Some people really shouldn't breed

An interlude before I continue my pets remembrances...

I went in to the zoo today for a volunteer appreciation event and decided to spend some time houseguiding before it started. (Houseguiding is what I spend most of my time doing. Basically, hanging out at various exhibits and educating the public about the animals and answering questions.)

Now, normally, every time I'm at the zoo I spend some time playing with Mystic (my Arctic Fox friend). But, another one of the Zoo-Eds that also spends time with her was there and I knew she hadn't had a chance this week to spend time with her. So instead of going in with Mystic I decided to take Sprint, our chinchilla, out to meet some of the people.

I had a group of about 50 that showed up when I took him out of the travel case I'd placed him in. I explained the rules of touching - one at a time, use 2 fingers, middle of the back - and gave them some facts about chinchillas.

For the record: They are a member of the rodent family, and are the rodent that lives at the highest elevation. They are considered to have the plushest and softest coat of any animal - highly prized, and the most expensive of fur coats. They have that beautiful coat because, unlike most mammals with 1 hair per hair follicle, they actually have 60 hairs growing from each follicle. We use gloves to handle him becaus the oils on our hands will cause the hairs to stick and eventually, if you handle them enough, you'll end up with a bald chinchilla. Their coats are so highly prized for furs that someone (think of an animal version of Mengele) figured out that the fur might stay connected to the skin better if it was taken while the animal was still alive. Turns out they were right. So, those chinchillas that make up those coats? Were all skinned alive. Lovely practice, yes?

At any rate, anyone that wanted a chance to touch was able to, and I answered a variety of questions, and one-by-one they moved on to other exhibits. As I was starting to wrap it up and prepare to take him back to his large, well-appointed, cage in the Education Animal Building (EAC) a woman approached dangling a small child by one arm.

She approached me, peered closely at Sprint, and said, with a strong hill accent (and I'm not picking on hill people, just her) "Whass at?"

Me: *A chinchilla*.

"Looks lak a rayat."

*Well, a chinchilla is a rodent, so it's related to rats, but so are guinea pigs and hampsters.* (She touches Sprint and peers closely at him again.)

"Rayats is nasty."

*Well, actually rats make very good pets. Zoos will tell you that the only appropriate animals for most people to keep as pets are dogs, cats, and rats. (This is true. And, is what I am required to tell people that ask about what makes a good pet.) They are very clean, they're smart and can be trained. And, they're awake during the day and are hardy, so kids can actually play and interact with them.*

"What 'bout a 'possum?"

WTF? I mean, I like oppossums, and they can be quite nice, at least the ones we have in the EAC are. But, it takes a lot of time and effort to get them to come around, particularly if you don't start when they are very young. Was she seriously suggesting that the zoo would recommend them as pets?

After being rendered momentarily speachless, (and, I'm ashamed to say, after looking again to see how many teeth she had missing - fewer than I actually expected) I explained that 'possums have very sharp teeth, generally irritable tempers, and probably wouldn't be a pet that I would recommend.

She considered that for a moment, thanked me and moved on - still dangling the kid by his arm, feet off the floor. But, that wasn't to be the last of her...

About 20 minutes later, after putting Sprint away I stopped back at the rainforest exhibit in the same building to say "hi" to Calvara, the Central American prehensile-tailed porcupine I've been working with lately. I didn't notice the people sitting on the bench in front of the exhibit. My mistake.

I hear a familiar voice from behind me...

"Ya got scorpions?"

I turned around to see my new friend, sitting with the child along with an older woman that I hadn't seen before.

*Yes. We have some in the insect exhibit inside the museum. (I point to the attached museum.)*

"They big-uns?"

*Well, they're fairly large. (I mark off a size range with my fingers.)*

"Scorpions... They're pisonus. Thell sting ya, and kill ya. You'll die."

*Well, it would certainly hurt if they stung you.* (Unless you had an allergic reaction, it's doubtful that you'd die from a sting.)

"How big they get?"

*Well, depending upon the species I guess they could grow as large as my hand, with the tail outstretched.

"I sawd a movie. There'a's a girl bein' chased by a scorpion - big as a house. I's a scared a scorpions."

*blink* Turn to actually look at her. *blink*

Older woman and I, simultaneously, "That was a movie."

I exchanged a glance with the elder woman, told them that I hoped that they had a pleasant afternoon, and escaped.

*shudder*

A Spot, a Puzzle, and a Tiger, Jr. - Part One

As I have mentioned Spot, perhaps I should talk about how she came into being. (Which will be no mean feat, since I have a current kitten terrorist holding my arm down while I type, alternately trying to commandeer my hand, attacking my computer screen, and trying to rip the buttons off of my shirt. All the while purring loudly enough it's hard to hear the tv. But, here goes anyway...)

