Birthday Girl

I note the birthdays of all my Maine Coon litters on my Facebook page. I tell my cats "Happy Birthday!" when it's their big day, but that's as far as the recognition goes. However, when the oldest pet in the house turned 14 today, I felt the need to put forth more effort. No, not the party hat and cake; she wouldn't understand and may even find it humiliating.


14 years ago - this photo is still on our fridge

For the past couple of years, I've felt we were on borrowed time with Chardonnay, our Golden Retriever. She's had a tumor removed. She's had one seizure, possibly linked to a brain tumor according to our vet, but that was over a year ago. Her knees are bad and her hips have atrophied; she's on medication and supplements to help her. She hesitates before getting up and navigating the steps. Her hearing is almost shot and her eyes are foggy. Her skin has several gross-feeling cysts the size of an engorged tick. I blogged about Chardonnay on her tenth birthday in part because I wasn't sure how much longer she'd be with us.

But once up, Chardonnay trots along happily. She still practices caprophagia with tremendous passion whenever the opportunity to eat poop arises. She can't hear us tell her to be quiet, but she can always hear Coraline barking at imagined intruders and joins in. She turned grey a decade ago, but has maintained her girlish figure of 83 pounds all these years.

 

I've never had a dog live this long before. I've never even had a purebred dog before Chardonnay. I know of many who have had retrievers (Lab or Golden) who didn't make it past 10 years old. Once in a while, I'll hear of one who lives to 16, but that's rare for a large breed. For me, Chardonnay's birthday is sentimental and an accomplishment.

So today, on Chardonnay's 14th birthday, I thought I'd take her on a shopping trip to Pet Supplies Plus. It's a perfect day for her breed; cold, fresh snow and freezing rain, adding to the snow that will never melt after our never-ending winter. Snow is Chardonnay's favorite element. If it were nicer weather for humans, I'd take her for a hike in the woods.

I brushed her, getting a couple of puppies worth of fur off. Gave her a mani-pedi while the others watched.

Next, I lifted her into the back of my car and off we went. Chardonnay loves car rides and meeting new people. Once at our destination, I helped the old girl out and we trotted into the store. When I announced to the sales associate that we were here to shop for Chardonnay's birthday, she proclaimed that meant she got a free cookie.

Getting her treat at Pet Supplies Plus

Everyone in the store petted her, and I'm sure Chardonnay assumed they all came to see her. She gets a bit miffed when kitten buyers come over and spend more time looking at kittens than they do her. We walked down the aisles, stopping to sniff all the food bags, treats and toys. I offered Chardonnay several toys; the stuffed chicken, the tug toy, a ball perhaps? Nope, just food thank you. She enjoys eating and napping the most these days.

Window shopping

We filled up our cart with the other items we needed, picked up a few more dog treats and checked out. Chardonnay got to eat another big cookie in the car, happily munching away while I drove home. Happy birthday puppy girl!

Happy Girl!

Back to the Fold

Responsible breeders of purebred animals have an unwritten code of ethics to be available for the entire life of the creatures born in their home.  Many of us have contractual agreements with our clients to be notified in the event that they can no longer keep their pet.  Over the years, I’ve taken my Maine Coon kittens back as adults because of financial hardship/loss of home, divorce, major health issues in the family, and death of the owner.  In all of these cases, I was able to find a new home for the cat so they only had to live with us a couple of months.  Until now.

 

Part of the musical litter named Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La and Ti, Ray (Re) was kept and shown as a neutered male. He had mitral valve dysplasia pretty severely as a kitten so I wasn’t sure initially how long he would live. As Ray developed, his heart did too, and although he kept his heart murmur, his cardiologist no longer considered it life-threatening.  Dracoonfly Renegade Ray was shown to the title of CFA Grand Premier and TICA Supreme Grand Champion Alter. 

 

Six years later, I decided Ray would be happier if he could be a spoiled only child. He had become increasingly unhappy with some of the other cats.  I placed him with Ella, a widow who lived in a lovely elder apartment community.  Ella’s daughter, Linda, had been looking for an adult cat to provide companionship for her aging mother and Ray was a perfect fit.  I even went to visit Ray about six months after he joined Ella to check in on him.  Ray and Ella had bonded beautifully.

