Grand Standin

A year or so ago, Jay and I watched an HBO movie about a woman with autism who became a major influence in the area of animal behavior, Temple Grandin.  We found her true story fascinating, not only because we’re animal lovers, but also because of her autism.  Autism runs in my family, so we are always trying to gain further understanding of the disorder. 

Fast forward to last week when a prospective Maine Coon kitten buyer mentioned that her friend Temple Grandin could provide a reference to me on her behalf.  Temple Grandin?  THE Temple Grandin?  Turns out the kitten buyer works for the publisher who published one of Ms. Grandin’s books, Animals Make Us Human: Creating the Best Life for Animals.  They’ve become good friends over the years. 

So last night I was preparing supper while Jay was at the kitchen counter catching up on his email when the phone rang.  I looked at the caller ID, “Grandin Temple” it read.  Holy crap!  Hmmm…should I answer?

Just kidding.  Of course I answered the phone.  I don’t think I said anything intelligent, but I did gush a few times about what an honor it was to speak to her.  What do you say to a genius who has made such an impact on the rights of people with autism and animals?   Yes, I already approved her friend Laurie for a kitten, I told her.  I’m sure she’ll send you pictures after she gets the kitten, which hasn’t been born yet.  We talked a bit about the flooding in Colorado, her resident state, and how the surrounding area was devastated. 

After we said good-bye, I stood there smiling.  Temple Grandin…what a cool name.  And now I have her home phone number.  Who do I tell who may actually know who Temple Grandin is?  How many times can I use the word “who” in one sentence? 

I texted my friend Jo-Ann, probably my best-read friend and Manager of Information and Outreach Services at Upper Hudson LibrarySystem in Albany, New York. 

Me:  Do you know Temple Grandin?

Jo-Ann:  Yes, the autistic woman with a PhD.  Studied animals and could identify with their feelings.  She did research on animals going to slaughter and how to design a pen to make it easier for the animals.  Spoke recently at the Am Lib Assn Conference but I didn’t go.  Wanted to hear her.

Jo-Ann (again):  I suppose a simple “yes” would have sufficed.

Me:  She just called me.

Jo-Ann:  What!!???

Me:  I’m too good to talk to you anymore.

All kidding aside, it was a thrill to put a real voice to Dr. Grandin.  I will close with two of my favorite Grandin quotes:

“I think using animals for food is an ethical thing to do, but we've got to do it right. We've got to give those animals a decent life and we've got to give them a painless death. We owe the animal respect.”
― Temple Grandin

“If I could snap my fingers and be nonautistic, I would not. Autism is part of what I am.”
― Temple Grandin

  

It Stinks Being an Empty Nester

This past weekend was an emotional one as we moved Kelsey into her dorm at Lyndon State College in Vermont.  A lot of anxiety on Kelsey’s part, employing our abilities to be carriers of heavy objects up three flights of stairs, coaches and cheerleaders, but we got through it.  Now to face the reality of our new role as Empty Nesters.   After twenty-two years of centering my life around those of my children, what to do?

Monday morning.  Jay is scheduled for an umbilical hernia repair at Pequot Medical Center at 6:30 am.  He conveniently waited until after Kelsey’s move-in date.  A minor procedure, one I reminded him that I’ve had done on the occasional kitten at the same time it goes in to be spayed or neutered.  The kittens bounce right back, so a week of sick leave seems like overkill.  Nonetheless, I met the doctors beforehand and was asked if I would be waiting or wanted to be called.  Hmmm.  Would I have enough time to do some necessary grocery shopping, including driving home to put the food away?  The store, the medical center, and our house were all within a ten minute drive.  Absolutely, the nurse told me.

As I rounded the aisles at Stop n’ Shop, it was a bittersweet feeling.  For the first time in two years, I was able to freely select food that had gluten in it.   Both of my children have Celiac Disease so their gluten free diet has changed my approach to shopping and dining.  I splurged and picked up some deli rolls.  I also got a package of tilapia, not because it’s a gluten-containing fish, but because Kelsey is a picky eater.  We now have more options for our dinner table without kids to consider. 

I quickly finished shopping and got home, letting the dogs out for a quick potty break while I put groceries away.  It had been an hour and a half since I’d left my husband in his johnnie and paper shower cap so I figured I had just enough time to get back.  The nurse called then and said Jay was just getting out, take my time.  I said I’d be there in ten minutes. 

