Extreme Kitten

Glenwood is an early-morning hell-raiser, knocking over plants, scattering things off tabletops, biting my feet through the blankets, chasing her tennis ball, duking it out with tissue paper, and stalking Timmy (prompting a string of commands from me: Get down! No! Stop that! Glenwood, cut it out!).

By evening, she's a cuddly, purry, soft-soft-soft fur thing. Last night I was reading Franz Wright's God's Silence (his poems ring for me) while she lay on the pillows behind me, breathing warmth.

She also enjoys Mad Men.

And still gets her toys into her water dish. This was her first toy ever, a gift from Dr. Ryan on October 2, and she loves it.

And what is it about cats that they love to help make the bed? Spike always knew where to be so I could put fresh sheets on without having to move her; it was like a dance. Timmy and Riley were the wrinkle police. Glenwood and Timmy take a different approach:

Timmy's not trying to provoke her; he's just being himself. It's just that he can't escape her ...

... except maybe when he climbs into the hamper, which is his quietest place to sleep.

Most of this year - since Riley's diagnosis on June 8 - has been cat-focused. I've lost one, saved another, and tried to preserve still another's alpha position and sanity. I'd like to see my focus shift in 2010, while keeping Timmy and Glenwood happy and healthy. Happy new year.

Testing Limits

Glenwood's assaults on Timmy are a little worrisome. I think it's just play, and testing the limits of play, and that her kitten energy will mellow. After all, Timmy and Riley would occasionally get into it and they were best buddies. Also, Glenwood is as aggressive with her toys (and my belongings) as she is with Timmy, so her approach is at least democratic. Maybe he's just a big toy to her.

Or, maybe she's trying to dethrone Timmy as alpha cat. There's been some yelping and hissing and one growl. Does the play just get too rough for one or the other? Is Glenwood just so relentless that Timmy gets to the end of his rope? Because they also sleep curled up together, rub against each other in passing, swap food bowls in the middle of each meal, coexist in silence, and give each other baths.

This New Life

Last weekend was spent reclaiming my bathroom. (I have yet to take its ready availability and conveniences for granted.) Since then it's been about integration. What I'm seeing is the difference between the free Glenwood and the bathroom-bound Glenwood. She's more independent of me as she forges her new life, which largely consists of torturing Timmy with relentless full-body attacks or cuddling up to him ...

... or sleeping in one of the spots she's claiming as her own.

Sometimes when I approach her in a big way (like with my winter coat on or in loud shoes) she crouches down in fear. She must be reacting to a memory, so I get on the floor to be small and she comes right over. And she really comes over: just keeps walking right into my face.

When she's quiet, I watch her and wonder at it all. She has a huge personality, and the softest fur. Her breathing still gets raspy when she's having a good workout, but otherwise it's like none of the awfulness ever happened. I appreciate the life she's brought into the house after Riley's death. And still I miss Riley every day, awakening as I do to Timmy's big face staring at me as a reminder.

October 2, 2009

With Glenwood assimilating (the kitty-box merger is complete!), I've been thinking back...

I rescued her October 1 and took her to the vet the next day. To travel, I put her in a shoebox and put the shoebox in a paper grocery bag. I used a makeshift carrier because I feared I'd leave the vet without the kitten. Leaving with Riley's empty carrier July 10 was so hard, and is vivid.

As I walked from the car to the vet, Glenwood panicked. This tiny, dying, smelly kitten started pushing her way out. I put the bag down and pushed her back in; she fought. By the time we got to the vet I must've looked like a lunatic. My arms were wrapped around this violent package and I practically shouted "Can someone help me?" as soon as I got in the door. I could barely hold my own with what turned out to be 1.2 pounds of kitten. I'm astounded at the strength of body and spirit she found that day, when she was just bones and fur and sickness. Her instinct for self-preservation is mind-boggling.

To get her home, she went back into the shoebox and bag. I held the bag tight, got to the car, and put it on the floor in front. Once underway, she started pushing out again. I tried to stop her but couldn't while driving, and was so strained by it all that I let her, figuring I'd deal with her at the other end. So what did she do? Burst through the bag and climbed into my lap. I managed to get a towel under her, tucked her in to keep her warm, and drove home with her fast asleep. She wanted to be with me, and I was just overcome.

So few Glenwoods get a chance, which makes this Glenwood's story more joyful and more poignant. Yet she doesn't give it a thought, isn't astounded that she is alive and warm and fed and scritched. She just goes about her business: hurling herself at Timmy, making anything into a toy (especially Timmy), dashing around, exploring everywhere, occasionally napping. Now in full adolescent bloom and free from the bathroom, my lap is less compelling. I feel like a parent with a teenager, standing by and hoping she'll come back in time.

