In which I am not smarter than a kitten, and The Demon Thief of Dement Ave.

Now that the introductions are out of the way, we can fast-forward a few months.  It's now nearing the end of November, and Bishop's been with us nearly a year, and Trix has been with us since June.


As it turns out,  I am not smarter than a kitten.  In my defense, it's been probably close to 12 years since I raised a kitten from weaning, and I'd forgotten how much like toddlers they can be!   For example - we took Miss Trix in to have her spayed.  The vet paperwork said, "keep her from licking the incision for five days".   So we put up the puppy playpen we got to quarantine her when she was tiny.   It only took her 2 1/2 days to figure out how to break out of it, run under our bed, and wiggle out of the tube sock I had around her middle.   So I figured, okay, I'll cut out arms, so she can't wiggle out of that again.  Right.  2 days later, while we were sleeping, under the bed, and out of the sock t-shirt again. 

Stylin' in her tube sock t-shirt

 We finally had to board her at the vet's for five days, because not only was the paperwork wildly optimistic about her healing time (Five days ha!  More like 17!)  but I had to sleep sometime!   And although I don't recommend it, boarding at the vet for five days is definitely a way to get a non-snuggly  kitten to want to snuggle when she gets home! (It wore off, though).

Snuggle baby

The Demon Thief of Dement Ave. in action

Now that she's completely healed and back to her normal nuclear-powered self,  we have discovered that she is a thief.  We find all sorts of things that she has "lifted"  from where we left them, buried in all sorts of places.  Like in the couch, or under the kitchen rugs, or in our bed.   Hence the nickname "Demon Thief of Dement Ave." 

Bishop's turn.

Last October, we lost our precious Buddy-cat.  Now Buddy was the world's most laid-back cat, and at first, I wasn't even sure I wanted another cat.  We still had Sinatra, and at that point, Sinatra was still hale and healthy.

But, looking through Petfinder one day in late January, I noticed a listing for a huge, beautiful, blue point Siamese, available at the local shelter. I am a complete and utter sucker for a Siamese, I always have been.  Bob Dylan (as they were calling him), was also already neutered and front-declawed.  (Please don't argue with me over declawing. I won't have it done to a cat if it's my choice, but if it has already been done, I'm not above taking advantage.)  I showed the picture to Chris, and he agreed we should at least go see him.

The shelter picture

The shelter said he had had "a cough" (meaning a kitty cold) and had been on antibiotics, so he was quarantined in the "sick room" at the shelter.  So we couldn't really take him out and look at him closely, but I did pet him and discovered that he loved head scritches, and was pretty mellow.  Probably why they were calling him Bob Dylan....

Industrial-sized bed, with my sweater.

So we put in the adoption application and went home, and waited.  And waited.  Finally, three days later, I called, and they said, "Oh, yeah, you look good. When do you want to come and get him?"  It being New Year's Eve at the time, we grabbed the cat carrier and headed out the door in the frigid cold to bring him home.  Once we got him home and out of the carrier, we realized just how LARGE he was.  His nickname for awhile, was "Hefty Boy". And I had to go buy him an industrial sized bed (actually meant for a d.o.g. but don't tell him that!), because none of the other three cat beds we had scattered around were big enough.  He will have been with us a year this coming up New Year's Eve.

Didn't take him long at all to get comfortable!

  We decided that since we already had a Sinatra (and Bob Dylan has never been a favorite of mine), that Bishop (after Joey Bishop) was a better name.  He's never seemed to mind, and will actually look at me when I say his name, unlike Miss Trixie-Belle, aka Demon Spawn aka Bitty-Butt, aka Pretty Pretty Princess, aka Stinker, aka The Demon Thief of Dement Ave.

The story of Trixie-Belle

The short version that I put on Facebook: 
"Yeah, well, remember all the logic I used that we didn't need a kitten? Apparently someone decided I needed taken down a peg or two. Meet Trixie. She cried in the neighbor's bushes all night last night, and said neighbor has two dogs, one a Weimaraner. Guess who they asked to catch the kitten? And yep, kitten is currently safe and sound on the enclosed porch, til we can get her into the vet on Monday for a checkup and hopefully clean bill of health so she can meet the boys."

First picture

The full story is a bit longer:

I had taken our precious Sinatra to the vet for kidney issues (RIP my handsome kitty, I miss you!), back in June.  My vet's office was overrun with adorable little fuzzballs, that had been taken from a hoarding situation (and this is why I hesitated to use the words "Crazy Cat Lady" on this blog).  As much as I love kittens, my vet and I both agreed that with Sinatra in kidney failure, and Bishop being so LARGE - more on that later - that we really didn't need a kitten. 

Yeah, that'll learn me.  Little did I know that The Universe At Large was laughing its ass off. 

So about three or four hours after I got home, my husband, Chris, was outside doing something, and the neighbor-on-the-right came over and got him, saying that there had been a baby kitten crying in her landscaping all night, and could Shelly please come and catch it?  (Yes, my reputation in the neighborhood is well known).  My vague plan was to catch the kitten, and take it over to my vet's office, where she could put it with the horde of tiny fuzzballs she already had and find it a home.  However, time was not on my side, and by the time I armed myself with a can of smelly canned food and the carrier, and actually found and caught the tiny mite,  it was too late to head for the vet's office.   After some discussion between Chris and I, (this is putting it delicately), it was decided that since I'd already taken ownership of the problem, that the kitten was ours.  She went to the vet all right, but she came home with me.

Didn't take her long to have Daddy wrapped around her tiny paws.

And a tiny mite she was.  Healthy looking, though, except for a worrisome lack of energy, and a reluctance to walk. Bunny run, yes, but not walk.  The vet theorized that she'd been hit by a car or shaken by a dog and that she would either heal or adapt.  She's healed well, though she has a bit of a swing in her backyard.     We kept her quarantined from the boys until we could have her tested for FeLV (which caused me no little bit of stress, waiting for her to be old enough to test), and get the worms cleared out. After several vet visits, and worming, shots, and being spayed (more on that later, as well!)  she is a healthy, happy, member of our household.

Thoroughly spoiled already.

Welcome to the madness!

By way of introduction, my name is Shel, and I am your local neighborhood Crazy Cat Lady.  However, being constrained by a modicum of good sense and local ordinances, the craziness is confined to only two (cats, that is).  My other crazies (books, Fiestaware, food) know no boundaries!

I've had cats all my life.  Usually more than one at a time.  Also usually, either rescued (strays) or chosen at a shelter.  The current residents are Bishop (shelter) and Trixie-Belle (aka Demon Spawn).

These are the adventures of cats past and present who have graced our lives - with probably a few too many glimpses of what makes me tick, as well. 

Exploring the new cat tree.