over experience.
You'll remember that I mentioned, a couple of weeks ago, that our cat Tiny had died. I wasn't kidding when I said that losing him had hit me harder than the loss of any other cat; I still can't believe he's dead. If I weren't such a hard headed realist who doesn't believe in the concept of 'fairness' in life (ain't no such thing) I'd say that it was most unfair that Tiny died. But he did and one copes as best one can.
Krylenko seems to have missed him as well. I try and avoid the worse excesses of anthropomorphism where my cats are concerned; what do I really know of what goes on inside their heads? Nonetheless, he *did* seem to be exploring the places Tiny frequented, perhaps wondering where his buddy was.
Sonya was hit as hard as I was when Tiny died. Possibly harder; she was the one who cried the tears though I have to admit I got damn close a few times. Still do if the truth must be admitted.
Eight or ten days after Tiny's death the subject was broached; should we get another youngster 'so Krylenko will have someone to play with'?
Well you know me. Cat? Good! I wasn't opposed to the idea. I was a trifle concerned at the suggestion of getting another Himalayan though. Not because Himalayans are genetically predisposed to Kidney disease or through any other prejudice against the breed; nope, this was sheer practicality. Another Himalayan would look rather more like Tiny than any other breed and it's not a long step from there to expecting the newcomer to *be* Tiny reincarnated.
When Tiny died the vet asked us if we wanted his body back. Well no, this is a condo and we don't own the land outside the walls; where would we bury him? Did we want his ashes? Apart from a certain cynicism (how would we know the dust we were handed *was* Tinys) I also wondered what we'd do with them? Make a shrine of them?
Call me hard hearted if you will but that's just not my way. I haven't had a lot of experience, yet, with the deaths of those I knew, but what little I've had suggests that it's better to remember them than to guard a vial of ashes.
I still remember my surprise, nearly twenty years ago, when walking through Melbourne Cemetery and hearing a tinny tune near a grave. Careful listening pinpointed the source; a birthday card propped up next to a marble headstone. Yes, I do remember the date and the name but I'm not going to mention either here; the date on which I found the card was a couple of days after the birthday of the person buried there; the card was for his 21st birthday. Curiousity led me back there a year later and sure enough, there was a new card.
Sometimes you have to just let go.
Much better, overall, that the newcomer *not* be subjected to disappointed expectation.
Krupskaya[^] has lived with us for 12 days. She's a Tabby about 8 months old and very comfortable with the humans who live here. She's also very playful, as befits a youngster.
Would that she were so comfortable with the other cats! Imagine how poor Krylenko felt when he trotted up to the newcomer, full of goodwill and friendliness (he's the friendliest cat I've ever known) and his reward for his pains was snarls and spitting! Quite the shock!
I can't blame her; she'd spent time at the 'animal shelter' in a cage waiting for someone to come rescue her.
But it's getting better. Tonight Krylenko ignored the newcomer and did his usual burying of the nose in my armpit with the newcomer a mere foot away on the couch. She, for her part, regarded him benevolently and didn't feel the need to snarl and spit.
I have high hopes that they'll be playing by the end of the week.
Showing posts with label Cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cats. Show all posts
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
A Tiny tragedy
I've seen various bloggers over the years either castigate those who write about their cats; or apologise for, themselves, writing about their cats. To which I say bullshit! For those who castigate there is a simple solution; the next link in the web. Those who apologise? Why? Because you love a cat? Why not apologise for breathing?
On March 8th last year (quite by coincidence my mothers birthday, which possibly explains why I remember the date) Sonya brought home a very very small kitten. With the usual lack of imagination he was christened 'Tiny'. I'd have probably saddled him with a moniker such as Kerensky but I wasn't quick enough and Tiny he became. I wrote a bit about him here[^].
A most remarkably pretty Himalayan. An almost as remarkably timid cat, easily spooked by the thoughtlessly noisy. But he managed well enough despite the timidity, being careful to suss things out before sticking his nose into the new. I well recall thinking he'd probably outlive me.
When Krylenko[^] joined us I was initially dismayed (six cats is pushing it wouldn't you agree?) but the two of them got along like a house on fire and it was hard to object to the newcomer when watching the two of them chasing each other around the house and so obviously enjoying life.
As you'll have guessed, Tiny is no more. He died on February 10th, of kidney failure. It seems that Himalayans are genetically susceptible to such problems. Knowing that hasn't helped me feel any better about losing him.
It was all so fast; a mere 5 days from first realising there was a problem to his death. Three or four trips to a vet who said there wasn't a problem and a sadly painful trip from there to the emergency vet. He was conscious then, cuddled in my arms as Sonya drove.
Offers of kidney transplants, apparently not available in Arizona, but available in California. Now there's an ethical dilemma! Though there might be organ donor programs for humans based on organ harvesting after death through other causes, I have no such touching faith in the ethics of animal organ transplants. I have uncomfortable visions of cats raised for the benefit of stockholders, their organs awaiting those willing to pay, the rest of the cat, no longer viable, left to die.
Yes, I did enjoy the roast lamb I had for dinner tonight. Ethics isn't easy.
I don't think I've ever felt the loss of a cat more than I've felt the loss of Tiny. In the 11 months and 2 days he was part of our lives he established himself as a unique personality. Not a day passes that I don't think of something he'd do that I took for granted as part of lifes rich pageant. Things that I miss immensely.
Krylenko gets rather more cuddles right now than he'd otherwise expect.
On March 8th last year (quite by coincidence my mothers birthday, which possibly explains why I remember the date) Sonya brought home a very very small kitten. With the usual lack of imagination he was christened 'Tiny'. I'd have probably saddled him with a moniker such as Kerensky but I wasn't quick enough and Tiny he became. I wrote a bit about him here[^].
A most remarkably pretty Himalayan. An almost as remarkably timid cat, easily spooked by the thoughtlessly noisy. But he managed well enough despite the timidity, being careful to suss things out before sticking his nose into the new. I well recall thinking he'd probably outlive me.
When Krylenko[^] joined us I was initially dismayed (six cats is pushing it wouldn't you agree?) but the two of them got along like a house on fire and it was hard to object to the newcomer when watching the two of them chasing each other around the house and so obviously enjoying life.
As you'll have guessed, Tiny is no more. He died on February 10th, of kidney failure. It seems that Himalayans are genetically susceptible to such problems. Knowing that hasn't helped me feel any better about losing him.