Yes, Spot is a cat. A rather large, overweight, white cat - with no currently evident spots. But, I'm getting ahead of my story.

Spot's story starts with a teeny, tiny, female tiger cat that started to show up for shelter on the enclosed front porch during a very cold winter about 12-13 yrs. ago. She was very, very shy. More so than any of the other cats that ever came to visit, and she was very cold. But, try as I might to get close, she was having none of it. I put food out for her when she came, and spoke soothingly - eventually being allowed to open the door and come onto the porch while she ate, without her immediate disappearance. But, touching was out of the question, and there was no way she was going to walk through the door.

As the winter wore into spring, it became apparent that she was pregnant. No great surprise, as cats who mate always get pregnant. They don't release any eggs until sperm is present. Which means that every mating produces offspring, and it's quite possible for a female to carry offspring from different males during the same pregnancy.

The spring was capricious. Sometimes balmy, the next night bitterly cold. On one of those bitterly cold nights she showed up and I took her some food, expecting that she'd force me to keep my distance while she ate, and then she'd disappear, as always had happened in the past.

But, this night was to prove different. For the first time she allowed me to touch her. She not only allowed me to touch, but she was so very cold that she crawled into my lap as I sat on the concrete floor of the porch. I'm no dummy (an easy mark for animals, maybe - but not dumb). I scooped her up and brought her into the vestibule while dh held the dogs at bay. *Hmmm, no claws. This is a good thing.*

I bustled her up the stairs and into the bathroom for quick warmth; because of the large radiator in comparison to the room size it's one of the warmest rooms in the house. I settled her, and she curled next to the radiator sucking up as much warm air as she could. You could almost sense her sigh of relief and contentment.

We decided that it would be a better option to put her in the side bedroom for her quarantine, because I expected that it would be longer than normal, as with her pregnancy it was obvious that she'd have to deliver before we could do any shots or spaying. So, we readied that room for her comfort with food, water, a box with towels to sleep in, and a litter, and left her to her own devices. Silly me... I'd forgotten to add.

The next morning was a Saturday. (Why do all of these things seem to happen to us on Saturdays?) I ran to the store for a few staples. When I pulled back into the drive I was met by Mr. Mystic. I noticed that he had his shirt sleeves rolled part way up his forearms and had an uncharacteristically frantic look on his face. Guess who'd gone into labour? No, not Mr. Mystic. He was frantic because, while she'd delivered the first kitten well, the follow-up was breech. It seemed to be stuck, and he had no idea what to do.

I went upstairs to take a look. She was in her box, one kitten by her side, and a second kitten half-delivered, with the sac still intact. *O.K. This is good. Sac's not broken. Let's see what happens.*

Well, nothing happened. Mama was obviously in distress, so finally I tried to help. I grasped the kitten's back close to Mama's body and, as she contracted I gently pulled. Oops, the sac broke. This is not a good thing. With the sac broken, and the kitten stuck head-first, it can't breathe. Time for a trip to the vet. Now!

And the fun really begins... :)

Well, the box wasn't going to fit in the car. So... toss some towels into a laundry basket, grab Mama and born kitten and toss them in. Cover Mama with a towel so she won't be scared. Yeah, right...

DH carries them down and climbs into my car with the open basket on his lap. I should pause to point out that, at the time, I drove a 2-door, stick shift, Dodge Stealth XT. Our driveway is long, only one car's width wide, with a very large Basswood tree sitting just inches off of the side of the drive. I had pulled in front-wise, at a slight slant, and something else was occupying the turn-around. And, I was in a hurry. It's not good to be in a hurry when backing down a long driveway with a feral cat in an open basket that just barely fits into the space on the lap of the person occupying the passenger seat. If I learned any lesson that day, that was it.

I proceeded to try to back up quickly. As DH couldn't move, wedged in by the basket as he was, I had a hard time seeing around him at my side. I proceeded to back straight into the Basswood tree. Not hard enough to damage the car, but with a pretty good jolt. A jolt startling enough to alarm the feral cat with the kitten hanging half out of her backside.

She came out of that basket in a flash, running for all she was worth. There's not too many places to run inside a 2-seater sports car. She careened off of all available surfaces. The doors, floors, ceiling, seats... The back windows, the side windows... And dh - wedged in by the basket on his lap and unable to get out of her way. In a matter of moments I think she covered every square inch of the inside of that car. All the while trailing the back half of a kitten behind her.

Just as a now panicked dh was about to fling open his door to both escape her, and let her escape to perdition, she came to rest on my rear-view mirror, hanging on by the claws on both front feet, dangling like some kind of bizarre mirror ornament - motionless, except for the back legs of the now fully awake, but not yet born, kitten pumping frantically at the empty air beneath it.