Last week, Linda informed me that her mother had passed. Linda couldn’t keep cats in her own apartment so would I take Ray back? She was overwhelmed with the death of her mother and needed to have one less worry. Of course, I’d love to see Ray again, I told her.

Just one thing, Ray isn’t well.  Just a couple of weeks before, she noticed he’d lost weight.  Her vet ran several  tests and an abdominal mass around Ray’s gall bladder was discovered last month. His prognosis was not good. Ray would be coming home to die.  Linda had her husband drop Ray off the next day, with all his toys, brushes, scratching post, food and litter. She included a thank you card with money to help with his medical expenses.

So now I have him, my big red “Ray Ray”, my “Rainman”; “Superman” to my granddaughter. He was gone for three years, but clearly remembered his old buddies Bugger, Bubba and Chardonnay. The rest of the clan isn’t too sure what to think of the intruder (he’ll be an intruder until he smells more like my house), but they’re getting used to it. He still looks like the 20-pound cat that left me, but feeling through his heavy coat to his body tells a different story. Ray has lost four pounds and he feels very bony underneath all that hair. Once we get all the mats out, his weight loss will probably be even more apparent.

Ray’s vet has transferred his records to mine and she’s in agreement that with his age, weight loss, the elevated white blood count and the mass, Ray probably has cancer. Gall bladder disease is extremely rare in cats so it’s not as simple as removing the organ. The only way to know for sure would be to do exploratory surgery and I don’t want to put him through that.

As a breeder, I track the health of my kittens, just in case a genetic problem presents itself. However, Ray is considered an older cat at nine.  His sire, dam and six littermates are all doing well.  Sometimes, shit happens. 

Ray still seems happy; he eats well and loves to have his head rubbed, but I know he’s stressed with all the changes in the past week.  His purr should reassure me that he feels okay, but I know that purring is also a cat’s way of managing pain so I can’t use that as a barometer.  I have to watch his appetite, his litter box, his activity level and track his weight.  He’s had diarrhea so that’s worrisome. So now I’m in charge of Ray’s quality of life, a job I’ve unfortunately learned over the years. I’m not one for heroics, nor do I ever want prolong the inevitable for my own selfish reasons.  In situations like these, I watch the cat closely and try to put myself in their place.  Ray’s time with us may be short this go around, but he’s still my Ray Ray.

 

Out of My Way Already!

The blizzard of 2015 is coming, a "Nor' Beaster" they say. The supposedly historic storm that will wallop the northeast, particularly the coast, has gotten everyone in a tizzy. Normally, being closer to the coast has the benefit of giving us six to twelve inches less snow than our neighbors will receive one hour west. My husband the boy scout has made his preparedness list: firewood inside for the woodstove, water jugs filled, batteries, bird feeders filled, chicken coop prepared. And of course, bread and milk. Don’t know why the last one; we’re mostly gluten free and lactose intolerant.

This morning, while the snow was still whispering of the threat to come, Jay and I cleaned out the chicken coop and put down lime, diatomaceous earth and fresh shavings. The dogs came out with us.  Our geriatric Golden Retriever, Chardonnay, lives for this kind of weather. Snow is heaven for a Golden. For Coraline, the short-haired Shar-pei mix, not so much.  She wears her pink jacket when it’s cold and has a low tolerance of the whole precipitation thing.

The chickens’ water and food dispensers were filled. The water and its heater were brought inside so when the storm hits, the girls and the new rooster, Sam, can stay closed up comfortably inside. They have a heater in their coop to keep the worst of the chill off, as long as we have power. As we worked, the chickens were everywhere we didn’t want them to be; in the way of the rake and shovel, clucking ahead of me while I focused on my tasks at hand. I finally asked Jay to offer them scratch outside to try to give me some room to work.

Sam and his girls

Coraline became tired of waiting for us to let her back inside, and as she has been known to do, let herself back in by pulling the door handle down. Cory will shut the door behind her, but only if we are there to instruct her. We were still working outside and didn’t notice the wide open back door for a few minutes. A couple of cats wandered out, marveling at the snow. I heard a “Crap!” and looked up to see Jay rushing to the door to close it, cats running back in as he approached. Cory was shut in the house. Fortunately, she doesn’t know how to open the door from the inside.

