Schedules and demands

I work.

Like a fiend.

Seriously, I work two jobs, and go to school 6 credits per semester.  Plus, I'm in love with a man who lives roughly 700 miles away.  We visit as often as is possible, and often that means at least 4 days per month, I am with him, and 4 days he is with me.

You can see easily how this makes even the most self-reliant of pets a legitimate cause for concern, rendering the need for an on-call babysitter less of a luxury and more of a necessity.

I have a lovely roommate, and he could do it, but he's really not into the kitties, and I don't want him to feel put upon by my lifestyle choices.

I also have my two adult children, who are always looking for money.  They can come over and house-sit, and fortunately have always been willing - even for the paltry $10/day I give them to come over twice a day and scoop the cat poop and feed and play with the kitties.

Well, you see, that's really where the trouble begins.

I'm OK with the cats, and love them and all, but I just can't stand a house that smells, well, like a cat pan.  So, I basically scoop the cat poop every day and night, and sweep up or vacuum the scattered litter at the same frequency.  It's a bit of a burden.

In addition, the kitty sitting adds to the cost of going out of town, and there is always the chance that the kids are busy, or lose interest and say no - making it an actual problem.  So, there, I'm fastidious and cheap.  I began to search for solutions almost immediately upon adopting them into my household.

I decided that it would probably be the best thing to try to potty train them.

Not like *use the litter pan* kind of potty training; rather, I wanted to teach the kitties who to use the toilet.  It reduces the cost of the litter (to $0), and the trouble of having it tracked about (I can't stand walking on the little granules).  And so, I started my research.

With me, all good things, and decisions begin with copious amounts of research.  I read blogs, and saw YouTube videos, and researched homemade and commercial solutions for my little problem.

I finally decided to try a commercial product called Litter Kwitter, in spite of the fact that I'm automatically turned off by product names with intentionally misspelled words.  I looked at it and decided it was a good option.  I went home and immediately began to put it into use.

The process as outlined included slowly working the kitties to using the device while it was installed on the toilet.  I eliminated the old pan (happily) and put the new one on the floor in the bathroom, beside the toilet.  Then after they had acclimated to that tried to just jump ahead and put it straight onto the toilet and see what happened rather than propping it up slowly on books, etc.  I didn't want my books getting all ruined, and I wanted to see if they would just adjust.

They did, it was a snap, the very first day, they were jumping up on the toilet and using the fancy pan installed over the bowl.

This is going to be easy, I thought.

These two kitties

I went to Miami, and learned that Suely was the master of the bait and switch.  She and I talked again of another black cat, but this time of a tuxedo who also was a hard luck kitty.  I agreed again to drive south to her felifilled apartment to take a look at another kitty and possibly let him steal my heart.  This time, I was bringing Princess Sophie.  She had earned first rights of refusal for any new cats brought into my home.

J had just come into town, and he and I drove again to the now familiar apartment and greeted the feral cats outside her building that Suely fed.  When we entered, we saw the little scamp and both absolutely loved him.  Sold!  Not so fast: Suely says, 'I have Sophie's brother, he's ready to adopt, this little one still needs more shots, etc - he's still very young'.  

I agree, and again she leaves J and I alone with the little scamp (his name came immediately) and all the other cats in her apartment.  He's a wild one, and Sophie eyes him suspiciously.  He won't let me turn him over, and is generally wanting to run off and terrorize the other cats in the tiny apartment.  I look at J, sure that this is the cat I want, and tell him that meeting Sophies' brother is a mere formality.

It took a lot of convincing, and truthfully, even Sophie wasn't 100% on board, but her little tiger-striped brother came home with us that night while the little scamp remained.  Damn, she is good!

