The End Times, Part II: Snailiens

 As I've mentioned here in the past, there are a number of things that I'd like to cover but either happen and pass quickly before I can get the chance to write about them or are glossed over in favor of other, bigger news. 

And, of course, there are some things that I really want to be able to write about to explain some things, but truthfully I really can't yet (or perhaps ever). Because of that, I'm sure some of you have been able to draw your own conclusions on certain events or timeframes and if so, congratulations, you know how to read between the lines. If not, well, pay attention to some context here and there. 

Anyway, moving on.

Did you know we now have a breeding colony of snails?

Likely not, as I've never had the time to write about it here. 

On Black Friday -- way back in November -- we went to the Fish Store™ here in Omaha as Daisy wanted to get some shrimp for our fishtank. Our fishtank had sat empty on the kitchen counter island for many months since the death of our betta fish, Ghost, back in April (we had, purely coincidentally, gotten Ghost on Black Friday 2023). Well, Daisy had gotten it into her mind that she wanted to get a bunch of blue dream shrimp to occupy that tank -- so she gutted the tank, cleaned it really well, and we got five blue dream shrimp and four or five aquatic plants, and she created a shrimp habitat.

Of the five shrimp we put in there -- five because we wanted a decent mix of males and females and wanted them to breed -- two immediately disappeared/died (we never saw them again), a third disappeared/died within a week, and the remaining two we're not sure aren't both males or both females because now, four months later, we still have no babies. I've come to the conclusion that if the remaining two are male and female, at least one of them is gay, if not both -- because, again, no babies. 

But, what we do have, is snails.

About two or three weeks after we set up the tank and the shrimp were living their best life, we wanted to get what they call a "mystery snail" (it's the breed name, not that it's unknown) to help keep the tank clean. I was excited about this as I think, well, snails are cool. We went to PetSmart on a day we needed to pick up litter for the cats anyhow, and purchased a single mystery snail about the size of a quarter for $4 and brought him home. We named him Speedy, as a joke, but it turned out to be an apt name. Speedy spent his days zooming around the tank, up and down the glass, across the rocks and the tank decorations, and up and down the plants. He seemed very happy. 

Several days after we got Speedy, Daisy noticed something moving in the tank that was not a shrimp and was not Speedy himself -- it was a tiny baby snail. And then another, and another. We wondered if Speedy had been pregnant, because this was highly unusual -- we had put no other snails in the tank. Suddenly, we had a population of invaders -- aliens. Snailiens.  

As they grew, we were able to identify them as Ramshorn snails, all of them bright fiery orange-red in color -- definitely not children of Speedy. We first had three or four, then five, then six big ones that seemed to crawl out of the woodwork. This first generation of six snails grew large quickly -- the biggest one becoming about the size of a dime in the course of a month or so (I named him "Monster"). And they co-existed with Speedy and the two remaining shrimp in a happy harmony. We had to assume that they were eggs that came on the plants we'd put into the tank, because there was no way they'd come from anything/anywhere else. Speedy certainly wasn't carrying eggs from another breed of snail. 

I was happy -- "Look at our little aquatic family," I told Daisy. 

Until they started fucking. And fucking a lot. 

Every time I walked by the tank there would be a veritable snail orgy going on. Bump and grind action, juices flowing, sometimes 3-4 snails together in positions that you'd just have to stop and stare at for a few minutes.

And not too long after, we'd see clusters of eggs on the sides of the tank, on the plants, on the tank structures. Soon after that, I would see little tiny specks of baby snails crawling along the glass and all of the plants. Some of these snails would grow into larger ones over a few weeks, some would just disappear (either eaten by the shrimp or the other, larger snails I'm sure). At my first true count of the babies, once they were big enough for me to count, I counted twenty-one new baby snails that were milling around the tank. 

And one really strange one.

"Daisy," I said, "this snail is not a Ramshorn, he has a pointed shell in the back and he's a completely different color."

One of the new babies was very distinctly different than the others; he had a longer shell that came to a spiral point in the back, sort of like a conch does, and he was dark gray/brown in color with a sort of mottled, tortoiseshell pattern on his shell. The Ramshorns are orange-red and Speedy is white. It was very clear that he was not a Ramshorn and not a mystery snail like Speedy. 

