Tag Archives: cats

Terms of endearment (the kittens’ many nicknames)

image
CinCin
Fairy Cat
Clownface
Clownfish
Urchin
CheeChee Feathers, or sometimes Mrs. CheeChee Feathers.

Runt (though she weighs over 2 kilos now, CinCin was definitely the runt of her litter. She got weighed on Wednesday during her abortive spay attempt. We haven’t tried to weigh Lozo lately,  but he’s at least a third bigger. And feels like warm, muscular concrete.)

Speaking of whom…

Lozo
Lozo Bambino
Lozo Magnifico
Larry
‘Renzo
Munchkin
Michelin Man – because he’s muscular and taut as an overinflated tire.

Either/Or/Both:
Flip and Flop
Fric and Frac
Thing One and Thing Two
i Bambini

I know you all needed, desperately, to know this.

We also need to come up with an alto part for the Parry Gripp song “Weiner Dog,” because CinCin comes running whenever we play the video or sing it ourselves, and I think hearing it in two part harmony would blow her tiny little mind. She likes things with soprano notes, go figure.

Cat Parenthood, day 45

photoAssuming their approximate birthdate at the beginning of April is correct, the babies are about twelve and a half weeks old now.

They’re getting noticeably into adolescence. Lorenzo is still bigger than Chinchilla, but she put on a recent growth spurt. Overnight, it seems, she grew the face and long legs of a teenager cat.

We are keeping them out of the bedroom at night. I’d like to get to a point where they might join us, but a good night’s rest is more precious than rubies. And right now they’re hitting the stroppy and disobedient phase of kittenhood, so there’s no way we want them cycloning around the bed in the wee hours.

I expect to be shouting “You’re not my supervisor!” on their behalf a lot in the next few months, by way of channeling their obvious response to our trying to introduce them to the laughable concepts of No, Bad Cat! and/or Geddown! I found Lorenzo sleeping on the dish-drying towel last night, having shoved all the glasses and other things aside to make room for his lanky body. CinCin dove through the hanging metal measuring cups this afternoon–clang, clang, dangle dangle!–and knocked the coffeemaker over on her way back to the floor. She’d probably been checking out what’s behind the microwave after a wander around the stove.

Even in naughtiness, they are adorable.

 

I had been keeping an eye on the various kabillions of photos I take of them, looking for something that might make the cut for Cats of Instagram, and when CinCin yawned in the face of the iPhone not long ago I got one that I knew was a great prospect. CoI put it up on Monday, and within 24 hours something like 60,000 people had liked it. Holy crap, eh? My baby’s a star!

Just now, to blow their little kitty minds, I put some ice cubes in their water fountain. They are staring at it in wonder and terror–you’d think it had grown tadpoles.

Another manic lunedi

Miriam Williams at Inky Realms liked Child of a Hidden Sea to the tune of 4.5 out of five stars, praising it for having a racially diverse cast and gay characters, and even shipping Parrish/Bram. (Pramwell? Brammish?) She also felt the book needed a map, while acknowledging my earlier note about why this was challenging. (Short answer: too much ocean, not enough land.)

The review gave a nice lift to a peculiar weekend; I had an anaphylactic reaction at immunotherapy Friday. While it wasn’t serious, it wasn’t fun either. I was at the clinic for hours, in what turned out to be a real hip-wrecker of a chair, and was left creaky and wheezy all weekend. On Saturday we took the kitties in for their second round of immunizations–they are in perfect health, and have put on another half-pound or so each.

Though CinCin has a feather allergy–did I tell you this? I feel extra smug about having plucked her out of the wild given that she’d have sneezed constantly whenever hunting or eating birdkind.

July is busy time at K’s office, so we both worked a fair amount on Sunday.

Good things abounded: we made it to the edge of Pride in time for a Stonewall reenactment and the obligatory sighting of a well-built guy dancing in sandals and a posing pouch, the Met in HD rebroadcast of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte was delightful, and we followed that up with delicious, delicious sandwiches at Corned Beef House. We watched Austenland and I liked it–which wouldn’t have stopped me from rewriting it significantly if I was in charge of the universe–and tried out The West Wing on Netflix.

How was your weekend?

Magical Words #3, plus a kitten picture…

Today at Magical Words I’m talking about my particular variation on the writing lifestyle. And next week the plan is to be there with an essay about plot, so stay tuned.

 
Here be kittens. CinCin:

And LoZo, in a bit of a glamor shot:

Kelly and I have been discussing the crucial issue of their portmanteau. CinZo? Or LorenCin? (pronounced ChinZo / Laurentian.) They have a follow-up vet appointment this weekend, and will probably get scheduled for neutering very soon.