Now, The TigriKiisu (Tiger Kitty) and Princess Sophie, get along great, but it wasn’t always that way.  When he first arrived, they fought.  To be sure, they still fight.  At night, while I sleep, this tremendous clatter will sometimes rouse me from my peaceful slumber.  It is the sound of two otherwise silent bodies thrashing themselves into any fixed object in my room.  They slam each other into the wall, off the closet doors, into the poorly laid tiles in my room.  They make surprisingly little noise themselves: only the occasional muffled mew of protest when one gets too rough with the other.  I lift one leaden eyelid and realize the reason for my interrupted sleep and return again with little delay.  

At first, Sophie was the aggressor.  In the first few days he came home, J would tacitly root for him to stand up for himself as she put him through his paces.  As time wore on, however, his greater size and increasing comfort with his surroundings led to him having a considerable advantage over the Princess.  In reality, she’s a very demure kitty, and he is very large for his age.  He towers over her, and his markings belie his wild cat lineage.  I suspect that he is a descendant of a Savannah cat, and with his markings behind his ears, characteristic chirp and tendency to pounce on my computer screen when I’m working at it, I think my suspicions are well placed.

Now, several weeks later, he is my little lover boy.  He and Sophie sleep in bed with me, she cuddled up against my leg, and he close by my head.  He awakens me the same way each day: with a massage.  Truly, he massages me.  He will purr contentedly and knead me with paws oversized for his young kittenish body, and just move each alternating with surprising strength on my neck, shoulder and chest until I awake.  Occasionally, he will take his rough, sandpaper tongue, and lick the tip of my nose, or my eyelid.  It never fails to wake me, in a good mood, every time.

As I can’t stand the smell of a litterbox, and can’t afford a litter genie whiz bang whatever they’re called, I set about to find solutions to the problem of needing to scoop the pan ten times a day and my ability to do it twice, and how I disliked doing it those two times a day.

And so, I decided to potty train my kitties.  As in, teach them to use the toilet, and so begins my saga.

Of Nick, and transitions

I called the cat lady to find out about adoptions.

I spoke to Suely, the cat lady, and she told me Nick's sad story.  He was a young orphan, that was just so sweet she couldn't release him back to the streets without trying to find him a home.  Already sure I would love this boy, I made arrangements to meet her and adopt him.  

My beloved and I drove down to meet her, and when we arrived were greeted with about 14 cats in her tiny apartment.  There were all kinds: grey, tiger, a blind, deaf cat named Valentino who was just incredible and all sorts, in crates and out scampering about and attacking each other and the furniture in this frenzy of fur and playful claws.  In the crate was a little black girl that she wanted me to meet, and her two tiger brothers; and that's how I met Princess Sophie.

I reached in, and her brothers recoiled and hissed, but she placidly accepted my giant hand around her tiny, soft form, and she lay: limp and accepting in my hand.  I loved her.  But she wasn't the little boy with the hard luck I had come to meet.  I pressed Suely, where was the little boy?  She left J and I alone as she went to another rescue to retrieve him and I and this darling Man I love played with her and the other cats: sure I would only leave with one.

When she returned with the other kitty, I was certain he was exactly what I had hoped for: scrappy, rough, and sweet.  He had a large chunk taken out of his left ear by animal control when they neutered him so that they could identify him as one not requiring trapping once re-released into the wild.  He looked at me with hazel eyes, pupil ringed with green.  I fell in love.  I knew I had to have him, but what about that sweet little girl J and I had passed back and forth.  She acquiesced so readily and was so placidly sweet to us both.  I relented to Suely's hopeful gaze, and said at last, 'well lets' see how they get along together'.

That's how Princess Sophie (so named for her impeccable manners, and prim mannerisms) and Nick (for his ear) came to be my newest pets.  I took them home, and for two weeks trained them, watched them play and play fight, and loved them.  

They slept in my bed (joy formerly denied) and they sat on my lap and purred.  I taunted them with a ball of fur on a fishing pole toy that they both chased.  Sophie was the killer, Nick always seemed a bit 'slow', like he still needed his mom and was orphaned too young.  He would knead the ground in front of the water bowl as he drank, and was generally less coordinated than the Princess.  They got along well, and we enjoyed our peaceful existence.  Until one day, I came home from work and Nick just didn't look right.  I should probably mention here that I work: a lot.  I have two jobs and go to school.  Some days I get home very late, and on this day, I had just finished working three double shifts in a row.

