Babes, furry and feathery

Apparently it’s the birthing season, or something, because the Humane Society is full to bursting with kittens and can’t take another feline. This is bad news for The Cat, who I renamed Kitten because she’s tiny, it’s cuter, and now that her baby’s resting in peace she can actually pass for one. I want to avoid Animal Services because they euthanize, and I’m thinking that

a) she’s a cat, not a dog

b) she’s an older kitty

and c) not many people adopt through them anyway (damn you, Petco and “free kittens” boxes)

So, finding Kitten a home is  going to be a little more complicated than I thought. I’ve built up a small army of animal shelter numbers and websites, but again – birthing season, or whatever.

In other news, I painted my nails orange. Well, I thought it was orange, but it’s turned out more of a…rust. Hmm.

I swear she looks healthier now (the lazy eye is totally gone!):

Kitten, with her dearly departed...kitten.

Kitten, with her dearly departed...kitten.


Well, the last two weeks or so there’s been a cat and her kitten hanging around my backyard. Because I can never just leave these things alone, and the Mamacat, (who I named The Cat) was so skinny and sad-looking, and the Babycat (named The Kitten) was so playful and oblivious, I started giving them food here and there. And then more here than there, and then every morning and night.

Now, the plan was to feed them until I could catch them (without touching them, because, ew, fleas, and weird kitty diseases and I have my own animals to think about). The Cat was immediately surprisingly friendly and kind of insisted that I pet her (I obliged with a long stick), but The Kitten had clearly never been touched by a human and freaked when I went near.

I have a pretty good view of where the cats hang out at night from my bedroom window; last night the kitten was playing with the lawn chairs as usual while The Cat looked on. All was well, I fell asleep. And then this morning, my mom goes to work and gets a nice surprise – dead kitten on the sidewalk! More effective than coffee for waking up. It looks like the next-door neighbor ran him over on their way out – there’s blood and all. I believe it was The Kitten’s first time out of the backyard in a while, and perhaps he didn’t understand that when the car starts to move, you run away.

It’s actually rather depressing. Or at least, upsetting enough that I’m here writing about it instead of finishing that online quiz. On the one hand, they were not my cats, were only around for a couple of weeks. On the other hand, OMG DEAD KITTEN! So I feel torn between “I shouldn’t really care about this” and “Aw, poor kitty.” Which probably doesn’t sound like much tearing, but still. *sigh* I don’t like it when my plans are interrupted like this!

At least – if I’m going to look for a bright side – now that the skittish The Kitten is gone (RIP), I can probably get the more trusting The Cat into a box this weekend, and then it’s off to the Humane Society.

Obviously, the Song of the Moment has to be “Ding Dong”, by Nellie McKay.



My cat died and I quickly poured myself some gin.
Did she die from old age or was it for my sins?
God I loved her oh so much, miss her little kitty touch
Does she miss me, does she care?
Oh I miss her kitty stare.

Do you have a little time? Would you like to ease my mind?
Talk for hours and never stop,
chop your head off, be a lighter person, brighter person,
nicer, but you’ve heard it all before.

So ding dong, there’s the doorbell,
Hello, man in white. He’s gonna
make you all well, get you through the night.
But hey, now, you don’t feel better,
as you take your fresh bromide, maybe this man of letters lied.

let me tell you ’bout a dream I had the other night,
you were in it, boy, you sure gave me a super fright.
I was walking down the street,
downtown by the DMV,
you popped out behind a door,
it was odd you were on all fours.
Do you have some time to spare,
you were barking at a bear,
it said, hey you’d better stop.
Chop your head off
be a lighter person, brighter person
but you’ve heard it all before.

So ding dong, there’s the doorbell.
Hello, man in red.
He’s gonna make you all well, getcha into bed.
But, hey, now, you don’t feel better,
as you wake and slowly rise. Maybe this smooth jet-setter lied.
…Stick around one minute more…I’m smarter than you think.
Do I sound like an old bore? Oh man,
it’s just the drink. I didn’t always hit the gin.
There were times when I fit in.
They’ll never know how much I tried.
Did I tell you my cat died?
Do you have a little time, would you like to feel sublime?
Run away and never stop, chop your head off,
be a lighter person
brighter person
but you’ve heard it all before.

So ding dong, there’s the doorbell.
Hello, man in black. He’s gonna make you all well,
there’s no going back.
But, hey now you don’t feel better, as you drift off in the tide.
Maybe this jack the ripper lied
and you died

called Bosie. I got him as a male companion *cough, cough* for poor Glen, who was lonely. He’s turned out to be an utter killjoy and a freak, and also potentially a girl, but what the hey – Glen loves him anyway. Lord Alfred is a little more fickle about kisses and snuggling, but Glen’s needy as hell and will take anything he can get. It’s adorable.

Here he is in all his green glory.


We were tempted to call him Turtle, or Lemon, but I refuse to give my pets less than dignified names. Well. Except for Chewy, I guess. Glen and Bosie get along wonderfully well, except for the occasional incident of Bosie biting and generally rejecting Glen’s advances.

This is my favorite picture ever:

Glen’s a bit of a pudgie budgie, while Bosie’s slender and…lithe. Ok, sorry for that. The moral of the story is this: Bosie is a very pretty boy. Yes he is. What a pretty boy! Hello, Bosie.


‘Cause, why not? I’m calling him Glen now because I’m mostly sure it’s a boy, and because I like saying “Glen”. It really is a gorgeous name. He’s not scared of me at all. In fact, I’m occasionally a little scared of him – but that’s how it is with all small animals. It’s one of my issues quirks.

Now, a budgie’s sex is mostly guessed at by the colour of it’s cere. Which is that nose looking thing on top of it’s beak. Blue means it’s a little guy, and any number of colours (including, frustratingly, pinkish-whitish with…blue) but mostly pink-peach-brownish would suggest you’ve got a little lady.

With little Glen-still-possibly-Abbey I’m guessing boy, even though there’s a good amount of purple just hanging around there, and the nostrils are more whitish than I’d like.


 Enough of that business. Here’s a nicer piccie of my dog trying to kill my bird. Glen’s like “What?”

Or Glen. What’s more important than sex organs is how gosh darned cute it is. Lookit!

Having a bird is the oddest thing. It sits there. Occasionally, it moves. It’s chirped once or twice. Everything it does is very important, much more so than anything our poor dog does (he’s immediately jealous, and will start barking when any of us go to talk to the little thing).

I can’t tell yet if it’s a little boy or a girl. Luckily, I have awesome names reserved for either occasion. As you can tell, this post is just a flimsy excuse for me to post pictures. Here it is not playing (for hours!) with one of its toys.

Hard to tell in the other photos, what attracted me to little Abbey/Glen was the pale yellow coloring (all the other birds had a really solid green/yellow/blue/black thing going on, while Abbey rocked the pastels) was this blue-grayish thing on its stomach. My bird is so soothing.

I think that’ll do it for Abbey/Glen’s introduction to the universe. So endeth one of my more shameless posts (look! pictures!)