It was all so fast; a mere 5 days from first realising there was a problem to his death. Three or four trips to a vet who said there wasn't a problem and a sadly painful trip from there to the emergency vet. He was conscious then, cuddled in my arms as Sonya drove.
Offers of kidney transplants, apparently not available in Arizona, but available in California. Now there's an ethical dilemma! Though there might be organ donor programs for humans based on organ harvesting after death through other causes, I have no such touching faith in the ethics of animal organ transplants. I have uncomfortable visions of cats raised for the benefit of stockholders, their organs awaiting those willing to pay, the rest of the cat, no longer viable, left to die.
Yes, I did enjoy the roast lamb I had for dinner tonight. Ethics isn't easy.
I don't think I've ever felt the loss of a cat more than I've felt the loss of Tiny. In the 11 months and 2 days he was part of our lives he established himself as a unique personality. Not a day passes that I don't think of something he'd do that I took for granted as part of lifes rich pageant. Things that I miss immensely.
Krylenko gets rather more cuddles right now than he'd otherwise expect.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Crap!
My stepfather kept pigeons from 1967 onward. I'm sure he'd have loved to keep them before then but the house in which we lived at the time, in Seddon, had hardly enough room for us let alone a pigeon coop. But once we moved to St Albans he had all the space he could desire and so the pigeon coop was born. I recall helping him build it, little knowing the misery that damn coop held in store for me.
His interest in pigeons didn't come as much of a surprise; as the youngest of a large family he had ample example in his older brothers. At least three of them, as far as I can remember, kept pigeons and we'd always end up standing beside the cages when we visited, gravely discussing the merits of that 'blue' or this pink one.
And of course they raced the pigeons. Small sums wagered each week and form gravely argued over. The locals in Yarraville and Footscray even had a 'pigeon fanciers' club house; a strange brick building down by the Maribyrnong Wharves that looked, for all the world, like a council toilet block from the twenties. It may have been exactly that at one time. (I just checked on Google Earth and it seems to have gone; I will, of course, double check in 68 days when I'm there again). But heck no, I'm not counting down the days.
It fell to my lot to clean the cages out every fortnight or so. I think he had 25 or 30 pigeons in total at any one time and you wouldn't believe how much shit they could produce in a week! A nasty smelly job at the best of times but particularly bad in summer. The thing being that it dries out fairly quickly and forms hard lumps all over the inside of the cage. We're talking a cage plenty large enough to climb into and an inch depth of dried shit. The technique was to take a plasterers trowel and hack away at the lumps. Then scrape it all up into bags. After fifteen minutes the air would be thick with dust which of course one breathed in. It got into my hair, stuck to my face; I swear it got into my underpants! And the smell was indescribable.
What I wouldn't give to go back and have to do it all over again!
Our two youngest cats, not kittens anymore yet not fully grown, haven't entirely outgrown the catbox. I don't know what Tiny's eating but when he leaves his calling card the odour is quite pungent. Unfortunately, due to space limitations, the catbox is close to where I sit when watching movies. Not much farther from there to where Andrew sits playing World of Warcraft. Strangely enough my smokers nostrils, 37 years older than his, seem much more sensitive.
I took it upon myself, much to Sonyas amusement, to teach Andrew the finer points of cleaning up a catbox. It seems only fair that he should make *some* contribution to the household but he doesn't see it quite that way.
Now there's the wasteful approach and there's the thrifty approach. I use the thrifty one; that's the approach where one doesn't toss out the entire contents of the catbox every day. It's perfectly possible to reuse most of the cat litter at least once by judicious removal of the lumps.
And if one is taking that approach there's the hard way and the easy way. The hard way is to pick em out with the bare hand. But I've been doing this for years and I'm an observant bastard. Taking a leaf out of the anti-doggie poo brigades book I use plastic bags. We haven't yet got the point of supermarkets imposing a surcharge on the bags so there are always too many of em around the joint. Would you believe it's next to impossible to get the checkout person to NOT put a gallon of milk in it's own plastic bag???
So you take a plastic bag in each hand, one open to receive the nuggets, the other around the nugget removing hand. It takes less than a minute to snag em all out of the kitty litter and at the end of the process one has a nice tidy bag of cat crap ready to be disposed of and a relatively odour free catbox. Sprinkle some fresh litter on top and the cats will be milling around waiting for you to get out of the damn way so they can have a crap!
The other night, on our return from dining out, we stopped by the supermarket to pick up a fresh bag of litter. Then followed the argument with Andrew about just *why* he should be the one to do it. I've given up with the persuasion; I tell him straight out that it's because he's the youngest and I don't care that it's not fair. Calling him Morgan also works!
Arrived home he rushed in through the door and made straight for the computer, doubtless in hopes that we'd have forgotten, in the space of three minutes, all about such unpleasant subjects. No such hope.
Reminded of the task that lay ahead he grabbed a bag and started picking out the nuggets aforesaid. I couldn't help laughing. 'Ok, what are you going to do now?' I asked, as he realised he had only the one bag and that wrapped around the busy hand.
Poor bastard had the grace to look sheepish.
His interest in pigeons didn't come as much of a surprise; as the youngest of a large family he had ample example in his older brothers. At least three of them, as far as I can remember, kept pigeons and we'd always end up standing beside the cages when we visited, gravely discussing the merits of that 'blue' or this pink one.
And of course they raced the pigeons. Small sums wagered each week and form gravely argued over. The locals in Yarraville and Footscray even had a 'pigeon fanciers' club house; a strange brick building down by the Maribyrnong Wharves that looked, for all the world, like a council toilet block from the twenties. It may have been exactly that at one time. (I just checked on Google Earth and it seems to have gone; I will, of course, double check in 68 days when I'm there again). But heck no, I'm not counting down the days.
It fell to my lot to clean the cages out every fortnight or so. I think he had 25 or 30 pigeons in total at any one time and you wouldn't believe how much shit they could produce in a week! A nasty smelly job at the best of times but particularly bad in summer. The thing being that it dries out fairly quickly and forms hard lumps all over the inside of the cage. We're talking a cage plenty large enough to climb into and an inch depth of dried shit. The technique was to take a plasterers trowel and hack away at the lumps. Then scrape it all up into bags. After fifteen minutes the air would be thick with dust which of course one breathed in. It got into my hair, stuck to my face; I swear it got into my underpants! And the smell was indescribable.
