I am heading up to NJ tomorrow morning to spend the holiday with my family for the first time in three years. I must say, I did not miss the drive. And while my sister-in-law is a great cook, I’m going to miss being at Sarah’s house. It’s not just the food. It’s the atmosphere, even if it is rather loud and doggy. Then again, my brother has a dog, and his niece has a creature that pretends to be a dog (it’s a Yorkie, and not the good kind).

I’m trying to figure out how to leave extra food for Tig without his eating it all the first day. In spite of being mostly Maine Coon, Mr. Tig does not have the Maine Coon cat habit of eating many small meals per day. Tig will eat and eat and eat and then eat some more if I let him. I have taken to putting the food up at night, because last week, Mr. Tig ate and ate and ate and ate, and then, while I was sleeping, threw up the food in my office. On the carpet. That was fun to clean. I’m afraid I might be coming home to a few messes, but, oh, well. Them’s the breaks when you have animals.

In any case, I’ve decided to leave food in the kitchen as well as in their regular eating place. I set them up in my bathroom, since it’s large enough to fit a whole herd of cats, and by keeping the food dishes upstairs, I no longer trip over the cats while they’re eating. Come to think of it, I think my bathroom is larger than the kitchen, if you don’t count the part with the table. (The kitchen, not the bathroom. There is no table in the bathroom. Just a double vanity with only one sink.)

Mr. Tig is tipping the scales at over twelve pounds now. He’s a week past nine months. And he’s about 36 inches long, tip to tail, when you stretch him out. It’s actually kind of tough measuring him, because he likes to play with the yardstick while I try to see how long he is. The tail alone is fourteen inches. He’s going to be much larger than Tig 2, I think. Fifteen pounds before plumping up is my guess, though I’m really going to try to keep him thin, or at least, as thin as a Maine Coon can be. They’re stocky critters.

Miss Gracie, meantime, is continuing to show nothing but happiness in her new home. She’s currently very happy that it’s cold out, because I put a blanket on my leather living room chair, and when I get up, she gets in the chair and then gives me The Look when I want to get back in it. So of course, I put a blanket on the sofa. And of course, she refuses to use it until I toss her out of my chair. She gave the cleaning crew quite a bit of entertainment last week when she tried to find a hiding place where they wouldn’t bother her. She did, ultimately. I couldn’t find her. When she finally came into the kitchen, hours after they left, she came from the direction of the guest room. I think she was hiding in the bathroom, behind the toilet. Or maybe even in the shower stall. But I didn’t think to look there. Tig stayed under the bureau the whole time. I wonder where he’ll go when he gets too big to fit under there?

Above is Miss Gracie in the bathroom doorway on a sunny morning. Soon after that, she wound her way up on the bed to sleep in the sun. All’s right with her world.

An early Happy Thanskgiving to you all. Posting will be light tomorrow, as eating will be heavy.

You know what they don’t mention in the Wii instruction manual?

What to do when your cat thinks that it’s a great idea to play with your legs while you’re trying to play a game on the Wii.

Yep. Tig really loved baseball. Much more than bowling.

It’s my own fault, I suppose. When he gets all arched-back Halloween kitty, I take a couple of steps at him, and he bounces at me, and it’s become a routine of ours. He leaps at my legs and runs away. I’m sure I violated about a hundred cat-training rules in the way I’ve raised him, but hey—Gracie wouldn’t play with him while he was growing up, and he needed someone to run around with.

My silly boy. Here’s a picture of him yesterday afternoon, having discovered the joys of postponing the laundry.

It’s a tough life, being a cat.

My mother had a sneaking suspicion that Tig might be hiding under her bed yesterday.

We lifted up the cover (just to be sure that there wasn’t some other orange, fluffy-tailed critter in my guest room). And found the culprit.

And then I chased him out of the guest room, where he’s not supposed to be. I’m trying to keep it mostly cat-hair free as I would like to have some guests who are allergic to cats. He seems to think the new bed is his. It is not. I paid for it. If he wants it, he’s going to have to go out and get a job and pay me back.

First, Gracie, in her best “Worship me” pose:

Next, Tig, doing his best to pose for a portrait:

If this blog was wider, they could be bookends.