Daisy named him "Rusty" and he appears to have integrated well into the tank with the others. We still don't know what he is, but he's about a centimeter or so long now (perhaps slightly smaller) and wanders the tank with the rest of the babies. He seems to be doing just fine in there -- but we have no clue where he came from either, and I find it difficult to believe that one and only one viable egg from some other species of snail was latched onto the plants somewhere and found a way to hatch and thrive.

There have not been any new eggs for a month or so, but there are easily forty snails in our small, five-gallon tank. Believe me, they all come out when I drop some pellets or an algae disc in there to feed them -- the floor of the tank becomes thick with snails. Snails apparently self-regulate their populations (I'll believe that when I see it) and if that is the case, I don't expect many more. But as it is, we definitely have enough of them. 

However...

The entire reason that Daisy wanted to get the shrimp and revive the fishtank again was because she wanted to get another betta in there and have a shrimp-and-betta paradise. Ghost, our last betta fish (ironically not named after the band, as I didn't become a fan of them until long after we'd gotten him), was a white, albino-looking boy who we bought on a whim one day from PetSmart because Daisy said he called out to her and told her he would die there, in his little plastic cup on the shelf, if we didn't take him home. 

Ghost was funny. He was an active little fish, loved attention and loved feeding time, and would dart around the tank enjoying his surroundings. When we got him, Hank was still a fairly little kitten, and would sit on the floor under the tank, watching him dart back and forth, not understanding what he was watching. However, as Hank is Mr. Shortlegs, we never had to worry about him jumping up on the counter to observe Ghost more closely.

Ghost lived from when we got him in November 2023 to early April 2024 -- he slowly got more and more lethargic and ill, and despite medicinal treatments we added to the tank water and more frequent tank cleanings to see if he'd perk back up, he never really recovered. He sank to the bottom of the tank and died about a week before we got Mable. I always say that we gave him several more months of happy life than he would've had in the plastic cup at PetSmart. Daisy was sad when he left us, but neither of us were too upset -- he was a fish. It's not like he was one of the cats or anything. You also can't really bury a fish (well, you could, but what's the point?) and you're not supposed to flush fish down the toilet anymore -- so he was unceremoniously disposed of in the trash can. I did feel bad about that, but...what else were we supposed to do? Cremate him?

Anyway.

Daisy had wanted another betta since Ghost died, but this time we wanted to get one from the fish store -- a place that took really good care of their fish and also carried the more high-end, specialized "breeds" of bettas. They generally had about ten or so in stock at any given time, each of them in their own tanks. However, we were warned by the people at the fish store (and by many others online, on sites like Reddit and the like) that bettas could be predators to blue dream shrimp...or maybe they wouldn't be, if they had no interest in them. This kept us from getting one for a while.

However, with all the snails in the tank and knowing that bettas can and will eat baby snails, I told Daisy that we had to take a calculated risk here in order to try to keep the snail population down, and I wanted to get a big hungry betta to see if the fish would actually do that. While we didn't want to lose the shrimp, we'd had them for four months and they hadn't given us a single shrimp child. And, if they ever did, between the snails and the shrimp I figured it was fine to get a betta and see what happened.

Daisy was thrilled because after months of hoping we could get another betta, I was finally open to it again -- and a few weeks ago we went back to the fish store to pick one out. The one Daisy ended up getting was a multicolored, small-finned male with dark blue and orange accents and bright neon blue spots on him. His breed was "Hellboy," apparently, though don't ask me what that means or why they call the breed that. Daisy named him "Lucy," perhaps because we've been working our way through the Lucifer TV series for the past few months (but I'm also guessing the "hell" in "Hellboy" had something to do with it). I made the joke that he's a trans fish, since Daisy gave a male fish a female name. 

Lucy seems to be pretty happy most of the time with his new surroundings. He's not as active as Ghost was, but he's playful and swims around the tank and is attentive when we approach the tank. He also has no lack of food whatsoever; we feed him daily with the food we gave Ghost, and I've seen him pick off a few tiny baby snails here and there. He also seems to enjoy diving down and eating some of the food for the snails and shrimp that sinks to the bottom (it's designed to). Interestingly enough, he has never really paid any mind to the two remaining shrimp in there -- though they did hide away completely for the first week or so we had him in the tank with them. Now that they've gotten used to him and he apparently isn't a threat to them, they coexist normally. Bettas live a year or three, on average. I don't know how old Lucy is; it's possible he'll kick off in six months like Ghost did, or live for another year or two. None of the snails seem to mind him, but they're not exactly intelligent creatures -- they're slugs with shells. So, we'll see what happens. 

