Wednesday, November 28, 2007, 05:57
Grave Danger
Our Springer Spaniel, Charlie, was in grave danger the other night. He didn't know it, but one of the long hairs on the back of his legs was about to be torn to shreds.
I had let Charlie out of his kennel to let him outside before I went to bed. Henry, Katerina and Dora the Explorer were playing around the basement. As Charlie stood by the door waiting to go outside, Katerina was behind him. And she was horribly upset. She wasn't sure what she was seeing. But she was quite sure it wasn't anything good -- this huge, brown and white panting thing. Her instincts told her it was a dangerous thing. And she was going to defend herself.
"Hiss, spit, hiss, spit," said Katerina.
Charlie moved a step to the side so I could open the door.
"Hiss, spit, hiss, spit," said Katerina. For good measure, she jumped forward toward Charlie's leg, striking with her front paws.
"Hiss, spit, hiss, spit," said Katerina.
The hair on her back stood up as far as it could. And her tail was bristled. Or as bristled as her little tail could get. (It is funny to see kittens with bristled tails. They look like sparse bottle brushes that have seen years of use and are missing some of their bristles.)
As I opened the door, Charlie trotted outside, unaware that he had come so close to losing a hair on the back of his leg. Katerina is so small that she wouldn't be able to rip out more than one hair at a time.
I knew better than to try to comfort Katerina after Charlie went out. She was still hissing and spitting mad, and if I tried to pick her up, she would only become more upset.
I watched her for a few moments, and as she realized that the big brown and white and panting dangerous thing had gone outside, I could see her relaxing bit by bit.
"That was a dog, Katerina. His name is Charlie," I said.
Katerina still looked like she might be ready to bristle again at a moment's notice, if necessary.
For his part, Charlie knows the kittens are running around the basement sometimes when I let him out. But he studiously ignores them. It has been his experience in the past that even very tiny kittens can hurt his nose if he sniffs where his nose is not wanted.
Henry, Katerina and Dora the Explorer are spending more of their time playing now. I let them out of their cage to run around and play for several hours at a time. They still want some formula from the syringe. But when I put them back in their cage with a plate of kitten formula and canned kitty food, they know that it is something good for them to eat.
Sometimes when I go down to the basement, I find the three of them sitting in the chair where I feed them, waiting for me. They are climbing around more and more, and they are finding many fascinating places to explore in the basement. Bless their little kitten hearts. They turned six weeks old Monday night!
Guinevere
My old friend Guinevere, one of the four gray tabbies I rescued 16 years ago when their momma was killed when they were two weeks old, is not doing very well. She has not eaten much for the last four or five days. Consequently, I have stopped giving her the antibiotics. If she doesn't eat anything, it doesn't do any good to give her antibiotic because the medicine just comes right back up if she's got an empty stomach.
Guinevere is growing weaker and spends most of her time lying on a heating pad under the kitchen table by the heat vent. She has become quite dehydrated, too, even though I see her getting drinks from the water dish from time to time. Tuesday evening, Randy and I administered some subcutaneous fluid to help her feel a little more comfortable.
I have told Guinevere over and over again that I love her and that she will always be my baby. I have told her, too, that if she wants to go to the Rainbow Bridge with her brother, Tiger Paw Thompson, I will understand. I will miss her terribly. But I will understand. It seems impossible it was only a year ago that my bright, cheerful, loving Guinevere was jumping into Snowflake's box to steal naps on Snowflake's heating pad. Snowflake now sleeps on the heating pad under the table with Guinevere sometimes to keep her company.
LeAnn R. Ralph
Monday, November 26, 2007, 20:41
Poor Me . . .
I am feeling very sorry for myself. Although the calendar still says it is fall, the weather is cold and the air is dry . . . and that means only one thing: I can expect to be wearing band-aids on one or more fingers from now until April when the weather warms up again and the air gets more moisture in it.
Every winter my skin splits at various points on my finger tips. At the moment, the forefinger on my right hand has a split right at the point that when I type and need to use that finger, I hit the sore spot.
When I type, the sound in my office goes something like this -- click, click, click, OUCH!, click, click, click, click, click, click, OUCH!, click, click, click, OUCH! OUCH! click, click, click, OUCH!
To tell you the truth, I never realized what a workout that finger endures when I type. After this, I will have more respect for the role it fulfills.
Actually, I never realized how much work that finger does all of the time. Reach for a doorknob -- and I hit the sore spot. Get a knife out of the drawer -- and I hit the sore spot. Reach for a pen to write something -- and I hit the sore spot.
We went to the grocery store after church on Sunday because I needed a few things (a bag of kitten chow, for one thing) and while I was writing out the check, all I could think was "ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch!" I am hoping that the check was legible enough so the scanner at the bank could scan it properly. I've had that happen, too, where the bank statement was off by 39 cents because the scanner did not read the check amount properly.
The split happens to be at a bad spot for getting a band-aid over it, too. (Most of them are, I have noticed). My finger might feel better if it had a little more cushion to protect it from the rest of the world.
The good thing is that I know the split will heal eventually. A little antibiotic ointment under the band-aid for a few days, and it will be good as new. Of course, by that time, another finger will split and I will have a new spot to bandage . . .
I have tried a number of different things to help my fingers out at this time of year: various hand lotions, creams and salves, petroleum jelly, antibiotic ointment regularly, the oil from vitamin E capsules, and now this year, Watkins Petro-Carb.
I was assured that the Watkins product was the perfect solution to split fingers in the winter, but so far, I haven't seen much benefit. I am disappointed, of course. Something that smells as bad as the Petro-Carb *ought* to be doing a good job.
It hasn't helped, I suppose, that my hands have been in so much soap and hot water every day for the last month to keep washing out the kittens' potty cloths. I am happy to report that Henry, Katerina and Dora the Explorer are now using the litter box on their own, so at least my hands won't have to be in so much hot water.
Henry, Katerina and Dora the Explorer are eating more now on their own, too. They still like to come up in my lap for formula from the syringe, but they've started to eat some solid food. The kittens would like nothing better than to roll around in my lap and play when they finish eating, but ever since Henry did a back flip off my knees and I caught him in mid-air, I haven't felt very comfortable with the three of them rolling around and playing in my lap. There just isn't enough room for them to play like that!
The good thing about it is that when I watch the kittens play and toddle around after me in the basement and explore new places, at least I forget about that blasted finger for a few moments. Until I reach for something. Like the kitty water dish. . .
LeAnn R. Ralph