Tig’s pumpkin orange, on orange paper, on the black background of my leather sofa—and yowling. He couldn’t get much more Halloween kitty without being frightened, and, well, I wouldn’t do that just to get a picture.

As I’ve been nursing a sore throat all day, I haven’t accomplished much. Well, except for, since I really couldn’t do anything else, backing up every single photo I’ve taken since 2002, except for the ones I lost in the HD crash (and those may yet be recovered). I already had most of them on CD, but I figure you can’t have too many backups. Then I decided to finally put on all the Windows updates I’ve been putting off. SP3 is now on, and it didn’t crash my computer. Pays to wait. (Yes, I backed up before I updated, Nervous Nellies.)

Looking at the old pictures of Tig the Second brought back memories. I may have to bring some of those pics out of storage. Wow, what a belly he had. Meantime, we have the latest pictures of Tig and Gracie.

Gracie is a creature of habit. She has her routines, and she likes them. They are written in stone. She will not come into the bed on the right-hand side, only the left. In fact, for two years in Montclair, she stopped sleeping in my bed completely because I switched the nighttable to the other side, and moved myself to the right side of the bed instead of the left. The left was her side. I found that out when I moved to Richmond, and switched back to the other side of the bed. I was suddenly a two bedcat household again.

This is Gracie’s newest spot.

I see her upstairs all the time. She likes to poke her head through the rail and look down at me. Cats like being up high. The better to jump down and eat you with (they really do think they’re as big as tigers).

Tig couldn’t be any more different than Gracie. His spot is near me. And he likes shelves. Every day as I work in my office, he finds a spot and sacks out (when he isn’t driving me crazy by, say, biting my feet, like he’s doing now). This was his favorite spot. He can’t have it any more. I put books in it.

His new spot is behind the books on the bottom shelf of a different bookshelf. He knocks over a bunch of books on the way in or out. It’s where he hid from the cleaning crew. I see no hope in breaking him of this habit. Perhaps I should leave a space for him to go in and out instead of constantly having to pick up the books he’s knocked down.

Cats.

I meant to do this yesterday, but I was rather busy.

First, we have Miss Gracie, in a very revealing pose, proving that cats know everything, and they just pretend they don’t understand what we want them to do.

Really, you want to know what she’s laughing at.

Next, Mr. Tig has a chew toy. That’s because he’s teething. In fact, all of my male cats have liked to chew hard substances. My first Tig liked to chew on wire hangers. My second Tig chewed on those as well, or on any hard plastic he could find. This Tig will chew on everything. And I discovered that pet stores now acknowledge that cats need chew toys, too: This is marketed as an actual cat chew toy, though it’s just a smaller version of a dog chew toy that I may get him if he gets through this. (He destroyed his beanie bunny, leaving thousands of plastic beads all over my office, which is why he now has a proper chew toy.)

Tig turned eight months old yesterday. He’s over ten pounds now, and stands more than two feet high on his hind legs when he stretches out. He’s going to be a very big boy.

And remember, children: Dignity, always dignity.

Two pictures of Tig. First: Dignity.

Second: Not so much.

An easy fast, and a posting fast until tomorrow night.

Pamela requested kitty pictures. Gee, twist my arm. I can’t put the p-word into the title. But check out some of these poses by Mr. Tig. First, the view from my office chair earlier this week. Or was it last week? I can’t remember.

Next, Miss Gracie, on the bathroom vanity, which is where she goes to be petted. Often. She’s talking to me again. She meows a lot, usually, but she stopped for a while after we moved here. She’s getting more comfortable.

Now, for something different: Janet and Chris’s cat Kes (at least, I hope it’s Kes) in one of the only pictures where she did not have weird, glowing eyes.

And last, Mr. Tig’s tail in all its glory. He’s over nine pounds now, and I’m starting to think a whole pound of him is his tail. Oh, and he likes my tub. And the shower stall downstairs. He nearly slipped into it the other day, which would have been funny for me, but I think not for him. I was taking a shower in it at the time. He reared up on his hind legs and the door started sliding open. I stopped it that time. Next time, we’ll just have to see. He doesn’t seem to mind water much. But he sure likes sitting in a dry tub.

There you go. Early Caturday pictures.

It’s been busy, but I do have some cat pictures taken here in Beit Yourish.

