Five-second Rule

I recently attended a cat show in Brentwood, NY (Long Island), a show I’ve gone to twice before. This year, weather permitting, I wanted to try the Mapquest recommended route of taking the ferry from nearby New London, CT across the Long Island Sound to Orient Point and driving another 90 minutes to the show. Driving the entire route was listed as 3 hours, 30 minutes, assuming there was no traffic on a Friday afternoon going toward New York City, over the Throgs Neck Bridge and on the Long Island Expressway. 

Since it was cool outside, I opted to leave the two cats I was showing in their crate in the car during the ferry ride, figuring it would be easier than trying to lug two carriers through the ferry. Clair, the Selkirk Rex Longhair and Trixie, the Maine Coon kitten, would remain in the large crate together in my back seat, their litter box readily accessible.

Clair and Trixie

This worked out really well. The car stayed at a comfortable temperature for the cats. For $57, I avoided the city traffic, bridges and tolls, had an hour and 20 minute ferry ride then drove from the northern tip of Long Island to the show hotel. I never knew there was so much rural land and vineyards on Long Island. I definitely wanted to take the ferry back home now.

After I left the show early on Sunday to avoid the expected snow storm, I again took the ferry route. I called the ferry people ahead of time to see if I could show up 4 hours earlier than my reservation. I could.

Cats safely snuggled in together in the car, I went upstairs to appreciate the view from the front of the boat. As all the tables along the front window were taken, I sat in one of the theater-style seats about 15 feet back from the front tables. My view was of the tables and beyond that, Long Island Sound as the ferry sailed toward New London.

The table directly in front of me had a young family seated at it, with two adorable little girls between the approximate ages of three and five years. The girls were being kept busy with activity books and video games. Each girl had a pacifier in her mouth. When the girls spoke, the pacifier stayed in, waggling like Groucho Marx’s cigar as they said words I couldn’t understand. Their parents obviously understood Paci-ese, answering questions or denying requests. If the girls ate any of the snacks in front of them, the pacifier came out, the food went in and they plugged their mouths back up with the pacifiers almost immediately.

Cringing as I was at the speech impediments allowed in their daughters’ mouths at such formidable ages, I noted that the parents seemed to be educated and attentive to their children. The youngest had a tendency to speak loudly (even with the pacifier) and her parents hushed her each time she did so, making her keep her voice down to a normal level. I wondered if the kids were the kind who would act out if their mouths weren’t plugged up all the time, but they seemed well-behaved for their ages. There was no crying, tantrums or whining. Most babies need to suckle something, but these children were beyond the toddler stage, potty trained and very verbal. The oldest was probably in a pre-school program.

At one point, the mother took the oldest girl over to where a service dog was seated with its owner. The black lab had the brightly colored harness on, but the owner was open to letting children pet her dog. After a few minutes, the child thought it would be fun to pretend to be a dog herself and got down on her hands and knees, barking. Mom immediately told her daughter to get off the dirty floor. As the child stood up, her pacifier fell out of her mouth mid-bark, hitting the floor. The little girl quickly squatted down and put it back in her mouth. Her mother was offended about the dirty pacifier going into her daughter’s mouth, pulled it out of her child’s and “cleaned it off” by, you guessed it, putting it into her own mouth. After "cleaning" the pacifier, the mother popped it back in her daughter’s mouth.

Ew! I’ve never understood this practice, but have seen it before. Some mothers have told me they’re “flavoring” the pacifier. I’ve raised two children, have utilized the “five-second rule” in controlled situations (fairgrounds, no; my kitchen floor, yes), and sit my bare butt on public toilets if the need arises. I am not a germaphobe, but I just don’t get the paci-mouth-cleaning thing.

Not too surprisingly, pediatricians discourage this practice, because, guess what, mother's mouths are full of harmful bacteria, germs and swear words. Among the objects listed as cleaner than a human mouth are a public toilet, subway railings, and urine.

I was amazed to find through my extensive 3-minute Google research that there is one theory that actually supports parents who mouth-clean their child’s pacifier, arguing the practice may be boosting the child’s immune system. If that’s the belief, why not just forego cleaning the pacifier at all and let the kid lick the floor?

Flying the Coop

Since my recent blog, Feathering the Nest, was written about acquiring our six new chicks, we have already had an adventure.

I wanted to raise the new chicks in our old chicken coop. It's predator proof and surrounded by an 8-foot wire fence. Until the chicks get too big to fit through the holes in the wire, they would be kept in the coop. At night, the solid wood doors are locked tight and I set up a heat lamp to keep the temperature around 90 degrees. During the day it's warm enough (especially lately) for the lamp to be turned off, doors opened and a screen put across the front to keep the chicks contained safely in the coop but allow ventilation and some sun to get in. This was how we raised our chicks for the past two years, although then we had the advantage of two broody bantam hens who gladly assumed the role of mother and heat source. Boy, are we missing Beaker and Rihanna now.

The screen barrier I put in front of the coop is about thigh high, taller than the brooder the chicks' breeder kept them in. It doesn't reach all the way to the top of the door opening, leaving about four inches of uncovered space.

The second day after I'd moved the chicks into their new housing was a busy one. I'd invited our neighbors over for a barbeque supper, figuring I had a litter of Maine Coon kittens due the next day so Saturday should be better. However, the expectant mother, River, had other plans and started active labor Saturday morning. I had been suspicious as River had started meowing excessively and doing the nervous purring of early labor the evening before. Therefore, I'd put up the baby monitor and gotten up twice during the night to check on her. This was how my day started, tired, but happy that the kittens were on the way.

Three hours later, around noon, my knees were spent from kneeling into the kitten birthing area, but we had four healthy kittens. I went to check on the chicks outside; they seemed fine. All the babies secure, I left to pick up groceries for our planned barbeque.

