cats, cats, and loads more cats!

What better way to make a wombling comeback than with a cute kitten video!

Yes, Agatha's been at it again... and again!! Two more litters since last I wrote means we somehow let her pop out FIFTEEN little ones within twelve months (gulp!). But you'll be relieved to hear that thanks to the phenomenal help and support of a lovely newly-found neighbour - what I mean by 'help and support' is that Marta basically did everything for us - and a lot of patience, she's finally been caught and neutered.

We've also been getting the hang of this kitten rearing thing so that all five of the six-month-olds survived and have homes (two beauties live with us). As for the two-and-a-half-month-olds, well, why don't you see for yourselves? ...

wombling wreck

I'll admit it: I felt I'd displayed a fair bit of calm, head-on-shoulders resourcefulness through the crisis.  I'd go so far as to say I was feeling quite proud of myself.  But pride comes before a fall, and that afternoon, I went to pieces.

Like a character I'd once seen in some awful, hammed up, straight-to-TV movie about a phantom pregnancy,  I was haunted by distant cries (well, mewings). I chased shadows of ghost cats behind walls where no cats were to be found and went back to scour the already scoured tool shed more times than is reasonable or - if I'm honest - sane.  I was a bag of shaky nerves.  I just prayed that Agatha would come back, that we'd be able to confirm that she had both Joe AND Fred with her.  But she had disappeared. And so had all trace of the kittens.

If my class that evening was a slow-motion car crash, well, that's just the way it was, I'm afraid.

It's a strange form of helpless grief that comes from unexplained loss like that.  No story, no evidence, no closure, no idea if there's anything you can do or could've done.

I'm dealing with it better second time around.

She finally showed up for dinner at 11pm, and continued to come for the next few days without ever giving her position away.  She moved stealthily and didn't dwell in one place for long.  She looked like she was still giving milk, but how could we really know?  Her eyes were full of sadness, but was it just for Ginger?

They were full of mistrust and suspicion, too.

She'd stationed poor Charlie way up on top of the high wall to keep watch over her that first night with Smokey Joe, and it seemed like the whole event had left her with a very immediate and tangible sense of threat that took her a long time to shake.  At the time, I read it as pure paranoia, but in light of the last two days, I wonder if maybe it was a form of sixth sense or premonition.

They did come back in the end, you see, Agatha, Smokey Joe and Fred.  But barely a week later - just yesterday morning - it became apparent that the little ones had gone missing; simply vanished into thin air, as far as we can tell.

It's Agatha that's the wreck this time.

Haunted by mewings, chasing shadows behind walls where no kittens are to be found, scouring the neighbourhood over and over, howling into the darkness.
She's one sad cat.

And it simply breaks our hearts to watch.

Sad Agatha 

Where do you look for missing kittens?

When do you give up hope of finding them?

How do you console a mourning mother?

Anyone got any answers?

adoption

It was early morning, and Ginger was mewing in the shed on her own.

We looked, but Fred was not there.

There were muddy adult pawprints around, and no sign of struggle, so we were hopeful it had been Agatha, and not an aggressor.  We quickly beat a retreat, in case we had interrupted the move and went out the front to have a peek at the rest of the family.  But the spot where we had left Agatha and Smokey Joe was empty.

Agatha did not come for food that morning.  In fact, we did not see hide nor hair of her all day and come lunchtime, Ginger was still on her own and hadn't been given any sustenance for nearly 24 hours.  She was shakier, too, and every so often went through phases of mewing inconsolably with all her might.  Still Agatha didn't come.

So I did all I could think to - phoned for professional advice and ended up bundling her into an old wine box...

... and taking a taxi with her to the municipal cat sanctuary, Gatil, to see what they could suggest.


What they suggested was leaving her with them.
So that's where she stayed.


She had her own cage with a corner to hide behind, bedding, water and food. A vet was to see her shortly to give her a checkup, but the initial once-over by the guys manning reception gave hope that she had a good chance - of survival and also of adoption.  A thick ring binder full of papers represented only adoptions in 2012 so far. Warm, reassuring smiles.  She'd be okay.  This was what was best.

It had been pouring down with rain that morning and continued to do so through the day, but for a brief while, just as I left the centre, the clouds parted and the sun shone down.  It had been the right thing to do, hadn't it?