What I wouldn't give to go back and have to do it all over again!
Our two youngest cats, not kittens anymore yet not fully grown, haven't entirely outgrown the catbox. I don't know what Tiny's eating but when he leaves his calling card the odour is quite pungent. Unfortunately, due to space limitations, the catbox is close to where I sit when watching movies. Not much farther from there to where Andrew sits playing World of Warcraft. Strangely enough my smokers nostrils, 37 years older than his, seem much more sensitive.
I took it upon myself, much to Sonyas amusement, to teach Andrew the finer points of cleaning up a catbox. It seems only fair that he should make *some* contribution to the household but he doesn't see it quite that way.
Now there's the wasteful approach and there's the thrifty approach. I use the thrifty one; that's the approach where one doesn't toss out the entire contents of the catbox every day. It's perfectly possible to reuse most of the cat litter at least once by judicious removal of the lumps.
And if one is taking that approach there's the hard way and the easy way. The hard way is to pick em out with the bare hand. But I've been doing this for years and I'm an observant bastard. Taking a leaf out of the anti-doggie poo brigades book I use plastic bags. We haven't yet got the point of supermarkets imposing a surcharge on the bags so there are always too many of em around the joint. Would you believe it's next to impossible to get the checkout person to NOT put a gallon of milk in it's own plastic bag???
So you take a plastic bag in each hand, one open to receive the nuggets, the other around the nugget removing hand. It takes less than a minute to snag em all out of the kitty litter and at the end of the process one has a nice tidy bag of cat crap ready to be disposed of and a relatively odour free catbox. Sprinkle some fresh litter on top and the cats will be milling around waiting for you to get out of the damn way so they can have a crap!
The other night, on our return from dining out, we stopped by the supermarket to pick up a fresh bag of litter. Then followed the argument with Andrew about just *why* he should be the one to do it. I've given up with the persuasion; I tell him straight out that it's because he's the youngest and I don't care that it's not fair. Calling him Morgan also works!
Arrived home he rushed in through the door and made straight for the computer, doubtless in hopes that we'd have forgotten, in the space of three minutes, all about such unpleasant subjects. No such hope.
Reminded of the task that lay ahead he grabbed a bag and started picking out the nuggets aforesaid. I couldn't help laughing. 'Ok, what are you going to do now?' I asked, as he realised he had only the one bag and that wrapped around the busy hand.
Poor bastard had the grace to look sheepish.
Monday, May 19, 2008
When does it end???
It seems like only a month[^] or so ago that I wrote about our fifth cat. And you guessed it; there's now a sixth!
I am not happy about this. I'm a big fan of cats, as you well know by now, but where does it end? This one was brought in by one of Morgans idiot* boyfriends. I happened to be on the phone with Heino at the moment he arrived and as Heino will testify, I said something along the lines of 'oh no, not another bloody one!'
Of course they know I'll relent and let him stay; I always do. Can't see why a kitten who has no say in the matter should suffer because of the stupidity of others.
I just hope the news doesn't get around amongst the feline population that they have only to enter the house to be reprieved. As much as I might like to, I can't help every stray cat in existence.
The interesting thing about this 'stray' is that he's completely house trained and obviously used to having people around. Methinks we have yet another example of the thoughtless who tire of a pet and just abandon it. Whilst not normally an advocate of capital punishment I'm thinking that mandatory strapping to a gurney might be an appropriate punishment for such people.
Of course, not wanting to be such a person, there are follow on consequences. Such as yet another two or three hundred bucks for the shots we don't know if he's had. Then the neutering. As I pointed out to the idiot boyfriend aforesaid, 'great, you get the virtuous feeling. We get the bills!'
* He must be an idiot, he's hanging around with Morgan ain't he?
I am not happy about this. I'm a big fan of cats, as you well know by now, but where does it end? This one was brought in by one of Morgans idiot* boyfriends. I happened to be on the phone with Heino at the moment he arrived and as Heino will testify, I said something along the lines of 'oh no, not another bloody one!'
Of course they know I'll relent and let him stay; I always do. Can't see why a kitten who has no say in the matter should suffer because of the stupidity of others.
I just hope the news doesn't get around amongst the feline population that they have only to enter the house to be reprieved. As much as I might like to, I can't help every stray cat in existence.
The interesting thing about this 'stray' is that he's completely house trained and obviously used to having people around. Methinks we have yet another example of the thoughtless who tire of a pet and just abandon it. Whilst not normally an advocate of capital punishment I'm thinking that mandatory strapping to a gurney might be an appropriate punishment for such people.
Of course, not wanting to be such a person, there are follow on consequences. Such as yet another two or three hundred bucks for the shots we don't know if he's had. Then the neutering. As I pointed out to the idiot boyfriend aforesaid, 'great, you get the virtuous feeling. We get the bills!'
* He must be an idiot, he's hanging around with Morgan ain't he?
Monday, April 14, 2008
Say what???
I haven't mentioned it but since the last time I wrote about cats we've added two (count em, two!) to the family. That makes a total of five cats and, as much as I love cats, I think that's at least two too many. And this isn't even counting the neighbourhood strays who take advantage of the cat door to snatch a free feed.
The first to join us was Casper (I call her the Little White Bastard) or LWB for short. She came to live with us a week or so before Heino came over for his visit. The typical story 'if you don't take her we'll have to put her down'. Sonya bought it.
It's always hard to tell if the story is true or not; certainly there are enough people out there who'd think nothing of bunging half a dozen kittens in a sack with a rock and dropping em in the nearest canal. But are those the kind of people who would even bother trying to farm em out? I suspect not.
Casper took to Heino but how could she not? To know Heino is to, well, to know him!
The most recent arrival is Tiny Guy. This is his 36th day with us. You might wonder about my naming of cats; I've mentioned it before methinks but I don't go for the tame names 'Tiger', 'Casper', 'Tom' and so forth. I'd much rather give a cat a robust name like Voskoboinikov or Kafka or Katzen. But lots of luck trying that with this lot; their idea of originality is to take a pale tabby and call him Tiger! Or take a black cat and call her Shadow.
Hence the disparity of names. If they persist in having the imagination of a square of toilet paper I'll dumb it down for em; hence, Shadow is Kitten and I always call her that, Kitten and never Shadow. Tiger is 'The little guy' and since I can hardly change his name now when he knows he's 'The little guy' he remains that even though he's a big cat now. I'm sure you can now see why the latest addition is called Tiny Guy.