I called the dogs, but they seemed to have disappeared.  I figured our Golden Oldie Chardonnay was trolling for treasures (chicken poop) and went outside to find them.  I didn’t see the dogs, but I smelled a distinct aroma…of skunk.  I heard our energetic young mutt Cory barking down the driveway by the stone wall and I knew.  We were skunked.

It’s never convenient for your dogs to challenge a skunk, but when you’re trying to get back to the medical center, you don’t have time to deal with two stinky dogs.  This is the first I’ve ever had to deal with a skunked dog and I did what most people would do…I freaked.  All I knew was that I needed to leave, but what to do with the dogs?  Cory was rubbing her face on the door mat, her muzzle covered in a path of slobber from the irritating spray.  There was no doubt she’d been sprayed head on.  I wiped her eyes with a wet paper towel and put her in her crate.  At least that should keep the little instigator from contaminating anything else, I thought.  Chardonnay didn’t seem to have taken a direct hit.  I don’t have a crate for her anyway so I had to take my chances. 

Remembering the nurse telling me to take my time, I figured I’d use an extra 15 minutes to visit Pet Supplies Plus for some magic skunk odor remover rather than drag Jay with me in a drugged-up state.  I got there right as the doors were opening, desperation in my eyes, skunk smell on my clothes.  They were out of de-skunker.  Now I not only felt rushed, but I was irritated with the world.   Everyone was in my way, the lights were all red, and I stank.  My car stank.  Obviously, one can be victimized by a skunk just by walking through the invisible mist they leave floating in the air.  I received a text from Kelsey, letting me know that she needed me to mail her bobby-pins (the good kind), tank tops, her hair dryer and an assortment of other needs.  I took a moment to tell her to get a ride with her roommate and go shopping for herself.

I was so distracted by my skunk thoughts, that I missed the turn for the medical center and didn’t realize it until a couple of miles later.  My exasperation screamed as I turned the car around.  I’ve only been to Pequot a million times (usually for Kelsey), so how could I miss it?  Once there, I was escorted back to my groggy husband who was holding an ice pack to his belly.  He looked up as I walked in.  “I smell skunk.” 

“Funny thing happened while you were in surgery.”

The nurse helped Jay into our van and poked her head in.  “Oh yeah, I can smell it.”

As I pulled into our driveway, Tyler called, panicking because he thought his student loan was still messed up.  Not a good time.  It’ll be okay.  Whatever happened to not having to deal with children?

After I got Jay upstairs and settled into bed, I set back out in search of de-skunking solution.  Petco was also out; not a good sign when the manager said he’s been trying to get more in for two weeks.  PetSmart, my third attempt, had two bottles of Natures Miracle De-skunker left.  I bought both.

I tied the dogs out and covered them in the solution, roughly scrubbing Cory and lecturing her that maybe the shivering cold well water from the hose would teach her to leave pretty black and white rodents alone.  After the baths, my back was killing me and my jeans were soaked, but I was relieved to find that at least the de-skunker solution worked.   The dogs didn’t even smell doggy.

Next, I had to tackle the smell in the house, but it was hard to tell what part of that came from my own clothes and what was from a dog touching various surfaces.  I left my clothes outside as the washing machine was already occupied by the dog bed and the door mat, mopping the floor in my skivvies wherever the dogs’ path had crossed.  I even used the Nature’s Miracle on the back door and my purse.   After I finally showered, I was able to breathe more freely.

From the bed, Jay expressed feeble remorse that he wasn’t able to help me bathe the dogs and de-stink the house.  I was so taking his Percocet with a shot of vodka after this. 

Coraline the Skunk Hunter
 

Photo Op

In the cat fancy, there are also cat photographers.  Yes, professional photographers who make a living by specializing in cat photography.  The big names have their signature emblazoned on the award winning cats of the year and published in cat magazines, books, our websites and at award shows (again, for cats).  Most of the photos are taken at cat shows, where a photographer is provided with a separate room or area where he or she can line up feline models of all ages and breeds throughout the weekend.   The good ones bring an array of toys and techniques to entice and relax the cat enough to show off its best side.