Having left this blog address with Gatil, I'm hoping that Ginger's adoptive family might be curious to see pictures of her younger self and to understand a bit more about her background.  So if you are they, reading this now (and if you can understand English!) I'd love to take this opportunity to thank you, so much: everyone at Gatil and also in Ginger's new home, bless you.  Please look after her well.  And if you feel moved to share updates on her progress, in the comments section or by private email, we would all be so, so happy to hear about her.  We miss her, and lord knows Agatha does, too.  And how.

separation

Noone had been able to find Smokey Joe.

We had searched high and low in the bushes and the firefighters were about as sure as they could be that he hadn't been stuck down in the foundations of the wall with the others. Our last (and best) chance of finding him was Agatha, and find him, thank goodness, she did.

We still have no clue where he'd been hiding, but all she'd needed was 5 or 10 minutes in the quiet, post-upheaval garden, and a bouncing smudge ball was once again at her feet, and soon bringing what I'm sure was welcome relief to her heavy teats. Relief all round.

Short-lived relief.

It quickly became clear that she was now bound to stay with him, distracted from searching for the others.

My instinct upon realising this was to try and nab him and place them all together, but the bush was thick, and both mother and child ferocious.  It was also dark, and they needed a little respite from all the drama.  So against my better judgement, I left them be, hoping that soon enough she'd go for the others, find them in that snug, dry room, and take Smokey Joe to join them.

Hours passed, however, and she did not leave his side.

Fred and Ginger seemed okay.  Ginger was a little shaky, but both of them had sound instincts to hide together in dark corners and also less constructive ones to snarl at approaching hands.  I held them each to try and calm them, get them used to being stroked, try to sex them (I think we were right all along) and then to try to feed them wet kitten food on the end of my finger, but they weren't at all into it, hungry though they must have been. We mostly left them to themselves, and when bedtime came, left a hot water bottle and food and milk out for them, in case they decided they were ready to start on solids.  They seemed strong enough to last out the night.

So we slept.

And when we woke, it was a different world.  It was rainy day Thursday.

the calm before the next storm

The firemen had kept asking throughout the operation whether the cats were wild or not, and all we could do was explain the situation over and over: the mother had been someone's pet, but not for several years, and the kittens weren't used to humans. We'd been hoping that the mother would back off a bit to allow contact with them, but that hadn't happened yet.

On retrieval of the hissing, scratching kits from the foundations, however, Salvador had his answer.  Nodding, he grimly confirmed "These are wild kittens. But not to worry - five days or so looking after them in a confined room, and they'll mellow and be tamable."  So, I had prepared the tool shed: made it safe as I could and put together a nest with warm, clean bedding.

Would they not have a better chance of survival in their mother's care, though?  Salvador was vaguely surprised at the question, having assumed abandonment. As if on queue, Agatha, her undercarriage looking painfully swollen from lack of suckling, poked her head out from round the corner where she'd been hiding.  Well, of course they probably would stand a better chance with her.  Especially as they'd not been introduced to solid food yet.

Before they left, the firemen tried to round her up but soon realised what an impossible job that was, so in a painful reenactment of two weeks previous, I slowly carried the kittens to the other side of our house again (this time I walked around, not through), in full view of Agatha, encouraging a little mewing conversation to take place so that she might follow. But just as last time, she instead stood parallysed and confused and would not budge save for to bolt 10 metres down the road where she paced and howled like a mad thing.

Consensus was that she was anxious to be with them and would find them out by smell if I left the window of the tool shed open.  They would surely be safer there.  Far away from deep holes and the coming cold and rain.  And the sooner they could have a bit of calm, the better.

If and when Agatha found them, there was to be no guarantee that she wouldn't just carry them away with her again, of course, but that was just a risk we would have to take, it seemed.  She was their mother, after all.  And all the internet articles we'd read said they should stay together for as long as 12 weeks if possible.  We hadn't yet read the one which suggested some feral cats might only be tamable if separated as young as four weeks, and even if we had, wouldn't we just have thought that a little too harsh?

So, it was dusk, the firefighters had gone, the neighbourhood doors were closing and the two kittens were safe and calming down, snuggled together in a dark corner of the tool shed.

Would Agatha find them?  And where was Smokey Joe in all this?