I just needed a few items, but ran into someone who recognized me. You know when you realize you should know someone, but can't remember how? I stared at this woman while she talked, thinking, "Maybe she's a kitten buyer or maybe I know her from Ledyard school system." Finally, the woman mentioned her daughter's name and I realized her daughter and mine were good friends. In my defense, the last time I saw her was two years ago, but who am I kidding? I'm horrible at remembering names and faces. 45-minutes of catching up in Stop-n-Shop and now I was feeling rushed to get home and start food preparations.

Jay was home from his morning fishing excursion when I got home. I complained about losing time in the grocery store because I've never been good at getting out of conversations. We both went outside to shuck the corn into the compost pile. It was one of those sweltering heat wave days, somewhere around 95 degrees, 90 percent humidity. I wanted to shuck the corn quickly and get back in the house before I got too hot. I was already wearing what I planned on wearing when our guests got there, a pink sleeveless top and white capris pants and didn't want to ruin it by sweating.

While outside, I checked on the chicks. Of the six, three were missing! I was only gone about 2 hours. I crawled into the coop, trying to keep my knees off the ground to protect my pants and feeling under the space at the bottom...nothing but spiders. No signs of violence; no feathers, no blood. It's impossible for a large predator to get in. Jay started speculating that a large snake could have gotten in over the barrier. Snakes don't leave blood and body parts around since they swallow their food whole, something I appreciate when it comes to the mice in our shed.

My mind racing, I had already taken inventory of which chicks were missing; the two Cream Legbars, Punnett and Square, and one of the Blue Leghorns, either Bindy or Mindy. Then we realized, it's afternoon. Snakes are mostly nocturnal and it was unlikely more than one chick would have been taken. Somehow, the chicks got out and the only way out was for them to fly with their little wings over the 3-foot barrier and go through the fence. Placing the remaining three chicks in a smaller cage for safety, we started looking around. There is a large woodpile of about 5 cords behind the coop. Behind the woodpile is the woods which surround our property, woods in which lurk foxes, coyotes, owls, hawks, raccoons...all of which would enjoy the occasional chicken nugget.

Then, about twenty feet away, we heard peeping! The chicks were together under a large boulder at the edge of the woods. Good for us, chicks peep when they're distraught. Bad for the chicks if we were predators. I was so relieved, but then we had to catch them. They scampered like mice under the cave the boulder created, through a hole to the other side. One ran under the pallets that supported the wood pile back to the coop. In the end, it took about an hour of Jay and I crawling on our hands and knees in the poison ivy and sticks, putting our hands into creepy spaces, carrying another chick around so she'd peep and inspire someone to answer, our dog giving us a scare when she lunged for a chick, utilizing a kid's butterfly net and a fishing net, all before we finally caught all three escapees. Did I mention it was hot? Indentations on my knees from the kneeling in the brush, sweat pouring, capris pants white no more, but we had six chicks once again, exhausted but safe.

Taking no more chances, the chicks are now caged in the guest room until they are bigger and wiser.

Feathering the Nest

We have 13 backyard chickens, three of whom are roosters. All but three of the ten hens have gone "henopausal," meaning they are done laying eggs and are living out their lives in guaranteed retirement with us. Our youngest hens are two-years-old, the oldest is nine. In other words, we have a bunch of free-loaders.

Tired of begging, lecturing and threatening the hens, I ordered some new female chicks, a.k.a. pullets, from The Hatching House in Canterbury. As it so happened, my good friend Jo-Ann was visiting for a couple of days and went with me to pick up my new babies. The breeder was very knowledgable, so I enjoyed picking her brain about color and breed genetics while Jo-Ann channeled my daughter, "Oooh! Look at that one! It's so pretty! Get that one! They're so cute! Can we get this one?"

I ended up getting the four pullets I ordered, two Cream Legbars and two 55 Flowery Hens as those two breeds are auto-sexing, meaning the genders can be easily be visually identified by colors or markings at birth. Thus, the breeder could be certain of selling me females. I also purchased two Blue Leghorns (yes, of Warner Brothers' Foghorn fame), who may or may not be both female. This because Jo-Ann liked the spots on their heads and also, because I had been so desperate for eggs lately, I had considered getting a breed that is known for exceptional egg production. The Leghorn chicken (commonly seen in white) is used by most factory farms for egg and meat production. The breeder promised that if any of the Leghorns turned out to be roosters, she'd take them back and has a 75% success rate of rehoming roos. That's what I needed to hear. Three roosters is already too many.

On the drive home in a torrential downpour, Jo-Ann sat with the chicks in their cage in her lap and helped me name them. I typically try to name chickens of the same breed "twin names" or ones that go together, i.e. Righty and Tighty, Ann Landers and Dear Abby, Crabby and Patty, Addy and Subtracty, etc. The Cream Legbars are a breed developed in part by geneticist Reginal C. Punnett in order to sex the chicks easily at birth. I frequently use Punnett's Square method to try to determine what color combinations I may get from my Maine Coons, so I was really attracted to this breed. Therefore, the Legbar chicks are named "Punnett" and "Square," in honor of their creator.

Two Views of the Cream Legbars
 

The two 55 Flowery girls, also gender determined by color, should grow up to be multi-colored. Their names are Pansy and Petunia.

55 Flowery Chicks - Note the multiple colors on the face

The Leghorns are named Bindi and Mindi. Jo-Ann came up with this as she knew Bindi is the name of the dot worn on the foreheads of Hindu women. Otherwise, they would have been called something more common like "Spot" and "Dot." Feathers crossed that Bindi and Mindi will never crow.



Blue Leghorns

 

 

For Part 2 about the newest additions, read Flying the Coop.

