Carport Kittens

When Bianca's adoption was rescinded on Saturday morning, I have to admit that the news wasn't entirely disappointing. For one thing, it meant that we get to keep our big, black beauty for awhile longer. For another, we could go out and do something fun that day.

VOKRA foster manager, Mickey Carrington, emailed us that morning to tell us that fifteen new kittens would be arriving at Karen Duncan's house in the afternoon. Karen is sick, and Mickey wanted to know if we would be willing to help with their intake. We have never helped with "intake" before, but we thought we had a hazy notion of what was involved, so we agreed.

I have several new distinctive scars on my hands today, the prettiest of which form a perfect little diamond shape, composed of four punctures from sharp, tiny teeth. They were impressed into my left index finger by an outraged little tuxedo kitten with a kinky manx tail, who had become quite upset with me when I proposed to examine his credentials. My win record with the black and white cats seems to be running around fifty/fifty. The first three of our "intake" clients had already left with their new foster parents by the time we'd finished with the last twelve and cleaned my forensic contributions from the walls of Karen's downstairs bathroom.

Before we left that afternoon, Karen told us about the little tenants in her main-floor bathroom. She had four seven week-old kittens who had been born in a nicely arranged East End carport, and who have been living with her since they were weaned. We were taken upstairs to meet them, and found four little balls of fluffy popcorn, bouncing across the linoleum, skittering in and out of the plumbing fixtures. When the pale, ghostly grey one settled, purring, into Sheral's lap, I knew we were doomed.

Leonard's isolation cell has been reassembled, and our four new guests have been invested therein. They still had no names on Sunday morning, but there was an idea rolling around inside of my head like a little marble racing about the rim of a great, big bowl. One of our new charges has beautiful spots like a leopard. A long time ago, I saw a film by Luchino Visconti about a Sicilian prince whose family emblem is just such a creature. Based on a 1958 novel by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, it was called Il Gattopardo, or The Leopard.

Ergo, I have proposed that our handsome, spotty, new friend shall be Don Fabrizio, after the princely main character in the story. His big, russian-blue sister with the splendid, stubby tail will be called Dona Concetta, and the spectral, grey tabby girl is going to be named Dona Carolina, after two of Fabrizio's daughters. The last little boy was the hardest, and I have named him after the organist who plays in the family church. The little, black male will be Don Ciccio, not least of all because he appears to be the pianist.

They are four beautiful, active, well-behaved little cats, and I suspect that they will be with us about as long as their cousin Schroeder was.

Of course, most of our other cats are outraged that the little ones have invaded their home.  Bianca is appalled, but it probably won't be of long duration. She warms to other cats pretty quickly. Xena gives them a wide berth and Brie visits often to teach them new dirty words. Leonard has built himself an unassailable fortress of the cushions at the top of the big bed, and will not be moved therefrom. Rena, being Rena, will make the best of what comes, and accepts this too with her usual good cheer.

It is KITTEN SEASON again, and again VOKRA is being swamped. If you have a space in your home or in your heart, please contact us about adopting one - or more - of these nice little cats, their cousins, or their aunts or uncles. If you have a bigger space, or a softer heart, you might consider fostering for us. If you don't think you're ready for either commitment, please follow the link below and contribute as generously as you can.

You've done so before, and I thank you again.

To donate to the Vancouver Orphan Kitten

Rescue Association

please click here.

Naming Names

There is one lesser dividend of the Second World War that we frequently ignore, and we should not. We don't often recall that since 1945, few little boys have grown up encumbered by the name "Adolf".

Your name is one of the very first gifts that you received, and some of you, like me, might wish that your parents had kept the receipt.


My eldest brother is named Donald George, after my father's brother and my mother's. Our sister is called Xandra Fredress, in honour of both of our parents. Next on the list was James Edwin, after Mom's brother-in-law, and two of her uncles. I believe that John Alan was named for Dad's own father, but some of the family records are a bit spotty in places, and I've only ever seen our grandfather listed as "John".

I was the result of my parents' last erotic hiccup. Since it was middle of the nineteen-fifties, I suspect that one (or both) of them was drunk. Perhaps more than occasionally, destiny is that random. By the time that I arrived, our family had already fulfilled its obligations to all of our solvent male relatives, so our parents decided to name me after someone that they actually liked. My first name is Lee, and as an afterthought, they appended my father's given name of Alexander to it.