Let's find out next time, huh?

what happened after that

Salvador.  Saviour.  There's a fireman's name anyone would be glad to hear, wouldn't they?  Could he and his buddy save the day, do you think?

Could they ever!  It wasn't straight forward, but well within the hour both Fred and Ginger had been pulled from the rubble by strong, safe hands and were trembling quietly in the corner of one of their previous abodes, each apparently in one piece and compos mentis.  Everyone agreed how nice the men had been, and then doors gradually began to close as dusk settled on the bairro once more.

Surely that's it? The end of the drama? They've been rescued, ergo - hassle over, right?  RIGHT??

If only it were that simple...

what happened next

The afternoon was brutal.

My attempts at rescue were pathetic.  Worse than pathetic, they were positively detrimental, sending brickdust and little concrete rocks showering down on the cubs below.  The neighbours, meanwhile, worked hard to chop their pretty shrub down ("it was too prickly, anyway", they sweetly dismissed - they're not nearly as black as I paint, you know ;) and others from the street wondered over to reflect on matters and throw their tuppence worth in.

The clock ticked.

For the kits (and Agatha, who prowled the wall nervously for five minutes or so before deciding she was outnumbered and better sit it out under cover nearby) this all caused a great deal of noise and commotion.  We weren't sure how long they'd been there or how awkwardly they'd fallen (had they even fallen? Or was this just their most recently-found hiding place from which they had a secret way out? I don't think anyone was sure, but neither was it up for debate).  It was frequently observed that the young ones were becoming less responsive, contorted, even.  Stray shrub cuttings flew onto their unflinching bodies, metal broom handles were unceremoniously thrust down - rough, unfinished end first on occasion - onto apparently lifeless bodies, and the worst was suspected. I'd lie down next to the wall and blow down the crack to check they still reacted and then gratefully proclaim that they were still breathing, which more often than not was met with "but for how much longer?" Heart-wrenching stuff.

Having the longest arms, I was encouraged to reach in once the bush was out of the way.  Disappointingly, even with the wall pushing deep into my armpit, at a desperate full stretch (and with grazed arm - the opening really was narrow) I was still only just about able to touch the tips of Ginger's fur.

The hoe that had seen to the plant was being tested against the lower, inner wall. "We could knock it down" "But then it'll fall right on top of them!" "Not if we do it right and clear the earth away a bit first". I was far from convinced, so when an onlooker suggested calling the firebrigade, I frantically jumped at the suggestion. The hoe was thankfully set aside while the call was made and we waited what seemed like an eternity (but was probably only about 15 minutes) for them to show.

rainy days and thursdays

I'd like to tell you, lovely readers, that we have a happy ending for you.  I really hope we do.  I'd like to say, indeed, that we're still far from finding any ending at all for our little kitten saga.  And maybe that's so.

For don't they say that some of the best stories are told in trilogies?  I'd like to think we might only have closed the cover on the first volume of our feline narrative; that yet more adventures await.  Maybe this is time for us to pause and reflect on the story so far;  for us to lean back in our seats, stare out the window, warm mug of tea in hand, and ponder the fates of our heroes and heroines.

Alas, I look out the window and all I see is rain.

It's a miserable day, today. That's for sure.
A touch of The Carpenters might just be called for because who could say it better?

This final part of book one (please, let's name it so, for now, at least) has not been an easy one; nor will it be quick in the telling.  None the less, we'll see how far we progress today, knowing there will at least be another chapter or two for you, dear reader, before the close.  Are you sitting comfortably?  With handkerchief at the ready?  Then I'll begin...

You'll recall that the previous chapter saw our family hotfoot it across the road - most likely to escape the prying eyes and video camera of Yours Truly, the villain of the piece.

What could we do after that? We ummed and we ahed and we thought a bit and then a bit more, and that's about where we left you last time, I suppose.

Ultimately we came to the conclusion that there was very little we could do.  So, we left them to themselves (save for continuing to feed mum), hoping that the neighbours wouldn't notice; that they'd have everything they needed and be safe.  After all, Agatha had chosen the spot.  Nature knows best, and all that.

Except, nature probably didn't bargain on a deep crevasse opening up by an innocent-looking shrub in a garden otherwise like any other.

