Home for the Helladays

It was a weird day overall. It started at 8:30 when Betty got up, saw that it was snowing, and noticed the little old man across the road was clearing his driveway. Last week he’d asked me to clear his driveway with his snow blower, and in return, I was supposed to use it to clean ours. I also had to clear his wife’s driveway – they share a duplex. By the time I got up he’d finished the job, so I went out to shovel our driveway. He then called and asked me to come over so that he could show me how to use the blower for later in the day, as the snow was just a coming down. Betty laughed & said I’d been adopted by yet another parent.

The rest of the day went well. The house was all cleaned up in anticipation of Betty’s parents, arriving for dinner. Betty vacuumed & shampoo’d the carpets, while I cleaned the kitchen & washed the floor. Things were running smoothly.

My microwave recipe book said a 3lb roast should take 21-24 minutes per pound to cook. I figured I’d cook it for an hour or so in the downstairs nuker/convection oven, then stuff it in the oven upstairs for the last bit. I had successfully done this before. The roast went in at 5, Betty locked up all the trouble making kitties in the library as she set a beautiful table, and I whipped some cream for dessert.

David & Julia arrived at 6, and I trotted downstairs to the roast shortly thereafter. It didn’t seem cooked, so I put it on for another 10 minutes. When the timer went off I brought it upstairs to the kitchen. It looked slightly sunburned. I took a knife to it….hmmmm….grabbed the temperature probe, jammed it in, & hauled everything back down to the nuker.

“How’s the meat?” asked Betty as she passed me heading for the stairs.

“Raw.”

I checked on the temperature as Betty fed her parents crackers and Bits & Bites. We had one of those videos of logs burning in a hearth playing on the tv. David & Julia watched this while they listened to some nice Christmas Carols and snacked.

At this point there was a commotion in the library as Oreo cornered Marty by the door. Oreo has a problem. When he gets hungry, he gets extremely mean & usually attempts to kill something. I took him to the kitchen & fed him.

By now the potatoes we’d boiled for mashing were ready, so I turned them down onto low just to keep them warm. The frozen Brussel sprouts were slowly defrosting in the upstairs nuker, with butter on them, waiting to be cooked. My whipped cream in the fridge was slowly unwhipping, but I tried not to think about it. The fire on the tv ran out, so we rewound it and put it on again. The match being lit at the beginning sounds like a bomb going off. Very festive.

The nuker finally dinged, so I brought the roast up confident that I’d finally done the job. The outside layer & bottom was cooked - but the damn thing was totally raw inside. Betty & I looked at each other, then at the upstairs nuker. Out came the sprouts, in went the meat for another 10 minutes. Still raw. A consultation of the “Joy of Microwaving” suggested we try 20 minutes on half power. At the end of that, it looked pretty ugly. We stuffed it into the oven and proceeded to make everything else. Meanwhile out in the living room I could hear David yelping as Oreo bit his toes. My boy has a fetish and very strong jaws to go with it.

The Yorkshire Puddings were quickly whipped together and were soon cooking happily next to the charred rock we hoped would be tasty. Betty mentioned something about not opening the oven while cooking the puddings, and trundled off.

I started working on the mashed potatoes. I had cooked enough for an army, and by now all the water had boiled away. I tossed them in a bowl with butter & milk & turned on the mixer. There was so much of the stuff that the big lumps kept bouncing between the mixer spindles above the blades. I ladled about 2 cups into another bowl & kept at it. Betty wandered back out to check on the meat.

“How’s it look?” I asked as she peered through the open oven door.

“Not too bad, and the puddings are ok too…..” she looked at me. I looked at her. “I shouldn’t have the oven door open should I?” She slowly closed it.

Betty took a turn at the potatoes as I stirred the gravy & started the sprouts in the nuker. The potatoes were still lumpy. The ones sitting on top in the pot hadn’t quite cooked all the way through before the water boiled away. Betty said that some people like lumpy mashed potatoes. I hoped her parents were two of those people.

The “roast” had shrunk somewhat. The plate it was on was black. The roast itself was also black. Not grey, not shades of dark, not even crispy black. It was Black. And very hard. We sawed through it and found the center had at last cooked. Fortunately both Betty & her mom only took one piece each, so there was just enough for the four of us.