I've never found Shel Silverstein's song, A Boy Named Sue, particularly funny. Its premise hit too close to where I live. There was always some smart-mouth in school who was delighted to inform me that Lee was the name of his sister. Neither my uncle's bride, Rosalie, nor my sister-in-law, Leona liked their names, so they chose to abbreviate them...and guess what they were shortened to...

In a time when they might have pointed to examples like Lee Marvin or Lee J. Cobb as co-owners of my name, my classmates would generally remind me of Lee Harvey Oswald instead. Because it's difficult to shorten one-syllable names, mine has frequently been lengthened. It has been extended to Leo, Leon, Leonardo, Leroy and even Lee-man. I still wake up screaming...

A number of friends have tried to make me like my name better by telling me what it means; it is a protected shelter, the side turned away from the wind or the quarter to which the said wind blows. It is also the alternative spelling of lea, or meadow.

Somehow, I felt that that it would not be particularly useful to tell them that my brother Don's friend Lee (who my parents had actually liked) had been born in China, and his name means plum. Just keep that under your hats, okay?

Often, people will change names they don't like. I suppose it's a easy enough process. My Tall Lady, Sheral, was once a simple Susan, but apparently, the numbers didn't add up. I haven't considered it because I haven't ever found a name that I prefer. Also it's one of the more polite things that my siblings have called me. Finally, it's the name that my parents, in their folly, chose for me.

Besides, after all this time, maybe I'm getting used to it.

Good night, Marion Morrison, wherever you are.
 

Raffles

I'm very pleased to be able to share Kass' progress reports on our pal Ronny:

Ronny aka "Raffles"  

April 24, 2012

Hello to both of you,

Elegant, Urbane Raffles

Just a progress report on the handsome cat.  He has absolutely blossomed in the last few days.  He is no longer bolting away when I come into the room, he actually leaves about half of his food for later consumption and is totally enamored of Mimi.  She is treating him like a pesty little brother, they do cuddle and the cat races commence around 5:30 am until 7:00 am and again at around 8:00 pm until bedtime.  He is just the most affectionate little guy and I am enjoying him very much.  He has amassed a healthy collection of tinfoil balls although I am not sure where he is stashing them, he has also realized that “they come from the kitchen” and if you sit and meow a new tinfoil ball is forthcoming from the magic drawer.  I have installed some sturdy netting around the patio so that he can’t wobble off the edge although he is not terribly interested in going outside, he has a quick look and comes right back in the house, perhaps over time he will relax a little and realize that no one will hurt him out there.  So, I hope that the girls are not missing him too much, I truly wish I could have taken all three of them together but Mimi just wouldn’t have made that big an adjustment, I am actually surprised at how far she has come in such a short time as she found the wobble a bit disconcerting at first but as she is also a very affectionate little being I am glad they are adjusting so well.

By the way, how is Leonard?  I also particularly enjoyed reading about “Lemon”!

Regards,

Kass

 

Raffles, the Gentleman Cat

Raffles the Gentleman Cat

April 27, 2012 

Hi,

I would post to your blog but I don't remember the login I set up.  A couple of pictures of the most handsome fellow and one of Mimi.   He has really settled in and he and Mimi are roaring around like maniacs!  The latest and best game is to hide under the couch and ambush whomever strolls by, Raffles (formerly Ronnie) has taken to peering under there every time he walks into the room, he is one smart boy but Mimi still gets him, she waits until he has looked, scoots under the other side and grabs him after he has confirmed a “no Mimi” sighting.  I thought they were going to bring the place down last night – downstairs neighbor is being very tolerant of thundering herds of cats hitting walls and knocking things over all at 130 MPH.  Raffles loves the footstool, he is particularly taken with the crystals as they make quite a good noise when you pull on them either one at a time or as a group (which you can do from the top or even better lying underneath, the fringe has the added benefit of being on all four sides so you can entertain yourself endlessly.  I can’t imagine life without him.

ps.  regards to Leonard

Kass 

Beautiful Big Sister, Mimi

 

 

 

 In the 1890's, author E.W. Hornung created the character of Arthur J. Raffles, as a response to the stories written by his brother-in-law, Arthur Conan Doyle about a consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes.