It was yesterday afternoon, and I was preparing a late lunch when I heard raised voices and fuss across the road.  It was the type of fuss that could only mean one thing: the neighbours had discovered the kittens, or more accurately, as it turned out, they had discovered two of them. The location of their discovery, however, was disconcerting to say the least.  Fred and Ginger had apparently fallen down to the bottom of a newly-erected wall's foundations (foundations scheduled for filling in quite soon).  They were sandwiched in a gap about 5 centimetres wide and 70 deep with bottles and bits of rubble wedged in at varying depths periodically along its length.  Oh, and did I mention a huge big prickly shrub blocking access to the exact spot at which the kittens were cowering?

(taken after removal of said shrub)

Deep. Breath.

ActionAllStations.

Withtheshrubandlotsofrubbleinthewayitwascleartheywouldn'tbereachablebyhandevenifthegapwasshallowerthanitappeared(turnsoutitwasn't).SotheneighbourssetabouthackingdowntheirshrubwhileItriedandtriedtoassemblesomekindof-anykindof-friendlylookingrescuebasketorscooporwhatevermightbepokedownable.

OK, I can't keep that up. But you've now had a taster of how about 6 hours of that afternoon felt. Ever had days like that? Where it's just one high-adrenaline thing after another after another after another?  I'm sure you all have.  And they suck, right?  I ate my late lunch at 10pm. D'oh.

See, now the story so far's worn me out already and I've barely even started. Ho hum. I'll be back, and I hope you will, too.  In the meantime, I'll leave you with some examples of my failed engineering attempts (excuse the shaky hand),

Keep safe, won't you all?  For today, at least.

I can't handle any more drama just yet.  

MAYDAY! MAYDAY!

Calling all cat people far and wide... HELP!

If you're not a cat person, maybe you could pass this link on to your friends and friends of friends: we're desperate to get advice from vets and breeders... anyone who knows anything whatsoever about feline behaviour, really. Here's hoping to see lots of comments, and soon, please!

See, IT'S PANIC STATIONS here at Stray Kitten Central.

It all began yesterday afternoon as we celebrated a friend's birthday in the park across town.  The 5th October is  a Portuguese bank holiday, see, and the party was a lovely afternoon picnic.  With the sun shining gloriously for us all day, and the company, chat and beer very pleasant indeed, we admired a beautiful sunset as we wandered home, happy and relaxed.

That feeling didn't last long.

For unbeknownst to us, as we'd finished off our boules game in the sandy grounds of Choupal, Agatha had been readying herself for big change.  We were expecting to find the usual:

But we returned to an empty nest.

She had transported each of the kittens to an entirely new home, where we eventually found them, in the half-light, curled up under a shrub.

You might remember from my previous post that moving home is nothing new to Agatha, and indeed, since I last wrote, we have seen another 3 housing setups. I reckon it works out that she hasn't spent more than about 5 days in one place, so a change was probably about due.  It's just that this is the first time she's taken the litter off our property.

And we'd really rather she hadn't chosen a patch of land in the garden of the most anti-cat neighbours we have.

You see, going back a month (just over) to when they were born, the neighbourhood in general was incredibly scornful of the whole business.

"There are too many cats around here.  What about the smell? And the Mess? Before we know it THEY'll all be having litters too! When does it stop? No, no.  There comes a point. Enough cats.  Enough. This isn't right.  This isn't natural.  It's just not natural at all."

Even our resident cat lady, Mary Ellen (she has something in the region of eight cats herself) was in on it - why, it was only Thursday that she finally, resignedly, conceded: "I suppose they're too old for us to kill now.  When they were born, fine.  But now, I guess it's just too late for that."

There's nothing like telling it like it is, is there?

Similar thought processes are certainly not beyond her next-door neighbours, in the corner of whose property the cats now reside.  We even did a deal with them a while ago, in fact;  we would look after the litter, feed them and find them homes, just as long as they relaxed and let the cats be.

We failed to ask if they would possibly mind hosting the litter for a while.

No, we wouldn't think that would go down well.

So far, those neighbours seem to be unaware of their new guests.  And if their dog has cottoned on, his chain is thankfully too short for him to cause much fuss.  We're thinking it's best to try and keep that state of ignorance as long as possible.

