The baby

We have a 7.5-week-old baby cat. [Picture to come.] I'm pretty sure that he's a boy, not that it really matters. He's fast asleep on his back, head lolling carelessly, in my lap. I know that all kittens are cute, if only by virtue of being tiny, but this kitten is no bigger than a coffee cup. Every visible part of him is gray, except his pea-sized pawpads and the inside of his ears. He's brave and curious, and he tends to fall off of his perch when he's trying to pounce on something that moves. 

We were going to name him The Artful Dodger, but although he dodges sometimes, he is in no way artful about it. So his new name is T.S. 

Nora gets really excited about him, and they're on the verge of cuddling while sleeping. Jane is taking the addition remarkably well. She hisses and growls when he gets too close, but she doesn't generally take swipes at him. 

The problem is, as I see it, he's so fucking cute that it's hard to get work done. He's either trying to play with the pen I'm using, or he's purring loudly in his sleep. It's a real problem. Thanks, Sam.

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This week has been a little chaotic. So I have a few updates of varying interest:

• Dave is probably gone for good. Janer seems much happier--relaxed, affectionate, and less likely to attack the dog.
• I've called several of you in a panic recently. The calling is a good thing for me because it means I'm leaning a little on friends during a rough patch. Don't expect it to stop any time soon.
• I'm not sleeping at night and am having some racing and divided thoughts. Like having an intense conversation while contemplating a movie I watched recently and trying to figure out how one would go about replicating the table and chairs. It's not that I'm distracted, particularly, from conversations: I can contribute meaningfully and pay attention to the line of conversation. It's just that my mind seems to need more input to function adequately.
• My diagnosis has officially changed, by which I mean that the doctor I'm currently seeing as my primary doctor (not someone who has seen me a few times in the hospital) has changed my diagnosis to bipolar disorder I. I'm actually a little relieved by this change because 1) it's more in line with what I think the diagnosis should be; 2) in my opinion, it's not as bleak as bipolar II; and 3) I have a better sense of why my personal course of action should be. I've been counting deep breathes while visualizing each number: its size, color, and font type. Ones are small and yellow; fours are big, blue, and sans serif. The exercise actually is calming when I make myself focus only on the numbers. 
• Sam and I are struggling right now. We're at the beginning of a difficult, probably long process, but I'm trying to work, with Sam, on not allowing every argument to lead to catastrophe. Smaller, sober arguments are better than the loud, passionate, drunk arguments we often have.
  
• I still need to ask you, my friends, to help me with reality checks, an infelicitous phrase but I can't think of a better way to put it. To say it longer, though, I have trouble with distinguishing between my true feelings and my disordered feelings. It's like the difference between temperature and climate. If I am to be vigilant about my mood disorder, I have to know what's healthy first. I'm working on it in therapy, but you can do much to help me by letting me know what seems unreal or out of control.

That's the sum of it today. Sorry for the fragmented nature of the post, but there's a lot happening that must be expressed.

Dave and the long, dark nighttime of the night

Dave didn't come home last night, and it's really hard to find out (from the internets) how cold is too cold for a kitty. Easier is finding resources about first aid for kitties with hypothermia and frostbite, which wasn't reassuring at all. 

I worried all day. Sam said Dave would be okay, and my pnp said he'd be okay. (They're both in the business of keeping me as chill as possible.) Late in the afternoon, when I was working, Sam came in and said, "Look." There was Dave, chilly and trying to wiggle out of Sam's arms. Now he's lying on the coffee table, stretched out all warm and fat and purry.

So, if you're keeping score: Sam and Chris were right. And 30 degrees F, with slush on the ground, is not too cold for a kitty to be out all night.

 

Re-learning an important lesson

When hugging a kitty, don't squeeze it too much around its middle.

Also, FYI: It's snowing on Mars!

Sorry, but this post is about our cats

My study doesn't get a lot of sunlight, so I keep a lamp on while I'm working. Each of our cats likes to sleep directly under the shade, which leads to some bickering because they don't generally like to be close to each other. Jane will nibble Dave's toes. Or Dave will move Jane out of the way by laying down too close to her. She'll lick the top of his head  (which he likes), then bite his ear (which he doesn't like). Lots of tail swishing happens. 