Tetsu Yamazaki and his wife, Hiroko, first visited our home about nine years ago.  I had signed up for a home visit while at a cat show where they were working.  The home photo sessions are free, with the cat owners signing away the rights to whatever pictures Tetsu may sell to publications.  Although he works in the cat show venue, Tetsu figured out decades ago that cats were more relaxed having their photos taken in the comfort of their own home. 

I had sold Tetsu on the idea of coming to my house with the litter of five-week-old kittens I had, the first litter out of the cat from my first breeding, Ginger.  The theme of that litter was food; Popcorn, Macaroni, Pumpkin, Peppercorn and Cinnamon were the kittens' call names.  At that time, Hiroko was trying out a new digital camera she had on some of the other creatures of the house; mainly our dog, Chardonnay, and my son Tyler's bearded dragons. Tetsu was using 35 mm film back then and went through countless rolls.  I had recently watched the movie Lost in Translation and was reminded of it often that day.  Being Japanese natives, our visitors spoke limited English.  Still, their English was way better than my Japanese (and my Spanish, French, German, etc.).

Kitten photo session.  The boys were getting sleepy, but Peppercorn (left) just kept going.

After the kittens were worn out and the photo session was over, the Yamazaki's were leaving and Tetsu spotted my husband tying fishing flies, an obsession he has.  "Ah, you fly fish?" Tetsu asked.  Well, that started a whole different kind of conversation.  Tetsu had a hand-held translater so he could tell Jay the Japanese word for trout, striper and other fish-related lingo.  They left with a promise from Jay to take him fly-fishing the next time he was in the area.

Several months later after this first Tetsu photo session, I received a magazine cover in the mail.  The cover text was in Japanese with Cat Catalog written in English at the top.  The kitten pictured on the cover looked familiar.  Peppercorn!  My kitten was a cover girl!  The rest of the litter appeared in the magazine and I've since seen their pictures in Cat Fancy Magazine for their special Maine Coon issue (in which yours truly was also interviewed for an article).  I floated for a good long time, feeling pretty important that my kittens were published internationally. 

My Cover Girl

I recently received an email from Tetsu, advising me that he would be visiting cat breeders' homes in the Northeast and would I like for him to photograph my cats?  Of course, and be prepared to fish I told him.  Naturally, the day Tetsu and Hiroko came was the hottest day of the year, 95 degrees with steaming humidity.  They were relieved to find our house is air-conditioned.  Since Tetsu and Hiroko's last visit, the dog has become grey and arthritic with age and the bearded dragons have found a new home.  Ginger and the kittens have gone on but I have hung onto the kittens' grandmother, Sassy.

I have a litter of five kittens who are distant cousins to my kittens from before.  Sassy is their great-great grandmother.  Hiroko was impressed with the "old cat" so Sassy got her own photo session this time.  Olivia, my feral-looking brown tabby and her four-month-old kittens (two I'm keeping, two are still waiting on their owner to move into her new house so she can claim them) also had their respective chances to look cute for Tetsu's lens. 

Tetsu(foreground) and Hiroko photograph Tippet's litter

After a couple of hours of this, I invited them outside to look at our chickens.  More pictures, especially of Aslan, our magnificent Cochin rooster.  Hiroko recognized the word Cochin as it originally hails from China.  She was enthralled with the two silky hens, also a Chinese breed.  I picked up Buffy, the Buff Orpington hen, because she's an attention seeker and handed her to Hiroko.  Her face beamed; her first time holding a chicken she said.  What a wonderful opportunity I'm giving Hiroko, I thought.  Then I remembered that I don't think I ever held a chicken until I got my own backyard flock. 

We packed up the van and headed out to the Westbrook Fishing Club, where Jay's go-to pond lies.  It was late afternoon, still hotter than hell.  I felt pessimistic that the only fish we'd catch would already be fried.  Tetsu set up his fly rod and Hiroko's fishing pole, literally a 15-foot wooden pole, no reel, just a line and a fly that Jay gave him to try. 