But what next?
Should we stage a kitnapping? Grab them when she's not looking and install them in our quieter back garden?  The real issue then is that Agatha herself won't be caught.  Last week we tried the whole scenario to disastrous, heartbraking effect: they'd been holed up in the plastic carrier (yes, in the end it was the only decent protection available to her when the rains came, and boy did they come) with no sunlight or running space for days and I was worried for their development so I took the carrier - in plain sight of Agatha - and put it in the back garden hoping she'd follow.  But she couldn't bring herself to cross the boundary of our front door, nor to venture far enough from where they'd been to discover them behind the block, and nearly an hour of distress all-round had passed before we crumbled and returned them to their previous location.

So, you see, we really don't know what to do for the best for our little clan. I had thought spending time near them would help socialise them now they are nearly five weeks old, and Agatha was certainly growling less and almost letting us stroke her.. but maybe she was too unnerved by my continued proximity?  In which case, is leaving them alone and praying for the best all we can do?

Our current state is one of more-or-less helpless inaction, although I have done one thing: rightly or wrongly, I withdrew the food station from the front of the house this morning and put it out back.  Cheeky Charlie knows it's there.  Will he pass on that knowledge? If Agatha ventures to eat there, might she take note of the kitten-friendly nest area I've set up in the back garden?

So far, the plan's back-firing.  She's going hungry  in my stubborn insistence not to feed her out front, and rather than explore, is instead eating more at Mary Ellen's house.  Mary Ellen is in turn getting suspicious.  "Have you got enough food? Why isn't it out? She's looking thin..."

Despite my explanation that I'm trying to train her to eat on the other, safer side of the house, the super lovely cat lady just puts out an extra bowl of her own food. Great.

Then there's hope that the barbecue that we're planning for this afternoon will catch her attention..

But, no, we have to admit it: we are CLUELESS here.

PLEASE tell us... what would YOU do??

on the move

So, I guess you're all on tenterhooks to know what's happening with the kittens, aren't you?  You must be.  I would be.  I think.  Unless I was having more of a 'dog' day.  Or was busy doing lesson prep or something.

Anyway, I can confirm that yes, I do have kitten news for you, but you're going to have to wait to get it!  First, today's story, set in the competitive world of kitty real estate and construction, must be endured!

Our tale begins, as you know, with one small bundle of wisteria cuttings. Great old admirable eco home.  Sustainable.  Free.  All that jazz.  Funny thing is, leaves are not as simple a construction material as first appearance suggests. Quite apart from their prickly-when-dry nature, scoot around on them too much with your pushing, shoving and clawing to get at mum's belly, and they soon get swept out from under you.  Exposing cold, unforgiving concrete.

Teatowel or no teatowel, within a day or two, House One was 'ideal home' no more.  Time to move on.

Now, it's worth remembering at this juncture that, in fashioning House One, Agatha had done the best she could with rather limited means.  Cosy safe spots don't tend to be reserved for snotty stray runts round these parts. There are people building in back yards, teretorial toms, howling hounds, scowling senhoras, careering cars... you get the picture.  Quiet as it may seem, it's actually a fairly inhospitable landscape for new cats, this neighbourhood.  If we weren't careful, Agatha was going to move the whole family to a far less secure spot, so we decided human intervention was most definitely the order of the day.  The front 'garden' was looking quite a disgrace, anyway.  It had long since needed attention.  Why not convert it into a nursery?

A camoflagued cardboard box, with soft towel lining, straw all around and a pretty red sunshade (streetcombed in Madrid - I swear, it's amazing the stuff people chuck out) sat staring her in the face.  How could she resist? Thankfully, the litter got moved into House Two the very next night.

And yet, before long, we could see it becoming harder and harder for her to contain the little explorers within its small walls.  Another assessment of the housing market was in order.

House Three, we'll get to in a minute.

House Four was another Hobo-assembled offering.  It needed to be bigger this time, so I had scaled it up.  And got a bit carried away in the process.

That doorway-cum-entrance hall is WAY too exposed - how is a cat supposed to keep an eye on comings and goings?  No chance!  I almost heard her snub.  I had carelessly lost sight of my client's needs.  She didn't even give it a second glance.  I was heart-broken.  Vaguely consoled, however, when our finicky siamese continued to shun House Three:

the expensive but characterless, mass produced, plastic alternative that our lovely local cat woman had insisted I take on the second day.  It was going spare, she said.  And she obviously didn't think much of my DIY efforts, the first of which I had proudly unveiled only seconds before.