Raffles is a noted cricketer who has become popular in the higher circles of English society for his athletic prowess. This gains him many invitations to the homes and celebrations of the wealthy and important, who are unaware of Raffles' true sphere of interest - A.J. Raffles is also a cat burglar.

Clever, charming, quick of hand and sure of step, Raffles is an elegant rogue with his own peculiar code of ethics. He is an accomplished thief of hearts, loyalties and of other items of varying value. His stories were published in the collections, The Amateur Cracksman, The Black Mask, A Thief in the Night, and in the novel, Mr.Justice Raffles.

My buddy, Ronny the Rocket, has chosen "Raffles" as his new name. I think it suits him to a tee.

The New Ronny

Ronny has become a new cat in the last two months. He has been working out.

He and his sister Rena have discovered a new, favourite toy. It is a ball made of the foil lining from a package of cigarettes, and Ronny, in particular, will chase it until he is breathless and exhausted. I don't know when he started smoking.

When our friend Maria Soroski went out to Abbotsford to move him and his sisters, she complained about how much trouble it was catching the two fat ones. They had been habituating the parking lot of the McDonald's there, begging french fries from tender-hearted, soft-headed patrons of that franchise, and perhaps they were something other than svelte.

The best result of this new exercise programme is that they are no longer the fat ones. The meat on Rena's still slightly big bones has turned into hard, solid muscle, and Handsome Ronny has become a lean, mean, felleen machine. He is so pleased with himself that he has almost entirely forsaken wobbling in favour of a proud, leonine strut.

He will spend hours at a time, bounding down our long, carpeted hallway in pursuit of his magical, silver sphere. After each run, he will either return the ball to the person who threw it for him, or will carry it to Rena, so the two of them can enjoy a rousing game of Wobbly Cat Soccer together. When the game is finished, our good little lad always remembers to put their toy away in its traditional storage place...under the kitchen stove.

Their sister, Reba the Diva, was adopted last month by a very nice lady who has just emailed to inform us that her beautiful new cat has a bit of a hearing loss. In truth, we never noticed, but I'm pretty sure that Ronny's hearing is fine. It is certainly acute enough to summon him back from the parallel universe to which bored cats go whenever I creak and groan down onto the floor to peer under the stove with my flashlight.

My own hearing is acute enough to perceive his evil, little chuckle.

Ronny had his own date earlier this week. A lady named Kass came over to meet him to see if he would make a good companion for her eight year-old Mimi. I am protective of our foster cats, so I was determined to dislike her on first meeting. She stayed and she visited for about forty-five minutes. As much as I tried, and as critical as I wanted to be, I'm ashamed to say that I couldn't find anything wrong with her.

Kass has now paid the fee, signed the papers, and she will be coming to collect her big handsome kitten on Friday morning.

Ronny has been a joy to foster, and we will miss him. I think that Kass, and maybe even Mimi, will come to love the great, clumsy, good-hearted lug, and they will spoil him as rotten as he deserves. Kass is already telling her friends and neighbours about our beautiful Rena and la Bella Bianca, so they may follow him out our door soon.

Thank God we still have Leonard!

The Full Ronny

Eight and Fifty

Time, as I have observed previously, is just one thing after another. So it is for all things, and so it has been with me.

I am a lad from the wilds of East Vancouver; I have never travelled very far away, and have always been impatient to return. I am fifty-eight years old today.

When I grow up, I would like to be taller.

Places, events and people have taken up space in the files of my memory that might be better used otherwise, but the honest fact is that I've chosen to save them there because of what they mean or have meant to me. I don't know for certain that I would change a single one of them - well perhaps one or two...

When I'm feeling particularly ancient and cranky I'll tell the younger among you that you are spoiled; that when I was your age we didn't have the things that you have now. When I was a boy, we had fire and stone tools - and we had to make them ourselves! Then, I will inform you that my first computer was a flat rock and a burnt stick. In my day, I might say, matters of the heart were determined with a club, and I still get headaches.