We'd eventually like to get some more shrimp and add them to the tank, or (if Lucy isn't exactly effective at keeping the snail population down) I would like to get a couple of crayfish to put in there, or an assassin snail. Crayfish will absolutely eat all the baby snails and assassin snails are just that -- assassins, they kill and eat other snails. However, crayfish will also eat the shrimp, and I don't want an assassin snail to kill and eat Speedy, Rusty, or Monster. So, it's really a wait-and-see scenario.

The End Times, Part I

 There are a lot of things that happen in our lives that either get bypassed, dropped, or otherwise forgotten about before I get the chance to chronicle them here, or there are times where I will mention something has happened but will gloss over it to get to the bigger picture or story I want to tell. Well, this short series of entries will be more about covering those little things as well as the bigger things.

I also wanted to note, before I begin, that I was wrong about something -- Daisy did not want a flame-point; she thought they were pretty but was always more of a blue-point or lynx-point girl. The only one she doesn't think is cute are the seal-point cats, which are my favorite (and I do slightly take offense to this). So, I must correct myself on something I said earlier -- she did not always want a flame-point cat. 

Anyway, moving on.

Something I mentioned in passing was that we'd been cleaning and reorganizing the house because we had an inspection coming up from the humane society in order to get us legally approved to adopt a sixth cat were we to want to get one. This inspection had been postponed by a week because I'd had a nasty cold which Daisy got right after me, and it hit her much harder -- we'd postponed it so that the inspector would not have to be in the house with her/our germs, and also so that we could both recover and make the house look presentable.

Look, we don't have a clean house. I'm sure there are multiple folks reading this who know me or us in real life, and have been inside our home before. We're not crazy messy or anything like that but we are a very cluttered people in the House of Brandon and Daisy™ -- and it's not for lack of want to have a cleaner, more organized space...it's generally just a lack of time and energy to make it that way, with multiple factors contributing to the general messiness. 

But, inspection. We do have the space and eventual possible want for a sixth cat. It's not something we are actively looking for at all, honestly. I have said many times that I do not want another cat until after Pete dies, and likely won't for some time even then -- Pete is the last of his generation, the first cat I ever had and could call mine, and is the cat Daisy and I have always been closest to. When he goes, it will be an emotional shotgun blast to the gut for both of us regardless of how or when it happens, and while I know it's coming, I don't know I will ever be ready for it. I'm pretty sure Daisy isn't and won't be. 

So, because of the inspection, and because we didn't know what the inspector(s) would be looking for or what they would consider black marks on our record and deny us, we wanted the house to look as good as possible. To those ends, Daisy and I both took great pains to clean the kitchen up and to absolutely gut the dining room, cleaning off the table completely, cleaning out from under it, sweeping and scrubbing the floors, and trashing everything we did not want or need. This also included cleaning out the China cabinet's drawers and cupboards so that we could store our tools and at least five full cases of canned cat food.

I'll explain that last one quickly -- when Sadie was alive, she ate like a horse. She was the biggest eater in the house, and because of her hyperthyroidism had the fastest metabolism. We were going through five cans of wet food per day, three of which Sadie would devour by herself (roughly, I mean, piecing it all together). A few weeks before Sadie died, Daisy needed to order something from Chewy.com -- I believe it was some litter -- and if she spent a certain amount on certain products, she would get like $30 off or something like that. I don't remember the details, and they're mostly unimportant now. Anyway, she already had a case of the Friskies Chicken & Tuna Dinner pate wet cat food, which was the oldies' favorite for a long time -- especially Sadie -- but it was no longer available on Amazon and we could only get it in local stores. Chewy had it, though, and she asked me if we needed anything else so that she could hit the total she needed and to get the cashback amount. I told her at the time just to get another case or two of that food, since we couldn't find it anywhere anymore and if nothing else, Sadie would eat it and probably Pete and Mable too.