 



  

Finding a Maine Coon Breeder - Abbreviated

So you’ve decided you want take the plunge and get a purebred, registered, bona fide Maine Coon from a good breeder…awesome! Here are some suggestions on how and where to look.

·      Do your research on the breed by visiting MCBFA, TICA, CFA & CFF.

·      Search for breeders by visiting cat shows and online with Pet Professor, KittySites, Breedlist.com, Maine Coon Cat Nation or Google.

·      Cat show calendars for shows near you can be found on TICA.org & CFA.org

·      Be persistent and patient. Maine Coon cats are extremely popular and breeders are usually swamped with inquiries.

Basic Criteria for a Responsible Breeder:

·      Registered cattery with a major cat registry such as TICA, CFA or CFF.

·      Screen breeding cats for heart disease (HCM) utilizing ultrasound, not DNA only. Proof of cardiac screening of the kitten’s parents should be available.  

·      Kitten/cat should be registered. You may be required to provide proof of spay/neuter as a prerequisite.

·      Kittens not allowed to leave the breeder until at least 12 weeks of age and two sets of vaccination received.

·      Expect to be screened as a suitable home.

·      Expect to sign a contract for the purchase of the kitten/cat which offers a health guarantee, prohibits declawing, letting your cat outside and breeding without permission.

·      The area where the kittens and cats live should be clean and the cats appear healthy and friendly.

·      Expect to be able to meet your kitten’s littermates and parents (unless an outside stud was used). Be wary of being asked to sit in one location while your kitten is brought out of another room to you.

·      No responsible breeder will sell their kittens at a pet store or through a third party. We like to know where our kittens are going!

 

For more detailed information, read these blogs at http://dracoonfly.blogspot.com/2014/04/how-to-be-good-kitten-buyer.html and http://dracoonfly.blogspot.com/2010/11/cat-peeves.html

 

 

New Chicks Continued

Since my last blog in September about our home-hatched chicks, we've had a few changes to our backyard flock. None of these are really good changes.

A few weeks ago, Rihanna, foster mom who hatched and raised the chicks, died. I'm not sure why, especially considering she'd finally regrown her feathers and was looking a lot more healthy and less like a turkey vulture. I've learned over the years that even though we protect them from predators and try to keep their environment healthy, chickens are still vulnerable to unknown illnesses. If I notice a chicken has slowed down, I prepare myself for losing her.

Then just this week, Beeker died. I was not surprised as Beeker was now one of our oldest hens at 7 years. Although she willingly helped Rihanna raise the chicks, Beeker did not lay any eggs in the past year, a sign that her body was post-henapausal. Still, Beeker's adorable little pure-white Silkie presence will be missed.

Beeker and Rihanna in happier days

It's hard to mix the bantam (miniature) breeds of chickens with the standard sized ones as the smaller ones get picked on. Our rooster, Ed Sheeran, is technically a bantam also being half Silkie and half Frizzle, but as a male, he's larger and dominates. So in essence, I have to worry less now about making sure the little ones get their fair share of food and roosting space.

In addition to the deaths of our remaining bantam hens, we have gradually come to accept that our two Frizzle/Welsummer chicks are the wrong gender for egg laying; we have two cockerels. I'm not often wrong (just ask my husband and kids...not), but I was way off on these chicks. Or call it believing what you want to be true. Originally named Charlotte and Cindy, I now just call the little rascals Frick and Frack.

Frick (middle) and Frack (left)

New Chicks!

My husband and I have a backyard chicken flock of varying ages and now we have new home-hatched chicks.

We tend to add a few new chicks almost every year, partly because if we see a breed that looks interesting we want it and partly because the egg production slows down dramatically in hens after the age of two years. Many of the older chickens have died off. The average life span of a chicken, assuming no predation, is 4-5 years. The last hen from our very first chicks, an Americauna named Flo, died during the summer at the age of eight years. Since our chickens have a guaranteed retirement here with us and we try hard to protect them from all the creatures of land and air, our oldest hens are now seven-years-old and our youngest turned a year old in May. Sixteen chickens, ten or so different breeds, one of which is a rooster.

Last May we got two Frizzle-Silkie cross chicks and two Welsummer chicks. One of the Frizzles is a red rooster we named Ed Sheeran, after the singer with similar hair (red with a comb-forward to cover your receding hairline). He’s a handsome roo with his wild feathers that look like they were caught in a tornado.

Ed Sheeran, red Frizzle rooster
 

Our other Frizzle is named Rihanna, also after the singer. Our Rihanna, however, is probably the ugliest chicken we’ve ever had. She is tiny, black, about one pound, smaller than our other female Bantam (miniature) breed Silkie hen, Beaker. Rihanna has been hen and rooster pecked so that she is missing a lot of her curly feathers, her head and neck almost completely bald giving her the appearance of a turkey vulture. Bantam hens are slower to mature, often not starting to lay eggs until they are 8 months old. Rihanna didn’t start laying until she was about a year old. I often said Rihanna was a sorry excuse for a chicken; not attractive, very poor layer and skittish.

 

When Rihanna became broody in August, I ignored it at first. Being half Silkie, her breed is known for going broody, which means they will just sit on a nest for three weeks or so, whether or not there are eggs under her. During the broody time, a hen will not lay eggs, getting off the nest only a few times a day for short periods to eat, drink and poop. This characteristic has been bred out of most other breeds of chickens, but not the Silkie. Therefore, Silkie hens are infamous for hatching and raising chicks the old fashioned way. We have used Beaker, our white Silkie, a few times to hatch the eggs of others and raise chicks.