Back in the house and outside chores completed, Jay looked out the window and noticed a small bird that wasn’t acting right. At first it appeared that the tiny black and grey Chickadee was carrying a thread. Then it became apparent that it was entangled and tethered to the tree by the thread. Jay held the bird while I worked to get it loose from the almost invisible thread that was wrapped around its body. Even its foot was bound to a flight feather. The little guy was frightened, but still had the wherewithal to bite us. Fortunately, a Chickadee bite isn’t as powerful as that of a chicken. After about five minutes, the thread was separated and the Chickadee flew away. It would have been a great viral video moment had anyone been there to record it. We feel so fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time.

Most of the storm preparation completed, Jay went upstairs to take a call for work. I decided to fill the dogs’ five gallon water jug. I got our big red Maine Coon, Pipsqueak, out of the sink so I could fill the jug. She still hovered close by, supervising my actions. “Could you move?” I asked while putting her on the floor. Why do the animals always have to get in the way when I’m busy? They always seem to be right where I’m walking or about to sit.

I looked out the kitchen window as the snow gently covered the ground, dusting the black smoke cat who was wandering around the bird feeder. Crap! We missed one. Tina is our adventurous, and pregnant, female. I turned off the running water and rushed to put my boots and coat on. Jay called down to me to ask where the kitten was.  He couldn’t find little Kate in our master bathroom where she is supposed to be and her mother, Kiss, was frantic.  I had a new priority and yelled, “Tina is outside!” as I went out in the snow.

I circled the house, calling and looking under bushes. Normally if a cat gets out, it will instinctively hide under our deck. Our cats are exclusively indoors so the great outdoors terrifies them. Except for Tina, that is. She's an indoor cat, but a rebellious one. The last I’d seen of Tina was when she was leaving the bird feeder area and headed toward the front yard. Tina had kept several steps ahead of me and also circled the house where I found her sitting calmly by the back door once I caught up. Apparently the adventure had lost some of its fun with the reality of snow and cold. I opened the door and Tina sauntered in. Wiping the snow off of her coat, I lectured all the creatures surrounding me about the dangers of going out. Didn’t they know there was a blizzard coming? Be grateful you don’t have to live outside, dammit!

Jay called back downstairs. Did I know where the kitten was? Jeez! I had a good idea since I’d heard the cabinet doors under our bathroom sink opening and closing before. Under the sink, behind closed cabinet doors, we have a laundry drop to the washing machine downstairs. The drop is about two feet before the clothes land in the basket. I had done most of the laundry, but there were still dirty clothes in there. I reached up and opened the cabinet over the washing machine and pulled out the basket of clothes. Sure enough, cute little 5-week-old Kate the kitten sat there nestled in the laundry and looking very comfortable in her new bed. I took the kitten back to her anxious mother upstairs and, using a bungee cord, secured the cabinet doors.



Kate the laundry princess

Enough drama with the animals already! Can we just get on with the blizzard? Check back with me tomorrow to see if I need digging out.

Curse of the Skunk

Warning: this blog contains gross descriptions.  Do not read if you are eating.

When one is a parent, pet owner, cat breeder or just responsible for the care of others, there will be no shortage of challenging moments or messes to clean up.  You learn to go with the flow, accept the yin with the yang, cuteness and poop.  As pet owners, we sacrifice a bit of cleanliness, money, and orderliness for the love and completeness we feel by sharing our homes with furry creatures that have different agendas.  Raising children is similar up to a point; hopefully a child will continue to develop beyond the simple commands of “sit” and “stay,” learn to clean up her own messes, cost a lot more money, but in the end move out and live independently. 

We have two dogs; a 13-year-old Golden Retriever, Chardonnay, and a 3-year-old Shar-pei mix, Coraline “Cory.”  Cory is a high-energy gray bullet with a strong prey drive.  As a large, geriatric dog, Chardonnay moves more slowly and takes many naps, but still enjoys adventure in moderation.  Although her knees are weak, her hearing greatly diminished and her mind seems to have dementia, Chardonnay’s worst quality is that she has never lost her desire for coprophagia; she eats poop.   