Tiny Guy was not house trained when he arrived. Not a big deal. How much can a kitten of six weeks pee at a time anyway? Not a lot I can tell you! He's almost house trained now but occasionally forgets himself. Hence, the other night, I espied him squatting on a cushion. Now I'm sure you know the drill here. Grab the little bastard immediately and spirit him away to the cat box. The power of association is amazing and they do quickly learn the appropriate location.
Which left a peed upon cushion. I showed it to my wife and she said 'oh, is that peepee?'. After spluttering in amazement I replied. 'Peepee? Bloody peepee? Who are you talking to? It's cat piss and don't you forget it!'. She laughed.
Perhaps you had to be there!
The first to join us was Casper (I call her the Little White Bastard) or LWB for short. She came to live with us a week or so before Heino came over for his visit. The typical story 'if you don't take her we'll have to put her down'. Sonya bought it.
It's always hard to tell if the story is true or not; certainly there are enough people out there who'd think nothing of bunging half a dozen kittens in a sack with a rock and dropping em in the nearest canal. But are those the kind of people who would even bother trying to farm em out? I suspect not.
Casper took to Heino but how could she not? To know Heino is to, well, to know him!
The most recent arrival is Tiny Guy. This is his 36th day with us. You might wonder about my naming of cats; I've mentioned it before methinks but I don't go for the tame names 'Tiger', 'Casper', 'Tom' and so forth. I'd much rather give a cat a robust name like Voskoboinikov or Kafka or Katzen. But lots of luck trying that with this lot; their idea of originality is to take a pale tabby and call him Tiger! Or take a black cat and call her Shadow.
Hence the disparity of names. If they persist in having the imagination of a square of toilet paper I'll dumb it down for em; hence, Shadow is Kitten and I always call her that, Kitten and never Shadow. Tiger is 'The little guy' and since I can hardly change his name now when he knows he's 'The little guy' he remains that even though he's a big cat now. I'm sure you can now see why the latest addition is called Tiny Guy.
Tiny Guy was not house trained when he arrived. Not a big deal. How much can a kitten of six weeks pee at a time anyway? Not a lot I can tell you! He's almost house trained now but occasionally forgets himself. Hence, the other night, I espied him squatting on a cushion. Now I'm sure you know the drill here. Grab the little bastard immediately and spirit him away to the cat box. The power of association is amazing and they do quickly learn the appropriate location.
Which left a peed upon cushion. I showed it to my wife and she said 'oh, is that peepee?'. After spluttering in amazement I replied. 'Peepee? Bloody peepee? Who are you talking to? It's cat piss and don't you forget it!'. She laughed.
Perhaps you had to be there!
Monday, August 13, 2007
My feline alterego
Your Score: Longcat
71% Affectionate, 40% Excitable, 35% Hungry
Protector of truth.
Slayer of darkness.
Loooooong.
Longcat may seem like just a regular lengthy cat, but he is, in fact, looong. For proof, observe the longpic.
It is prophesized that Longcat and his archnemesis Tacgnol will battle for supremacy on Caturday. The outcome will change the face of the world, and indeed the very fabric of lolcatdom, forever.
Be grateful that the test has chosen you, and only you, to have this title.
shamelessly nicked from Laura's blog[^]
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Would you drink it?
The last few blog posts I've used the plural to indicate that we went here, we went there, we went to the other place. We being Sonya and I. Andrew preferred to stay home where he could play World of Warcraft unmolested for the entire five days we were away.
Methinks Sonya was a trifle concerned at the thought of leaving him behind but, as I told her, he's nearly sixteen and he should manage. You understand that I'd never have trusted Morgan on her own for five days at that age but Andrew ain't Morgan.
We did have one stipulation. He had to ensure the cats had clean water at all times. Last week we were hitting 116F and that kind of heat can kill if you lack water. Andrew would be okay, he knows how to operate a tap and they are, after all, designed for use by humans. The cats, as much as they might wish to be able to operate our plumbing, just can't and must rely on us.
Now if there's one thing Andrew is good at it's wilfully failing to notice the things that must be done, especially if those things are not fun. I must have had draconian parents without noticing at the time; I'd never have imagined I could get away with the stuff he expects to get away with. Or maybe I just had insufficient imagination!
So I was a trifle concerned, as we headed out of town, that five days hence we might find dead cats littering the house. At last I've found a use for the mobile phone! Poor bastard got four calls a day, to check on the cat drinking water situation. The first couple of times he tried the quick answer, hoping I'd believe him. But I didn't come down in the last shower. Nope, 'Andrew, at least try and fake that you're walking to the upstairs bowl and looking. And then try to make it look as though you're walking to the downstairs bowl.'
By the third day I was reasonably sure he was maintaining the water level.
We'd refused to tell him when we were returning; we planned (meaning I planned) the surprise inspection, which took place Sunday afternoon.
I'll grant you, there was water in the bowls. Almost all the way to the top in fact. But water of a distinctly murky cast. I asked Andrew if he'd noticed. Apparently he had. 'So Andrew', I asked, 'would you drink that water?'. Apparently he wouldn't. 'So why do you expect the cats to?'. He had no answer.
Sigh. I think it's going to take a little more work.
Methinks Sonya was a trifle concerned at the thought of leaving him behind but, as I told her, he's nearly sixteen and he should manage. You understand that I'd never have trusted Morgan on her own for five days at that age but Andrew ain't Morgan.
We did have one stipulation. He had to ensure the cats had clean water at all times. Last week we were hitting 116F and that kind of heat can kill if you lack water. Andrew would be okay, he knows how to operate a tap and they are, after all, designed for use by humans. The cats, as much as they might wish to be able to operate our plumbing, just can't and must rely on us.
Now if there's one thing Andrew is good at it's wilfully failing to notice the things that must be done, especially if those things are not fun. I must have had draconian parents without noticing at the time; I'd never have imagined I could get away with the stuff he expects to get away with. Or maybe I just had insufficient imagination!
So I was a trifle concerned, as we headed out of town, that five days hence we might find dead cats littering the house. At last I've found a use for the mobile phone! Poor bastard got four calls a day, to check on the cat drinking water situation. The first couple of times he tried the quick answer, hoping I'd believe him. But I didn't come down in the last shower. Nope, 'Andrew, at least try and fake that you're walking to the upstairs bowl and looking. And then try to make it look as though you're walking to the downstairs bowl.'