Hiroko caught in excess of 15 fish on her wooden pole, one after another.  Jay and Tetsu did okay too, but I could tell Hiroko was very proud of besting the boys.  Watching our husbands pose with their catch for a picture, Hiroko remarked, "They look like little boys."  And they do.  I posted a few pictures on Facebook, in awe that we were hanging out with such a world renowned photographer (I know it's not Annie Leibovitz, but I live in a small, secluded world with paws and litter boxes).  The fish caught were just small sunfish as the bigger guys have to hunker down in colder deep water during the heat of the summer for survival. 

Tetsu and Jay

The most rewarding part was watching Hiroko.  She squealed with excitement everytime she caught one, chasing it around on the bridge with her hands so she could release it back to the water.  She had said that she and Tetsu traveled to the States many times over the past 30 years, but this was the first time they'd been fishing here.  After our guests and the fish were tired, Hiroko smiled and proclaimed it had been a good day. 

Hiroko poses with her first catch of many

Farewell Nick

Last fall I started working for my neighbor, Roberta, by helping out with her two Appaloosa horses, Nick and Tacoda. Roberta has an idyllic home for a horse, with acres of open green pasture, a ring and paddock areas and a three-stall barn nestled in the woods. Even though the horses aren’t ridden, they are babied.

Roberta’s concerns have centered around Nick, a vintage horse of 33 years. Horses live an average of 24 years so Nick’s advanced age is the equivalent of a 93-year-old man. Nick has multiple health issues, but even with his bum leg, could manage a canter and buck off 12-year-old Takoda’s efforts to herd him if necessary.

Lately, however, it had become apparent that Nick’s body was giving out on him. He became sick again and Roberta decided it was time to let him go rather than wait for an emergency. A backhoe operator was hired to dig a grave in the pasture where Nick would rest and the vet was called in. With an animal as large as a horse, euthanasia requires logistical planning. As morbid as it sounds, it is much easier to walk a horse to his grave to put him down than to have to drag his body later.

I decided my job on Nick’s final night was to keep his barn buddy, Takoda, busy. I groomed and walked him, trying to keep his attention diverted from Nick being led away. Once the deed was done, Takoda seemed okay as long as he was eating, whinnying from time to time to call Nick. Roberta spoke to the vet about how to deal with Takoda’s need for companionship. Horses are herd animals and consequently, need to have some sort of herd companion. The vet said in extreme cases where two horses had bonded very closely, she’d had to sedate the healthy horse so the sick one could be lead away to be put down. She said Takoda would need someone, a goat, even a chicken if Roberta didn’t want to add another horse. Fortunately Takoda’s love for Nick wasn’t a life-long friendship. Ironically, Takoda had been brought in four years ago as a companion for Nick when his other buddy, Mirage, had to be euthanized. Roberta knew she’d have to put out feelers in the horse community for a new friend for Takoda.

Takoda and Nick

The next morning when Roberta turned Takoda out of his stall, he whinnied frantically and raced to Nick’s gravesite where he remained for quite a while. When I came for my normal visit in the afternoon, Takoda was in another part of the pasture , but he called to me. It was if he was saying, “You’re here as usual, so where is Nick as usual?” The next couple of days, we witnessed Takoda’s grief and anxiety. He continued to call out for Nick, visiting his grave or just looking depressed. It was heartbreaking to watch.

Nick passed away on a Wednesday night. By Friday, Roberta had found a horse in need. Her name was Shamrock “Shammy”, so named because she was born around St. Patrick’s day. Shammy was in a situation where the owner’s family had been trying to convince her to give up her neglected horses. Homes had been found for the other horses, but Shammy needed major TLC. Shammy also happens to be Takoda’s half sister as they share the same sire. I tried to convey the happy news with Takoda on Friday night; that his sister was coming and everything would be better, but he didn’t understand. Poor Takoda, a horse I normally describe as being like a big, goofy Dalmation, hung his head and looked away.

Shammy arrived Saturday morning and an entourage of horse women led her up the hill to her new home. Even though they couldn’t see each other yet, the two horses started calling in anticipation. The woods echoed with loud whinnies.

Shammy and Takoda were put in adjoining paddocks so they can touch without him trying to play too roughly until his sister builds up her strength. Shammy is a predominantly white paint mare with one blue eye, very underweight, her hooves badly needed trimming, her legs covered in swamp mud; she had reportedly been living in a small space covered in rock piles and wetlands. Within the first week of her arrival, Shammy had seen the ferrier, had her teeth done and received her physical from the vet. She eats constantly, as if she’s not sure when she’ll be fed again.

