It's hard not to call this "another cat day." We seem destined to deal with these guys and of course, it's like with children -- the more there are, the greater the bag of issues. Eight cats can generate a lot of issues, even if theoretically they live in the wild rather than in our home.
It starts at 3:30 in the morning. Meowing and pawing at the screen of our open bedroom window. We look out over a sliver of rooftop and Dance decided that maybe this would be a good way for her to get us to pay attention to her. She is always trying to get inside the farmhouse. It's her curiosity, sure, and it's also her belief that she should have the run of every farmette space. She is the new matriarch. She, not us, makes the rules.
Dance, you are a sweet and gentle cat, but no, you cannot come inside at 3:30 in the morning. Widow closed.
Morning. Still warm, still sunny. Still very dry out there. I choose the next patch of flowers to water. The ones that still may bloom this year.
Breakfast with a sleepy Ed. Why are we up so early? I've been up for hours! Okay...
On the porch.
The kids are here soon after and this time the message is clear: can we go straight inside?
I bargain. How about just after you water the tomato pots? And after we give the chickens some bread?
I have an agreeable bunch here.
Inside, both kids want to find some common ground: a game, a pretend set up -- something that can draw all of us in. It's not easy: she is five and a half, he is just two. But in pretend foods, there is always a place for everyone.
In the late afternoon, I pick up more medicine for Calico. We don't really know if it's addressing her problem, but she is getting better. The vet says three more weeks.
Three more weeks of lockdown?? Poor kid.
At home, we line up five animal carriers (some borrowed). It's the designated day for capturing the six teenagers and getting them to the place that gives rabies vaccinations. I've not looked forward to this at all, though I don't know why I should mind so much since Ed is the one who basically does the capture. He gets the scratches, the bites and carts them off for their shots.
We manage to get only three. The others get spooked and run away. Ed almost wants to release the victims and start again another day. We'd gotten only one of the twins: how could we ever tell, going forward, which one still needs the vaccination? Still, I urge him to start with the three.
We'll paint his tail some color! He shakes his head, but drives off.
Three cats down, three to go.
Remind me why anyone would say tending to feral cats is fun?
It starts at 3:30 in the morning. Meowing and pawing at the screen of our open bedroom window. We look out over a sliver of rooftop and Dance decided that maybe this would be a good way for her to get us to pay attention to her. She is always trying to get inside the farmhouse. It's her curiosity, sure, and it's also her belief that she should have the run of every farmette space. She is the new matriarch. She, not us, makes the rules.
Dance, you are a sweet and gentle cat, but no, you cannot come inside at 3:30 in the morning. Widow closed.
Morning. Still warm, still sunny. Still very dry out there. I choose the next patch of flowers to water. The ones that still may bloom this year.
Breakfast with a sleepy Ed. Why are we up so early? I've been up for hours! Okay...
On the porch.
The kids are here soon after and this time the message is clear: can we go straight inside?
I bargain. How about just after you water the tomato pots? And after we give the chickens some bread?
I have an agreeable bunch here.
Inside, both kids want to find some common ground: a game, a pretend set up -- something that can draw all of us in. It's not easy: she is five and a half, he is just two. But in pretend foods, there is always a place for everyone.
In the late afternoon, I pick up more medicine for Calico. We don't really know if it's addressing her problem, but she is getting better. The vet says three more weeks.
Three more weeks of lockdown?? Poor kid.
At home, we line up five animal carriers (some borrowed). It's the designated day for capturing the six teenagers and getting them to the place that gives rabies vaccinations. I've not looked forward to this at all, though I don't know why I should mind so much since Ed is the one who basically does the capture. He gets the scratches, the bites and carts them off for their shots.
We manage to get only three. The others get spooked and run away. Ed almost wants to release the victims and start again another day. We'd gotten only one of the twins: how could we ever tell, going forward, which one still needs the vaccination? Still, I urge him to start with the three.
We'll paint his tail some color! He shakes his head, but drives off.
Three cats down, three to go.
Remind me why anyone would say tending to feral cats is fun?