We sat down to eat at about 8pm (dinner was supposed to be served at 6:30). The meat was tasty but required steak knives to cut through it. The potato lumps were small and forgivable. The gravy was great, as were the sprouts, and miraculously, the Yorkshires had turned out quite nicely.

Dessert went well too. I’d baked a pie, and the whipped cream was fine. Before they left, we gave David & Julia a batch of my mincemeat tarts to take with them. Actually it was the second batch. I’d overcooked the first. I should have taken that as a hint of things to come…..

Houdini

Over time I've grown to know the differences in our little meece's personalities. Solly is curious & likes adventure. Stew hangs back, and tends to do more of the food storage. Solly leads, Stew follows.

One night, before we were going to spend a full day out of town, Solly ran up & over my arm, and out of the cage as I was giving them food. I grabbed at him but to my horror he fell off the counter and vanished. Over the next few hours we emptied the room, trying to find him. If he got upstairs it would be the end. Worse, the room didn't have a door, so we couldn't lock him in. Three times we spotted him but weren't fast enough to catch him. Then he appeared on top of a quilt and I managed to get my hand behind him so he couldn't see me coming. With great relief Sol was dropped into his cage and we were able to get a few hours sleep.

A few weeks later I decided to feed the mice before going to hockey. Something wasn't quite right with their little revolving "restaurant". There was a hole in it. Oh no. I suddenly spied something running across the counter - and grabbed it. The teeth sinking into my thumb & instant pain let me know it was Solly! I quickly opened the cage door and dropped him in - but the little mouse pitt bull wouldn't let go! I looked at him dangling from my thumb in amazement. Carefully squeezing his jaws, I managed to extract him, toss him into the cage, and slam the door shut. The restaurant was quickly removed, the tubing capped, and the blood (all mine) cleaned up. I learned a big lesson about what they can chew through, and how much mouse bites hurt.

A few weeks after that, I had them locked into one cage as I cleaned all their tunnels. After I put things back together I reconnected the tubing. The happy little boys ran through everything, into the second cage...... and right out the spot I'd forgotten to cap! I clamped my hand over one in fear - discovering right away that it was Sol. He sunk his teeth into my thumb causing me great pain. I had no choice but to suffer as I clamped my hand over Stew to prevent him from going anywhere.

I opened the first cage and tried to toss Sol in, but once again his jaws locked onto me. Since he wasn't going anywhere, I picked up Stewie and popped him into the cage, slammed the door shut, and snapped a cap over the open end of the other cage. I now turned my attention to my throbbing thumb. I gently squeezed Sol's little jaws til he let go of me, but before I could send him home, he turned and sunk his teeth into my other thumb! I squeezed his jaws and he let go, but the little bugger flipped around and crunched into my first thumb again! And so we played musical thumbs for awhile before I figured out how to not let go of his head & managed to deposit him back with his brother. I cleaned up the blood (again, all mine) & went upstairs to tend to my wounds.

My adventures weren't over though. A short time later, I was hanging a treat in one cage as Solly raced through the tubing towards me. I quickly removed my hand and slammed the door shut, only to have it come off! Fear gripped me as I slapped the loose door over the opening. Solly launched at me like a deranged bat. There were gaps around the loose door, but the vicious little creature was so intent on flinging himself at my fingers, that he didn't notice. Somehow I managed to entice him back to the other cage for a few seconds. My attempts to reattach the door failed though, and to my absolute horror, it fell inside the cage! Solly returned and in desperation I slapped my palm over the opening. There were gaps around my palm, but again the mad little mouse was more interested in trying to bite my palm. Fortunately, due to the shape of mouse mouths, this was extremely difficult for him. I once more enticed him back to the other cage, and frantically pulled the door out of the first cage and reattached it. I learned my lesson - be fast, be careful, and mice can't bite flat objects.

Despite the fact that they're ungrateful little wretches, we love them, and in May of this year the boys turned 2. They should have been slowing down. They should be old. They should really be dead. Why, then, do they continue to run like teenagers through the tubing to their different cages (they now have 3)? I went back to the web. Seems house mice may have a lifespan of 18 - 24 months, but Deer mice...... 7 years.

Are.

You.

Kidding.

Me.... ?

Seven Years???