So, where could the cats happily move to, do you think?

Before we get our answer, a customary twist in the tale!

I've been on (and on, and on) at you about voting in the poll to give NoName Fluffball a moniker, I know, but I hereby officially back off and leave you be.  The poll's closed, it's true, but in any case, recent events force me to be more forgiving of those who don't want to get too close.  Because I can well understand the sentiment.  Getting involved sets you up for loss, doesn't it?  Getting involved means emotional upheaval when, for example, a routine Sunday evening kitten check...  might reveal... something like...

... an empty House Two.  

Or worse (what actually happened)... one sole kitten, mewing on her own.

Oh, the panic!  The desperation!  The sheer powerlessness!

We knew that, much to Agatha's annoyance, Ginger had been on excursions outside the nest before.  At those times, a reckie on our part would reveal one cat and two kittens in the box, with mewing coming from a little way off.  Having things this way round - Ginger and her mewing still contained within the box but noone else visible - had us dumbfounded.  Had she pushed her mum one step too far? Put the litter at risk with her recklessness? Had she been abandoned?

Our hearts in our throats, we quickly ran through the possibilities.  House One was long since forgotten, and a scan of Houses Three and Four returned no joy. It was dusk and getting darker by the second.  The mews were sounding more and more forlorn.  Think, Hobo!  What can we do?  What should we do?!

Thankfully, it came quite soon.

A rustle. A growl. A hiss.  We had interrupted the family mid-move, and Agatha, keen to collect her last charge, was getting agitated at our proximity.  Phew.  A happy ending.  Almost.

The whole clan has been safely installed in Abode Five (we can't call it a House  for reasons which will become clear) for five days or so now.  They seem happy enough.  Mum keeps eating, three bundles keep tumbling around.  The big difference being, they now do it out of sight, and very, very well contained.  They currently reside just about  HERE.

Never mind the huge rosebush stem.  Pickly is obviously de rigueur.

Until the rains come, then...!
;)

do kittens dream?

I'm returning to the blog after a few days away, so that can really only mean one thing, can't it?

KITTEN UPDATE time!

Let's start with a quick question that arose while looking through the latest family snaps. The fluffy sausages, bundled up in a line, all seem to have genuine expressions on their faces, wouldn't you say?

If that's so, does it mean they're dreaming? Do kittens dream? And what (apart from how great it must be to have a name.. a'hem!) about? Would it simply be a reliving of their very limited experiences (sucking teats, pushing through soft fur, treading on toes, getting licked, trying to focus on yellow towelling..) or are they pre-primed with visions of flappy birds and stealthy little mice hovering just within reach? Maybe they dream of writing a novel or plunging the oceans in search of long-forgotten shipwrecks? Does anybody know? I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

Our trio are now twelve days old and growing fast.  All of them can open their eyes, but the only one who seems to do it convincingly or at all often is Ginger. She's still curious, Fred's still rather small, and NoName Fluffball's tummy is still getting nice and fat. Here's a video of them waking up from a snooze and having a wash:

and here's a bit of rough and tumble over feeding time:

Not too much changes very quickly round here, but it's definite progress that the neighbours have stopped talking about the need to commit despicable acts (did I tell you about that? No? Well, I'm not sure you'd really want to hear it... but if I'm feeling dark someday, I might fill you in), and now come over asking for a peek. And they smile when they see the brood.  Which, believe me, is a welcome relief. 

As for us, well, we're discovering just how much cat food it's possible to get through in a week.  And Agatha and Charlie are discovering how cool it is when we run out.  Because then we have to give them smoked salmon and real tinned tuna instead, you see.  Hard times.

I sometimes wonder, guiltily, if this superior diet and more regular feeding (we don't dare give him cause for jealousy) are contributing to Cheeky Charlie's inflated sense of self.  He is positively lording it over the other cats in the bairro, and when he isn't to be found sunning himself and surveying the world in a kingly fashion from an elevated vantage point, chances are he's terrorising a 'lesser' moggy, having trapped it in some inescapable corner or other.

And he still won't let us stroke him.