 

A couple of weeks into her broodiness, Rihanna remained steadfast on her nest, and I decided we should go for a few new chicks. With our only rooster being a Frizzle, any chicks that hatched would have a fifty percent chance of having the curly feathers of a Frizzle, yet the size and coloration of the mother. Rihanna and her foster mother, Beaker, were moved into our old coop with six eggs; two cream, one green, two chocolate brown and one with dark spots. I wanted Beaker there for moral support and as a back-up in case Rihanna’s hormones suddenly changed her broodiness mid-gestation. I hoped that Beaker would take over if necessary. I put in more eggs than we actually wanted because our luck has only hatched one live chick out of every four eggs any time we’ve tried to hatch eggs in the past. Plus, with Ed being a smaller breed of rooster than the rest of the flock, I didn’t know how many of the hens he’d successfully bred. Some of the girls had no trouble out running Ed.

Biological Mom - Welsummer Hen - Either Dear Abby or Ann Landers (they're twins)

On Day 21, the first egg hatched! It was from one of the dark brown Welsummer eggs, either Ann Landers’ or Dear Abby’s. The next day, another egg hatched! Also a Welsummer. The other eggs either weren’t fertile or didn’t survive. So we have two new chicks, and by the coloration, both appear to be little pullets (young hens). One has the curly Frizzle feathers. Daughter Kelsey has named them Charlotte and Cindy.

Grandma Beaker with Foster Mom, Rihanna, and chick

Cute chicks, being raised by a not-so-cute yet very attentive mother. It is fun to watch how Rihanna scratches the dirt and clucks to her babies or how she lets them snuggle under her if they are cold. Grandma Beaker seems to enjoy being around to help out yet she doesn’t try to steal the chicks away from Rihanna. And so, the miracle of life in the world of backyard chickens continues.  

Rihanna with her brood



 

Mice Beware!

I am a breeder and owner of the Maine Coon cat. It is a large breed, sought after originally because of its usefulness as a hearty barn cat who could survive the harsh winters in Maine and keep the rodent population under control. Throughout history, a cat’s main job for humankind has been that of mouse exterminator. Since its acceptance as a breed in the 70’s and growing popularity as a pet and show cat, many have speculated that the Maine Coon’s killer instincts have been bred out of it.

 

River snuggles with Tina

 

When I noticed that two of our younger female Maine Coons were focused on whatever was under our upright piano, I assumed a toy or perhaps a bug was under there. When I later heard our dog, Coraline, sniffing loudly around the base of the piano, I became suspicious and pulled the piano out away from the wall. An adorable little field mouse looked back at me.

Getting a live mouse out of the house when one has several predators around is a daunting task. I have witnessed our dogs brutally killing mice and song birds with one bite. I rolled the piano back in place to protect the mouse, put Cory in her crate and called my husband for assistance.

I was and am not concerned about finding a den of rodents as I’m pretty sure I know how it got in. We have an enclosed outdoor cat run connected to the house. The cats have access to the run via a cat door installed in the basement window. I occasionally find a rodent victim (vole or mouse) dead in the cat run.  While it is very unlikely a mouse could push the door open to gain entry, it could be carried inside via the mouth of a cat. A live mouse makes for some major feline entertainment. Before the cat and mouse games could get too far, the mouse likely escaped. All was well and good for the mouse until it realized it had fallen into mouse hell…a whole city of Maine Coon cats.

Back to the piano mouse. After my repeated calling, Jay showed up and I explained our dilemma. Once I reminded him that we were NOT to kill it, he suggested I get a towel to throw over the mouse when he moved the piano back. I got ready with my towel. From the other side of the piano, Jay moved it away from the wall. Simultaneously, one of my pottery vases fell from the top of the piano as I tossed the towel. The vase broke into a million pieces and the mouse jumped over the towel, running into the kitchen. Many expletives followed, including the declaration that I do not make a good exterminator.

It was determined that Mr. Mouse had crawled under the stove after I pulled the bottom drawer out and saw him back there. Now he had many opportunities to go behind the cabinets and hide indefinitely. This could take a while if he didn’t venture out. However, I wasn’t too worried as Tina, River, Valentine and Boom Boom were standing guard. I reminded Jay that if we heard a commotion in the middle of the night we had to get up so we could try to save the mouse before my feline forum did too much damage. Major eye roll from my husband.

“Hey, if I said, ‘let’s set traps and kill the mouse’, you’d suddenly wonder who you’d married,” I retorted. I am also the person who puts the errant moth and spider outside unharmed, so of course mice deserve the same protection in my animal-loving mind.

Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. After watching the Olympics for a while, Jay went to the bathroom and I came into the kitchen to put my wine glass in the dishwasher. All the cats were gathered around the step stool in the kitchen. River, our 10-month-old brown tabby lay on the floor, casually watching as Valentine, Tina and Boom Boom crouched attentively beside the stool. Hmmm. Wonder what you guys are up to. I called repeatedly for Jay, but Lord knows he can’t hear me in an emergency.

I grabbed a large plastic cup and carefully lifted one side of the stool. Sure enough, Mr. Mouse ran out but right into River’s arms. She surprised me by not jumping up, but instead she welcomed the little guy as her new playmate, letting him hide between her front legs. With my cup positioned on the floor, I let the mouse choose between me or a bunch of cats. He ran into the cup and I had him. Fortunately for the mouse, he seemed unharmed. Before I let Mr. Mouse outside, I took a picture and warned him about not going too close to the chickens’ yard. Our chickens are major rodent killers.

 

Still Cute

I realize that my siblings and I are not the first people to experience the decline of a parent, but lately the reality of how life ends is forced in front of me. The geographic distance between all of us makes the logistics of care difficult. North Carolina is where our mother resides with our step-father, but we, her three children, live in Connecticut, Minnesota and Arizona. Our step-father is not capable of providing the kind of continuous care his wife needs now. We want to honor her wish to die at home. Not knowing how to plan and for how long is inconvenient, but shouldn't be my main concern. Now that Mom is under hospice care, I have taken on the role of primary caregiver. Thank goodness my sister can arrange her work schedule so we can take turns.