We miss old Nick, but having Shammy there has breathed new life into the barn. The mare probably feels like she’s the one who has gone to heaven. Her brother from another mother, Takoda, is just happy to have someone to horse around with again.

Takoda meets Shammy

Did You Say Hot?

I had an unfortunate incident a couple of weeks ago, one that kept getting worse before it finally got better…jalapeño burn.  It’s the old “I’ve never had a problem before with handling jalapeño peppers” so I had concluded that this type of hot pepper isn’t dangerous to touch.  Even tasting them raw, they seemed pretty bland.  However, HOWEVER, beware of the evil seeds that lurk within!  As I cut out the ribs and seeds of the pepper, I used my fingers to separate the seeds for disposal. 

A burn started a while later, intensified by my stupid action of touching my face.  I washed off in cold water, held a cold, wet paper towel to my upper lip and nose…it only got worse.  I finally realized that this was serious enough that I needed to warn my husband that his worst anxiety was coming true…dinner was going to be late.  Holding my face, I went upstairs to where Jay was working and explained it to him.  Apparently he didn’t completely understand, “So when is dinner going to be ready?” 

Now we have two jalapeño burn victims.  No, I didn’t really follow through on my immediate impulse to cover Jay with jalapeño seeds.  Instead I just gave him “the look” and said I was handicapped.  Not being one to miss a meal, my husband finished making the chili while I Googled “How to treat jalapeño burn”. 

The first response I read was to apply a high fat dairy product to the burns to break down the capsaicin or chili oil which was now worming its way into my very core.  Sour cream provided more relief than the aloe burn cream had.  Of course, now I looked ridiculous with sour cream on my face and finger tips.  Kelsey and her boyfriend Kyle found great delight in my appearance, but were forbidden from posting a picture of me on Facebook.  The burning sensation found temporary relief with the sour cream, rubbing alcohol and caladryl, but then the pain would return. 

Remedies found online seemed to favor anything acidic to cut the chili oil.  Urine is obviously the more famous solution, but I didn’t feel that was necessary.  Other antidotes people swore by were lemons, limes, tomatoes, catsup, Mylanta and Afterbite Stick.  I thought of the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding and the father’s solution of Windex for every ailment.  He wouldn’t have been far off in this case since ammonia is a remedy also. 

The main thing to remember is that the remedies have to be reapplied several times and don’t touch your skin.  The continuous warning I came across in my research was don’t try to remove contact lenses and men shouldn’t use the bathroom until the burning sensation is long gone.  I discovered that even though my fingertips were covered in dried sour cream and feeling better, if I forgot and touched my face, the burn just kept on giving.

My family’s sympathy during dinner as I held a bag of ice against my sour cream covered burns was offset by their amusement with my white half of a moustache.  My face recovered first, but my fingers took longer; I guess because they actually touched the seeds.  I took Ibuprofen and went to bed holding a baggie of ice between my hands.

Of course, the moral of the story is to wear protective gear whenever handling hot peppers, even the wimpier jalapeños.  Point taken.

Stitchin' Chicken in the Kitchen

I was at our neighbor’s barn as I am every weekday afternoon, taking care of the two Appaloosas, Nick and Takoda, when Kelsey called on my cell phone to ask when I was coming home.

“Why?”

“Because a hawk came after the chickens and one of them was fighting it. The dogs chased it off. I don’t think it got anyone.”

As I quickly walked back down the hill, I thought which of the chickens I valued the most. Certainly Buffy, our friendly Buff Orpington, is a family favorite. Nestlé lays dark chocolate-brown eggs; I’d driven to a poultry show specifically to get a Copper Maran pullet so I’d hate to lose her. I went through the 16 chickens in my mind and concluded that the ones I would miss the least would be the two Silver Spangled Hamburg hens. The Hamburgs are small and flighty, not very attractive physically, skittish. I’ve never been too attached to them. Our Hamburg’s names are Righty and Tighty, so named because Righty’s tail sticks up like a sail, but angles to the right. Tighty got her name by default. We do have a Lucy, the Rhode Island Red, but no Lefty. And yes, all 16 of our chickens have names.

