of this may end up going home with me. As might a similar quantity of the magenta-orange silk that glows like a tequila sunrise. Ohhhh, yes.
From Thursday night all the way through Sunday evening, most of the outdoor cats stayed on the front porch, snoozing and letting the rain-scented breezes freshen their fur. Pictured here from top to bottom: Kamakura; her daughter Ernge; Ernest; the previous three kittehs on/in the old "radio table" as Kamakura starts into a sneezing fit; and Smokey & Davy (Hook), of whose sweet, cuddly, and rare-as-hen's-teeth moment I included TWO photos. Rainy weather will make cats do some weird stuff.
Almost every day, I look around and still think I see you out of the corner of my eye, a flash of charcoal-gray semiformal tuxedo with your white ankle socks. You were, and will always be, my first "real kitty" who ate, slept, and lived indoors with me.
From the first time I saw you—barely five weeks old, rescued by a kind human after having been abandoned on a dirt road near the river—I knew we would be a family. They said you'd been chasing after cars that might have taken away your mama and litter mates, your nose and face all scratched up and dirty as you fought for your little life, but finally you were purring and lapping up homemade peach ice cream at our Memorial Day cookout. I couldn't resist the little face with the black dot on an otherwise pink-and-white nose and the ratty, bedraggled whiskers that spoke of a very hard time.
After I was sure you'd had your fill of ice cream, I packed you up in a makeshift pet carrier and brought you back to Athens with me that same night. You yowled at the top of your tiny kitten lungs the entire three-hour trip. After dropping you off at my spartan little apartment, I ran to K-Mart for cat food, bowls, and a litter box. When I returned, I couldn't find you...because you were sound asleep under the couch. It was probably the first good, solid rest you had had since you were born.
Thank you for being my constant companion through good and bad, for tolerating the endless stream of new kitties, for always licking the water off my feet when I got out of the shower...for being so patient with your all-too-human human.
Oh, Graya, I miss you so much—even though I know you had to go. You were sick and old and the pain was terrible. I still feel bad because I couldn't help you, couldn't make it stop so we could return to the HKC for another can of Fancy Feast. But that's how the world works. I just hope I didn't prolong your suffering. Bastet knows you had plenty of it in your surprisingly big little life.
Thank you for your 14 years of kindness and love, sweet girl. One day, I'll see you at the Rainbow Bridge, and we'll cross over it together.
Love always,
Mama
Davy/Hook is part-Siamese, just like my adorable, terrified-of-ceiling-fans Emmylou. (And Elvis. And Waylon. And Willie.) I'd be willing to bet they're cousins; both were born in the HKC's neighborhood within the last seven years, during which time we've seen a remarkable jump in the number of seal-, lilac-, and flame-pointed cats hanging around. They also always have the Siamese blue eyes, crossed of course to varying degrees. All of this means that there's a Mostlymese tomcat still out there somewhere. 'Preciate the gorgeous kittens, bro, but sooner or later I'm gonna trap-neuter-release your ass.
Hook, thankfully, is not a tomcat. Neutered since he was six months old, he's ornery enough without the extra testosterone. When he was still indoors-only, he'd poop right in the middle of the floor only when he knew I'd be looking. When I wasn't looking, the litter box suited him just dandy. He'd wail on the other cats' heads for little or no reason other than he just wanted to kick butt. So out he went, and he's mostly happy hanging around the front porch and under the house. Only once in a VERY rare while does he want to come back indoors; three minutes later, he's yowling to go back out again.
As opposed to how he used to act, though, Hook is a very friendly fellow. If I'm outdoors, he's right behind me as if he were a dog. He nearly always walks up, flops down onto the ground with a generous serving of OOOF!, and gives me a scratchy, wheezy little half-meow: "Please pet me, Mama, and I *might* purr." (The full meow he reserves for emergencies. Like when the buffet runs low at Miss Kitty's Soup Kitchen for Felines—my front porch, for you newcomers.) Really, though: when he's not swatting at Beignet, hissing at Ernge, growling at Smokey, running after Kigi, or starting crap with Moo, he's actually a very sweet cat.