Cory, on the other hand, is the subject of this blog.  We adopted Cory for Kelsey, who begged for a puppy for her 16^th birthday.  She promised to take full responsibility for the puppy; housebreaking, puppy kindergarten, clean up any messes, etc.  Well, you can imagine how long that lasted.  Cory’s person of choice is Jay, my husband.  I am the mean one who doesn’t allow jumping up, pawing, barking, or other unpleasant behavior.  Jay tells the dog to get down while petting her and wonders why she still has bad habits. 

Jay recently went on his annual salmon fishing trip to New Brunswick with his buddy, Curt.  The day Jay left, I noticed that Cory had a large, hard bump on her jaw.  It was about the diameter of a quarter.  Even though Cory didn’t act like she’d been stung by rubbing her face repeatedly and the bump was much bigger than normally associated with a bee sting, I just assumed she'd been stung and didn’t think much of it.  

The next day, the bump looked the same and I mentioned it to Jay when he called from Canada to tell me about his first catch.  By late afternoon, however, the bump had tripled in size.  I had just come home from spending way too much money at Bed, Bath and Beyond for window valances when I realized that I was going to have to take Cory to the vet.  I had a sinking feeling that I was going to need to return my purchases in order to pay a vet bill.  I was right. 

My vet, Dr. Karen Brown at Stonington Veterinary Hospital, said Cory had an abscess on her jaw from where she had punctured it on something like a sharp stick.  It was too hard to drain so I was instructed to watch for skin color changes that might warn of a rupture, apply hot compresses and give her antibiotics.  Most of my summer I’ve had to deal with Levi the cat’s staph infection on his tail, which also formed an abscess, burst, was stitched, burst, and is taking forever to heal.  I joked that Cory and Levi were going to have to share a room where they can swap abscess stories. 

Cory with her swollen face

 

Cory clearly didn’t feel well.  She had a fever and the right side of her face was swollen uncomfortably.  I dutifully applied a warm washcloth to her jaw and babied her throughout the day.  Shortly before the dogs’ supper time (5 pm and Chardonnay starts campaigning an hour earlier to be fed), I let the girls out.  Living out in the middle of the woods has the advantage of not needing a fenced-in yard or having to walk the dogs on a leash; we just open the back door and let them go.  Since they learned the parameters of the yard from the invisible fence collars, they no longer wear the collar.  It works, most of the time.  This time, however, Chardonnay managed to find her favorite cologne, Essence of Bambi (deer poop) and happily applied it liberally to her face and neck. 

Great.  All I wanted to do was feed the dogs and relax and now I had to wash the stench off the old girl’s head.  I took a bottle of dish detergent and led Chardonnay back out to the garden hose for a lecture on hygiene as tried to wash off the crap.  That accomplished, I fed the dogs, but Cory didn’t come over to eat.  I found her hiding and upset because her abscess has started to ooze all over the side of her chest, leg and neck.  Not able to reach the hole from which the bloody pus originated with her tongue, Cory obsessively tried to clean what she could. 

I called the vet to see if this needed immediate attention.   The vet tech, Sherri, asked me to see if I could facilitate the draining by squeezing Cory’s cheek.  So there I was, phone tucked between my shoulder and face, straddling a nervous dog, holding a wet washcloth against her swollen cheek and trying to find the right pressure points.  Finally, a glob about the size of a dime came out of the small puncture wound. 

“Gross!  This is disgusting!  My husband should be doing this.  Cory is HIS dog and he’s in Canada fishing!”  Sherri laughed and reminded me that I had probably seen a lot more disgusting things as a cat breeder.  True, unfortunately.   Since it was already about 6 pm, Sherri asked if I could bring Cory to the office in the morning so they could suture a drain in the poor pup's face. 

As I sacrificed a washcloth to blood and mucus, I became aware of an aroma coming off of Cory’s face; skunk.  Seven months after her last skunk encounter, the water still activated the smell.  Anyone who’s ever had a skunked dog is familiar with this. 