This time it didn't turn into a full-blown fight, but Dave got Jane to move out of the way and is currently snoring away under the warm light of the lamp. Jane is staring at him, as though she's planning a new stratagem. 

I'm waiting for the full-on, claws-out negotiation. They adopt identical poses: head back, eyes squinted shut, ears down, one paw raised. Weight balanced on the haunches, in case the argument heats up more. The sound of one hitting the other, though, is the best. Pop, pop, pop. Then they growl and yell at each other, which isn't as fun.

I've never seen it get too out of control, but when Sam and I go out of town for a long weekend, sometimes we'll find black Dave hair between Jane's toes.

Op. There they go.

Dave the cat and Sam

I love Dave the cat. He snores and makes little dream sounds, and he often keeps me company in my study. He has a deep purr and isn't miserly with it. Dave's patient with Nora the dog (mostly), and sometimes even affectionate. His coat is soft and glossy. He shares a common delight with other cats, the desire to sleep in a box that is too small for him. Also, he likes to drink out of the bathroom faucet, licking the porcelain as the water drips onto his head and down his face. 

Unfortunately, Dave's paws are dirtier than his head, and when he gets out of the sink, he leaves prints on the bathroom counter. His meow is whiney. He also has the habit of pissing outside of the boxes (for which I feel partly responsible because we waited too long to get him fixed). So, in summary, Dave is not a fastidious cat.

If it seems like the endearing traits outweigh the traits that make you want to throw him out, you're not alone. Sam feels the same way. But because Sam loves me, and I love Dave, the cat stays. But I caution Dave, by paraphrasing Emerson (from "Prudence"): the trick to skating over thin ice is speed.

A lovely gift

One of our family members hunts for fun. He thinks that dead animals make the perfect gift for any occasion, and it's even more fun when the gift is a surprise.

That family member is Dave, our cat. The most recent small animals include a rat, a bird, and a rather large lizard. The bird is pretty impressive, I'll admit, especially because he managed to sneak it into the house when we weren't paying attention.

It's disgusting. This is one situation in which it is not the thought that counts. (Not that much complex thinking is going on. Cats have walnut-sized brains, most of which are dedicated to their eyes and reflexes. You never know when you might have to land on your feet.)

Nora appreciates Dave's thoughtfulness the most. They're buddies. She's just the right height: Dave likes to arch his back and walk under her belly, which rubs him just right. She likes to lick him in the face, which he'll sometimes allow. He brings home dead animals. She likes to eat and play with stinky things. They don't sleep curled up together yet, but I say, give them another five months. Four if he keeps bringing her presents.

3-2-1, Dave!

I just realized that we missed Dave's birthday. We adopted him from my friend E. Geoghegan (I'm spelling that one out because there's a song that goes with it), who adopted Dav'e mom, Wiser. He was one of five in the litter, so Dave's former name was Jackie Jackson.  Dave was born March 21, 2002, and we brought him home at 8 weeks. As a kitten, Dave's favorite activities included running around Sam's shoulders, getting into people's plates as they tried to eat, and trying to make friends with Jane. Now, as a 6-year-old, he likes to play with Nora, sit in laps, and purr loudly. Outside reports suggest that Dave is not as sweet as I think he is and engages in such activities as pissing in corners of the house and hissing at visitors. Our lovable Dave: I will never forget when you fit in my shoe. Happy belated birthday, Dave!

When it rains, it pours

I wonder why. But now I know that when it rains, it pours.

Two disasters by noon:

 1) Dave knocked over my coffee onto my computer, and despite my superhuman speed, I was unable to save about a dozen keys. Now I have to go to Mac Authority to find out how many ounces or pounds of flesh they will demand to fix it. The kicker is that because he is a kitty, he doesn't understand what he did, only the consequences to him. Poor Dave.

2) My student loan letter came today. The tininess of the amount that Vanderbilt is offering me boggles. Now Sam is talking about jobs upon jobs for the summer, when I just really, really want to pass my oral exam and begin writing my dissertation.

So, if any of y'all knows about a freelance position in editing (e.g., production editing, copy editing, developmental editing, technical editing) or writing, think of me, the little matchgirl.