Of Mice & Women

One day while Betty was working, a lady walked through the door & let it be known that there was a litter of mice in the shelter parking lot. Now mice are a problem even for a shelter that saves the lives of all kinds of critters, so this news wasn't all that welcome. However, the lady was expectant, so Betty went out & collected the little motherless creatures. Upon bringing them inside, they cuddled into her sleeve, causing everyone to go "Aaaawwwww".



Hand feeding baby mice is usually not successful. They don't tend to survive. However, everyone pitched in and the mice were given nourishment from a syringe. Over the next little while, a number of the babies died, but two made it. People thought feeding them was crazy, but seeing their little paws hold the syringe brought the "Aaaawwww" out again.

Betty brought the mice home after work each day to keep them fed. The plan was to release them when they could eat on their own.

Right.

We set their little cage up in the basement, away from all the cats upstairs. As soon as they became old enough to explore their surroundings, one escaped. He stayed nearby, so Betty snatched him up and put him back in his cage. She bought a more secure cage that afternoon. I looked at her & she mumbled "I bottle fed them...." Luckily, both critters were male.


I looked up mice on the web and discovered their life expectancy to be about 18 months to 2 years. That didn't seem too bad, so I went out and bought some tubing to go with the cage. Might as well give them a good home for their short little lives. Of course it didn't end there. I bought another cage because I felt they needed a bit more room to run around. They were mice & needed exercise! I also got some cute accessories - a 'restaurant' and a 'spaceship'. Within a week we found a large hole in the bottom of the spaceship. Luckily both mice were still in the cage, so I got rid of the craft and capped the tube leading to it.


I named them Stewart (of course!) and Solly, short for Soloman. As they grew, their little personalities came to the fore and we found we couldn't handle them anymore. It was Solly who'd bitten Betty a number of times, and we soon figured it was Solly who had escaped. He's definitely the Alpha mouse, while Stew is at times quite timid and afraid of change. Solly gnaws on the cage when he sees I'm getting the food ready for them. He also reaches through the cage and bats at me as if to say "Closer - closer - I want to tear you apart!" He's pretty fearless. One day I took my specs off and leaned in to inspect a part of the cage. After a few seconds my eyes focused on something moving just in front of my face - Solly reaching through the bars, waving his little paws at me, trying to nab my nose! "Closer - closer - fight like a man! I'll tear ya apart!"


Ungrateful brat.

Keeping Us On Our Toes

He was so cute when he arrived. A tiny little grey kitten who had been returned to the shelter because his new owners left him alone they day they got him, and he peed in a corner. Knowing that, as soon as he headed for a corner, I showed him a litter pan. We didn't have any trouble convincing him to use the pan after that.

He was a very normal little man, and although there weren't any real issues with him, he loved to nuzzle my neck, which Betty said was an unadoptable trait. I just couldn't discourage him from the habit, so we kept him. His previous owner's loss, our gain. But..... perhaps the previous owners weren't telling the truth about why they brought him back. Perhaps they knew he had another side. He wasn't just another cute kitty. He was Drew the Destructive.

As soon as he won our hearts, he began to get into mischief. If there was something new, he had to investigate no matter how much trouble it led to. Every bang, crash, or tinkle, had Drew behind it. At one point he leapt to the mantle, knocking a clock to the floor. When we got to him, he had both paws around a mirror that was hanging over the fireplace. I don't know if he wanted to check himself out, or pull it off the wall, but we weren't waiting to find out. I became good at repairing broken knick knacks, and filling holes, while Betty became adept at matching paint colours and doing touch ups.

One evening while having dinner I heard a kitten crying off in the distance. Instinct told me to follow the sound, and I wound up in the kitchen, astonished to find our fridge was meowing. Opening it, I discovered Drew looking up at me from the lower shelf. He must have hopped in when I'd had the door open a few minutes earlier. One would have thought that might cure some of his curiousity seeking ways, but no.

Our boy soon discovered the rafters in our enclosed porch. He did so by running up the side of a wicker book case. It was a bit unnerving at first, but we got used to him charging around the supporting 1"x 8"s at break neck speed. Soon he taught a few other cats how to do it. Unable to come down using the book case the way Drew did, Brighton would simply drop to a table with a very big bang. That had to hurt, so I wound up attaching some shelves at staggered heights on the far wall in an attempt to find him, and the others, a safer path. These were all immediately used for napping on instead.