Then I had a thought; what if the poor skunk that had lost its life in Cory’s mouth last spring had cursed the dog with its final breath?  It could have planted an alien skunk seed under Cory’s skin which was now hatching.  I envisioned the dog as Sigourney Weaver impregnated by an alien, but this time a skunk head (I hoped not the tail) would emerge from the side of our dog’s face.  It would be an extra mouth to feed, but think of the money we’d make on the talk show circuit.  Maybe we’d even get our own reality show, “Cory and Stinky - Two Heads, Two Species, One Body”.

The next morning, I took our grandson to school, a kitten to my other vet to be spayed 35 minutes in the opposite direction, then came home to get Cory and drove her to Stonington.  A lot of veterinary chauffeuring, but I got it all done. 

When I picked Cory up after her procedure, her swelling was mostly gone and she had a rubber tube which protruded from two places behind her jaw, vertically up, through her cheek then out the bottom near to where her original wound was.  She looked a lot happier, but weird.  I had already told my vet about my alien skunk theory, but when I saw the drain, I started joking about blowing in one end so Cory could make bubbles in her water bowl or taking her snorkeling.  My vet has concluded that I have a strange sense of humor.  Poor Cory.  She had gone through hell week and all I could do was make fun of her. 

Cory with her drainage tube. Note the tube goes through her skin and exits below her jaw.

By the time Jay came home Saturday night, Cory’s drain had been removed and other than a couple of residual holes in her face, she looked normal and very happy to see her favorite human.  Just a regular week here in the land of fur and feathers.

Pull My Finger...Not!

When I’m up on my game (meaning, I remember and have the time and energy), I will bathe the kittens that will be leaving soon for their new homes; more so if the kitten will be joining another cat along with his or her new family.  This way, the kitten will smell more neutral to the other cat instead of so much like my house.  I have found this helps to gain acceptance in the feline world. 

 

The kitten bath is much simpler and easier than the type I give a show cat.  I use shampoo or even hand soap, holding a squirming kitten in my kitchen sink while it jumps like a kangaroo to attempt escape.  Sometimes a kitten panics and needs to be scruffed.  Sometimes it simply gives up and lies down in the sink. The bathing process takes about five minutes, then the kitten is toweled off and placed in a carrier where I direct warm air from a blow dryer at low speed on the drowned rat-looking thing.  Kitten coat is comparatively fast and easy, enabling the offended party to be released after about 10 minutes of drying.  It will still be damp, but not easily chilled by then, happy to walk out and groom itself thoroughly.

Sometimes a kitten surprises me, but none like the other night.  I had already bathed his littermate with no problem and moved onto Kitten Number Two.  As soon as this kitten heard the water from the faucet hit the stainless steel sink, he panicked.  I moved to scruff position with my right hand, but this little guy was determined to escape and he bit down on the index finger of my left hand.  I let go as I was now bleeding from three places and it hurt!

I’ve been bitten before, even to the point of vomiting and requiring antibiotics administered intravenously in the Urgent Care every eight hours for two days several years ago.  I understand and appreciate the seriousness of a cat bite.  This is why I have my doctor prescribe Augmentin so I can always have some on hand (no pun intended) in the event of a bad bite. 

My finger bled quite a bit while I waited for the pain to subside.  There was a lot of swearing and near-crying on my end.  I took an Augmentin and just sat with ice on it for a while, waiting for my husband, Jay, to come inside so I could share my drama.  Jay was appropriately concerned, offering me wine and Ibuprofen and fixing salad for supper.  My finger was still throbbing when I went to bed that night, but I told myself that if it were worse in the morning, I’d call the doctor.

The next morning, it seemed better.  At least my finger didn’t hurt anymore and the swelling was still confined to the first knuckle.  By afternoon, my second knuckle looked a little swollen too.  I could tell a difference when I compared my two index fingers.  I showed it to Jay for his opinion while I was driving us to Home Depot to pick up more lumber for the larger chicken coop we’re working on.  Now picture this: I’m driving the car.  Jay is sitting in the passenger seat.  Keeping my eyes on the road, I crossed my left hand over toward my caring husband and said, “Look,” dangling my wounded finger in front of him.  I expected an “Oh my goodness!  It looks more swollen.  Does it still hurt?”

Instead I got a “What?”