Well, by the time we got it delivered, Sadie was able to eat maybe 3-4 cans of the three cases of it we had ordered before she dropped dead, and Pete no longer seemed interested in it at all. It has now become one of Mable and Emmy's favorite foods, which is fine, but...we still have three cases of it and they don't eat anywhere near as much as Sadie did, so we had to make space for that (as well as all of the other canned cat food we had) in one of the deep drawers of the China cabinet. 

Anyway.

The dining room was a grand undertaking. We have a giant, fifteen-foot-long dining room table (no, that is not an exaggeration and for the past six years it was our go-to-place to put shit that didn't have anywhere else to go. So, in that time, it became a giant eyesore of a junk pile, filled with anything and everything under the sun -- clothing, half-empty purses, multiple bags full of paperwork and stuff to be shredded, our toolboxes, mail, canned cat food and treats, Amazon orders for random things we'd gotten and had forgotten about, small souvenirs from trips, Christmas gifts to and from people that we'd considered lost, old holiday/birthday cards, empty prescription bottles, full and unopened bottles of vitamins, supplements, and essential oils, scissors, kitchen utensils, extension cords, boxes of nails and screws, spider traps, string lighting, outdoor lighting and light bulbs, Christmas decorations, fall decorations, empty cardboard boxes, filled cardboard boxes full of shit still packed in there from my house in Kansas, etc. You name it -- there was a possibility it was on or under that table.

The dining room took multiple hours, multiple nights, to clean out. Finally, in a six-hour-long push on the Friday night before the inspection would take place on the following Saturday morning, Daisy and I finished it. We also made a vow to keep it clean and to never let it get that bad again. 

The kids are delighted; suddenly, all of them can get up on the table again. Mable and Emmy especially love just sitting on the bare table and watching us, as it gives them a different vantage point than anywhere else in the house. Pete likes to sit up there as well. I don't know that I've seen Hank or Charlie on the table yet, though I'm sure they've been up there. There's nothing on it anyway but an air purifier at the far end (right above where the litter pans are, to de-stink them) and a big bowl full of their toys in the middle of the table. We left that there on purpose so they can grab toys out of it for playtime, and it seems to have worked.

The inspection was the next morning, between 8am and 12pm. To set the stage here, this was a Saturday -- one week to the day after we'd gotten Charlie and a few days after we'd let him out to explore. We'd just been told the night before that he had parasites and all of the cats had gotten their first doses of their anti-parasite pills. We also did not know when they would show up that morning, so when I woke up after a night of exhausted and fitful sleep and it was already after 8, I leapt up and started getting dressed and ready.

Shortly after 9, they arrived -- just as Daisy was getting up for the day. And it was not who I expected to show up. I expected it to be a volunteer, likely a younger girl, in street clothes with a clipboard. Instead, it was two fully-uniformed Animal Control officers, complete with badges and cuffs and nightsticks and maybe even sidearms (I was so surprised I didn't even pay attention, honestly) -- one female and one male, both around 30 or so. 

We warmly invited them in, and we explained why they were there (they did not really seem to know, aside from it being an "inspection"), and when they found out that it was just so we could get the legal approval for a sixth cat, their demeanors greatly softened. The girl did the talking, asked us a few questions, and got to see Pete, Mable, and Charlie -- none of whom seemed to give a single shit that there were new people in the house. Hank and Emmy had already hid behind the couch. 

They walked through the living room, dining room, and glanced at the kitchen -- seeing that we had three very visible litter pans, multiple food bowls and plates, four accessible water bowls, and a giant cat tree in the corner, and didn't even need to see the upstairs -- we were approved on the spot as our house was "a cat's paradise." I quipped that it's a cat habitat and we just live here. They thanked us for making the effort to keep everything legal and on the books with the city, which I was sort of surprised by, and then made their exit. The entire inspection experience was less than five minutes -- in and out. I was stunned. 

So yeah, if we ever want another one, or if Pete dies and we want to adopt a bonded pair of kittens, we can now legally do so -- it's all in our records. The sixth-cat-permit is a yearly thing and has to be renewed every year when we renew the cats' licenses, but no further inspections are required. I can't remember whether they said there's a fee to renew it or not, but I'm guessing there is. 

Again, we are not looking for a sixth cat. The five we have now, especially with the white goblin being the white goblin he is, are more than enough. It would have to be my dream cat, a kitten I could not live without, before I'd even come anywhere close to considering filling that sixth spot. Hell, I was fine with the four, though I have to say I really love little Charlie. 