When we bought a new entertainment unit, well, a picture says a thousand words doesn't it? Usually he preferred to find his way to the back of the tv and drop behind the unit. I would have to pull the tv to one side and hold it, while Betty hauled him out. This became a habit, and his timing was less than perfect - particularly when he started pulling out cables. I wound up installing small walls on either side of the tv so that we could watch our shows in peace. Not to be out smarted, he learned to open the glass doors that led to the lower shelves, and video machines. Now, instead of pulling out the tv, I was removing shelves full of electronics. Of course other cats started to follow his lead on this as well, and one day I found Squeak trapped inside with a bunch of cables wrapped around her. We now put the basket of cat toys in front of both doors to stop him.

Drew then taught Dartmouth how to jump on the fireplace insert, bounce to the mantel, and leap to the top of the unit. Dartmouth would then drop down behind the unit and we wound up hauling the tv out a number of times to retreive him. Fortunately winter arrived and the heat from the insert managed to dissuade both of them. Although we can't be sure what goes on at night, we don't think they go up there as much as they used to.

We always know when trouble is going to hit. Drew will come into the living room and start his "I'm bored" howl. The water spray bottle became my only weapon, and I had to use it so often that now simply shaking the bottle can stop him in his tracks. Most of the time anyway.

Ten years later we're thrilled that his curiousity has lessened somewhat. He still gets on top of the fridge in the kitchen and bats at passing heads, but he's not breaking the amount of stuff he used to.

During summer evenings, Drew can be heard in the rafters howling at the moon. He can't see it from there, but he howls anyway. We leave him alone out there. It keeps him busy.

My Cat Lips Me Off

Brighton the pest. He's always into everything if he feels I'm not paying attention to him. I want to play Wii; he tries to knock stuff off the telephone table. I'm working on the laptop; he's got to walk across it. I'm watching a really good movie; he's got to bat knickknacks off the lamp shelf. If I ignore him, he'll get onto the entertainment unit right in front of the TV so that I can no longer see anything but my chubby feline.
Scolding him results in a look of disdain along with a breathy "Ka ka ka ka ka" sound. It doesn't have to be the Queen's English - I know what it means. Then he ignores me and does what he wants anyway. I can shoot him with water from my spray bottle if he's not near electronics, but his fur is so thick it usually takes a number of shots to get him to notice. He will leave for a minute, then return to the trouble he was getting into as if nothing's happened. He's incessant and has caused me to lose my temper so many times! Not that my anger does much good. After I've shoo'd him out of the room, screaming at him, he's back within 30 seconds rubbing against my legs, knowing I can't stay mad at him.


Sometimes when he wants me to notice him, he sits on the table and rises up on his back legs like a gopher. It's such a cute look that it's hard not to go over and give him a hug, but this is just his ploy. As I lean in, he claws his way over my shoulder and onto my back, at which point I'm stuck. He's a big boy - about 15lbs - and any sudden movements will result in him clinging to me like a stunt man to the hood of a car. The car doesn't scream in like I do. So I'm stuck, bent over, with a big ole purring furry lump on my back, until he gets bored and moves on.


His need to stand on me continues when I go to the kitchen. He leaps to the counter then demands my attention, refusing to take "no" for an answer. Like a couple of other cats, he will walk back & forth in front of my face while I'm doing the dishes. Nothing like a tail up the nose when your hands are full of soapy water. Many a time I've turned my back on him to read the paper only to have him crawl over my shoulder and into my arms. I have no choice but to hold him while he purrs. The cake-taker was when he attempted to stand (all 4 paws I might add) on my head. It didn't go well for either of us.

Soon it will be winter and we'll be warming the living room courtesy of our fireplace insert. We will have the wood bin open. He will try to get into it, something I discourage. I will tell him to get out of it and he will "Ka ka ka" me. I will be forced to physically remove him, and he will "Ka ka ka" me over his shoulder. No respect. Not a one.

You have how many????

For a long time I was hesitant to tell people just how many cats we had. Then it became fun. As one acquaintance put it "You like the shock value don't you?" Yes. I do. Then there's shock value #2 "They're all inside cats???" Yup.

