Outside of a dog . . .

 

Outside of a dog . . .

                              . . . a book is man’s best friend.

Our eldest grandson and his little family visited us on Sunday, unexpectedly. It was delightful to see them all. 

Callum's elder daughter, Melia, is almost two and a half years old, and a very competent little girl. In the morning before they set off from home, she announced that she wasn’t going to wear nappies any longer. Obviously, she judged that the time was right, though it wasn’t the most opportune time to relinquish them, but she didn’t go to the loo very many times while she was with us.

Her baby sister, Hailey, is four months old and she was happy to gaze around at her surroundings, and coo.

Melia is very used to dogs and our dogs were happy to have visitors, particularly those at nose level with sticky fingers. They had to be segregated periodically when food was being consumed.

Books and toys, drawing pads and colouring pencils were brought out to entertain. 

Gilbert, being a Literary Labrador showed an interest, using the books as a pillow after our visitors departed.

                             Our cats, too, have shown Literary Leanings.

      

                                                  The late Winston Ocicat enjoyed blogging.

                                                 He also enjoyed reading his Kindle in bed.

                                           Pats the Abyssinian enjoyed books from kittenhood.

                                                 Herschel Ocicat guards the bookshelves.

          Jellicoe Ocicat is studying ornithology amongst other subjects.

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend.

Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.

Groucho Marx

 

Second hand car salescat.

Would you buy a second hand car from this cat?

I don't think Frankie would be very pleased to see Herschel on his 'road'.

He's asleep on the job, too . . . Disgraceful!

I Saw Sunday Week 45 Foxy and the Magic Dish

 I have seen other blogs featuring I Saw Sunday and, today being Sunday, I decided to join in.

(Foxy is my eldest daughter’s fox red Labrador. She and Tia are staying with us while their family is on holiday.)

Foxy and the Magic Dish

Every morning Foxy finishes her breakfast and immediately crosses the kitchen to investigate the other dogs’ bowls. This is not unusual – all the dogs check each other’s dishes just to make sure there are no morsels remaining, then return to their own to confirm that there really is nothing left. Some of the more hopeful dogs wait for Winston Ocicat’s bowl to be available for perusal. Foxy is always one of this number.

The same ritual is performed at supper time. Despite the recurring disappointment of never finding any scraps, at various points during the day the humans are eating and there is a slim possibility of crumbs being offered for canine delectation. Again, sadly, the dogs are usually thwarted.

Foxy, however, is the eternal optimist and the kitchen rings to the sound of metal dishes clattering across the floor as she enthusiastically licks, and licks, and licks again, rushing from one bowl to the next, tail wagging, tongue working overtime.

I think at some point Foxy must have heard the story of the Magic Porridge Pot and truly believes that if she tries really, really hard, the dishes will magically refill and she will be in seventh Labrador heaven. I fear she is destined to perpetual deflation – which is just as well, since she would otherwise be subject to huge inflation.

Wobbly Winston

Winston stretches 

Winston is the most loving, affectionate and cuddlesome cat you could ever wish to meet. He miaous and purrs and chirrups and chats with everyone. I don’t think there is a nasty bone in his body. He is nonchalant and easy-going, almost blasé in his approach to life and loves all the attention lavished on him. There is just one thing he doesn’t really appreciate and that is having his claws clipped.

Because he is an indoor cat his claws don’t wear down very quickly and he clicks across our bare floors like a tap-dancer auditioning for the chorus of a musical. He uses his scratching post and our legs and furniture to free the sheaths but the points of his claws remain as little daggers that catch in clothing and other fabrics, incapacitating him briefly and preventing him from conducting his day in the way he has dictated. So, every now and then, I clip his claws.

With our Burmese cats I could lay them upside down on my lap and take my time over their pedicures. They enjoyed the care and consideration. Maybe it’s something to do with the breed. My father even used to file his little cat’s claws; she had been a breeding queen before my parents adopted her and took a long time to adapt to living in a home but she always welcomed a pedicure.

Winston, our Ocicat, curls up on my lap and relaxes and purrs his noisy, breathy rumbles, looking up at me from time to time with his beautiful amber eyes to make sure I’m admiring him as rigorously as he requires. When I judge that he is suitably tranquil – that is, almost comatose – I attempt to cut his nails. I have always been able to caress his paws, insinuating my fingers between his pads, and he really enjoys that but as soon as he sees the clippers in my hand he becomes uncooperative, tucking his paws away beneath him, nudging the metal with his velvet nose, still droning like a well-oiled engine.

I nip off the tip of one claw and tell Winston what a beautiful boy he is. He stares at me – ‘I know that,’ he says and folds his paw away again. I extricate it and clip another point and inform him how much more comfortable he will be now. He directs another disbelieving tawny look at me and withdraws his foot. The purring continues.