With all this, I try to take heart with a few positives:

 

Mom isn’t in pain.

Her dementia has kept her from worrying as much about her liver cancer as a more cognizant sufferer might.

She still knows who we are and accepts our care without embarrassment or resistance.

She has flashes of humor, reminding us that she’s beautiful inside and out.

Mom is so weak, she requires assistance to stand, to turn over, to move her legs out of the bed. She barely eats and drinks only when the offer is in front of her. She has no bowel control or awareness of having gone. She’s so emaciated, her bare torso shows every rib.

Her norm over the past few weeks has become communication with a look, a nod or shake of the head, especially when she’s sleepy. Sleep is her life right now. When she does speak, it startles me. When she spoke in full sentences to a former colleague who called her the other day, I was amazed. Then she became tired and I had to take the phone.

Our mother took care of herself throughout her 77 years, making her cancer seem that much more unfair. She was active, never over-weight, regular doctor visits, no smoking or drinking, brushed and flossed…all those things you’re supposed to do. She always been a positive person and looked amazing for her age; never even had to color her hair. At this late stage, she has gray roots for the first time. Her signature heavy eyebrows and dark lashes are barely visible with their light color, making her look dramatically different.

So we focus on moments and try to freeze those in our memories. I was on the phone with her hospice case manager, a wonderful woman named Joy who had called to check on her before the weekend started. As I spoke to Joy, I walked into Mom’s bedroom where she lay and she opened her eyes, wondering who I was talking to about her. I told her, “Joy wants to know how you’re doing, Mom.”

“Tell her I’m cute.”


Post Note: My mother passed away peacefully on August 2, 2016.

 

 

Fifteen Golden Years

Fifteen years ago today, a litter of Golden Retrievers was born. Seven weeks later we chose a blond female from that litter and brought her home to join our family. Chardonnay is my first pedigreed dog and our oldest pet.

2-month-old cuteness

I blogged about our dog Chardonnay on her tenth and fourteenth birthdays and realize how fortunate we are to still have her in our lives on her fifteenth. Cancer is very prevalent in Golden Retrievers, so much so that Chardonnay participated in a study being done on her breed and cancer. It is hoped that her blood contribution from a non-cancer patient will help scientists figure what she has that the other Goldens do not.

However, this past year has been even more challenging for the old girl; mostly because her hind legs are so stiff they barely bend. Falling down is common and getting up takes time and effort. We started having laser therapy done on her a couple of months ago to make her feel better and that has helped her mobility some. The walks in the woods are less frequent, but she enjoys them at her own pace. Her hearing is almost gone, she has cataracts and seems to have dementia as well. She has had three seizures although they are spaced over a couple of years and not our major concern right now.

The one sense that still works with incredible accuracy is her sense of smell. Chardonnay still trolls for chicken droppings and poop left behind by herself or our other dog, Cory. Cory chooses to poop in the woods, however Chardonnay manages to sniff it out, even if she didn’t witness where Cory went in the midst of all the leaves on the ground. So the coprophagia instinct is still alive and well with her. Great. Chardonnay’s nicknames are Chardy, The Golden Goof, Blondie and Shithead.

Yesterday we had both kids, Tyler and Kelsey, and their significant others over for Easter dinner so we took advantage of the family gathering to celebrate Chardonnay’s birthday. I went a little bit over the top. When you realize you’re on borrowed time, you have an excuse to make the most of it. Last year, I took Chardonnay shopping at Pet Supplies Plus for her fourteenth. This year, I had picked up a small cake (about 6 inches in diameter) at Stop n’ Shop and had them write “Happy Birthday Chardonnay” with matching icing on it. I got numbered candles. And to honor Chardonnay’s true dining habits, I arranged three Tootsie Rolls in the shape of her favorite food on top. And before anyone criticizes me for feeding my dog junk food or chocolate, I'll defend myself; it takes an exorbitant amount of chocolate to hurt a dog, Tootsie Rolls have very little actual cocoa in them, and at her age Chardonnay has earned the right to eat cake. She eats crap, for Pete's sake.

Her very special cake, complete with Tootsie Roll turds

We all sang and presented Chardonnay with her very own birthday cake, candles unlit. I expected her to try to wolf the entire cake down, but she surprised us by licking the icing, unamused at the fake turds. Sorry, Old Girl, real ones were not an option.

Chardonnay enjoys her birthday cake

 

Fat Cat Saga - After One Week

This is Part Two of a continuing series on Boom Boom's weight-loss journey. Click here to read Part One first.

Yesterday, February 14th, marked one week. Boom Boom has been living in our bedroom, eating half a 5.5 ounce can of Merrick canned food twice daily. When I serve it to her, it has about a teaspoon of Miralax powder mixed into it. Jay normally does the breakfast feeding and I'm pretty sure he "forgets" to add the extra fiber.

Since she stopped taking the Amitriptyline, Boom Boom is more affectionate and energetic; not surprising since it's an antihistamine. Unfortunately, she's also been scratching more, but not terribly so. Perhaps Boom Boom's allergies are seasonal.

After her second day on the new diet, Boom Boom had lost six ounces. The goal is seven ounces in one week, so I figured we were going too fast. Rapid weight loss in cats can cause fatty liver disease so I adjusted her rations. I also started giving her a handful of dry food in her dish twice daily, just enough to cover the bottom of the bowl. I've been keeping a full bowl of dry food in the bath tub for the other, more mobile cats who need the extra calories. Until today, Boom Boom lacked the motivation to heft her body over and into the tub to help herself to more crunchies. Now that I've witnessed her chowing down in the tub, I need to find a better way to keep the extra food out of her reach.