That didn't stop me from noticing how lethargic Nick looked.  And even at that late hour, I sent J a text saying that I was concerned about the little guy.  He woke me up at 04:00.  Somehow, he had climbed into bed with me, and mewed piteously.  He barely purred, though he did.  And when I woke and turned on the light, I knew he was likely dying.  I texted J again, saying that little Nick didn't look good, and I tried to get him into a comfortable position.  He was so gaunt: so cold.  I was afraid he would die.  I went to work at 06:00 because I just couldn't go to sleep; I didn’t have a vet to take him to, nor could I justify just staying home with him.  So I put him into the carrier Suely gave me when I adopted him, and took him to work to wait until a vet opened.

I texted J (while he slept) that Nick likely wouldn't be alive when he again returned, and I had tears in my eyes when I looked at Nick valiantly trying to lift his head and meowing weakly at me.  I called several vets, and left messages on their answering machines.  I thought he had feline distemper (also panleukopenia).  Finally around 08:00 a vet called back, and I brought him directly over.  I gave the whole story to the vet, including my preliminary diagnosis (yes, I really am qualified, but let's not get into this here) and they took him away.

The receptionist returned to say the doctor didn't think it was distemper and wanted to test for feline AIDS, and leukemia.  I replied: 'why not test for what I think it is first and then test for the other stuff' (I don't work two jobs because I'm independently wealthy and lost everything in my divorce).  She insisted that the doctor seemed certain and I agreed to the other tests.  The panleukopenia test needed to be sent out, so there was no quick screening for it.  They brought me back into a room.

I waited for a few minutes, by now J was awake and we were exchanging texts in our characteristic fashion, and I sat, curled in a ball, and waited for the doctor.

She came in several minutes later with the dreaded news.  I dealt with a bunch of other unpleasantries after that including the testing for rabies, as we couldn't be certain that that didn't kill him (and expose me to risk) and I dealt with the remaining horrors of that day.  I returned home without him and Sophie looked and looked for him: calling for him and looking in the closet, where they had both hid when I brought them home at first from the rescue.  She started destroying the toilet paper and I sent word to J, that as much as I didn't want to just 'get another cat' I felt Sophie needed a companion for her own sanity, given my hours.

That was when Suely called again and I told her the terrible news, and we both cried and cried over that sweet baby.  'Was I ready to adopt another?', she asked.  I was sure I needed another kitty; not for me (Sophie was entirely wonderful), but for Sophie who really would lose her mind if left alone.

That was how I came to meet the Tigrikiisu.

Intro

I should probably start this blog with a little background.  I have always loved cats.  My husband (now ex) hated and was allergic (was he really?) to cats.  I always had feral cats that I would save (as well as possums, snakes and other wild animals innumerable), and bring home, but they were always outdoor (fine for those cats, they refused to come in the house), and then there was Spaz.

I was driving to work one day and saw in the road what looked like a grocery bag in the middle of the adjacent lane.  A closer look revealed ears.  EARS?!  So I pulled over and this little bundle of cold, wet, grey fur is dragging itself along the macadam, trying to get out of the road.  I saw the city bus coming toward us both as I stand in the street and tried to generate the nerve to pick her up, though I'm afraid I'll feel broken bones if I do.  The bus threatens us both; so I say (convincingly to myself) 'one, two, three', and reach down and just grabbed her as gently and quickly as possible and jumped back into my car, and placed her gingerly on the front floor board of my car and put it in gear - panting and a bit in shock as I drive away.

Inexplicably, she starts freaking out and flailing about with incredible gusto.  In fact, I was terrified that I would have an accident or that she was going to die, right there in my car.  I pulled over at a service station and talked to her a bit, and she's entirely unhappy: completely soaked through, and really moving about with distressing dystaxia.  I decided to go on to work, and try to get her to a vet, silently praying that she'd survive.