Kitten achievements unlocked

Points have been awarded for:

  • Three a.m. bed pouncing and mommy toe biting.
  • Fleeing in terror from Mr. Squirty Bottle.
  • Identifying a secret napping locale behind Gillian Gill’s excellent Nightingales, a family history of Florence Nightingale’s family.
  • Standing somersault.
  • Alchemy: turning kibble molecules into yet more of this:

Still required for level-up:

  • Total mastery of the litterbox.
  • 100% leap from floor to couch, without paw contact.
  • Crockery breakage.
  • Tripping an ape level one – squawk and stumble.
  • Leaving dusty litter prints on food preparation surface.
  • Ecommerce.
  • Hacking NORAD.

Minimal animals, the latest

imageCinZo are about to lose their feral appellation, I think. We started giving them their wet food by hand a few days ago, and not surprisingly this has chilled them out considerably on the issue of whether we are big scary giants who will eat them. Petting them induces purring and they will snuggle for as long as thirty seconds at a time. (Hey, they’ve got important pouncing to get back to!)

They have also figured out the sandbox, as far as we can tell, and thus have the run of the apartment as of bedtime last night. Finally, the TV no longer terrifies them: I subjected them to three hours of The Life of Birds on the weekend.

They aren’t yet convinced that being sung to is a particularly good use of anyone’s time, but one short week after being pulled out from under a porch in Etobicoke, it’s all looking happy, secure and friendly.

Now the question is: can we get them to accept snuggly worship from our friends? Perhaps especially our Peter Watts shaped friends?

We choosed the kitten life…

The new feline overlords have slowed me down considerably. They move at the speed of zoom, of course, except when they’re blissfully unconscious in a heap. But everything I do takes longer. Cooking, showering, eating–all of it gets interrupted by slack-jawed goggling at the babies, interspersed with fits of trying to capture every single instant of their little lives with the camera.

Yesterday my phone developed the electronic equivalent of a hacking cough, all of five minutes before our provider called to offer Kelly a deal on replacement gadgetry. So! In addition to replacing the thermostat, getting the babies to the vet, having the countertops repaired and maybe doing some actual work, Kelly and I are acquiring and customizing new toys.

It’s hard to be sad about this, of course, even if it is another damned thing to do.

Personal Smatterings

Launch of the Kitten Channel: We currently have just-weaned three kittens in the house, now named Lorenzo, Chinchilla, and Bailey. This isn’t a permanent thing. We never agreed to take the whole litter, but they all needed rescuing. Bailey will go to his forever home as soon as he’s seen a vet. It’s both a lot of work and a lot of fun. You’ve probably seen the cuteness. Here’s Renzo.

Getting them out of Etobicoke involved driving out there with the woman who’s been keeping an eye on them (and their feral mom) and then spending an hour trying to find and coax Bailey out from under an enormous patio deck. The crawlspace down there was filled with peculiar hoses, making him hard to spot–so there was a lot of lying on belly, hanging my head off the deck, and peering around upside-down while trying to keep my glasses from sliding off my face. I’ve bruised the area around my sternum as a result. It’s a small price to pay for adorable fluff-bundles.

Change is change:
Our move to Dua Central happened, unbelievably, just over three weeks ago. The house is nicely unpacked and in many ways it looks as though we’ve been there for years. I’m struggling to find and establish the bits and pieces of a daily routine, to make automatic a number of the things I do daily, the better to have space in my brain for more important things. It has been strangely tiring; after the events of the past thirteen months, I’m simply looking forward to getting to a place where I don’t feel dislocated.

Breathe and Stretch, Stretch and Breathe:
The move also brought another big change, in the form of another new yoga studio. Downward Dog was just a little too far to go now that we’re further northeast, and so Kelly and I are trying out classes at Yyoga, a Vancouver-based studio that’s physically close to hand. I never set out to be a connoisseur of yoga instructors, but it has been a real thing: go to class, try someone out, go again, and ponder where and how each class and teacher fits into the framework of my life. Then lather, rinse, repeat.

The goal here is to find a selection of folks I can happily take classes from three to four times a week.

We took six weeks off yoga starting in March, because of Texas and moving, and all sorts of tiny complaints were cropping up with my body. Now we’re back at it, many of those are now receding; my body is starting to feel as I expect it to… in a good way. It’s a powerful experience, a reminder that the yoga thing isn’t just for fun or relaxation. Delightful though it may be, it’s also mandatory at this point in my existence.