A few days after we were approved, as we entered the week, Daisy began getting sick again. She'd been fine for most of the week prior, but suddenly started getting bad headaches, incredible body aches, and a pretty consistent fever that would be low-grade in the daytime hours (99-100) but would spike almost to 102 every night in the overnight while I was working and while she was trying to sleep. This stopped her from being able to get any real rest as she would have to get up in the night, drink a 32-oz jar of ice water, and take ibuprofen to make the fever go down -- by which point she was fully awake and just miserable/unable to sleep. She thought it was the flu or another round of Covid, but tests for both came back negative and she had zero congestion or respiratory issues whatsoever. She thought it could just be a POTS flareup, but wasn't sure. She did a telehealth appointment where the doctor she spoke to told her to just wait it out and wasn't very helpful at all.

Finally, on Thursday she was miserable enough to where she wanted to go to the doctor, which we did that evening before I started work.

Want to guess what the doctors suspected she had? 

"Cat scratch fever," they said. "It's not just a song."

Look, we don't know that's what it is, and neither do the doctors. But, Charles is a kitten with sharp claws and he has torn us both up while being rambunctious and playing, and Hank (while playing with Charles and being hyper himself) ran up Daisy's body the other night leaving deep gashes on her arm with his claws -- accidentally, of course. And she fit all of the descriptors for cat scratch fever, with the exception of visibly-infected scratches or a rash (the scratches had all pretty much healed up by this point, though they were still visible). So, they prescribed her two weeks' worth of antibiotics and sent her on her way, and said to call them if anything else happened.

She is feeling somewhat better, but is nowhere near back to normal yet. 

As for little Charlie, well...he's fitting in just fine:

He is now fully accustomed to this House of Cats™ and when he's not playing with us or with toys, he's cuddling and snoozing with either Daisy or the other children. Pete is his primary cuddle buddy but he does love to cuddle up with the others. It's very sweet how quickly and totally he's been accepted into the household. He's a good little boy. 

There is, of course, a lot more to cover, so stay tuned...

Mable's First Birthday

 

Our little princess Mable turned one year old yesterday. 

King Charles, Part III: Parasite Lad

 So, last Thursday, Charles and Emmy had their vet appointment. For Emmy, it was to get her yearly checkup and shots (all of the cats tend to be on different schedules, as we got all of them at different times of the year). We were originally going to have Sadie go in at the same time for her own checkup and shots, but well...Sadie died on us. So, Daisy had called as soon as we'd gotten little Charlie and made sure she could shoehorn him in with Emmy's appointment to avoid multiple trips.

When you adopt a cat from the Nebraska Humane Society, if you take said cat into a vet within (I think) a two week period or so from the time you adopt it, the first vet visit is completely covered by the adoption cost -- essentially making it free. It's a really good deal, honestly.

Well, we took them in. Charlie howled and cried at us the entire time in the car, and Emmy tried to break out of the carrier multiple times (she doesn't like to be restrained at all, and her large size makes the carrier uncomfortable for her, I'm sure). 

Emmy was the model patient, though. She was very calm and sweet with the vets and didn't even wince when she got her shots. She weighs 13.6 pounds -- we were guessing she'd be heavier than that -- but that does now officially make her the largest/heaviest cat in the house, even bigger than Hank. Maine Coon genes, I suppose. Don't worry, Mable is catching up to her.

Charles is 3.6 pounds -- the heaviest kitten we've had, though his little rat body doesn't look it -- and appeared to be completely healthy with no issues. Emmy too, by the way -- the vet said she was beautiful and healthy and could tell she was well-loved and cared for.

With the vet visit, we had to bring a stool sample from Charlie so they could check it for parasites and if he had any, he would get some medicines to knock those out. They said they would call if anything showed up in the lab work, but if we didn't hear from them, no news was good news. 

Well, they called the next day -- Charlie had some sort of parasite.

They gave us the name of it (I can't remember it now), and it's not worms or anything like that, but it's some sort of microbiological parasite organism, like a bacterium of some sort. It can't be transmitted to humans, but we do have four other cats it can be transmitted between, so there's that. So, Daisy had to stop by the vet's office in order to get five different bottles of antibiotics (essentially, Bactrim) to give to the cats for the next eight days. 

Let me tell you, getting pills -- BIG pills -- down all of those cats' throats was fun.

