Happy–Ooh, Shiny!

I had plans for today’s post. Really, I did. Unfortunately, distractability kicked me in the rear, as it has so often these past few months.

So, instead of the elaborate disquisition I had planned, you get a quick “Then/Now” post. Well, it is–as best we can tell–more or less her birthday.

Sachiko at age (approximately) three months:

In constant motion, fierce to defend her toys, but always eager for a cuddle.

Sachiko at age (approximately) six years:

No longer a model of hyperjettic behavior, much more willing to share toys, and considerably more rotund, but still an enthusiastic snuggler.

Happy Approximate Birthday, oh Pampered Princess Pointy-Bits.

Merry Christmas From a Formerly Nameless Kitten


What, you were expecting a Santa hat? Not in this house! We’re bringing Sachiko* up in the True Faith, after all.

* Yes, it’s true. The Kitten To Be Named Later has been named. Depending on how it’s written, “Sachiko” can mean “child of bliss” or “happiness”. She’s a happy kitten, and–if the Giants continue to play well–should remain a happy cat.

Am I disappointed that she hasn’t chosen to follow the Way of the Mariners? A little. But since she’s a Bay Area native, I understand her desire to cheer for a local team.

I can only speculate about why she chose the Giants over the As. She’s definitely a hands-on sort. Wants to do it all. I suspect that she simply doesn’t approve of the designated hitter rule.

A Little Bitty Update

The Kitten To Be Named Later remains formally unnamed. Should this situation continue, she’ll probably wind up as Little Bit, thereby ensuring that she’ll grow up to weigh eighteen pounds.

lbName aside, she is a most striking kitten. She strikes her toys. She strikes Maggie and me. Last night, in one of her first interactions with her siblings, she struck Yuki. Bopped him a good one on the nose when he got into her personal space–which apparently consists of an oblate spheroid with a diameter of approximately eight thousand miles.*

* It hasn’t been officially announced, but I understand she’s also claimed the larger, yellow spheroid some ninety-three million miles away.

lb0Nor is striking her only skill. She’s almost seen here in a furious assault on Maggie’s shoelace.

lb1Her favorite toy is whatever happens to be dangling above her head. We’ve seen more leaps, flips, somersaults, and tumbles in the past few weeks than in all of the last four Olympic gymnastics events combined. The leaps are especially impressive. We’ve seen her stand on her hind legs and jump upward high enough to get her hind feet above where her head was before the jump.

And that’s no small distance. She’s gotten past the novelty of eating everything put in front of her and demanding more, but she’s still eating enthusiastically*. She’s more than doubled in size and weight since we brought her inside–hence our fear that “Little Bit” will be a case of naming by contraries.

* Her favorite food is venison gooshy food. Clearly she remembers the deer who inhabit our neighborhood and still harbors hopes of bringing one of them down.

In recognition of her physical stature, we’ve begun to allow her to wear jewelry. Hopefully, being at the same level of dress as her siblings will simplify introductions. (Translation: She’s got a bell, just like they do, so nobody can sneak up on anyone else.)

Well suited to her personality…

The Political Prisoner and the Pampered Princess


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.

pp1She 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.

lb1Did I mention playful? She’s got toys. Mr. Mousie-Fish is pretty neat. He’s a teething toy, and he’s getting a workout.

lb2The crunchy ball is OK. Nothing great, but it makes interesting noises. The dangling feather is lots of fun.

lb3The 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!”