I weigh the big girl every two days on the baby scale and document it on the spreadsheet I have on my dresser. I weigh myself then too, but so far the cat is more successful than I have been at losing weight. I'm blaming Valentine's and those damn addicting conversation hearts and chocolate.

 

So at the end of one week, Boom Boom has lost six ounces, one ounce short of her goal. The exact recipe is still in the works as you can tell by the spreadsheet. If you go by what I weighed her at yesterday, Boom Boom had lost one pound, 4.5 ounces. That seemed a bit drastic considering the day before, she was four ounces away from her goal. This morning, she was back to a more logical 22 pounds and one ounce so we'll go with that and rack up yesterday's weight loss to technical error. Boom Boom doesn't always enjoy standing on the scale and tends to wobble a bit.

Since I began this, I received a note from one of my kitten buyers, Christine, who relayed her experience with trying to get her previous cat to lose weight. I haven't tried her technique yet, but it seems like a good idea. It's also a reminder that the so-called "diet foods" are ineffective. The fiber in canned pumpkin is good for treating diarrhea and constipation in cats, plus most cats like it.

Hi Sharon!  I just read your blog and wanted to share what worked for us.  I adopted a cat about 11 years ago.  He was 2 yrs old and almost 24 pounds.  The vet beat me up every time and wanted me to buy the expensive vet diet food, which Oscar hated.  I moved and went to a new vet and got the best advice ever.  Oscar is now 13 pounds, which is right for his size.  The advice was canned pumpkin!  She said to start cutting it into the canned food until it was about half pumpkin and half canned food.  Oscar felt full, but since it's veggie, it passed through him.  Just be careful and don't buy pumpkin pie filling!

To be continued...

 

Top view of Boom Boom

Fat Cat - Starting a Diet

For the first time, I have an obese cat. Yes, being a Maine Coon breeder, we have large cats. We have pregnant cats. We have had the occasional "beefy" spayed or neutered cat. Now having an obese cat bothers me because I have preached to my kitten buyers to keep their cats at a healthy weight. Just because you have a Maine Coon doesn't mean you should have a 30-pound cat.

I am not a feline nutritionist, but I've learned a bit over the years of being a breeder. I advise my kitten buyers that if their cat starts to become too chubby, cut back on the dry food and increase the canned. Always feed canned food, no matter how inconvenient it is for you, because cats need the extra water in their diets. Drinking water is not enough. Canned food is more meat whereas dry food is closer to cat cereal and has way more carbohydrates. Male cats in particular need the extra water content that canned food provides to prevent urinary tract blockages.

I won't get into the raw diet because I have chosen not to feed raw. I have a fear of too much familiarity with the original food source and salmonella to go there. I refuse to even strip the Thanksgiving turkey to salvage the meat; that's what husbands are for. Even though I don't feed raw, I recommend that all cat owners read Dr. Lisa Pierson's site, Cat Info.org on feline diets. She offers ways to feed your cat a healthy diet, raw or not.

My readers may remember my blog last August about Dracoonfly Cosseboom "Boom Boom" and how I had to reclaim her from my mother whose own health is failing. When I brought Boom Boom back, she was on the thin side at 15-plus pounds, covered in flea bites, missing hair from all the scratching, and needed dental work. Her diet was changed (no more Meow Mix), she had many teeth pulled, and she was put on Amitriptyline to help with her allergies and anxiety. Once her mouth healed, Boom Boom starting eating with a vengeance. She stopped scratching and her coat grew back.

Even though Boom Boom was born in my house, had a very successful show career and made some beautiful babies for her first five years, at the age of 11 she is not thrilled living with a bunch of cats and two dogs. She growls defensively at any cat she deems a threat. Hence, I hoped the Amitriptyline would have the added benefit of helping her to deal with the chaos. However, Boom Boom seemed happiest to live with Bear, one of my two breeding males, in my son's old bedroom. It seemed to be a perfect arrangement. However, Boom Boom, went from thin-ish to fat. When I weighed her about a month ago on my baby scale, it confirmed what my eyes saw; she was now 20 pounds. With her large frame, Boom Boom's ideal weight is about 17 pounds.

At 20 pounds, Boom Boom was the heaviest cat in the house. As I mentioned, I have large cats, not fat ones. Most of my cats eat canned food together twice daily and free feed on dry food. Instead of feeding her separately, my first plan of action to get her weight down was to force Boom Boom out of her Bear cave and to travel the stairs to eat. She wasn't happy with having to deal with other cats, but Boom Boom hung out mostly on our kitchen counter, arguing with Bugger occasionally over who owns that space. But rather than losing, she actually looked like she was putting on more weight.

Out came my scale again. Yikes! About a month after my tough-love-get-out-and-use-the-stairs-diet plan, Boom Boom was now 22 pounds, a two-pound gain. I guess it goes to show you how important a scale can be to keep things in perspective.

Time to get serious. Time to try out the advice I frequently gave my kitten buyers if their cat starts to get fat; cut out the dry food and increase the canned. I refreshed my memory on feline weight loss with the Cat Info.org site and put Boom Boom on a canned food only diet. I add about a teaspoon of powdered Metamucil to her food. Cats that lose weight too quickly can develop life-threatening Hepatic Lipidosis (fatty liver disease) so it's important to monitor weight loss accurately. The recommendation is have the cat lose no more than 2% of her body weight per week. At 22 pounds, that would be 7 ounces, adjusting the goal as her weight declines. I put the scale in my bathroom and made a spreadsheet to track Boom Boom's weight and remind me to weigh her every 2-3 days.