Emmy and Mable, most of the time, ate them in little pill pocket treats once we cut them up for them in a pill cutter. Pete is used to pills, so he is fine with them. 

Hank and Charlie...hoo boy. 

I have never seen Hank get so very angry as he gets when we force pills down him. Hank is strong and does not care that we're trying to help him, he does not understand, and he fights hard. Charlie is tiny and he wriggles a lot, and it's hard to pill him because of that. So there have been some...struggles, shall we say. 

Still though, it is what it is. Can't be avoided; we want the cats to be happy and healthy and to kick the parasites out of their systems. And, to be fair, it got better as the days went on. They finished their final doses of the medication last night -- all of them -- and now, at some point, we have to gather and take another stool sample of Charlie's over to the vet again to get it checked to make sure all parasites are gone. I'm sure if they're not, it'll be another round of antibiotics for them until they are.

We've started calling Charlie "Parasite Boy" or "Parasite Lad" though. In fact, that's one of multiple nicknames he's gained as of late:

• Parasite Boy
• Parasite Lad
• Charlie the Rat (like a mobster -- Daisy hates this one)
• The Rat Child (she also hates this one)
• The White Goblin
• Whiteboy
• (The) Boychild
• The Boy
• The Child
• Mr. Pinknose

Daisy prefers to call him Charles. I use the more colloquial Charlie most of the time. It's interchangeable, similar to how Empress is Emmy and how Hank has become Hanky or Hanky-boy or Hankerman. 

Speaking of Hank...

So my goal, originally, when I wanted to get the little orange kitten was to get Hank a son. I thought getting him a little orange goblin like him would be similar to us bringing Mable into the house -- because that little girl very quickly became Pete's daughter. I have said very seriously in conversation that I am Mable's dad, but Pete is her father. She loves him so much. And once I saw that, I wanted to get Hank a little son to love on, to play with, because he needs the stimulation. He loves Emmy, but she's like his wife and lover, and while they both seem to love Mable, it's not the same connection Mable has with Pete. Like, at all. 

When we brought Charlie in, Hank was not a fan -- hissing and growling at the little goblin, not wanting to play, but to hide and sulk and be big mad about us bringing another cat into this house for him to deal with. He'd stalk Charlie as he toddled around the house, and if Charlie noticed, Hank would hiss and run away, only for the cycle to repeat a few minutes later. Hank never went after him, but he was scared, angry, and observing. Sometimes Charlie would turn around and come up on Hank, hissing back like "You wanna go? We can go, brother" and Hank did not like that.

Thankfully, this lasted two days at maximum. Charlie is very much now becoming what I wanted -- a son for Hank. He and Hank now love to play and chase each other, neither of them hissing anymore. Hank seems amused by the little boy and wants to play with him, and he knows that he's just a little baby, so he can't go too hard. Watching them interact is both amusing and adorable, because when Charlie wants Hank's attention, he'll run up to him and then flop on his back on the floor, lovingly batting at him with his paws. Hank will look at him and us as if to say "fine, I'll love him and play with him, he is cute after all."

But I think deep down it is more than that -- Charlie has Hank's energy, he has a very similar personality. He is very intelligent and funny, but also loving and playful like Hank was. I think Hank somehow recognizes that the little white goblin is a lot like him.

Emmy is more reserved and hangs back quite a bit. She does play with Charlie, but it is at times cautious and withheld -- I think she's still getting used to him and isn't completely comfortable yet. And that's fine; Emmy is a much more standoffish, aloof cat in general. She is very independent and fiercely loves Hank and loves us, but could give or take anyone or anything else most of the time. She is much more of a Sadie-like cat as she gets older -- a "leave me alone, I'm a house loaf" cat, and honestly seeing her grow up, that's what I really expected of her. 

All of this, however, evolved and changed during the second week we had Charlie. And I think, part of that is Mable.

Mable turned one year old yesterday (there are pictures coming, just wait). And as I've mentioned before, Mable formed a unique bond with the little goblin as she was the first to really see him and interact with him, the first to really make friends with him -- through the baby gate on the bedroom door. So, when we finally let Charlie out to explore, she wasn't fazed by him at all and really wanted to play.