By the third day I was reasonably sure he was maintaining the water level.
We'd refused to tell him when we were returning; we planned (meaning I planned) the surprise inspection, which took place Sunday afternoon.
I'll grant you, there was water in the bowls. Almost all the way to the top in fact. But water of a distinctly murky cast. I asked Andrew if he'd noticed. Apparently he had. 'So Andrew', I asked, 'would you drink that water?'. Apparently he wouldn't. 'So why do you expect the cats to?'. He had no answer.
Sigh. I think it's going to take a little more work.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
And now there are three
cats as comfortable, recognised members of our household. Ginger died this evening, very suddenly, of what the vet described as a heart attack. Doubtless he (the vet) was trotting out a formula of explanation easy to grasp when old age wouldn't fit the bill.
If this were written about a human person we'd launch into a description of early years, achievements, spice (is that the plural of spouse? If not it ought to be!) and so on. But as I'm writing about a cat those things don't apply.
Nope, he walked in late one evening about three years ago, liked what he saw and decided he wanted to stay. We took him back to his owners and he was back the next night. The night after that his owners had moved away so here he lived. The most placid cat I've ever known. Nothing except cars seemed to worry him; whilst he'd happily climb onto or into one he'd run for cover if the engine started.
He was very good with the new-comers. Where the other established members of the household (Cleo and Roo and, latterly, Kitten) would ignore the new-comer or snarl and spit he was more than happy to play and, I presume, helped them feel more at home.
I'll miss him. Rest in Peace Ginger.
If this were written about a human person we'd launch into a description of early years, achievements, spice (is that the plural of spouse? If not it ought to be!) and so on. But as I'm writing about a cat those things don't apply.
Nope, he walked in late one evening about three years ago, liked what he saw and decided he wanted to stay. We took him back to his owners and he was back the next night. The night after that his owners had moved away so here he lived. The most placid cat I've ever known. Nothing except cars seemed to worry him; whilst he'd happily climb onto or into one he'd run for cover if the engine started.
He was very good with the new-comers. Where the other established members of the household (Cleo and Roo and, latterly, Kitten) would ignore the new-comer or snarl and spit he was more than happy to play and, I presume, helped them feel more at home.
I'll miss him. Rest in Peace Ginger.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
The little guy discovers TV
A few weeks ago I mentioned that we had a new kitten[^]. He's doing just fine; he had his shots last week and he's a chipper little bugger.
You might notice that in the first mention I said she and now I say he. We got the sex wrong. Dunno about you but I'm not really into examining the groins of kittens. I just accept that a kitten is a kitten and take the delight from there.
In a moment of optimism we tried to agree that if the new kitten is ostensibly Morgans she'd take care of the shots etc. I think you know just how cynical a bastard I am by now; I didn't believe a word of it and so it proved to be. The shots were not taken care of as they should have been and when Ryan came along the little guy was totally forgotten.
Not really. Morgan may have forgotten him but neither Sonya or I did. Poor little bugger had his shots allright; paid for by us. I'm told he reacted much as most kittens do, badly, to having some giant creature stick a thermometer up his bum and then hold him down and jab a sharp piece of metal into his arm. I reckon if some 90 foot giant jabbed a thermometer up my bum I'd take it just as badly!!!!
The vet also corrected us on the gender; she's a he. No risk of more kittens then.
Tonight, enjoying the first of my two nights home alone I was watching T-Men[^]. Not a great movie nor yet a bad one. Little guy (as the new kitten is now known by Sonya and I, Tiger to the unwashed) sat on the edge of the couch about 24 inches away from a 57 inch screen.
I swear that kittens head was about to fall off from the swivelling. He was absolutely fascinated. Wore the poor little bugger out and he's now fast asleep under the stairs.
I like kittens :-)
You might notice that in the first mention I said she and now I say he. We got the sex wrong. Dunno about you but I'm not really into examining the groins of kittens. I just accept that a kitten is a kitten and take the delight from there.
In a moment of optimism we tried to agree that if the new kitten is ostensibly Morgans she'd take care of the shots etc. I think you know just how cynical a bastard I am by now; I didn't believe a word of it and so it proved to be. The shots were not taken care of as they should have been and when Ryan came along the little guy was totally forgotten.
Not really. Morgan may have forgotten him but neither Sonya or I did. Poor little bugger had his shots allright; paid for by us. I'm told he reacted much as most kittens do, badly, to having some giant creature stick a thermometer up his bum and then hold him down and jab a sharp piece of metal into his arm. I reckon if some 90 foot giant jabbed a thermometer up my bum I'd take it just as badly!!!!
The vet also corrected us on the gender; she's a he. No risk of more kittens then.
Tonight, enjoying the first of my two nights home alone I was watching T-Men[^]. Not a great movie nor yet a bad one. Little guy (as the new kitten is now known by Sonya and I, Tiger to the unwashed) sat on the edge of the couch about 24 inches away from a 57 inch screen.
I swear that kittens head was about to fall off from the swivelling. He was absolutely fascinated. Wore the poor little bugger out and he's now fast asleep under the stairs.
I like kittens :-)
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
A new kitten
A week or so ago the freeloader brought a kitten home with him. Geeze even I'm starting to use the word 'home' in conjunction with the freeloader. He and Morgan colluded to bring the kitten into the house without our knowledge.
Yeah right; so we're going to cast a kitten out when the freeloader is still abusing our hospitality? I know which I'd choose.
It's difficult to conceal a kitten; the little buggers are full of curiousity and you need vigilance far beyond Morgans powers to prevent em escaping into the rest of the house.
Morgan of course claimed proprietorship of the new kitten. Morgan has much to learn; you never own a cat.
Morgan is champing at the bit to move out into her own apartment and you'd better believe I'm all for that. The minor detail of who is going to pay the rent hasn't occurred to her yet. We, Morgan, Mum, Andrew and I, had a discussion a couple of months ago where we made it clear that the cats that live with us live with us. Morgan isn't going to be taking any of our cats with her; they know each other and they are happy here.
A week later and the newest member of our cat population has been accepted by Ginger (he's a remarkably placid cat), grudgingly accepted by Kitten (my cat) and as for Roo? She runs whenever the little one appears! What a wuss!