As fate would have it, Kelsey and I found black and white spotted feathers where she’d seen the hawk on the ground. I recognized them as those of a Hamburg hen. Kelsey happened to be seated near the window when the attack occurred, but didn’t realize the hawk was actually a hawk because it was so small, smaller than many of our chickens in fact. Fortunately, our dogs, Chardonnay and Coraline, raised the alarm, causing Kelsey to look up and see the hawk struggling with a hen while the rest of the flock ran for cover.

She let the dogs outside and the hawk flew to a nearby tree and perched there, watching and probably a bit miffed. The chickens all scurried under the deck and Aslan, our rooster, placed himself between his flock and the entrance. Too bad Aslan wasn’t with those particular hens when the hawk came down, but I imagine the hawk planned it that way; attack the smaller hens who were by themselves, away from the rooster. Roosters are wonderful flock protectors and Aslan was purchased over a year ago specifically because he is the size of a large hawk. He also happens to be a beautiful bird and a real gentleman toward his girls and his humans.

I threw scratch on the ground and called the chickens out from hiding so we could count them. We were missing a Hamburg hen. Kelsey spotted her under the bush by the deck, alive but obviously not herself. It was Righty. Nervous when I got closer to her, Righty walked gingerly under the deck, and planted herself next to the house, far out of reach. She didn’t respond when I tossed food her way. Not good. I figured we’d stress her out totally if we tried to flush her out and catch her. Catching her would be nearly impossible given her skittish nature to begin with.

So we watched and waited until the sun started to go down and the chickens came home to roost in their coop. Righty was able to jump up on a perch where she was easy to catch. Once I had her, Jay and I examined Righty’s body. Initially, she seemed fine; some feathers missing, wings okay.

“She’ll be fine. She’s just traumatized,” Jay proclaimed.

“Check her belly” I said as I tipped Righty over. “Uh oh. He got her good.”

I brought Righty in the house where we had better light. There was a wound about one-inch in diameter which ripped her lower abdomen clear open. We could see body parts in there. I’m not sure what I was looking at, but Jay said the yellow stuff I saw was fat. No blood though. Even though I wasn’t sure that her organs weren’t punctured, I knew we needed to do something. It was 7:30 pm and the vet I’d taken a chicken to before would be closed. Kelsey came in, looked at the gaping hole in the bird and freaked out as only a teenage girl can do. Still holding Righty upside-down in a tight grip, I calmed Kelsey down and instructed her as our assistant.

Next thing you know, peroxide has been poured over the wound, feathers have been clipped back, and Kelsey is keeping Righty and herself calm by keeping both of their heads in the dark. After a false start with a dull needle and fishing line, Jay stitched her up with teal blue thread (easier to see to remove later) and a new needle from my sewing kit. Antibiotic ointment was applied, a chicken’s dosage of amoxicillin was syringed into her beak and Righty was put safely back outside on the perch in the coop.

After the surgery was over, Kelsey headed upstairs to her room, “Well, that’s enough adventure for now.”

Two days later, Righty seems sore, but is eating, drinking and getting around well. There is reason to hope that she’ll be fine.



Righty, Hawk Attack Survivor

Weighing In

When I first got into breeding Maine Coon cats almost 12 years ago, I researched feline husbandry to the point of obsession. Each book or article had a list of possible problems you may encounter during your cat’s labor and with the resulting kittens. One point I took to heart was the importance of weighing the kittens on a daily basis.

By weighing newborn kittens at birth and then at least once daily (same time every day), I am able to not only track its growth, but intervene early should the scale reveal a weight loss or lack of gain. Intervention by supplementing with a bottle or tube-feeding (some kittens won’t take a bottle so you have to force-feed them), can give the struggling kitten the extra energy it needs to nurse efficiently.

I learned with my own children that formula from a bottle is easier for a baby to suck than from the mother, it provides more calories and stays with them longer. Plus, in the case of animals who have multiple births, competition at the dairy bar can be a problem for weaker babies. From the time they’re born, kittens will defend their selected nipple by clawing frantically at any littermate who may get in the way.