I am anxious to tackle the ‘thumb’ claw, which is curving in towards his leg – I don’t want that to grow very much longer. I manage to disentangle the paw once more and successfully trim his thumb nail. He folds his front leg firmly underneath and looks at me again, a challenging expression in his eyes. I give up on that limb and move to a hind leg. The claws here are shorter and blunter because Winston often nibbles at them. Like a baby he chews his toes but not his ‘fingers’.

Eventually I manage to shorten all the claws on his left side but there is no opportunity to embark upon the right for Winston has decided to vacate my lap. Off he trots, tail held straight and high, clacking on his right paws, silent on his left, wallowing like a sailor home from the sea. 

If you should happen to see a drunken cat seesawing towards you, tapping out Morse code with his right claws, you will recognise him instantly as Winston. Perhaps you might have better luck with the nail clippers;-) 

Blogging from A to Z April challenge Cat

I am a cat. I grace you with my presence when I see fit and recline on your lap, kneading and kneading with my claw-sharp paws, primal recollections of comfort and warmth awakened in my memory-rich brain.

I loosen my fur and give it to you. I smile as it tickles your nose and covers your clothes.

I pull your hand to me and rub my head against it, over and over, my scent mixing with yours. I lick your skin with my rough tongue and you do not stop me for fear of offence. I possess you and you love me.

I speak to you in different voices. I yell when I am hungry and you do not answer my needs swiftly. At other times my tone is gentle, pleading, kindly. I know my meaning is difficult to understand but I repeat myself so that you learn and I am content. Sometimes I just want you to talk to me and I ask politely with a silent miaou.

I like the fireside. The fire is hot – it melts my bones till I lie limp and sated. In the summer the sun saturates me and I dream of other ages and lands. I twitch my paws and whiskers, my ears flick and I call out. I am a cat, ancient as time, wise with atavistic memories. I have been honoured, worshipped, abused, abandoned. I am a god and I am dust.

I live indoors. I have no care to step outside but I watch the birds and chitter. My instincts are intact. In the small, wee hours I prowl and yowl then join you in your bed, curling against you, lightly pinning your arm with mine.

I do not earn my place in your home – it is my right to allow you to serve me. I may catch a fly or chase a spider if I wish. You cannot train me but I will educate you.

When you please me I give you my sweetest gift – a rumbling reverberation from deep inside that makes you laugh and wonder at the skill with which I continue to purr, breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, breathing out.

I am a cat. I am your cat and you adore me.

Anipal Photo Hunt #9: Compromising Positions

When Monty was a kitten his health was compromised by osteomyelitis and his activities were compromised by his Elizabethan collar

Later on he conducted his fair share of compromising his canine companions. Here he is lording it over Frodo. Sadly, Monty's life was very short and he died from congestive heart failure earlier this year. He was three years old. 
Click here for more Anipal compromises!

100th Macro Monday

Thank  you to Lisa from 'Lisa's Chaos'who organises and hosts this meme. Why not visit her to see more macros?
I thought finding 100 things to post would be difficult and then I looked around.

Dalmatians and Ocicats have hundreds of spots. We used to challenge our young children and grandchildren to count the spots on a Dalmatian. Bethan enjoyed dot-to-dot pictures and tried joining up the dots on our first Dallie.

An allium has at least one hundred flowers.

The pyracantha flowers of spring have been replaced by the scarlet or yellow berries of late summer.

Hundreds of ceanothus flowers provide plenty of nectar and pollen for visiting bees - and the bee has hundreds of fine hairs on its body.

At least a hundred blackfly are gathered here to feed a hungry ladybird.

Veterinary hospital or National Health Service?