We don't have 23 anymore, but the largest actual number we've had living with us at one point, including foster kittens, would have been about 30. A quick tour of the web will tell you that we're relatively small compared with some other multi cat homes. I once saw a tv story about a fellow who owned over 350. He was cutting up a Christmas turkey he'd cooked just for them, while they all obediently sat around him meowing as he tossed bits at them occasionally. There's no way I could do that with this group. The turkey would be gone in seconds, along with parts of my arms.

So how does one acquire so many little beasties? Well, first you foster, then you discover that some of them have problems and would be deemed unadoptable by the shelter, so you keep them. The rest you fall in love with and make up reasons why they'll be deemed unadoptable by the shelter. In our case, the numbers grew like this:

I had Squeak, and Betty moved in with her 6 cats. We began to foster other shelter kittens. The first few came and went, although Betty would take them back to the shelter when I wasn't around because she was having too much trouble prying my fingers off them. Then we had a string of what we call "SPCA Rejects":

Jesse - a little wild kitten that we socialised, but remained aloof. Wild cats are unadoptable, so we had to keep him.

Oreo - bowel problems that no one else would want to foot the bill for. Trust me on this one...

Drew - liked to nuzzle in my neck, a supposedly an unadoptable trait I thought was adorable.

Little Darlin' - got along so well with Drew that I said if he stayed, she had to as well. They haven't been friends since.

Scooter - needed socializing, but a rhinovirus ran through the shelter when she was due to go back, so we wound up keeping her.

Sugar - an adult cat who nearly pined to death after being surrendered to the shelter. Betty had fostered her years earlier, so she brought her home to die. Sugar bounced back, but we didn't think she'd survive going back to the shelter.

Martin - actually went back, but there weren't enough shots for him and he had to come home for a day. I called it "a sign" and he stayed.

Frasier - Needed to be force fed when he came to us, but seeing as he was Marty's twin, I knew right away he wasn't going back. The "I Love You Mommy" look in his eyes as he gazed into mine didn't help.

Brighton - an adorable kitten. He got accidentally slammed in a door. He survived without any problems, but we deemed him unadoptable just in case....

Dartmouth - Brighton's pure white brother, and buddy. He was fascinated by a candle, leaned too close and his whiskers curled, so I deemed him unadoptable. I know, but how could I send Brighton's brother back?

Precious - an older cat with tons of attitude - long story, but again we kept her rather than have her catch the rhinovirus.

Tasha - was a foster who went back to the shelter but developed massive diarrhea. No one would adopt her like that, so we brought her back home. Lucky us.

B.G. - a foster who went "Kachoo!" the night before she was to be shipped to another shelter. She never did catch a cold.

Dot - arrived at the shelter with a flipper shaped back foot, a broken tail, and a ton of tiny snails caught in her fur. At the time she might not have made it through the system, so we kept her.

Cisco - another cat who started to go into liver failure, so we just kept her.

Duncan - a very tiny kitten who we fought hard to save, but were unsuccessful.

Fritzie - an elderly cat who we took in because he supposedly had only a couple of months to live. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.....

Along the way there were a number of foster kittens who we housed because they either needed a bit of socialising, or there was no room at the shelter for them. Many of the kittens were transferred to other shelters and adopted out. Some, sadly, we weren't able to save. Initially we buried them in the back yard Pet Cemetery, but now cremate the ones who pass on.

Betty also moved in with a dog - Lane. He has since passed on, but we now have another dog - Rogan. Rogan's a puppy mill rescue, and doesn't like to go outside. Occasionally Betty takes him for a drag to the mailbox and back just for some exercise. We also have 2 little field mice, Soloman & Stewart, in cages in the basement (the cats aren't allowed down there). Outside we have the carport squirrels, one of which lives in our attached greenhouse.

Along with the two stupid humans, these are the inhabitants of our Ark.

The Family Grows

Perhaps it was getting tossed from a car, perhaps it was the return to the shelter for a few days, but it soon became apparent that I had a cat with separation anxiety. No matter where I was, she followed. If I left the couch to change a CD on the other side of the room, she joined me. Without fail, 15 minutes before I had to leave the house, Squeak would crawl into my lap and comfortably doze off, causing me endless guilt when I had to move her.