Which is about 60% of the time, or a borderline D/F. Cut Hook a little slack—he's taking Remedial Kitteh Sweetness 0098 for the 27th semester in a row. He's done well to improve to a 60. When he started out, the only grades he earned were the kind he could roll home.
One time, I made the mistake of asking El Seebeno about what is among his five most-frequently-used sayings...
SEEBEN: It's hot as fuck out there!
ME: Seeben, just how hot is "fuck?"
SEEBEN: Pretty fuckin' hot.
So while "_____ as fuck" isn't the most flowery (or polite) simile ever, it certainly serves its purpose. You use it when whatever you're describing is beyond even the most inflated superlatives. You use it when the magnitude of whatever you're describing defies the power of language. You use it when you're talking about the weather in Small Town.
The picture's not very good, so I'll just tell you what Weather.com had to say at 1:00pm yesterday about our current weather conditions: "88 degrees, 92% humidity, feels like 117." Yes, that is officially hot as fuck. Or pretty fucking hot, however you want to slice it.
Now that I look closely at this photo, I notice that Ernge bears quite a resemblance to her mama. Look at those little feline faces! The sleepiness...the boredom...the abject disappointment approaches Martha Ann territory. Of course, it only approaches, never exceeds. Because nobody is as disappointed as the original Little Miss Disappointment. About anything. Ever.
Kamakura gets along well with all three of her adult daughters, and that makes this fluffy, friendly kitteh even more endearing to me. Mama-kura is among the sweetest cats I've ever known. I'm so glad that, in the summer of 2007, she led her last litter of six (!!!) nearly-grown kittens to the HKC, at first individually, and then the entire gang...to eat, rest, and eventually stay. Ernge, Moo, and Stripe stayed, too.
The cute, hilarious, wonderful cats here at the Happy Kitten Cottage make my day, every single day. I'm very fortunate to have them in my life.
It's been way too long since the last installment of Ask Mom™, and that's a shame—a lot of folks love hearing what my mother has to say. So today, Mom's column returns to dispense advice, kick ass, and take names.
A long-sleeved, cowl-neck number based on Vogue V8669. Mom extended the hem to just above the knee, and the result is a sleek, close-fitting-yet-work-appropriate dress with a 14" side-seam zipper for easier on and off.
The cowl neck behaves differently in different fabrics; heavier ones still look good but allow for less drape, while a lighter-weight fabric such as this one drapes very, very nicely. (Mom made the same pattern as a top for me last year out of medium-weight gray velvet.)
Here's a detail of the neckline and shoulder.
You can really see the reptile pattern up close (here, the sleeve hem). From a distance, it looks as if the fabric is shiny wet-look vinyl, or metallic, or perhaps covered in same-color sequins.
It's been several years since I last had a bladder infection, so this took me by surprise. Or not; I've felt one coming on for a couple weeks now but until now had been able to fight it off with lots of water. When I went to bed last night, I felt a semi-urgent, gotta-peeeeee! twinge, but thought I'd be all right drinking a bottle of water. Wrong. And the urgent-care clinic is closed until after the July 4th holiday.
Happily, Small Town Hospital renovated their emergency room about six months ago, so it's a pretty nice place to be, even if my urinary tract is on fire. And at 9:15 on a Saturday morning, it was nearly deserted. Whew.
I was up all night either peeing or hoping I'd pee—for me, peeing even two or three drops relieves the pain—so I got only a couple hours of sleep. I gave it the old college try, but sleep is hard to come by when you're slumped over on the can with your urethral sphincter wide-open. Such is life.
Off to the pharmacy now, and home to take antibiotics and drink more water. And to try not to think about the ER bill.
Clarky doesn't care. "C'mon, Mama, turn on the water." So I'll turn on the faucet to just baaaarely drip-drip-drip-drip-drip onto his fur, and he'll lie there long enough to get his back half a little damp. When his cat hams are sufficiently moistened (why he does this, I have NO idea), he'll then get up, turn around, and hold his head sideways to lick the water droplets right as they come out of the faucet. That's my sweet, silly kitty-boy.