Another honest fact is that this trip has not been particularly strange, nor does it seem especially long. It always amazes me to wake in the morning and see somebody who looks like our friend in the top left corner laughing back at me from the bathroom mirror. Who in the hell invited him to this party?

You, however, were invited today, and I will ask that you bring me gifts.

I will post a link to my FaceBook wall below. You may leave my presents there. Among the acceptable offerings are photos, quotes, stories and music. If you see a picture that reminds you of me, know of some words that might brighten our day, a tale that might gladden our hearts, or a song that will bring a tear to our collective cheek, please share them there.

If you can think of something that you believe I need to know, or if you feel that my arrogant, intrusive, yet strangely handsome nose needs a bit of a tweak, go for it. If you feel the need to go for it more than once, kicking me after I'm already down is perfectly acceptable today.

What I would like most from you is a day filled with the music that you like and think that I would enjoy too. Remember, though, that I still haven't forgiven Carly Simon for writing that song about me...

Please be extremely well.

Please click here to place your tributes

Big Stick Diplomacy

"Speak softly and carry a big stick;" advised Theodore Roosevelt, "you will go far."

Leonard has arrived. He is five months old, and he was trapped a few weeks ago at a Burnaby lumber yard. His left front paw had been injured, and was so badly damaged that it needed to be amputated. The amputation is pretty radical. His arm is gone from the mid-shaft of his humerus, and he holds his stump so tightly against his chest that it sometimes looks as if it is missing at the shoulder.


At the moment, he is living in a big cage on the floor of our living room, and he will remain there until he has grown a little more comfortable here. Leonard, you see, is frightened and angry. Mostly, I think, he is angry.

He's been through a great deal in his short, hard life, and he holds me personally responsible for all of the terrible things that have happened to him so far. I have given him my assurance that we are going to be best buddies one day, but he's not buying it yet. Leonard regards me as the face of his oppressor, and has given me fair warning that there's nothing that he would enjoy more than to tear that face away and feast upon the warm flesh beneath.

Although my proximity is not appreciated and my presence hasn't been invited, I am permitted to enter his room on occasion. I may straighten his bedding, police his litter box, and certainly, I am allowed to present his food four times a day.

Our five other cats get individual saucers overflowing with tinned cat food twice a day. Leonard gets tiny dollops of raw, ground meat for each of his four meals. Ronny and Bianca have noticed that he gets fed more frequently than they do, and have expressed their opinion that the system is flawed. While he accepts that it is not something that he can do for himself, Leonard comments on the quality of my service with hisses, spits and low, grownup growls.

I've been told that mealtimes are the best times to socialise feral cats...this is where the Big Stick comes in.

Over the years, the Tall Lady and I have bought numerous cat toys. Most of them are still in immaculate condition, since the cats prefer to play with empty cereal boxes, toilet paper tubes and Sheral's knitting. Some of those toys are attached to long, plastic wands. One morning, when Leonard was enjoying his breakfast of smashed beast, I tried to stroke him with one of those big sticks.

Quite understandably, Leonard was appalled, but he resumed his meal, underscoring his dinner music with throaty rumbles. I continued with this experiment for another couple of meals, until I thought it was safe to try something new.

Yesterday, I left the wand behind when I gave Leonard his dinner. When I thought he was settled and distracted enough, I reached in with my left hand, and began to pet him. At first, there was a loud, sharp report, like a kitten exploding. The angry growl came next, as the poor, startled, little cat tried to slap me with his missing left paw. Finally, he grabbed onto me with his right paw, and sank his sharp, little feline canines as deeply as they could go into my offending appendage, while calling me every dirty name he could remember, as well as a few that he'd just made up. He growled, he clawed, he scratched and he howled. While he never let down his defenses completely, he did relax a little, and he eventually returned to his meal, while I kept on stroking his back.

Note to the Tall Lady - we are going to need a new oven mitt...

Our friend Lilian has suggested that we change his menu to something a little less...macho. She has offered to make him little quiches, watercress sandwiches [without crusts], or fairy cakes with pink icing and candy sprinkles. I think it'll just take time for him to trust us.

Last night, my nephew Dave reminded me of the MacPherson Clan motto, which is this: "Touch Not the Cat Bot a Glove". "Bot" means "without". I've been getting the same message from our new foster kid.

Perhaps Leonard is already family.