“Look!” I repeated, waving my finger again.  So what does my husband do, my husband who knows my finger has been mutilated by a vicious animal, who witnessed my arm in a sling years ago when I was being treated for a serious cat bite, who has been bitten himself and sympathizes with the pain and concern involved?  What does he do?  He pulls my finger.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“I thought you were making a joke and wanted me to pull your finger.” 

“No! No! No! What’s with you and farting? I just wanted you tell me if you thought it looked more swollen.”

“Oh.  No, it looks the same.”

“Not for long.  You want to step on my hand next?”

Time to Retire (not me, the cats)

Last month I took a cat back that I had sold as a kitten two years ago because his owner could no longer keep him due to her divorce and personal upheaval.  I posted Rudy’s availability on Facebook: “Red tabby neutered male Maine Coon, great personality, needs a stable home” along with a cute picture of handsome Rudy.  As it so often happens with a Maine Coon, I was flooded with inquiries along with comments on Facebook, most wishing they could have him or good wishes on finding the right home for Rudy.  One follower questioned me, “Why don’t you just keep him yourself?”

Rudy in my house

 

And I wondered, briefly, why not?  Rudy gets along well with others, he’s very friendly and it would be one way of insuring that the poor guy doesn’t have to move again.  I calculated that Rudy had moved at least five times in his two short years so stability was a priority. 

But I don’t allow it, not for my family or for the cat.  As a cat breeder, we have to make the hard decision to let our cats go to pet homes after we have stopped using them for breeding.  It seems a bit cold sometimes, but I learned the hard way after I kept my first Maine Coon, Sassy.  I felt somehow that I would be betraying Sassy if I didn’t look after her for the rest of her life.  It didn’t go well. 

Sassy had pissues (peeing outside the box) as a breeding female.  Clothes baskets were her favorite toilet.  Many queens have this problem, especially when they are in heat.  Well, it’s not really a problem unless you are a human and also don’t want to cage your cats.  Even after Sassy was spayed at the age of five years, she had pissues.  I tried isolating her in our half-bathroom with 3 different litters and boxes, but she still refused usage.  The best I could get from Sassy was to leave out an empty litter box and most of the time she’d pee there.  Sassy also became unhappy.  Her job as a mother was no longer needed and Sassy was a wonderful mom.  I tried to tell her to help out as resident grandmother, but the success was minimal.  Kittens were brats and they quickly tired of Sassy’s “Back in my day” stories. 

Because of my problems with Sassy as a retired queen, I vowed to place all retiring females in pet homes.  This has worked.  If a cat (male or female) had pissues as a breeder, that stopped once they got out of my home, away from the competition.  Their hormones settled and new, less offensive habits were formed in the new home.  They receive more individual attention.  Their coats and size grow and the new owners have a beautiful, loving addition to the family.  For 2014, I've retired Sally, Olivia, Tippet and Sunday.  Lulu will retire after her next litter.  I've also kept two female kittens for breeding and am considering a third. 

Male breeding cats have their own set of issues. Not all spray, but when they do, it’s hard to ignore.  The good ones (and there have been a few, it's largely a hereditary behavior) live in our bedroom unless we have newborn kittens.  Male urine changes aroma when they hit puberty, one of the signs we look for when trying to determine if he’s ready to try breeding.  Maine Coon boys are slow to mature, some taking up to two years before they show an interest in a girl.  The conversations among breeders can be pretty explicit. 

“He doesn't have a clue.  She's writhing around like a hussy and he just thinks she wants to play.”

“He enjoys practicing, but he’s still shooting blanks.”

“I’ve put him on top of her, catnip on her neck, showed him dirty movies, played sexy music…and still he’d rather eat than breed.”

Because of the strong aroma of male cat urine, many breeders have to cage or confine them to a room.  This is especially true of the “hosers”, males who feel the need to claim their space outside the box on a regular basis.  Hosers typically don’t remain working studs for long.  In my house, they’re bred a few times, then neutered and placed so they can live the rest of their lives as beloved pets.  The non-spraying males work longer simply because they’re easier to keep. 

