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??

bob's your colourful uncle!

Uncles, eh? They're great. Mine turns purple when you get him laughing.

Tickles my cousin pink, it does ;)

And everyone needs a bit of colour in their lives, right?

Some might say that the great wombling icon, Uncle Bulgaria, is the cream of the crop when it comes to uncles brightening up your day.

But lest you forget, he is not the only telly uncle to dazzle us with his charms, not by a long shot.  I mean, on a grey day, is there anything better than Uncle Traveling Matt to put a smile on your face? Remember him?

We especially love how his interpretation of the phenomena he encounters is a little skewiff. I often wonder if humanity's really got its facts straight, or if maybe we're misinterpreting life a little, too. A debate for another time, perhaps.

Anyway, I'm very happy to share with you news of my very own Uncle Traveling Matt!  Well, I mean, he's not actually an uncle, and his name's not Matt, and far from being scatty, he's pretty clued up about things, but, he does write surprise postcards to me from different corners of the globe.  And I happen to know that Uncle Matt's a bit of an aspirational figure of his.  Yes, Pablo has good taste.

Pablo (if you're reading this): I don't have your address.  And if I did, precedent tells me - and friends and family'd be all-too-ready to confirm it - that I'm unfortunately not so likely to get my writing-back arse in gear.  It always was you guys that were the Superstars, though, wasn't it? A title well-earned if ever there was one.

Back to the rest of you... The fact is, I always feel like such a lucky hobo when one of Pablo's postcards arrives. The latest one, from Budapest, has not long been forwarded, and there are also surprise cards from the lovely Jo, Suzy and Kunal (yes, that's just got here, too! Happy day!) and our fabulous families amongst others currently adorning our fridge.  It's such a joy!  It's such an inspiration.  Truly.

exciting destinations through my letterbox

So, I'd like to ask - when was the last time you received snail mail that wasn't advertising or bills? Oh, that feeling of receiving a special tangible something, with dimensions and shapes and sides and colours and handwriting and, yes, a little bit of love.  When did you last feel it?  And when did you last cause it?  Worth doing more often, would you say?  Now that you think about it?  I'm right, aren't I?

Wombles aren't that great at complying when they feel the black weight of something expected of them.  (Or is it just me?).  But maybe I'd have more luck paying it forward, instead and surprising someone who's not expecting it with a little missive-out-of-the-blue.  Scribbly Sunday. Thoughtful Thursday.  Or something.  What do you think? Will you join me?  We're going to need pretty pens and lots of stamps :)  There are some ace ideas for making cards here, and these letters of note might offer some ideas, you never know.

While we're on the subject of famous travelling Matts (which we almost still were), here's a special clip dedicated to Pablo.  You've probably all seen it before, but can you ever really get enough?

And for Matt F, who followed in his dancing footsteps, an update.

Wow. There are so many easy ways to make the people around us's lives more enjoyable, huh?

I'll leave you with another splash of colour that any fraggle would adore. For a certain Debbie Harry fan I know, and his very talented cousin Lavinia..

Here's hoping someday we find it.

Almost forgot to tell you - according to the results of the kitten naming poll, it seems that although Bob might be your uncle, he is, in fact, not your cat.  The masses (all 2 of them) have spoken, and their verdict is 'Smokey Joe'.  Can't quibble with that. The 'Robert' story was so, so ace, though (and remains my only comment to date), so maybe there's scope for a middle name in there somewhere (when I say somewhere, I mean - in the middle).

Anyway, now that poll's over, it's time for the next one!  This time I'd like to know who your favourite uncle is.  Check out the poll, top right of the page, and do join in by adding any more you can think of in the comments box for this post. Thank you!

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...!
;)

what can you do? one

The first thing you can do to save the world is name a kitten.
(Gotcha there! ;) but please note - at the time of writing, the poll is still open...)

No, actually, this time around the focus is on 6-pack can rings.

Not my biggest pet hate for turtles (did you know that plastic bags can move like jellyfish in water? And that attempts by turtles to eat them are common? More on that - and their being slaughtered for meat - another time.)

Like I say, not my biggest frustration, but it's quite high up there, and it affects many other creatures at sea and on land, too.  It's on my mind today because, the local shop having run out of large glass bottles, at the weekend we ended up getting our beer as a bunch of joined up cans. And now we've drunk them. (Yes, thanks, they were very tasty. Sagres, since you ask.)

So do you know what I'm going to do?  Right now?  You guessed it :)

Some people say it's no longer necessary. That drinks companies have changed over to using biodegradable plastic. I don't know if that's true for them all or not. But even assuming it is, aint no material I know of degrades over night for that tangled up beastie to free itself and feed.  No, as far as I'm concerned, there's no excuse for laziness here. Every axis needs to be severed but it's no big chore - just two seconds and you're done!

what can you do? start here

It's a bit of a catchphrase with me. Or so Mrs Wombling Mum tells me:

"Sure, it's tough, but... what can you do?" I'll say.

"My brain's good for nothing today! Tut tut... what can you do?"

Or "Bloomin' typical, that! Ho hum... what can you do?"

I guess it's not a very constructive turn of phrase.

I guess you could say it might engender impotence and resignation.

I guess there's an argument for a champion of Making and Doing (and Mending!) to abandon an ineffectual affectation like that and plumb for something more positive.

But, well, I like it.  So,... erm,... ... what can you do?

The phrase is staying.

Doesn't mean we can't take the 'rhetorical' out of it, though, does it?

This is the first in a series of easy little lifestyle adaptations and mindful actions which anyone can adopt.  Which won't take much effort. And which make all the difference in the world.

This planet's not quite the place you'd love your children to grow up in?

What can you do?

WHAT CAN YOU DO?

I'll tell you what you can do...

"You must be the change you want to see in the world" - Mahatma Gandhi