The battle to show Cheeky Charlie what love is goes on.

And on.

Well, we do like a challenge ;)

Incidentally, what's a girl to do for comments and votes round here, huh?

This little Piggy-in-the-middle needs a name!

And there are only 3 days left to vote (& 2 votes registered - have pity!)

The poll can be found at the top of the blog's right-hand column.

We'll leave it there for now, but don't go thinking you're off the hook until you've done your bit!

harold

Every kitten needs toys.  And here we are with three of the little blighters fast approaching open-eyed, coordinated, venture-out,-tumble-and-chase stage. Time to get making!

So, this is Harold.

He's made of old scraps of wool, tied up together into a big ol' knotty bundle. Didn't take long, but I'll be honest: he didn't look like much until his eyes were attached.  Now, I hope you'll agree, he has the air of a rather distinguished mouse.  A bit of elastic and we're laughing!

There's also a hempy rattan rodent, currently in progress, which used to be a circular fabric disk tied atop a jam jar with ribbon 'for that rustic retail experience'. You know, it's really amazing what you can do with things if you don't throw them away.  Hoarders of trash, feel vindicated in the knowledge that, one day, it will come in handy!

So that's three moggies, two toys. Haven't quite reached optimum toyed-up-ness, have we?

Some cat owners who are very close to our hearts assure us that you can entertain a cat for hours with humble hair bands alone.  Hair bands and bouncy feathery things. Well, the former I can definitely do, since my locks are too short to tie back (that's what comes of living in Portugal and having awful Portuguese). Yes, in the circumstances, you could say that I definitely have an excess of hair bands. But the feathery bouncer needs a little work.

Suggestions gratefully received.

And why, now, I hear you ask, have we never attempted to win Cheeky Charlie over with such evident toy-making prowess?

The unfortunate, simple, sad fact is: He doesn't know what play is :(

Here's hoping the kittens will set that straight for him.

Have you voted to name our grey and white kitten yet? The first reader-proffered suggestion has been added to the list - it's got a great story - check it out in the comments section of the last post.

introducing...

This post, I promised you, would be to introduce you properly to the cats.

So without further ado...

Meet Agatha!

With her sumptuous coat, delicate step and cautious doe eyes, you might not expect her capable of spitting quite the amount of venom that she does.

She hisses.  She snarls.  She growls.  I swear, she even roars.

And she clobbers. Oh, yes. Get too close with the food bowl and she's dished out a proper good clip round the proverbial ear (and actual hand) before you know what's hit you (but never yet with her claws out, the big softy). She's a protective one, this, and there's a strong air of oh-such-vulnerability about her. She's doing a great job.

Meet Ginger!

This little poppet was the first (and, so far, only) to open her eyes.  I say 'her', but of course, I don't know she's a girl. We don't know the sexes of any of them as we haven't dared get close enough to touch them (put your smell on them, and mum might disown them, right?). But I digress.

She's quite a sharp cookie as one-week old kittens go, and she's a very pale, pretty ginger colour, hence the name.

Also, in Portuguese, Ginja (d'Obidos) (pronounced (more or less) the same), is a delicious, sweet, cherry liqueur (well, it's not actually made from cherries, but a fruit that's very similar). Reckon she's sweet as a cherry! ;)

Meet Fred!

He's often found 'dancing' with Ginger, which I don't particularly envy her now his claws are out.

Whereas the whole of his body is black, the tip of his tail - just the very tip, mind - is white. Remind you of anyone's cane? Born half-way up the steps to our front door, Wombling's man points out, he truly is "O'Stair". (Get it? Boom boom!)

Meet No-Name Fluffball!

Notable for his big, fat tummy and avant-garde feeding technique (both arms splayed out in front like he's doing the YMCA dance), our grey and white little cutie is still to be named.

I should 'fess up at this point and admit that I dove right in and named the others myself without giving my partner so much as a look in. Which isn't really very fair. I had to draw the line of my tyranny somewhere, though, so I left this little fella for him to christen.

And yet no name has been forthcoming.

  

I reckon we might need your help, wombling readers!

This week's poll is to find a name for the little mite. I'll leave a few suggestions, just to start things off, but please, write your own ideas in the comments box and I'll add them to the mix.