After living with several other cats, showing and making babies, my Maine Coons deserve to spend the rest of its life as a spoiled pet, free from the side-effects of their hormones.  I have only three non-breeding cats now that Sassy passed away from cancer last year; Bubba, my daughter’s crazy-ass European Burmese who was purchased as a pet in the first place; Pipsqueak, a red Maine Coon spay who was never bred because she has aerotic stenosis and wasn’t supposed to live past the age of three (she’s five now); and Bugger, my former stud male who didn’t retire until he was older and I felt it would be too hard for him to adjust to a move at that age. 

Bubba, Pipsqueak and Bugger.  Obviously, we only keep the non-breeding cats that have most embarrassing nicknames, just to amuse ourselves by calling them.  Normal-named cats don’t make the cut.

Bubba the ultimate Diva
 

The other, more practical, reason for placing retirees is to keep my numbers down.  Keep in mind we also have chickens and two dogs.  I’ve been breeding Maine Coons for almost 13 years.  If I kept each one after it was retired, I estimate I’d have in excess of 40 cats. In terms of breeding cats, I aim for six girls and two boys.  If I keep a kitten, I have plans to re-home an adult within the year.  I miss some of them tremendously, but it’s not like I don’t have other cats to replace that spot on my lap.

How long I keep a cat for breeding depends upon many factors.  I read several years ago that when a queen starts producing smaller litters, it’s time for her to retire.  Sassy went from three to four kittens per litter to singletons.  Kitty menopause was approaching for her. 

Some cats just aren’t good at living in a cattery environments.  These cats may have pissues, fight, or are easily bullied.  These cats often have to be confined away from others.  We have a built in cage in our basement that has cat-door access to an enclosed outdoor run so that helps, but still, I don’t have that much space.  I also have to try to appease my family with some designated cat-free zones.  My cattery environment is not rows of cages or an out- building; they live in my house, separated by doors to rooms.  All of the females except the new moms run at large in the house.  The two boys have their own spaces to eliminate “whoops” breedings.  

A cat whose heart ultrasound is questionable will not be bred, petted out to avoid possibly passing on genetic disease to offspring.  Likewise if I find out it could be passing on other health issues that the cat itself doesn't have, like gingivitis.  If the cat just doesn’t develop into a good example of the breed, I’m not so likely to keep it, especially if I have something better.  

Reproduction issues in cats, like in humans, can be common.  However, the veterinary medicine for feline reproductions isn’t nearly as advanced so we breeders are often witness to the heartbreak of stillborn or fading kittens.  My female cats are normally given two chances at producing healthy, viable kittens.  Failing that, she will have a shorter breeding career rather than risk her health and future little lives.  Pregnancy can be complicated and some bodies just aren’t meant to make babies.  When it works right, raising kittens is a beautiful miracle.  When it doesn't, I like to limit the emotional toll it takes on the mother and me.

Sunday with her litter of nine.

Another big consideration for breeders is the usefulness of the pedigree behind the cat.  I don’t like to have more than two stud cats at one time.  If I keep daughters out of Stud Number One, Levi, with the intention of breeding those girls to Stud Number Two, Wilkinson, that’s great.  But what happens with the next generation if I then want to keep a female out of Wilkinson?  This isn't West Virginia.  Sure, I can take her to a fellow breeder’s stud, but that can be more complicated.  Plus, I’m further limited with Wilkinson because he’s a brother to three of my queens.  It’s already in the plans to retire Wilky at the ripe age of two years as soon as my new stud is purchased (he’s still waiting to be born as of this writing). 

Those are all examples of why I would retire a cat a bit earlier.  If the cat passes all of the above tests for health, type, personality, good cattery cat and usable pedigree, she or he will probably stay here as a breeding cat until four or five years of age.  We love them while they’re here, and after they retire, we allow someone else to love them too.  I find homes for cats I have to take back for the same reason; they deserve more attention than what I can give them.  Rudy now lives with previous kitten buyers and their other Dracoonfly cat, Camden.  Rudy has stability and Camden has a coonpanion.

Rudy in his forever home with Camden

 

What Do Lumberjacks Wear?