Boom Boom's first litter

As the first couple of weeks of a kitten’s life are the most tenuous, I weigh every day for two weeks, then weekly thereafter. If a kitten is not gaining well, I often weigh twice daily. It’s important to track weight gain over time as a kitten may grow a lot one day, then barely anything the next. I look more for overall increases as opposed to what which one is the biggest. Often times, the size advantage changes once the kittens start on solid food so their initial weight isn’t a predictor.

I have a collection of six kitten journals, chronicling each litter since I started breeding. The great advantage of having kitten weight history is the ability to easily compare one litter to another. I also write down which day of gestation the queen is on and how she does with delivery, any stillbirths, etc. so I know what to expect the next time she has kittens. As each kitten enters the world, I record the time it was born, its color, gender and birth weight.

In the case where I have more than one kitten of the same gender and color, I clip the hair of the second born on its neck to differentiate. If there is a third kitten who looks like number one and two, then that one will have the hair clipped on its back, right in front of the tail. Some breeders use different colors of fingernail polish to identify the kittens by their toenails. I prefer hair clipping to toenail painting as I like to identify the kitten just by looking down on it instead of turning it over and searching for a painted claw.

The day after the kittens are born, I begin the ritual of weighing and examining each one. This is when the name assignments come in. Each litter has a theme, like Disney characters, rock stars, poets, Connecticut towns, etc.

Journal page for the Oscar Nominee Litter

Two weeks ago, Olivia had a litter of five kittens, four girls and one boy, all were blue except for one brown tabby girl. Two days later, Lulu had a litter of five kittens, also four girls and one boy; the girls are combinations of brown tabby or solid black with red and the boy is solid black. Fortunately, all the kittens look different, so I can tell everyone apart easily.

The mothers share the nursery, combining efforts to feed their kittens as one big happy family of ten. I wanted two themes that were related so I chose musicians. Since Olivia has a lot of blue kittens, I thought of a country singer theme for her litter. I’ve already done the Blues Singers theme so I won’t reuse that. Lulu’s kittens were named after Hip-hop artists. I’m not a fan of either genre of music, so it was a related theme; music I’m not that in to. Being originally from the South, I’ve rebelled against following stereotypical Southern pleasures, like pickled pig’s feet, Nascar, bass fishing, poor grammar and country music. I don’t hate Country, but I’m more of a Pop and Classic Rock kind of girl. I don’t regard Rap as music as I think singers should actually sing…but I digress.

I Googled country and hip-hop artists, came up with a list of names I’d heard of and tried to stay with current artists. Not as sure of myself with the hip-hopsters, I sought my teenage daughter Kelsey’s input. She quickly narrowed it down to the cool people. For my country litter, I had the names of Miranda Lambert, Carrie Underwood, Alison Krauss, Martina McBride and Rascal Flatts. There were several other male singers I could have chosen, but I just liked the name Rascal. The Hip-hop Litter names are Eminem, Mary J. Blige, Lil’ Kim, Missy Elliott and Lauryn Hill.

Now to assign the name to the kitten. Sometimes I would just go down the list, but I often select a couple whose look make it easier for me to remember them. Miranda Lambert’s name ends with the letter “T” so I gave that name to the blue tabby. “T” for tabby. I thought I’d keep the solid blue and white girl for myself so I named her Carrie because I like Carrie Underwood, having watched her win American Idol. Martina McBride seems like a more common name than Alison Krauss, so I named the more commonly-colored brown tabby girl Martina. The other solid blue girl became Alison Krauss by default.

For the Hip-hop Litter, Eminem is the one boy of course. I have two torbie’s with white and two torties. With the patches of red varying on each kitten, it’s fairly easy to differentiate even though they will be registered as the same color. The torbie and white with more red I called Missy, just because I often use “Little Missy” as a term of endearment for my daughter and granddaughter. The other is Lauryn. The tortie with the split of color on her chin is Lil’ Kim, because I can say, “Lil’ Kim with the chin” to remind myself. Mary J. just so happens to have red markings in the shape of a backwards “J” on her face.

The daily weigh-ins are not only my time to check on each kitten, but also to teach myself their names. By the time they are two weeks old, I’ve memorized my notes on who is clipped or has which markings. As they continue to develop, the “twins” often change enough so I can tell them apart by just looking at the shape of their faces, or under their tails if they are sister and brother. For me, newborn record-keeping is the only way to go.

Rascal Flatts weighing in