Last night we dined on roast beef sangers (sandwiches). A pound or so of very thinly sliced roast beef purchased at the local deli and some bread rolls. Add a little dijon mustard, some salt and freshly ground black pepper and you're talking a dish fit for a king! My wife insists on 'french dip' to accompany. Unfortunately, due to cultural differences, her idea of french dip and mine are not the same. What she means is 'a jus'; what I mean is a dip made of cream cheese, onions and garlic. I suspect that neither of us is thinking of anything even remotely french, especially when my wife's 'french dip' was made from a stock cube!
But if I've been married thrice and my wife four times and we're still happily married that means we've learned to let each other do the dietary things that feel right. Sonya can make 'french dip' as she wants and if I don't dip my roll in it that's ok with her!
Came midnight or thereabouts and I was feeling a trifle peckish. With a little left over roast beef in the fridge and a spare roll or two it was the work of a moment to make myself an encore meal.
The new kitten rushed up wanting to know what was happening. As one does I took a couple of pieces of roast beef out of the roll and fed em to her. 'Mmmmm' was her reaction; 'I like that'. Two mouthfuls of the roll left and an importunate kitten! Quite the moral dilemma. I compromised; the new kitten got two more mouthfuls of roast beef and I had two mouthfuls of roll with a little beef flavouring.
Last mouthful gone on both sides it was now time to convince new kitten that all good things come to an end. She wasn't convinced and the fact that my fingertips smelled of roast beef didn't help. She licked em at first but, lacking experience of the world, her enthusiasm got the better of her. Good thing I've had the tutelage of dozens of kittens in my time; her first attempt to bite my fingertips off was her last! :-)
If and when Morgan ever moves out I suspect that new kitten will be so firmly a part of our cat family that it would be cruel to allow her to accompany Morgan. A fight with Morgan will be nothing new!
Yeah right; so we're going to cast a kitten out when the freeloader is still abusing our hospitality? I know which I'd choose.
It's difficult to conceal a kitten; the little buggers are full of curiousity and you need vigilance far beyond Morgans powers to prevent em escaping into the rest of the house.
Morgan of course claimed proprietorship of the new kitten. Morgan has much to learn; you never own a cat.
Morgan is champing at the bit to move out into her own apartment and you'd better believe I'm all for that. The minor detail of who is going to pay the rent hasn't occurred to her yet. We, Morgan, Mum, Andrew and I, had a discussion a couple of months ago where we made it clear that the cats that live with us live with us. Morgan isn't going to be taking any of our cats with her; they know each other and they are happy here.
A week later and the newest member of our cat population has been accepted by Ginger (he's a remarkably placid cat), grudgingly accepted by Kitten (my cat) and as for Roo? She runs whenever the little one appears! What a wuss!
Last night we dined on roast beef sangers (sandwiches). A pound or so of very thinly sliced roast beef purchased at the local deli and some bread rolls. Add a little dijon mustard, some salt and freshly ground black pepper and you're talking a dish fit for a king! My wife insists on 'french dip' to accompany. Unfortunately, due to cultural differences, her idea of french dip and mine are not the same. What she means is 'a jus'; what I mean is a dip made of cream cheese, onions and garlic. I suspect that neither of us is thinking of anything even remotely french, especially when my wife's 'french dip' was made from a stock cube!
But if I've been married thrice and my wife four times and we're still happily married that means we've learned to let each other do the dietary things that feel right. Sonya can make 'french dip' as she wants and if I don't dip my roll in it that's ok with her!
Came midnight or thereabouts and I was feeling a trifle peckish. With a little left over roast beef in the fridge and a spare roll or two it was the work of a moment to make myself an encore meal.
The new kitten rushed up wanting to know what was happening. As one does I took a couple of pieces of roast beef out of the roll and fed em to her. 'Mmmmm' was her reaction; 'I like that'. Two mouthfuls of the roll left and an importunate kitten! Quite the moral dilemma. I compromised; the new kitten got two more mouthfuls of roast beef and I had two mouthfuls of roll with a little beef flavouring.
Last mouthful gone on both sides it was now time to convince new kitten that all good things come to an end. She wasn't convinced and the fact that my fingertips smelled of roast beef didn't help. She licked em at first but, lacking experience of the world, her enthusiasm got the better of her. Good thing I've had the tutelage of dozens of kittens in my time; her first attempt to bite my fingertips off was her last! :-)
If and when Morgan ever moves out I suspect that new kitten will be so firmly a part of our cat family that it would be cruel to allow her to accompany Morgan. A fight with Morgan will be nothing new!
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Our new cat
I mentioned the other night that a young cat, not much more than a kitten, had wandered in and taken residence. She's domesticated and obviously had a reasonable home before she found us. Her name is now Buttons as in 'Cute as a button'. We've done the neighbourly thing and put up flyers; we've checked the condo block next door in case someone has put up flyers searching for her and nothing. It seems no one is missing her or looking for her. So I guess we now have a fifth cat.
Today we discovered a possible reason why she's been abandoned. She is, of course, in heat. Sigh, there goes another 200 bucks... But we're not going to chuck her out.
This is one of my hot buttons. Irresponsible people who abandon an animal just because it doesn't suit their convenience. I reckon it ought to be necessary to pass an examination and post a bond before you buy a pet.
On the other hand, it seems my opinions on the subject have got through to at least one person. Early last year we had Kitten going through the same phase. Andrew accepted the necessity of her being spayed whilst regretting the loss of potential kittens. But he couldn't reconcile himself to the possibility, when she returned from the vet, feeling sore and sick and sorry for herself, that she might want to recuperate in his room. 'Eww eww, what if she bleeds?' he asked. 'If she does she does' I replied. 'She won't be doing it to annoy you'. 'I don't want her in my room.' he expostulated. 'So' I said, 'if she chooses your room as the place to retreat you'll chuck her out?' That got him! (I'm condensing - it took a couple of days to get my point across).
This time he's being a lot more mature about the whole thing. None of us want the messes that happen but he's learning that sometimes other things are more important. Like, maybe, showing a small frightened confused creature in considerable discomfort some compassion. Our new friend goes under the knife on Tuesday and this time we haven't heard a peep out of Andrew about the possibility of her wanting to hide in his room. Progress!
Today we discovered a possible reason why she's been abandoned. She is, of course, in heat. Sigh, there goes another 200 bucks... But we're not going to chuck her out.
This is one of my hot buttons. Irresponsible people who abandon an animal just because it doesn't suit their convenience. I reckon it ought to be necessary to pass an examination and post a bond before you buy a pet.