I grabbed her by the back of the neck, receiving a deep cut from a back claw on my right thumb- a scar I have to this day - and stuffed her back into the basket where dh promptly threw a towel back over her and held on firmly as I, more sedately this time backed down the drive and proceeded to the vet's office. Shift... stuff heavily bleeding thumb into mouth... shift... stuff thumb into mouth... shift... repeat...

...To be continued

A Tribute to Tiger

I suppose it's fitting to actually start this blog with a tribute to a good and true friend that we lost yesterday.

His name was Tiger. And, he was, well... a tiger cat. He found us first. The same way all of our cats have found us. He stopped by to snack on the cat food left on the front porch for the raccoons. He was probably about 3. A little older than the cats that normally come to be adopted, with his neck already large and heavy in that whole tomcat way. A beautiful, well muscled, dark tiger with large golden eyes.

It took a couple of months before he would trust me enough to pet him. But, not long after petting before I could pick him up. In he came, to join the three cats already in residence. Cats I may talk about in a future entry. But, not before quarrantine in the bathroom and a trip to the vet for shots and the removal of his jewels.

That's when the fun began. Released into the household he made it quite clear that he'd had second thoughts about this whole house-cat stuff. He hid, he hissed, he scratched &/or bit. He had a particular dislike of Mr. Mystic for some reason. Now, Mr. Mytic loves cats. But, it's hard to love someone who tries to bite and scratch you every time you come near. We figured he'd come around in time, as all of the others had. And, it was okay because I was usually here when dh was, so I could deal with him. Until the day came that I had to do a weekend systems installation and dh was home alone with him on a Saturday.

I'm still not entirely sure what started it. But, somehow Tiger got scared and decided that hiding on the top of the refrigerator would be a good idea. Sitting on top of the refrigerator is frowned upon in our house, and dh tried to get him down. Oops, with dh standing in front of the fridge Tiger had no intention of going that way. He decided to try a back exit. Unfortunately, there was only enough room between the back and the wall for him to slide, head-first, half-way down before getting firmly wedged, upside down, with nowhere to go.

This is an old house. The kitchen is too small for me to even have an oven, as there's no place to put it. The only place for the fridge is a spot delineated by the countertop, the dividing wall to the back hallway, and the outside wall of the kitchen. It pretty much fills the area with fractions of an inch on either side. The stove and hot water radiator is directly opposite the doors and with the fridge fully pulled away from the back wall there is just barely any clearance that direction. Just enough to slide it sideways.

Starting to get the picture? Here's dh, with a howling cat stuck between wall and fridge, and the only way to get him out will be to single-handedly pull a fully loaded side-by-side fridge straight out of its cubby hole far enough to reach through the narrow clearance that will be available. Then he has to convince a cat that hates him to leave, either on his own, or by picking him up and removing him. Then of course, he has to put the fridge back.

Needless to say, it did not go well. I arrived home to find a spitting, hissing, husband sporting rather spectacular scratches all up and down his arms and hands. Oh, and no Tiger. He'd been so angry by the time he finally managed to get the darned cat unstuck and out from behind that he'd marched him to the door and thrown him out. Tiger had last been seen streaking away over the lawn into the woods and park beyond. DH informed me that under no circumstances would he be allowed back in this house.

The following day I left to finish my installation. There was still no sign of Tiger, and dh was still fuming. Imagine my surprise when I returned home to find Tiger greeting me as I walked into the living room. Evidently, he'd waited until Mr. Mystic went out to get the mail. From what I was told, he walked up to dh, sat down at his feet, meowed politely, and began walking circles through his legs. It worked. DH is a sucker, just as I am. When he went back into the house Tiger was at his side.

That was the last time that Tiger ever ventured into the great outdoors. His favorite spot became dh's lap, the arm or back of his chair, or snuggled in at his side. He became his best friend.

The last few years he got weaker and thinner. His teeth got bad but, because of his age and condition, we couldn't treat them as he wouldn't survive the anesthesia. Last summer, when the vet came to do the routine check-ups and shots he declined to vaccinate Tiger. He was afraid of what the vaccine would do to his aged and ravaged body. He still liked to eat dry food, but we augmented with canned in deference to his teeth. He became incontinent, and dh would carry him to his litter. We'd clean up after him. We prepared to let our friend go. To help him on his way, if necessary. If he ever seemed to be in pain.

About three weeks ago it became apparent that his time was very short. His eyes clouded and one filled with mucus. We'd take a warm damp towel and clean them for him. He started to sneeze, and we'd wipe his nose. But, he ate and drank, and, if carried to the litter he went. He couldn't jump into dh's chair any longer, but that was where he wanted to be. So, we'd pick him up and settle him in. Spot, one of the kittens born here early in his life with us, would cuddle up to him and keep him warm. Every morning when we woke up we were sure he would be gone. But, he hung in there.