Here's a clip to inspire you.  Yes, I know, he's just like any dopey newborn kitten, but he needs you! You can't leave him nameless forever!

Finally, who could forget... Cheeky Charlie!

The neighbours all scowl when he's around and say he's a bad lot. He's covered in scars, but unlikely deserves your sympathy; I've lost count of the number of fights I've seen him embroiled in, and he usually looks very much the aggressor. In fact, I used to call him Big Bully before my better half shamed me and pointed out that "he just doesn't know what love is". 

And it's surely true, for he flinches if you move your hand quickly, convinced a thwack is coming his way :(

He has a good heart.

Indeed, on more than one occasion in the past, he's called Twinkle Toes (our barrio is pretty much riddled with cats, you can't get an introduction to them all!) over to share barbecue left-overs with him, and he's recently been hesitant to eat until he knows that Agatha is also being provided for.

Here's a picture of him standing guard (at a respectful distance) in front of the new (yes, there's a story there, too - later!) nest. What are the chances that he might be responsible for the brood, d'ya rec? (note the white tip to his tail..!)

Right, formalities out of the way, it's time for you to register your vote in the poll...



(this post was brought to you with apologies for the poor quality footage and a note that kitten names may be subject to change upon accurate sexing)

sustainable housing - nature's way!

With the fresh start of a new school year upon us, it is clearly time to write you a post, to finally start taking this blog thing seriously.
And what better way to kick off afresh than with a story?
I reckon I've got quite a good 'un on my hands, and with any luck (and maybe a little help from you, dear reader) the weeks to come may even provide it with a happy ending.

To set the scene a little, ten days ago we returned home after a week's camping in the Alentejo (which was very lovely indeed). This story starts just before we left, when Nascimento and Mario across the street pointed out that our wisteria could really use a trim (couldn't it always?!) as it was tickling passers by on the pavement...

Well you can't ignore good neighbourly 'advice' like that, least of all when you're trying to be a good ambassador for your country, so, along with the epic task of pruning and re-supporting the rose tree in the back garden (which had pretty much collapsed after someone had cut the fantastic chinese lantern plant away from the other side of the fence) ((luckily some of our own physalis have sprung up and are doing very well)), I hastily hacked away at the wisteria out front, leaving the cuttings in a scooped-up pile just to the side of our front door. We were a bit pressed for time that morning, but I'd be sure to add them to the compost when our holidays were over.
We loaded up the hire car and off we went.
Well, after the epic Easycar/Guerin creditcard/insurance deposit nightmare, that is, but that story's for another time.

On our return from the wilds of Portugal, we noticed that the whirl of dead wisteria cuttings had been hollowed out into a cosy little nest. "Ha-ha!" - we thought - "Cheeky Charlie (our adopted cat friend who we sometimes feed and always talk about, but who is really a feral lone wolf and never quite lets us stroke him) has made himself a new den and will be living even closer by than ever! Sweet!"
And yet, happy as he was to see us (or at least, to be fed), laze around our garden and explore the house a little once more, he never went near the thing. "Must've got too dry and crunchy - a little too prickly for him to lie on, now", I thought.

Not so.

For last Monday morn, upon waking and opening the front door, a very different face greeted us from within the snug. We'd seen her around before, this slinky chestnut siamese, but only occasionally, and only from a distance. She's so beautiful we'd never imagined she could be a street cat, but as the neighbours have since filled us in, her owner died a few years ago and she's not had a home since. She has, however, had several litters, they say.

...Or, rather, several OTHER litters!

For tumbling about with her and periodically mewing in quite the highest pitches you can imagine (to remind you of their adorableness) were three tiny wee fluffballs: one ginger, one black, and one grey and white!

Much as I admired her choice of waste-sourced (a litter in the litter!), sustainable (believe me, that wisteria grows at a rate of knots!) home, I was, of course, much more taken with her gorgeous little bundles of squeak :)

They have already provided us with smiles and stories aplenty (watch this space) and have given me a good few creative projects to work on, too (again, watch this space).

We're so happy the new neighbours moved in! Here's a video taster of the little beasties in action.

Introductions (for they've almost all got names..) will follow in the next post, so stay tuned.

In the meantime, I'd love to hear your stories of unexpected (baby?) animal encounters!  If you've got one, why not leave a comment below?