On the other hand, it seems my opinions on the subject have got through to at least one person. Early last year we had Kitten going through the same phase. Andrew accepted the necessity of her being spayed whilst regretting the loss of potential kittens. But he couldn't reconcile himself to the possibility, when she returned from the vet, feeling sore and sick and sorry for herself, that she might want to recuperate in his room. 'Eww eww, what if she bleeds?' he asked. 'If she does she does' I replied. 'She won't be doing it to annoy you'. 'I don't want her in my room.' he expostulated. 'So' I said, 'if she chooses your room as the place to retreat you'll chuck her out?' That got him! (I'm condensing - it took a couple of days to get my point across).
This time he's being a lot more mature about the whole thing. None of us want the messes that happen but he's learning that sometimes other things are more important. Like, maybe, showing a small frightened confused creature in considerable discomfort some compassion. Our new friend goes under the knife on Tuesday and this time we haven't heard a peep out of Andrew about the possibility of her wanting to hide in his room. Progress!
Thursday, May 26, 2005
This is getting out of hand
I wrote about our cats[^] back in December and mentioned that we had four and a half cats where the half a cat was Einstein who ate here but wasn't quite ready to sleep here.
Man it's got out of hand since then. Einstein found himself a congenial place to live at the other end of the condominium block; we hardly ever see him. Instead we have 2 stray gingers, both very timid, who skulk in through the cat door and snatch desperate mouthfuls. They're kinda getting used to us being around. We've never got closer than 2 metres from them but they'll now eat whilst keeping a close eye on me sitting here at the computer writing. One of them is there right now; I can see him out of the corner of an eye but I know that if I turn to look at him he'll freeze and want to escape.
Then there's the thin black, also timid. And the Cleo look alike; almost indistinguishable from Cleo except for a collar. Indeed, the first time I saw her a couple of weeks ago I asked my wife why she'd put a collar on Cleo. The black and white tabby who's reasonably friendly. Still timid but if you make the appropriate clucking sounds and move slowly he'll snuggle up for some rubs.
A couple of nights ago a rather young cat, maybe 9 months old, just marched in. Friendly, not overly cautious and as cute as the dickens. She's stayed ever since. I think she had a home but has been abandoned. That happens rather more often than it should. I used to have a sticker on my fridge back in Melbourne 'A pet is for life, not just for Christmas'. That's so true. If you take on a cat (or any pet for that matter) you'd better be prepared to go the distance. Which is one reason why I think you should never give a pet as a gift. We have the posters up on lamp posts around the condo block but no one has called about her.
So, at the moment, it looks like our permanent population of cats has grown to five. I'm certainly not going to chuck the new cat out to fend for herself and turn feral. And the others? They're welcome to a feed. I'm being pragmatic here. If I wanted to stop them coming in the only ways I can think of are to shoot them or lock the cat doors and keep ours permanently inside.
Well I'm not going to harm the strays! And it seems to me that if I'm free to come and go so should my cats be free to come and go, especially if they've had that freedom all their lives. There's not a lot I can do about it even if I wanted to.
Man it's got out of hand since then. Einstein found himself a congenial place to live at the other end of the condominium block; we hardly ever see him. Instead we have 2 stray gingers, both very timid, who skulk in through the cat door and snatch desperate mouthfuls. They're kinda getting used to us being around. We've never got closer than 2 metres from them but they'll now eat whilst keeping a close eye on me sitting here at the computer writing. One of them is there right now; I can see him out of the corner of an eye but I know that if I turn to look at him he'll freeze and want to escape.
Then there's the thin black, also timid. And the Cleo look alike; almost indistinguishable from Cleo except for a collar. Indeed, the first time I saw her a couple of weeks ago I asked my wife why she'd put a collar on Cleo. The black and white tabby who's reasonably friendly. Still timid but if you make the appropriate clucking sounds and move slowly he'll snuggle up for some rubs.
A couple of nights ago a rather young cat, maybe 9 months old, just marched in. Friendly, not overly cautious and as cute as the dickens. She's stayed ever since. I think she had a home but has been abandoned. That happens rather more often than it should. I used to have a sticker on my fridge back in Melbourne 'A pet is for life, not just for Christmas'. That's so true. If you take on a cat (or any pet for that matter) you'd better be prepared to go the distance. Which is one reason why I think you should never give a pet as a gift. We have the posters up on lamp posts around the condo block but no one has called about her.
So, at the moment, it looks like our permanent population of cats has grown to five. I'm certainly not going to chuck the new cat out to fend for herself and turn feral. And the others? They're welcome to a feed. I'm being pragmatic here. If I wanted to stop them coming in the only ways I can think of are to shoot them or lock the cat doors and keep ours permanently inside.
Well I'm not going to harm the strays! And it seems to me that if I'm free to come and go so should my cats be free to come and go, especially if they've had that freedom all their lives. There's not a lot I can do about it even if I wanted to.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Cats
I've always been a cat man. Never a dog man.
For as long as I can remember cats have been a part of my life. They range from the unimaginatively named 'Tom' I met as a toddler in my grandmothers house about 1958 to the equally unimaginatively named 'Pussy' who lived with us in Seddon in 1966. We moved from Seddon to St Albans (both Melbourne suburbs - maybe 5 miles apart) at the end of 1966 and 'Pussy' went with us. Within a week she disappeared but she came back six months later. We don't know for sure but we speculate she went back to the first house, couldn't find us and came back.
There were other cats in the late 1960's at St Albans. I no longer remember all their names but I remember the one who found a roast chook (chicken to non Australians) awaiting carving, grabbed it and made it to the back fence before being caught! To put things into perspective, my mum wiped the dirt off the chook, carved out the bit mauled by the cat and served it anyway. I'm here 35 years later (and so is everyone else who ate the chook apart from the cat) to tell the tale so it was obviously not harmful .
And then, in 1976, I shared a house with my younger sister in West Footscray. We adopted a cat but couldn't decide on a name. She was a dark tabby; I wanted to call her 'Black Jesus' (don't ask). My sister demurred - she had a point - could I see myself at the back door calling 'here Black Jesus, here Black Jesus'? We compromised and called her Bruce. Bruce lived to the ripe old age of 18 years with my sister.