During the week between my son Tyler’s college graduation from the University of South Carolina and my step-brother’s wedding in St. Simon’s, Georgia, we had to move Kelsey home from college in Vermont and then my husband Jay had a birthday.  A lot of planning, airports, driving, carrying an endless supply of dorm necessities down three flights of stairs, waiting for a cat to give birth, visiting family, spending money, etc., all within one week bookended by two eventful weekends.  I normally plan birthday gifts in advance, but this time Jay was an after- thought.

When I finally thought to ask, Jay came up with his usual request.  “I really need a white dress shirt and a tie.” Again?  Well, this year that would be okay with me, given how stretched I was feeling.  I asked one more time after returning from Tyler’s graduation and before our trek to Vermont to move Kelsey.  “Well, maybe a new chain saw.”  Really?  Now you tell me? 

One of my husband’s favorite past times is playing lumberjack.  He loves to split and stack firewood, always preparing us for the long cold winter by stocking up for the wood stove which supplements our heat.  The last time he purchased a chain saw was in 1985, a Stihl which still worked.  He wanted another Stihl of course.  I said nothing to indicate that I was thinking anymore about his birthday, but called Jay’s friend Curt.  Curt is my gift advisor for Jay when it comes to fishing gear and power tools.  I know enough about the stuff to know I know nothing (can we hear it for using the same word three times in one sentence?)

Since Kelsey and her dorm contents had to be crammed into our van which drove a total of eight hours on Wednesday, I had only Thursday to pull this off.  Thursday was Jay’s birthday.  Curt and I drove out to the Stihl dealer to pick up the chain saw he’d selected as the best for Jay. 

As we returned, Curt asked me how I was going to give it him.  I mentioned the Lumberjack Song as performed on the Monty Python Show many years back.  Curt gave me a blank stare so I sang the one verse I remembered, the verse I sang to Jay when I felt like teasing him about his hobby:

                Oh, I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay

                I sleep all night and I work all day.

                I cut down trees

                I wear high heels

                Suspenders and a bra.

                I wish I were a girlie,

                Just like my dear papa.

Curt has a good sense of humor, but having never heard the song before, I got a look.  It was very similar to the response Kelsey gave me when I told how I was thinking of presenting the chain saw to Jay, although she added the teenage eye roll at the end.  I didn’t care what they thought, my idea cracked me up and in the end, that’s all that really matters when it comes to satisfying my warped mind.

That evening, we took Jay out to dinner then came home for Reeses ice cream cake, joined by Curt.  Kelsey gave Jay a T-shirt which read on the front, “I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry.”  I gave Jay a funny card with a piece of paper enclosed which had the following typed on it:

You asked for a shirt

And also a tie

That’s all you wanted

But we know you lie

To get your gift

You’ll have to work

High and low you’ll look

But please don’t twerk
 

You get three clues

About your present

If you guess right

You get to open it

Your first clue resides

In a special place

Under lock and key

Where you record the fish, rivers and lakes 

Now my doubters, Kelsey and Curt, perked up.  This was going to be fun after all. They didn't know the location in the clue, but Jay certainly did.   Jay went right to the armoire where he keeps his fishing flies, rods, and the fishing journals he’s maintained for decades.  There he found a wrapped present which revealed the new Vera Wang shoes I intended to wear to the wedding that weekend.  Confusion, but another clue lay with my pumps.

Oops! Not quite your size

But this is clue Number One

Number Two is where

Number two is done 

Easy clue.  In the bathroom Jay found a pair of rainbow suspenders wrapped in tissue paper (purchased from Goodwill that morning).  What? Curt started teasing Jay about what he needed to wear to the next fishing club event.  Next clue:

Clue Number three

The final one

Has keys a plenty

But none you turn 

Found in the piano bench (it wouldn’t fit with the piano keys), wrapped in tissue paper, was one of my bras and the last clue.

Your three clues…hmmm

Now use your head

If you’re right

It’s in the shed

Jay started to go outside to the shed.  I stopped him.  “Solve the riddle.  No present until you guess based upon your clues.”

“Hmm.  Shoes, suspenders and bra... Suspenders.  Bra.  Wait a minute! ”  Ding ding ding!  “The Lumberjack Song!  You got me a chainsaw?”
 

Watch the Lumberjack Song skit on You Tube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mL7n5mEmXJo