Since I do currently have two other cats who like to sleep in our room with us, I put their dry food in the bath tub. Boom Boom currently doesn't have the mobility or motivation to jump into the tub for food. She's also lost the ability to jump onto our bed.

On a hunch, I Googled side effects of Amitriptyline. Sure enough, weight gain is a side effect. I'll have to get with my vet for something else to tackle the skin allergies as the meds stop today. Amitriptyline probably isn't the sole cause of creating an obese cat in 6 months, but there must be a correlation.

So stayed tuned for the continuing saga of my big girl. If your own cat is on the plump side, take a look at his or her diet and follow along.

"I'm not fat. I can still fit in the kitchen sink."

Crazy Cat Lady...Not!

I type this with an overly affectionate large brown tabby and white Maine Coon called Bonnie who is feeling pregnant and hormonal, perched on my left arm and shoulder, burying her head into my hair and nibbling on my neck. Bonnie’s great-grandsire, Bugger, lies nearby, supervising all of my laptop usage.

As a breeder of the magnificent Maine Coon Cat, I wonder if others see me as a crazy cat lady. Other cat breeders, probably not. They understand that in order to produce kittens, one needs to have more than two cats. Okay, technically you just need an intact male and female which makes two, but in order to have a breeding program, there needs to be a plan beyond your first litter. You keep a kitten to carry on, but who do you breed that one to if all you have is the kitten’s mom and dad? This ain’t West Virginia folks. We study things like inbreeding coefficients to steer away from too much of a good thing with shared DNA.

But to others; the “normal” people who regard more than two cats as too many, am I a crazy cat lady to them? For those without any pets, your opinion doesn’t count. That would be like a non-parent criticizing someone else’s children. You know who I’m talking about.

The words Crazy Cat Lady do not project a positive image. It’s intended to be an insult even though I know cat fanciers who embrace the term proudly. Frumpy, unmarried, overweight, talks obsessively about her cats as if they are children who talk back. Maybe she’s a hoarder, the ultimate image of a crazy cat lady gone over the top. They do exist; I see them at cat shows along with all the other “regular” cat exhibitors, but they are the minority.

An equestrian, jogger, college graduate, human resources manager, a wife, a sister and daughter, a mother of two grown kids with Celiac Disease; is that who I am or who I was? Well, I’m still a wife, daughter and sister and I’ll always be a mother. In my mind, I am 20 pounds lighter and not hampered by exercise-induced asthma. I can still ride a horse, but seldom get the opportunity these days. Perhaps I’m a novice paralegal, supporting her husband’s new solo law practice, but not having enough to do yet.

Certainly we identify people by their jobs more than anything else which is why I sometimes feel like I need a better label than cat breeder. I cringe when I’m introduced as a Maine Coon breeder to those outside the cat fancy. The first question that follows is, “How many cats do you have?” to which there is no good answer for the average person. Then I feel compelled to explain that I also show my cats, I’m a responsible breeder and the kittens are so popular that I’ll never have enough to meet the demand (and yet I’ll barely break even after all is said and done for them).

At the local cat shows, I often meet followers, my “stalkers” as I affectionately call them. These are the people who light up when they recognize my name or my cattery on the show cage sign, then they tell me how they’ve watched my website for years, read my blog, and/or follow my cattery on Facebook. That’s pretty cool, I admit.

Career-wise, I’ve been little more than a homemaker/stay-at-home Mom/housewife the past several years. That’s another label I never thought would apply to me; homemaker. I was going to have a career AND a family. However, reality, divorce, remarriage, a recession and children who needed me took over. Life happened and my plans were put on hold for so long I no longer have the desire to figure out what they are anymore. The one plan I had some control over was breeding Maine Coons.

  

Maybe it’s the sum of what we do that matters more than the labels given us. I do still fit in my jeans, but not the way I’d like to. I do pottery, but I’m not a ceramics artist. I am very sarcastic, but I’m not a comedian. I do sing pretty well, but not at Karaoke. I do take back and rehome any cats or kittens I sell if the owner can no longer keep them, but I don't take in strays simply because I have to keep my numbers down. I do enjoy cooking these days, but I am not a chef. I do write a blog, but I haven’t written a book (yet). I do try to stay in my children’s lives and consider myself a good mom. I do break out into song at any cue, but not as annoyingly so as my siblings. I do enjoy travelling to foreign lands for vacation or just for the weekend at a cat show, but I love coming home and hanging with the hubby. I do continue to be a passionate animal lover, but recognize my pets are not “like my children”. I do have a wonderful following of cat lovers and kitten buyers who appreciate me and my cats. I do breed and show Maine Coons, but I am not a crazy cat lady.

 

 

Another One Comes Home

In my effort to be a responsible Maine Coon cat breeder, I have vowed to be ultimately responsible for the kittens I sell. This means that even though I sell them to screened, loving homes where they are intended to live long lives as part of a family for the duration of their feline lives, I will take them back if things don’t work out.

Not often, but once in a great while, my kittens have come back. It’s usually as adults, for various reasons; home foreclosure due to job loss, upheaval caused by divorce, severe allergies of a new family member and death of the owner. In virtually all the cases, the owners are distraught about giving their pet back, but realize I can find them a new home more easily than they can. It’s also in most breeders’ contracts to have first right of refusal if the original owner can no longer keep the animal. I would always take the cats back rather than risk them being put in less desirable situations, like an animal shelter.

Almost all of the cats that come back to me are on the younger side and are easily sold to new homes after a short adjustment period where I can have them vetted and assess them. It has always worked out well; a family gets a Maine Coon and a cat gets properly spoiled in a new home.