Milestones

Tuesday: After seeing Glenwood eat from Timmy's dish, I moved her dishes into the kitchen.

Thursday: I wanted to see Grey's Anatomy (sadly, a rerun), so opened the living room for the first time since Glenwood's release. My brother (father of Harry) and I had spent a solid 30 minutes devising a way to block the room off until the time was right. Aesthetic, no; functional, yes. I figured letting her in there with me was safe, then I'd put the barrier back. My studio is in there, along with a lot of small, delicate, cherished objects.

Friday 1:00 am: The three-foot barrier proved useless once she knew the room existed (who knew she could jump it?), so it went away.

Saturday: Timmy and Glenwood had explored each other's cat boxes, so I moved her box out of the bathroom and put it near his (the last step before the merger). At last, my bathroom was free free free of Glenwood's stuff! No more litter scattered on the floor. No more food splattered on the walls. No more pharmaceutical stockpile under the sink. Unbelievable. I scrubbed it for me, and am slowly returning its contents. It is utterly luxurious to have a bathmat again.

In terms of the day-to-day, Timmy is barraged by Glenwood pretty much every moment they're both awake. Poor guy is exhausted. He did manage to find something like a hiding place under my Van Gogh chair ...... but it's not a sure thing.During the few moments that Glenwood is at rest, cuddling happens. See how much she's grown? She's a station-wagon model, apparently: long and lean. Timmy is a Humvee.

23 Years, 27 Degrees

My mother died 23 years ago today, and for the first time the date might have slipped by had I not spoken with my brother (father of the late Muffy; see Glenwood's Ancestors). My mom was 55, so her life ended early.

And the cold hit hard and suddenly in New York City today, 27 degrees and who knows how low with the brutal wind.

I thought, "Glenwood would not have survived long in this weather." No, she wouldn't have, but the reality is she would have died long ago had (1) Ellen not cancelled dinner on October 1, (2) I kept my promise not to return because it was so eerie without the cats (see Glenwood's First House), and (3) she not meowed so I would see her in the dark. She had maybe a few days left in her. She was starving, unable to eat, emaciated, dehydrated and so, so sick.

And here she is now, nine-plus weeks later, relentlessly pouncing on Timmy, who must be exhausted from the assaults. Yet he continues to be so kind to her, so tolerant of her kitten energy unleashed. Too bad he's too damn big to hide.

Oh Happy Days

I feel like the luckiest cat person in the world. Emily, from whom I adopted Timmy and Riley in 2005, wrote me that she hoped Timmy would take Glenwood under his wing as Riley took him under hers.


And so it is: Timmy and Glenwood are total buddies. They rub against each other; Timmy grooms her; they wrestle. Glenwood has enormous energy and a huge personality. When she takes an apartment-long run at him and leaps, he either lets her land and deals with the consequences or raises a closed paw and thwarts her. There's the occasional yelp or mini-hiss, but it's only from the game getting a little rough. He's four times her size, after all - a giant ten-year-old dealing with a rambunctious toddler who spent nine weeks in a bathroom. I keep rubbing him and telling him he's a champ. I think he knows.


So here's a short story in five photos. It starts with Timmy and a Whole Foods bag.

But the Next Day Was

On Monday, the vet told me I could free Glenwood from the bathroom after all. I crowed. C-r-o-w-e-d. The surprise of it was even better than when I was expecting it. So home she and I went for a final bleaching of the bathroom and a release party. Sherri, who's been instrumental in her care (and mine) since she came home with me October 1, documented the festivities. Believe it or not, after weeks of trying to escape, she emerged slowly when I opened the door ...
... as Timmy watched from behind the screen I put between them just in case.

I needn't have worried (and didn't, really). Their first encounter was nonchalant: "So that's who was in [out] there."

The screen went.

She was cautious the first night (though not even a little since) as I found her sleeping in the bathroom sink.

But It Isn't

She tested postive. This is very disappointing; everything seemed pointed to her release. I made a vet appointment for tomorrow evening to start another culture. And it's not a matter of a day or two or three, but a week or two ... or.

It feels sad living with her in there alone the vast majority of the time. I know Glenwood is fine; it's me who doesn't feel so fine right now. I even took a photo of what I thought was to be her last medicated pad this morning. Now we have to start up again.

Tomorrow Should Be the Day

Anna called yesterday to say the ringworm test is still negative and that Dr. Ryan wants to wait until tomorrow to be sure. So I'll be calling Hope Vet when it opens, and the freeing of Glenwood should follow immediately. Wow.