Mable was the first of the kittens that Charlie cuddled with, and the first one to really play with him. And she adores him:

I think Mable can sense that he's a young child and that she should love and protect him, but they go hard playing with each other. I was very cautious initially because he's so young (only ten weeks as of this writing) and she can be pretty rough, but he tends to take it in stride and it's clear that when they're playing she's never actually trying to hurt him. Mable may be a wild child and can absolutely be a little shithead sometimes, but I don't think she has a mean bone in her body and would never intentionally hurt us or the other cats. 

Once Charlie became all buddy-buddy with Mable, and once he became fully comfortable in the house, he began pressing his luck with the other cats and seeing how far he could get. He and Hank began playing first, as I mentioned above -- Hank seeming to treat him like a cute little nuisance, but always playing back. Then he tried playing with Emmy, which was slower-going, but she warmed up to him too and would play by chasing him or by letting him chase her. Emmy, of course, is huge -- so I've seen times where I know for a fact that she has to hold back, and sometimes it's hard for her once she gets hyper. 

Once Charlie was fully comfortable in his environment, he also started going after Pete trying to get him to play -- pouncing on him, wrapping his paws around Pete's neck and trying to take him down, etc. It is purely play, and purely because he is a hyper little goblin, but Pete doesn't really want any part of it. Pete is old. Pete does not have the energy or patience for kitten foolishness anymore, he really just wants to be cuddled with and to lick and be licked by the kittens. Pete wants to love and be loved. So when Charlie fires up his antics, he doesn't usually respond, he just takes it. Occasionally he cries or nips at Charlie to get him to stop bothering him. Very frequently, either Daisy or myself have had to separate the two of them so Charlie will calm down and leave Pete alone, and Pete will again give us the you just had to get another one, didn't you? look. 

After a few days, Charlie tested the waters again with Hank and Emmy. He'd sleep next to them on the couch, a foot or two apart. Then the foot or two apart would become six or eight inches. Then touching, but not cuddling. 

When they didn't seem to mind this, Charlie just went for it and began laying with them, cuddled up to them. He did this with us and Pete first, and Mable of course, but now that he's getting comfortable with the older cats he is showing it. And likewise, they are absolutely comfortable with him now too:

Oh yeah, he's home.

King Charles, Part II: The White Goblin

 

We've now had Charles for a week and boy, can I tell you some things about this cat. But, I'd like to go back to the beginning first and fill you in on the rest of the story.

When we brought the little man home, I thought I knew how the cats would react to another child in the house -- when we got Mable, Hank and Emmy were mad. Emmy wouldn't even look at us, and Hank would climb up on the couch to lock eyes with Daisy and hiss at her to show his displeasure. Pete, however, was excited to see another little baby in the house and loved her immediately, and Sadie didn't give a shit whatsoever -- she looked at Mable and then us, as if to tell us "Oh, you got another one? Neat, it's cute."

Well, Sadie is no longer with us, but I expected similar reactions out of the others.

When I brought in the box with little Charlie inside, Pete immediately had to investigate. He smelled all over the box (to his credit, the child was silent during this time) and then looked at me with excitement, the "you brought me another baby?" kind of excitement he had when we brought home the girls. Emmy eyed the box with suspicion, and Hank also stayed far away. 

Mable, ever the curious girl, came right up to the box and stuck her nose inside one of the air holes, where she was met with the nose and little blue eyes of Charles. This surprised her, and she jumped back and hissed a little. Charles, in return, hissed softly himself and growled. This prompted Hank and Emmy to hightail it out of the room. Pete looked on as if he were amused.

Charles had been diagnosed with a respiratory infection at the shelter, but had been treated for it at the beginning of the month and displayed no real symptoms of it anymore. We still wanted to sequester him in the master bedroom for some time, of course -- Daisy had called our vet and shoehorned him in with Emmy's appointment for her yearly checkup and shots, which was this past Thursday. We adopted him on Saturday, so at first thought, five days in the bedroom to let him get his bearings and monitor any potential health issues sounded like it would be difficult, but not undoable -- I think Hank and Emmy were both sequestered in the bedroom for almost two full weeks each before they got full run of the house, with a few days in the interim of supervised house exploratory time.