$100.00 later, and she was determined to have no broken bones.  But why then was she walking entirely discombobulated?  She was completely palsied, and couldn't move well, her back legs would take off in a direction unrelated to her front legs, and it clearly distressed her to move like that as much as it distressed me to see it.  So I did what any self respecting tree hugging muffin head would do; I called my chiropractor.  Now, my relationship with my chiropractors may be a subject for an entirely separate blog, but suffice it to say, that we go way back, and likely they saved my life.

The phone conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, it's Cristal, I'd like to talk to Dr. M please.

Receptionist: ok, he's with a patient, hang on

(a few minutes later)

Dr. M: Hi, what can I do for you?

Me: Hi, Dr. M (relate abbreviated version of story above), so I think she needs an adjustment, can you do that?

(Silence)

Dr. M: Um, officially, no.

Me: Have you ever adjusted an animal?

Dr. M: yes, but only family pets (explains difficulty and legality of doing so)

Me: OK, so how can we do this without you getting in trouble?

Dr. M: Bring her to the office and I'll meet you in the parking lot

Me: see you just before the office closes

And that was that.  Apparently, to be an animal chiropractor you have to go to both veterinary school and chiropractic college.  Imagine that!  So, of course, they charge exorbitant prices.  But, off the record, free of charge, and not in the office, my doctor will do almost anything to help a living being that needs it.  He's a wonderful human.

So, I get to the office, and go inside to tell the receptionist that I'm here with the 'patient' and I wait outside with her in a file box that I commandeered as an ersatz kitty carrier to transport her.  He comes out, and the two of us crowd (we are both around 6 feet tall, he taller, I slightly smaller) into the back seat of my Prius with the file box between us.  I pull off the lid, and there is this little grey terrified bundle of fur.  She's got a bit of blood on the paper below her where she peed, and she's completely wide eyed, but calm.  I reach in and pull her out so he can see her dystaxia for himself, and she's still totally cattywompus when she moves.  He takes her in his giant hands and feels her lower spine, near her pelvis.  He squeezes a bit, and moves her over in his hands.  She's completely still, letting him move her about, an entirely wild cat: not a screech, growl, scratch or bite.  He gives her a couple of little twists, and then puts her back in the box.  We smile at each other like only unindicted co-conspirators can.

Now for the fun part, taking her home to the ogre.  

This was near the end of our marriage, and I increasingly was less accepting of his refusals of everything I wanted to do.  I insisted that she would stay in the house, and she did.  This lasted until I finally left, and he kept the house and all the accoutrements.  He promptly put the cat outside, and she became semi-feral again.  I would visit: my youngest son (I stayed until he was 18), the house, my garden, and my pets; but I couldn't offer anything as I struggled through the reality of my decision to leave - and leave my ex with everything - as I clung only to my freedom.  It took eight months to regain custody of Spaz and my 14 year old dog, Sebastian, but finally I had a place to live and I had my pets with me.  After the second night of living in relative captivity she couldn't take it any longer and howled at the door to go out.

I let her out, and that was the last I saw of her.

I waited; called for weeks, and sat outside hoping to hear her familiar meow as I had when I had visited her at my old house.  I waited.  I hoped.  She didn't come home.

After a few months, I decided to try to rescue some of the many abandoned, and distressed cats that my friend Ann sends me emails about on an almost daily basis.  I can't save every cat, but I could save one.

We were going to lunch, she, the Lovely Ms. Brenda, and I, and as we were walking in I started to mention that I wanted a cat.  And she blurts out a response that she know of a little black cat that needs a home.  I adore black cats.  In fact, that was exactly what I wanted to adopt: a little black kitten.  I smiled, sure that kismet was at work, and told her to have the rescue lady call me.

That was how I came to meet Nick, and Sophie.