Meezer Mommy spent ten days as a guest in our garage, three before her surgery, and seven after.
Well, we considered her a guest. Judging by her behavior, she considered herself a political prisoner.
She was sullen. She spent much of her time sitting in the darkest corner of the recovery cage, muttering darkly under her breath about how the oppressed proletariat meezers would rise up and defeat the evil biped bourgeois. Or something like that. Whenever we got close enough to eavesdrop on her mumblings, she would stop talking and climb into the litter box. No doubt she planned to accuse us of forcing her into the box when she eventually put us on trial before a jury of her peers.
But on Wednesday, we returned her to the wild. We had planned a modest ceremony: a bowl of gooshy food and a recording of “Born Free“. At the first glimpse of freedom, she tore out of the cage, leaped over the bowl of food, zipped across the yard, and vanished under the gate before the first bar of the song was complete.
She spent Wednesday afternoon getting reacquainted with her turf. I spotted her crossing the street from one of her regular haunts to another late in the afternoon. And she finally made an appearance at the backyard bowl a couple of hours after I took the kitty krunchies out.
Clearly her incarceration didn’t leave her with any lasting mental scars. She was hanging around the back yard Thursday afternoon, asserting her authority over Faux Tux by grabbing all of the treats I tossed in their direction, and she had more than a few words with Grey Tabby when all three cats showed up for the ceremonial Filling of the Bowls. She’s reasserted her dominance, and she’s quite happy to keep her distance from us–but eat as much food as we care to put out.
Then there’s Little Bit, aka The Kitteh To Be Named Later.
She’s spent the past week and half in medical isolation in the spare room. She knows a good thing when she sees one. It took her less than a day to box train herself, ten minutes to decide that gooshy food is delicious, and three days to figure out that being patted is almost as good as–and sometimes better–than gooshy food.
Yup. Despite the disorientation of being kittennapped, held in captivity, and poked and prodded by the vet, she made it from scared kitten hiding in the corner of her enclosure to playful kitten rubbing against our hands, climbing in our laps, and purring loudly in less than four days.
Did I mention playful? She’s got toys. Mr. Mousie-Fish is pretty neat. He’s a teething toy, and he’s getting a workout.
The crunchy ball is OK. Nothing great, but it makes interesting noises. The dangling feather is lots of fun.
The real prize, though, is the seussian weeble toy. Those shiny mylar tails make it Th3 Gr3At3st T0y 3V3r. Every play session ends with a complaint. “But I’m not done playing with the weeble! You can’t send me back to the enclosure yet. I’ll be all hyperjettic!”
It’s a legitimate argument. She does have a tendency to literally start climbing the walls after we put her back in the enclosure. But we stay firm, and never extend the play session by more than an hour.
Four feedings a day, more toys than she can play with at once (though she certainly tries to play with them all simultaneously), and snuggles whenever she wants. “Pampered? Me? Oh, yes. More please!”