I was renovating the house back then, and preparing to wallpaper a wall above the stairwell. I'd built a scaffold to hold my weight, but fearing my little one might fall off the deepest end, I covered the lot with plywood. I'd left a small hole at the top of the stairs so that I could still get to the basement. It became a game for her. She was nowhere to be found as I squeezed through the gap, wrapping my body carefully around the scaffolding so as not to dislodge any of it. She would wait until my arms disappeared and I was completely defenceless with just my head exposed, then leap at me, gleefully batting me from all angles. I think she loved to hear me scream.

Squeak helped with everything. Painting the kitchen cabinets resulted in a few new colours added to her tail. Ladders were always a curiosity. The air vent had to be explored - much to my horror. She screeched like a banshee when I hauled her out by her tail which was just about to disappear into the bowels of the house with the rest of her!

The following Spring, the routine in our lives changed. The house was renovated, and Betty was about to move in with her six cats. Belle, Minute, Josephine, Lucky, Zoe, and Bunnies each had their own issues. Lucky and Minute were sisters who had been born in the wild. Lucky preferred to hide from most of humanity. Her sister, Minute, was mentally challenged. Belle, a foster kitten, wanted absolutely nothing to do with humans, and little to do with other cats. She did, however, idolize Minute. Zoe, a beautiful Calico foster, was what we called our paranoid schizophrenic. She had her reasons, having been locked in a closet for the first year of her life. Josephine's head had been stepped on by a cow when she was a kitten, and she too was mentally challenged. The evening before she was due to return to the shelter, she had an epileptic seizure, making her virtually unadoptable. Bunnies, the most normal of all, had recently become diabetic.

First came Belle, who was about a year old. Betty brought her over alone, to explore the new digs. What a horrible error in judgement that turned out to be. Squeak's two toned purring had nothing on the wailing that began almost immediately Belle searched for Minute. Unable to do anything to placate her, I had no choice but to listen to her cries. All. Night. Long. The next morning Squeak & I both looked like we'd been on benders. Minute was immediately shipped over.

The rest followed in the days to come. Bunnies, the oldest, immediately took to the new surroundings, and thought the back of the couch was wonderful. Unfortunately her joy was soon dampened by a trip to the vet when Betty accidentally gave her an overdose of insulin. Having spent the night hooked up to an IV at the clinic, Bunnies was not amused.

Squeak was not amused either. Suddenly having to share her house with unwanted cousins really upset her apple cart. Despite the fact that she wasn't the oldest, she did claim the number one spot though. She also grew much larger than we expected. To this day we figure that there must be a touch of Main Coon in her.

Along with the 6 cats, came Betty's dog, Lane. So we were now up to 8 critters, and ready to foster.

In the beginning....

It was 12 years back that I got a phone call bright and early one morning from my friend at the shelter. My groggy mind barely registered the words "need a clean home", "foster for awhile til she's better", "euthanasia list" - the last words finding my heart of course. By the end of the day I had unwillingly taken in a small, noisy little charge.

She was a scrawny, little brown tabby who had been tossed from a car. She needed some meds, both for an infection, and cuts on her eye lid and chin. I wasn't really up to doing all this, but, her little life had become my responsibility. She crawled into bed with me the first night, nestled in the crook of my arm, and two-tone purred loudly into my ear. Hours later, staring bleary eyed into the darkness, I tried to go to my happy place - an island in the Pacific. I was fishing from small motor boat, with a two-toned engine. Eventually drifting off, I began to wonder what I was getting myself in for.

Little one needed a name. I stared at her. She had Cleopatra type markings around the eyes, but didn't suit the name. I tried a number of possible cutesy names, but none fit her. All she did was squeak at me. That and pass a lot of very stinky gas. Since I really didn't want the neighbour's hearing me call "Fart! Come Fart!", I settled on "Squeak". Her future owners could change it as they saw fit, after all I was just a foster parent.

A week later I had to head out of town for a few days, so Squeak was returned to the SPCA for a brief stay. I popped her in her crate, looked into her pleading, hurt eyes and my heart rip right out of my chest. Uh-oh. As I drove out of town, I knew this fostering thing wasn't going to work. Squeaky was mine.

Or more accurately, I was Squeaky's.

And so it began......