Little Charlie, as I call him, was perfectly content with our bedroom -- it had to feel like a five-star hotel to him. He had a giant bowl of water, a bowl of food almost as big as he was, a litter box all to himself, plus a plate with a fresh can of wet kitten food on it, some kitten treats, toys, a giant cat tree, and a big bed with soft blankets and pillows -- as well as two kind humans to love him. It had to be a paradise for a kitten who had been locked in a shelter cage that morning, and had lived on the street and in foster care three weeks prior. 

Charlie was so happy. Most of the first two days we had him, he alternated between cuddling with Daisy, cuddling with me, and running/playing/eating. He made it to the very top of the cat tree within six hours of us bringing him home. He slept all night curled up in Daisy's arms. Any time he saw either of us, he came running and flopped down at our feet. He was, and is, the sweetest boy.

Interestingly enough, Hank and Emmy did not seem to care that there was another small cat in the house, though they both knew. Daisy made the joke that they were acting like if they ignored the problem enough, it would go away. I know they could both hear him crying in the bedroom upstairs (we do leave the bedroom, of course, to live our lives) and they chose not to respond or acknowledge it in silent protest. In fact, for the first two days, Hank and Emmy would not even go upstairs -- and Hank really likes his dad time in the mornings when I get off work. 

Anyway, back to the story.

Mable was intensely curious about the little child. She sat outside the bedroom door in the hall on guard duty, trying to see him, smell him, get any sort of interaction with him possible. When she jumped against the door several times and busted into the room, we had to put the baby gate up across the bedroom door so she couldn't do that. But, that also introduced a unique dynamic -- when Daisy was cleaning the bathroom and helping to rearrange her upstairs office and Charlie was screaming, we could open the door so he could see her/us and know that everything was okay. He was so tiny that we didn't think him climbing the gate would be an issue. But, it also gave Mable the opportunity to see him, befriend him, and interact with him face-to-face through the mesh gate.

And, of course, interact they did. It was so cute to watch; They'd nose each other through the gate, then one of them would stick a paw through the slots and the other would back away. Then the opposite would happen, with the same result. They watched each other, examined each other. Mable was slightly smaller when we brought her home than Charlie is now, but she is now a big giant girl™ rapidly gaining on Emmy's size and weight, even though she still thinks and acts like a little cat. 

We brought Charlie home on Saturday morning. By Sunday afternoon, Pete had enough -- he needed to see this little cat. He whimpered and whined outside the bedroom door, desperate to get inside and see the white goblin. 

"Of all the cats," I told Daisy, "Pete is going to be the most gentle and loving if we let him in to meet Charles. He's not going to attack him or go after him, he just wants to make friends with the boy."

Charlie had been using the pan just fine with no accidents, had not been sick, and seemed to us to be 100% healthy -- no reason not to let Pete meet the little guy, if just for a few minutes, so he could see what the fuss was all about. 

Well...

That went exceedingly well.

The little man loves old Pete, and Pete is happy to have a new cuddle buddy. Pete doesn't seem to be anxious or upset by him in the least -- but then again, this is the fourth new kitten Pete has had enter the house in less than two years, and I'm sure at this point he's completely used to being the old man who the babies all love.

Two days later, we let him out of the room for supervised social interaction with all of the cats. Emmy and Hank hissed and growled, but got over it within a day or two, once they realized he was just a child and that he was just trying to play. He and Mable played incessantly, though she goes a little too hard -- again, she still thinks she's a little cat and she absolutely is not -- but she also quickly learned that he's just a baby and she needed to tone it down some. 

The first night he was out on his own he went back upstairs and slept with Daisy all night, curled up in her arms. The second night, he slept on top of the cat tree in the living room and barely moved from it. He just kind of lounges wherever he wants -- he does like to sleep cuddled up with Pete, but not all the time. He's been allowed in every room except our offices upstairs and he has yet to get into anything or destroy anything -- he does not seem to be that kind of cat. 

Charlie is still learning the ropes of social interaction, though. He'll run up on Hank and Emmy trying to play, and will sometimes spook them by doing that. He does not understand the concept of taking turns when being fed or given treats, and he does not understand that when a cat is sleeping, he/she does not want to play. He is a rambunctious little thing -- last night he was goblining around the house like a little white rat until nearly 3am, playing with toys and just being hyper. 

However, it is wild how quickly he has integrated into the house. He is such a wonderful little boy -- inquisitive and curious, active but very cuddly and loving -- and I am confident we made the right decision to bring him in.

There is more of the story to tell, of course...