It seems like she senses the upcoming shift, or is that much healthier. Her energy is endless, as are her meows. Last night I gave her catnip, which may be why her bed was across the bathroom this morning.

I have a plan, as she's only getting access to part of the apartment to start. Even that requires storing a lot of artwork and other items she could turn into hockey pucks or chew toys. I've had to keep the whisk broom out of her little paws or it would have been dismantled weeks ago.

Two-Plus Months In and Closer to Out

Glenwood's most photographic moments are, of course, when I'm camera-less. She bites into her tennis ball and carries it around. She curls up in the sink. She wraps herself around the broom as I sweep. She goes bonkers over a Q-tip and cries when she loses it. I'll keep trying.

That said, I'm better at capturing the quiet moments, I think. Here she is with my bracelet.

Timmy, meanwhile, spends mornings waiting for a bird to chirp under the air conditioner.

I've e-mailed Dr. Ryan in hopes (note the understatement) that Glenwood will be freed from the bathroom before the weekend's out. Weekends are harder than weekdays; her meows to get out (or get me in) punctuate the hours, and her yell-meow gets ever more startling. Please oh please let the ringworm be gone. What fun we will have when her world gets bigger.

Countdown, and Timmy's Antics

Glenwood tested negative for ringworm. I could weep. Still, we need to retest to be 100% sure. The great people at Hope Vet let us squeeze in today to start the culture. Now we wait another week. If this test is negative, she's free. (For any of you holding your breath about a possible pregnancy, you can exhale.) Here she is, back from the vet and in the bathroom with a new box and fresh blanket:I found the first close-up of Glenwood, taken October 2. I was in such a state then that it's more disturbing now to see the shape she was in (and this is after she was cleaned up by Dr. Ryan and Anna):Here's a close-up from today - to celebrate:

Now, Timmy has been showing up in new places. Two days ago I nearly had a meltdown when I couldn't find him - really couldn't find him. I yanked my brother off a business call, and he found Timmy in my laundry hamper, where he has never gone before:

Timmy's also been lounging on the window sill, which is only news because the radiator beneath him is so hot he could combust. Twenty pounds of Timmy exploding into flames would not be pretty.

Hope and Hope (and a Freaky Note)

Good news from Hope Vet! Glenwood retested negative for feline leukemia/HIV. I wasn't much worried because her recovery has been so strong; that's not medically sound, but a bit of homegrown logic that was a comfort. Her occasional raspy breathing (on stress or exertion) seems like scar tissue from her upper respiratory infection, and not something to worry about.

Her ringworm is much better and her fur is growing in (beautifully), though her ears may remain a little scarred. She still glows a little on the tip of her left ear and her right back paw; test results will be back in a week. This is now the last problem keeping her in the bathroom! Having the end of that era in sight is unreal (and comes with having to kitty-proof this apartment, no small task), but oh-so, oh-so welcome. (I let Glenwood and Timmy eye each other as we left for the vet: Glenwood was nonplussed; Timmy ran behind the couch.)

Glenwood's grown-up teeth are in, which makes her about six months old (not five) and her starting weight even more horrific. She's over 5 pounds now. Her head-to-belly ratio is still off, which prompted a lot of teasing from the Hope people, and ...

... prompted Anna to wonder aloud (bad idea) if Glenwood is pregnant. PREGNANT!?!?!

If you're half as shocked as I was, you've just spit out your coffee. Anna sent Dr. Ryan back in, and she's as sure as she can be that Glenwood not only isn't but couldn't be pregnant - while allowing that stranger things have happened. If Glenwood is pregnant, she's due in a week or so. I can't believe I'm writing this, and now look at her with a little worry. I'm not ready - will never be ready - to be a grandmother.

Antics

As if the drain basket in the water dish weren't enough (see How Does She Do It?), she somehow managed to replace the drain with the plug. It boggles the mind.I've learned, with considerable relief, that the splattered material is food. She likes to eat with her paw sometimes. (She's a rightie.) She scoops food into her mouth or onto the floor. When she shakes her paw clean, it ends up at unfathomable heights on the bathroom walls. Here she is, now a medium-large kitten (who is going to the vet in the morning):

Life Is a Blur

There will likely be no more still shots of Glenwood, or they'll just be accidents. For every 273 photos I take, maybe two are less than completely blurry. This kitten is on the move (here, in the tub). She's feeling great, getting closer and closer to managing her escape from the bathroom, and growing fur back everywhere. Her off-and-on wheezy breathing and scratching continue, so Saturday's vet visit is welcome, as usual.

On another note, one of my brothers (who shall remain nameless) once cleaned a toaster oven to death. I share this because of the demise of my dustpan. I swept it to death over the last six weeks.