We are very fortunate in having first-class vets close to hand (a two-minute drive away) to call on in an emergency. Almost immediately we are informed of the condition and treatment regimen required, though blood tests and x-rays take a little longer. While the animal is an inpatient a vet calls two or three times a day to update us on its condition. At every stage we are involved in the process and we are most grateful for it.
Contrast this with the National Health Service. The day after our young Ocicat Monty died after four days in intensive care, Barry's elderly mother, Dorothy, fell in her garden in Dorset and used her Alert button to summon help. Dorothy lives alone in her own home and, apart from help with housework and gardening and shopping, is quite independent. The paramedics were quickly on the scene and gave her morphine to ease her pain. In the meantime Barry's brother and sister-in-law arrived. (They live 20 minutes from her – we are 1½ hours away.) An ambulance arrived and transported her to a hospital 45 minutes away. During the journey she chattered non-stop in gibberish – undoubtedly as a result of shock mixed with morphine. Thus far service had been exemplary.
When she was seen in Accident and Emergency, x-rays revealed a break in a small pelvic bone (a ramus fracture). Dorothy was in great pain and yet the doctor on duty was doing her best to convince Trevor and Margaret that she would be able to return home that day despite the fact that she couldn't stand on her own and needed the assistance of two nurses to lift her to her feet. Dorothy is 93 – she was in shock, her blood pressure dropped alarmingly low and eventually the doctor reluctantly agreed that she would need to remain in hospital. The ambulance men needed their stretcher in order to continue their day's work so Dorothy was transferred to a trolley.
A ramus fracture heals without surgical intervention but the patient needs analgesics to control the pain. T and M were told that it would heal in a week. Dorothy was given a bed in a quiet ward where she spent the night under observation. The next day she was removed to a much noisier ward where one patient was yelling at anyone who passed by. During the night she was moved to a third, quieter, ward. By this stage she was gibbering, hallucinating and delusional. The pain was still troubling her and she stopped eating and drinking.
Every time Barry or his brother and sister-in-law or our eldest daughter Gillian, who also lives in Dorset, visited her they tried to find out why Dorothy was rambling. They were told she had a urinary infection which was being treated and would clear up in 48hours. It didn't! Frequently urinary infections in the elderly present problems of confusion and delirium. Each time the nurses asked if she was 'always like this' and each time they were told that she definitely wasn't. Dorothy was deteriorating daily, seeing fish with dogs' heads, black and white snakes, statues and puppies running round the ward. She became paranoid, convinced there were spies out to 'get her' and she was planning her escape, even though she was still incapable of getting out of her chair without help. She also could not manage the walking frame. Inevitably, incontinence became a problem.
After ten worrying and frustrating days, notes appeared in the ward which indicated that Dorothy was allergic to codeine, one of the analgesics she had been given. This drug was discontinued and an analgesic patch was applied. Almost immediately Dorothy began to respond. The hallucinations became less severe and the gibberish started to be interlaced with coherent speech. She began to eat but still will not drink much for fear of wetting her bed. A different antibiotic seems to be clearing the UTI. She is far from recovered, still unable to rise from her bed or chair or walk without assistance and still incontinent.
Dorothy fell two weeks ago today and so far neither Trevor nor Barry has been able to speak to her consultant. After a great deal of effort Barry was able to find out from another doctor what her treatment had been. He also arranged that he and his brother would meet the consultant – the earliest this part-time doctor* can manage is next Wednesday – nearly three weeks after the event! Yesterday he phoned her secretary yet again and asked to speak to her and was told that he could have the telephone call OR the meeting – it was not possible to have both. Barry has asked the hospital to relay to him its practices concerning informing relatives of elderly infirm patients – thus far he has had no response. Incidentally, this hospital is described as 'good' – heaven knows what the 'bad' or 'inadequate' hospitals are like. Well, there is the Stafford Hospital, of course, where between 400 and 1200 more patients than would have been expected died between 2005 and 2008. That is more than have been killed as a result of 9/11 and military operations in Afghanistan and Iraq put together.
*Increasingly doctors in the NHS are working fewer hours – the suspicion is that their salaries are so high that they can afford a pleasant lifestyle and time off. Another thought is that they are taking on private consultancy work. Fortunately, we don't often have to visit our doctor but on the last three occasions over a period of months we have seen three different locums.
So the net outcome is this: Barry's admittedly frail but otherwise healthy nonagenarian mother entered hospital with a minor break. While in there she developed an UTI, was administered drugs to which she was allergic, became delusional and paranoid and also incontinent. The hospital administrators must be thanking their lucky stars she didn't have an anaphylactic reaction and die or they might be facing a charge of manslaughter. Had she been admitted as an emergency with limbs hanging off her treatment would have been much more careful and caring.
We have also had experience of the Royal Veterinary College Hospital where standards of hygiene and professional care are second to none. For me the answer is clear – if you have to go into hospital for anything less than life-threatening, choose a veterinary establishment where you will be treated appropriately and observed carefully for adverse reactions and where those who are nearest and dearest to you will be kept informed at every stage of treatment.

Face of the Week #2

This is Winston Ocicat. He is the softest cat imaginable, extremely affectionate and responsive.

Thanks to Sistertex at Spacial Peepol for initiating and hosting this lovely meme. Want to see more? Please click here!

Camera Critters #67

Here is Monty Ocicat with his favourite canine, Jenna-the-Labrador. He likes all the dogs but seeks out Jenna to cuddle up to. She likes him too except when the kneading becomes too intense when she grumbles gently. He stops for a few seconds and then resumes once she's dozed off again. There is true affection between them and they play together with Monty exposing his undercarriage to her in absolute trust. We have their breeders to thank for their wonderful temperaments.


To see more Critters please click here
Thank you to Misty and Tammy for supervising this meme.