Recently, I’ve taken older cats back that I felt were too old to re-home. One cat I took back was Ray, a nine-year-old red tabby who I blogged about in February. Ray’s owner had died and Ray himself had been recently diagnosed with cancer.  We enjoyed Ray’s company for about four months before my vet helped him leave us to escape his cancer. 
 
Last week, I brought Ray’s mother, Boom Boom, home.  I took the 11-year-old cat back from my mother, with whom she’d lived for the past seven years in North Carolina since she retired from breeding (the cat, not my Mom). Some of my readers may remember Dracoonfly Cosseboom, one of the largest female Maine Coons I ever had the pleasure of showing. Even with her tell-tale torbie and white coloring that’s normally assigned only to females, Boom Boom was large enough that a couple of judges felt the need to verify her gender.  Sixteen pounds on a one-year-old Maine Coon is big, even for the boys. Boom Boom earned the titles of CFA Grand Champion and TICA Supreme Grand Champion. In 2008, she became a TICA Outstanding Dam which means five of her offspring also became Grand Champions.

I had not wanted to bring Boom Boom back like this. Unfortunately, between my mother’s liver cancer, her increasing memory loss and my step-father's limited mobility, Boom Boom has not been receiving the attention she needs.  My mother would complain about how much the cat vomited and scratched herself, yet neither she nor my step-dad, John, seemed to be able to take preventive steps.

I spent quite a bit of time and effort over the years, trying to educate Mom and John on the need to avoid feeding Boom Boom cat food with corn meal in the ingredients because of her skin sensitivities.  Cats are obligate carnivores and many pet food manufacturers use corn meal as a cheap source of protein. Cats are not designed to digest corn. Thus, corn meal is a primary reason for cats vomiting after eating. However, Mom and John kept going back to Meow Mix; it was easier to buy at the grocery store than go to a pet specialty store and invest in the better brands I recommended.

In addition to food allergies, Boom Boom also had fleas. Fleas are more difficult to deal with in the South as they hitch rides indoors on people. Keeping a cat indoors is not an absolute guarantee to avoid fleas. Having Revolution applied monthly on the back of her neck to prevent fleas never became a habit for poor Boom Boom. Instead, when Boom Boom scratched, the knee-jerk reaction was to put a Hartz flea collar on her. This was not only ineffective, but irritating to the cat’s sensitive skin. Thanks goodness they never tried Hartz Spot-on as that product (which is still out there for some reason) has been known to cause seizures and death in cats and dogs.

No surprise then that Boom Boom has bald spots and scabs on her. I know I should have taken her back sooner, but when your mother always talks about how much she enjoys the cat every time you talk on the phone and the last doctor’s report indicates her time is getting shorter, you rationalize leaving the cat as a therapy pet for a few more months. My sister and I increased our visits to Mom after we saw the situation last December, when Boom Boom was badly infested with fleas and she’d lost weight.  My mother actually had not noticed because the scratching had become normal for Boom Boom.  We used Revolution to get rid of the fleas and got her weight stabilized. We bought the better dry cat food, but would just return a month later to find Meow Mix again, because “Boom Boom didn’t like the new food”.  My family is just too spread out to make visits more frequently; Mom is in North Carolina, I’m in Connecticut, my sister lives in Minnesota and my brother in Arizona.

So last week my husband and I drove to North Carolina to visit Mom and prepared to return with a cat. We packed the large, collapsible dog crate I use to transport the cats to cat shows. It’s big enough for a litter box and a couple of Maine Coons. We had already checked Boom Boom for fleas and found none, but just in case, the last day Boom Boom was at Mom and John’s house, I gave her a Capstar pill and a bath. Capstar will kill any remaining fleas within 30 minutes and I wasn’t taking any chances of bringing the little blood-suckers in my house.  Mom asked if we wanted to take Boom Boom’s cat tree for her, but we didn’t want to take a chance on unhatched eggs either.  I have several cats, two dogs and no fleas. I want to keep it that way. The seven-foot cat tree went to the dump.

I was very nervous about the prospect of taking my mother’s cat away from her. I had a vision of Mom bursting into tears and begging me not to take Boom Boom. To offset this, I had bought Mom one of those realistic-looking stuffed cats that lies curled up and breathes with the help of a D battery as a substitute to sit on her recliner with her. I also enlisted my step-father’s support as I knew he was tired of taking care of the cat. If Mom forgot why Boom Boom was gone, I needed John to be able to give her gentle reminders. Mom just can’t do it anymore and although John likes Boom Boom, he has enough on his plate with his wife and his own limitations.  

John agreed that this would be best and backed me up. We told Mom that Boom Boom needed to come back home with me where I could take care of her. Mom was in agreement; she even thanked me several times for taking care of Boom Boom during the week we were down there. Mom tends to repeat herself, but I was happy she remembered what I was intending to do. Still, when the time came for us to leave, Mom burst into tears.

Why does this have to be so hard? Aging parents. Cancer. Dementia. Aging, neglected cats. In the end, we’re trying to make the best of a bad situation. Mom calmed down quickly, saying she hadn’t intended to cry. Something would be wrong with her if she weren’t upset. I know how much she loves this cat. I reminded Mom that seven years ago I had cried when she took Boom Boom away to live with her in North Carolina.

Now that Boom Boom has been back a week, she seems very happy. My mother still thanks me for taking care of the cat, and is getting used to being cat-less. Boom Boom doesn’t appreciate our other cats yet, but she clearly remembered our house, jumping immediately into our master bathroom window. Right now, she’s enjoying an itch-free lifestyle, learning to like new foods, and meeting the other cats one by one while she lives in our bedroom. When Boom Boom is ready, she’ll come downstairs on her own terms and take on the rest of the household. I’m relieved the transition is working out well and we’re happy to have Boom Boom back in the family.