A week ago he quit wanting cat food. So, I fed him the best gourmet Ahi Tuna available. Leftovers from a dinner out, where I had them undercook it, just for him. He slept more, on a soft fleece mat on top of the cage behind dh's chair. We brought water and food to him, and carried him to the litter, cleaning up and washing his linens when we were'nt attentive enough. We started watching him closely and often, just to see if he was still breathing.

Three days ago he quit eating and drinking entirely. He didn't need to go to the bathroom. He wasn't in any evident pain. He just wanted to sleep, but he would wake and acknowledge us with a headbutt when we stroked him. We tucked a towel around him to keep him warm, and told him that it was okay for him to leave us. We reminded him who would be waiting for him on the other side. The pets that had gone before. The humans that we were sure would welcome him until we arrived. We cried and went to bed, certain that we'd be arranging his cremation on the morrow. But, he was still with us.

He slipped into a coma, only a light vibration of purr our acknowledgement when he felt our hands, and we thought for sure he wouldn't last. But, last he did. It seems that the cat who didn't want to be here, now couldn't bear to leave. He hung on for two full days, finally passing, peacfully in his sleep, yesterday afternoon. He was 20 years old.

DH showed him to the other cats and let them pay their last respects with sniffs and headbutts. Then he wrapped him in his blanket and took him to the vet. I wasn't here. I'd had to be at choir practice for an upcoming concert. So, once again, it was just Tiger and the man he loved, who loved him back. Alone with each other at the end. It was fitting in a way.

We've washed his blankets and towels. We'll do a final cleaning of the house, erasing all signs of his accidents, his fur tufts, his opened, but uneaten, cat food. Unlike the dogs, there's no collar or tag to keep as a remembrance. So, essentially, his physical presence from our lives will be erased. But, he will never be erased from our hearts and our memories. Even with 9 other cats, there is a hole here that will never quite be filled.

It's a tiger shaped hole. And, I don't want it filled. It's Tiger's hole. All his. He'll fit there just fine when we meet again.

R.I.P. sweetheart.

Tagged by HD

O.K., I've been tagged by HD, so I guess I need to figure out how to do this thing.

The rules:
Here are the rules:

1. Reveal six weird facts/things/habits about yourself and then tag six people.

2. Leave a "You're Tagged!" comment to let the people you have tagged know they have to reveal six things (or the entire blogosphere will explode and it will be their fault).

3. Leave a comment HERE to let me know when you have completed your mission.

Six Things:

1) I'm the youngest in my family by 10 years, and my father's only biologic child. My eldest brother (now deceased) was was 33 years older than I. I first met him when I was 10.

2) My affinity with animals probably comes naturally. My first baby-sitters were a pair of black collies, Beau and Dutchess. My mom would put me outside and tell the dogs to watch me. She never had to worry. If I started to wander into the street Dutchess would block me. If I went around her, she'd block me a second time. If I went around her again, getting too close, she'd go get Beau. He'd pick me up by the back of my diaper or play clothes and carry me back to the front stoop and drop me. If I hurt myself, Dutchess would stand over me and take care of me, while Beau went to the house and retrieved a human to come and get me.

Like Catt, I speak to my animals, as though they were human. I never go anywhere without telling them where we're going, who is taking care of them, and when I am returning. I forgot once. When my dad & I went on a trip after mom died. The same woman that always cared for them when we were away came in to do so. My collie, King, tried to keep her out of the house, and when she finally made it in my poodle, Bijou, who'd never bitten anyone in her life, bit her. I never forgot again, and I've never had a problem again.

3) Again, like Catt, I also applaud on occassion when watching a television program. Sometimes for live performances that I've enjoyed. Almost always in tribute to the entertainers that have died during the year when they play their bios during the Academy Awards. And, I have a compulsion to stand up when I hear a national anthem played on tv. Not just our own. Any.

4) I still mentally say the alphabet in French when I'm alphabetizing something. It's how I first learned it, even though English is my first (and only fluent) language. And, I still want to spell "color" as "colour" and "airplane" as "aeroplane".

5) I like hot baths. I mean REALLY hot baths. Particularly in winter. Mr. Mystic once dropped a thermometer in the bathtub with me. It registered somewhere around 120 degrees. I was in heaven.

6) Conversely, I want it cold when I sleep. We have no radiator in our bedroom. Except in the coldest weather (like -10 and below), the window is always open and the fan is usually running. It is not unusual for me to wake up to snow on the floor by my side of the bed.

I'm not certain who has been tagged so I'll probably repeat, but... I tag:

1) Superman
2) Dragonflies
3) Buggy
4) Frisky
5) JIMBO
6) MTW