Between blotch and blok

We have a new cat called Mia
Who's suffering badly from fear:
She's locked in a room
In the deepest of gloom
And wishes that we'd disappear.

Meanwhile, Oz wants to make friends.

Mouse?

We once hat a cat called Mouse. He was: a large, scaredy brown tabby; brother to Gremlin; offspring of Astrophe.

There's a "Mouse" (as opposed to a mouse) up for adoption: 8 yrs, slightly skewiff black and white, unhappy at the pet shelter, and could tolerate another cat.

So tempted. But we thought we'd wait until the new stove's been installed before we get another pet. Moving one cat out to the home office whilst there's workmen round is one thing; two near strangers, entirely another.

Mr Oswald felt left out not having his picture posted on the internetz yesterday. So here he is:

It's rhetorical, that question. They could, and did.

The ravens must remember not to feed cat treats to the cats. They only throw them back up again.

As for the rest... I just can't.

I have similar experiences to this article with Mr Socks: http://gizmodo.com/your-cat-can-grasp-some-basic-laws-of-physics-1782125637.
When he's playing by knocking objects off shelves, tables and the piano, if you catch the falling object before it hits the ground, he waits. His ears are pricked and he sits there waiting for the noise of the object hitting the ground instead of going straight on to his next target.

I hate the final stages of knitting: blocking, pressing, sewing seams, weaving in ends. Which is why, although I finished knitting the shawl the weekend before last, I've only just finished it. I've put on soothing music, woven in all eight loose ends, gently washed the shawl, squished the surplus wet out in a towel, and pinned it out to dry:


I did have some help:

The shawl was almost dry by the time I'd pinned it out, so I don't think--beyond a wet bum--there's much of a problem. He moved as soon as I started making lunch.

So, credits for this piece of work:

• Pattern from The Knitter magazine, issue 91


• Yarn from John Lewis


• Crystal beads from Bluestreak Beads


• Tiny beads from Hobbycraft


• Eucalan from The Sheep Shop (possibly blocking pins, too)


• Music from Annie Dressner, Strangers Who Knew Each Other's Names

And about 25 hours work.

The little spotlight by the bed failed. Its rocker switch broke. Could just have been old age, but then I watched Ozzie, elevated by the new bed to the height of the switch cleaning his teeth on it! We're lucky he's not toast.

It's the annual pilgrimage to the vee ee tee for the usual round of inspections, injections, et al. It's a real car load: the 20-year old cat, the two thirteen-year old cats, two adults to cart them in and out. And with cats that old it's always a bit of a worry, if you've seen their weight dip or anything else of concern.
So....
I'm not sure which cat is Sick, which Sicker, tho' I'm pretty certain I know which is Sickest.
It went like this.
First up was Ozzie, a tad pudgy, but as far as we were concerned the least of our worries. But, looking in his eyes, there's distinct signs of high blood pressure, wiggly red veins very visible on the third eyelid, but the vet can't tell how bad as he can't see the back of Ozzie's eyes 'cos of the sclerotic lenses. So, we need to take him back in for a longer visit so he can be nice and calm when they check his blood pressure.
Pills will help with the blood pressure. I guess we could cope with a blind cat, as long as he can cope with it. I think he may be officially "Sicker".
Second up was Socks, who tried to escape over various bits of consultation room, because, Socks. We've always had concerns about him, as he came to us with a slight heart murmur. Now not so slight, and with the distinct possibility of a thrombosis building up in his heart. If that's the case, the recommendation is euthanasia. The alternative is allowing the cat to run the risk of a sudden and very painful death when things go pear shaped. We're booking an appointment with a cardiologist to see what's what.
Oh, and he's lost quite a lot of weight, more than is probably good for him, and he's got bad tartar on his teeth.
He's most definitely "Sickest".
Last up was Little, over 20, down to 2.54 kg, with a slightly elevated heart rate, and possibly a dodgy thyroid, or maybe diabetes. She needs to go back for blood tests.
Pills again might be the answer.
Little might only be "Sick" compared to the other two.
You wouldn't think there was much wrong with any of them, especially if you'd seen the way they nommed their extra breakfast when we got them home again.
Oddly, just yesterday, I found the poem I'd written about Big (an hommage to Christopher Smart) when he died. I don't want to be penning similar odes to any of the current trio, although I've been prepared to do so for Little for quite some time. (I have a nasty moment at least once a week, when I find her so deeply asleep that her breathing's barely visible, and she's almost impossible to rouse.)
The one lovely thing was we saw the vet who patched Little up after the car ran over the house. Even if he had to give not very good to really bad news, we could at least confirm that nearly a decade on Little's leg, tiny pins in the phalanges and all, is still absolutely fine.
And behind me on the futon right now is a scene of much washing, both boy cats cleaning their undercarriages with great care and attention. Little is probably asleep by the stove.
Cake baking, I think, is in order. It won't really soften the blow when I have to tell Looby Loo all this. It's spring, we have an egg glut, and comfort food is comfort food.