Anne here, coming in late and murmuring apologies. I usually post my blog in the evening here, which is morning in the USA but we had a blackout last night just on dusk, and the electricity didn't come back on until well after midnight, by which time I was in bed. I hadn't written my blog, and this morning I have electricity but I have to go out, so in a shameless move, I'm going to share (with Sherrie's permission) the story of a tiny kitten that has arrived on the wenchly scene.
It started with this 4th of July post from our wenchly blogmistress Sherrie:
Hope you all had a wonderful Independence Day, and for those of you in other countries, hope you had a lovely day.
I am now the owner of an orphaned infant kitten, sucker that I am. He/she is very young–probably 2-3 weeks old–and tiny: just 9 ounces. We figure it is the child of a local semi-feral cat who may have met with a tragic end.
We'd been hearing a weird noise for about an hour, and it took us that long to finally realize it wasn't a bird, but possibly a kitten in distress. My sister and I discovered the kitten in the barn. We surmised the semi-feral mother may have come to a tragic end, because no way would a mother cat ignore such a loud and continuous call of distress from its kitten.
Soooo . . . I now have a miniscule kitten that fits in the palm of my hand and needs to be fed every 4 hours. Tomorrow I'll call the vet for an appointment for a health check and to have the kitten's sex determined, after which I will be free to pick a name. The house is in an uproar. All the resident animals are highly intrigued. The kitten has 2 modes: meowing at 5 million decibels, and sleeping.
Sherrie's been feeding the tiny creature every four hours, and keeping us posted.
Have just finished the 4 a.m. feeding and I think there's more kitten formula on me than in the infant's tummy. I've had my hand peed on numerous times (I must learn how to aim him better) and formula dribbled all over my shirt, hands and arms. Feeding an infant kitten with a tiny bottle is a veritable wrestling match. And for such a small critter, he can move remarkably fast on his wobbly pins, so I'm careful to keep him from falling off the desk when he's having his constitutional.
I've also discovered he's a polydactyl–he has gigantic "thumbs" that are quite hilarious on such tiny feet.
He has already learned to recognize me as The Bringer of Food and it is quite endearing to hear him break out in loud purrs and friendly vocalizations when he sees me. I keep him in a carrying crate large enough for a small dog, so he has plenty of room to play and sleep. I keep the crate on my desk and he has me for company all day. Spoiled rotten, the kid is. Already.
Today I took the infant critter to the vet. He received a clean bill of health, though they did find one flea on him. His blood work came back negative for any diseases, including Feline Leukemia. (Yaaayyy!!!) He is robust, very strong (he'll zoom up any vertical surface, including people), and he is alert and playful. They confirmed he's a boy (alas!), but I'll keep him anyway, even though I swore no more male cats. Oh well. At least now that I know he's a boy, I can start thinking of boy names for him.
Right now the little guy has had his feeding, dutifully peed on my hand, tottered all over the desk on a Great Exploration, fell face-first into the paperclip dish and successfully reached the summit of Mt. Pencil Cup. (I’m amazed at how strong he is!) Now he’s back in his crate . . . and very unhappy about it. He wants OUT! He wants out NOW! Despite his distended belly full of kitten formula, he is climbing the bars of his crate, and if he had a tin cup he’d be rattling it back and forth across the bars.
This morning when I checked on him, his crate appeared to be empty. Panic! But at the sound of his crate door being opened, his head popped up behind a little mound of blanketing at the back of the crate and he came wobbling over, full of sleepy squeaks and imperious demands for breakfast. He’s really quite adorable. I’ll shortly be headed over to Pet Smart to pick up another kitty nursing bottle and a stuffed animal so that he’ll have a buddy in his crate.
So that's where we are so far in the story that has all the wenches hooked. You can see what excellent progress he's making — he's already up to hunting a mouse! I think Sherrie could post an occasional kitten picture in her Sunday posts, don't you?
And in the meantime, she's searching for a name for him.
Have you ever rescued an animal? I'll send a book to someone who leaves a name suggestion or the story of an animal they've rescued, and if Sherrie chooses one of the names for our little wenchly godkitten, there will be an extra bonus gift from Sherrie herself.