In 1980 I started living with Sue, my first wife and still a good friend. We had at various times cats called Katzen, Kirsche, Jane, Pooter and Broey. We also had a number of transient visitors who found the cat door and helped themselves to a free feed. One in particular hung around for over a year and I christened him Voskoboinikov. I remember winter nights in the early 80's with myself, Sue and 4 cats all under the covers; two at the foot of the bed and two fighting with us for pillow space .
In the late 80's Sue and I divorced; I wound up living with (and eventually marrying) Peta. Of her, the less said the better (I'm entitled to my opinion!). We had two cats we adopted from the Lort Smith Lost Dogs Shelter. Those two kittens were sure lost! Manon and Kafka. Manny is an english shorthair black and white; Kaffy was an American Calico. Kaffy died on September 27th 2000 and I don't mind admitting I cried like a baby that day. She had throat cancer and taking her to the vet to be put down was, frankly, the hardest thing I've ever had to do. (I'd always sworn that I'd never do it but it was so obvious that she was in a great deal pain and equally obvious that no cure was possible.)
Manon was as frisky as ever at the age of 16 when it was time for me to move from Australia to the USA. But she freaks at travel. Even taking her half a kilometre to the vet makes her panic - how would she cope with a 15,000 Km journey? So, reluctantly, I asked Sue, my first wife, if she'd adopt Manon. She agreed (it turned out not to happen that way but we won't go into the subject - suffice it to say that Manon had to travel 70 Kms instead of 15,000).
And here in the USA we have 4 and one half cats. Two of em lived here before I arrived. Cleo and Roo (short for Kangaroo - named before I got here). I call her Rooster. Then we have Kitten. She was bought for the kids Dad as a very young and not housebroken kitten. Guess what not housebroken kittens do? Yep, they shit where the need takes em. So Dad (who is not me ) decided to lock Kitten in the bathroom. Now I ask you, is that a fit place for a kitten? I thought not. We adopted her and cleaned up the poo. It's not that difficult a task. And we have Ginger. He walked in one night, fully grown, and meowed at me. What he said (translated) was 'this looks like a good place for cats - I want to live here). We did the neighbourly thing and posted notices on trees about a ginger cat one year old and his owners claimed him. Next night he was back and curled up on the bed. We did the neighbourly thing again and they didn't want to know. He's lived here ever since - about 15 months. His orignal people moved out and...
And now we have the half a cat to account for. His name is Einstein. He eats here and he lets us pat him but he's not yet ready to claim sleeping space. I suspect that as we move into January and even colder (it STILL feels unnatural for January to be cold) we'll find Einstein sleeping here. He's more than welcome.
For as long as I can remember cats have been a part of my life. They range from the unimaginatively named 'Tom' I met as a toddler in my grandmothers house about 1958 to the equally unimaginatively named 'Pussy' who lived with us in Seddon in 1966. We moved from Seddon to St Albans (both Melbourne suburbs - maybe 5 miles apart) at the end of 1966 and 'Pussy' went with us. Within a week she disappeared but she came back six months later. We don't know for sure but we speculate she went back to the first house, couldn't find us and came back.
There were other cats in the late 1960's at St Albans. I no longer remember all their names but I remember the one who found a roast chook (chicken to non Australians) awaiting carving, grabbed it and made it to the back fence before being caught! To put things into perspective, my mum wiped the dirt off the chook, carved out the bit mauled by the cat and served it anyway. I'm here 35 years later (and so is everyone else who ate the chook apart from the cat) to tell the tale so it was obviously not harmful .
And then, in 1976, I shared a house with my younger sister in West Footscray. We adopted a cat but couldn't decide on a name. She was a dark tabby; I wanted to call her 'Black Jesus' (don't ask). My sister demurred - she had a point - could I see myself at the back door calling 'here Black Jesus, here Black Jesus'? We compromised and called her Bruce. Bruce lived to the ripe old age of 18 years with my sister.
In 1980 I started living with Sue, my first wife and still a good friend. We had at various times cats called Katzen, Kirsche, Jane, Pooter and Broey. We also had a number of transient visitors who found the cat door and helped themselves to a free feed. One in particular hung around for over a year and I christened him Voskoboinikov. I remember winter nights in the early 80's with myself, Sue and 4 cats all under the covers; two at the foot of the bed and two fighting with us for pillow space .
In the late 80's Sue and I divorced; I wound up living with (and eventually marrying) Peta. Of her, the less said the better (I'm entitled to my opinion!). We had two cats we adopted from the Lort Smith Lost Dogs Shelter. Those two kittens were sure lost! Manon and Kafka. Manny is an english shorthair black and white; Kaffy was an American Calico. Kaffy died on September 27th 2000 and I don't mind admitting I cried like a baby that day. She had throat cancer and taking her to the vet to be put down was, frankly, the hardest thing I've ever had to do. (I'd always sworn that I'd never do it but it was so obvious that she was in a great deal pain and equally obvious that no cure was possible.)
Manon was as frisky as ever at the age of 16 when it was time for me to move from Australia to the USA. But she freaks at travel. Even taking her half a kilometre to the vet makes her panic - how would she cope with a 15,000 Km journey? So, reluctantly, I asked Sue, my first wife, if she'd adopt Manon. She agreed (it turned out not to happen that way but we won't go into the subject - suffice it to say that Manon had to travel 70 Kms instead of 15,000).
And here in the USA we have 4 and one half cats. Two of em lived here before I arrived. Cleo and Roo (short for Kangaroo - named before I got here). I call her Rooster. Then we have Kitten. She was bought for the kids Dad as a very young and not housebroken kitten. Guess what not housebroken kittens do? Yep, they shit where the need takes em. So Dad (who is not me ) decided to lock Kitten in the bathroom. Now I ask you, is that a fit place for a kitten? I thought not. We adopted her and cleaned up the poo. It's not that difficult a task. And we have Ginger. He walked in one night, fully grown, and meowed at me. What he said (translated) was 'this looks like a good place for cats - I want to live here). We did the neighbourly thing and posted notices on trees about a ginger cat one year old and his owners claimed him. Next night he was back and curled up on the bed. We did the neighbourly thing again and they didn't want to know. He's lived here ever since - about 15 months. His orignal people moved out and...
And now we have the half a cat to account for. His name is Einstein. He eats here and he lets us pat him but he's not yet ready to claim sleeping space. I suspect that as we move into January and even colder (it STILL feels unnatural for January to be cold) we'll find Einstein sleeping here. He's more than welcome.
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