First, a study in Tig, taken this afternoon:

Then we have Gracie, looking like a Kliban cat with slightly glowing eyes.

Gracie is finally starting to feel more comfortable here and is spending more time downstairs. She was sitting nearby, grooming herself, earlier tonight.

And finally, a scene that promises to become a regular part of my day: Tig sprawling along the marble in front of the fireplace. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter—this is probably going to be his favorite spot. And he looks absolutely gorgeous on the black marble. I really love this place.

We are all very happy in our new home. Tig has developed a new, revolting habit. He’s trying to eat all the dead bugs he can find. Gracie, thankfully, hasn’t developed any new habits, except she continues to sleep under the bureau, and Tig is nearly too big to fit underneath. But she’s talking to me again. She’s been very quiet until today. It’s good to hear her mew, and better to see her down here with Tig and me.

They’re still playing Kitty Tag, and it’s still starting at the ungodly hour of six a.m. Two days ago, I woke up to hear Tig mewing at the foot of my bed, where he was lying with his head over the edge, discussing whether he was coming down or Gracie was coming up. I won the argument and threw them both out.

I have the two of them with me now. Gracie’s on the carpet in front of the ottoman, waiting for me to come to her. Tig is asleep on the back of the sofa. All’s right with their world.

Because the previous post has the world’s ugliest man, here are some of the world’s cutest kitties:

Hey you broke it!

Moore’s picture broke my computer. Tig doesn’t care.

My chair. I say, MY chair.

Gracie isn’t allowing me to sit in my chair much these days, and as she is still losing weight (she’s back to Miss Bony Butt), I am spoiling her and allowing her to sleep in the chair when I’d really rather be in it. Sometimes. She grumbles when I kick her out of it.

You can’t see me.

Mr. Tig, looking even cuture than usual, deciding that he’d go under the tissue papers instead of on them.

There. Phew. Had to get that ugly mug off my screen. Mission accomplished.

One of my readers forwarded me information on The Cat House, a no-kill shelter in California. So all my west coast readers can check it out and if you’re up for adopting a new kitty, well, look at these faces.

And there’s video.

And a contribution page. Kick in a couple of bucks. This woman is a saint.

Mr. Tig is a sloppy drunk.

When I got him home from the vet after being snipped, for the next 24 hours, Tig simply would not leave me alone. He napped, and woke, and napped, but every time he woke, he had to climb in my lap, sit on my shoulder sleep in my lap, or cuddle with me in some way. It got extremely annoying, as I do have to work during the day, and I really don’t have time for a slightly woozy cat to tell me how much he adores me and then pass out. (He reminded me of some guys I used to know back in the day. But he’s much cuter.)

And for all the gentlemen out there cringing at the thought of Tig being snipped, I found out that you should be cringing. They remove ‘em completely. One little slit in the skin and pop, pop, Tig’s singing soprano in the choir. (Aren’t you glad that castratos went out of fashion centuries ago?) ((I think I’m getting that Hulk-M-S. I’m enjoying tormenting you far too much.)

Well, anyway. Tig is a sweet little boy, and I think he’s going to maintain that sweetness now that I’ve had the vet cut off the well of testosterone, or at least, most of it. And Tig is absolutely none the worse for wear. He barely noticed they were gone.

And now, for the palate cleanser: I couldn’t decide between these two photos. So you get them both. (They were taken Thursday, after Le Snip.)

Tig with a splash of color

Tig the Smug

See? Nothing’s changed.

It’s that time in every young, male cat’s life that they would dread, if only they knew it was time to dread it.

Yes, that’s right. Tig got snipped today. He is currently sleeping on the blanket that hangs off my chair. He’s still pretty loopy from the anesthesia. Gracie is hissing at him, because he smells funny. Hey, he does smell funny. I can smell the antiseptic they put on him, and if I can smell it, it must be overpowering her more sensitive nose.

Today was a twofer at the vet. Gracie went in for her annual shots and physical. We got some bad news. Her heart murmur became more pronounced this year. The vet says he has a scale of 1 to 6, and that she’s been a 2 until now, when he’s moving her up to a 3. We’re going to discuss treatment at a later date. I think that if the treatment is very expensive, and won’t really make a difference, I may let Gracie live out her natural life without trying to shove medications in her on a regular basis. Tig’s illness was very expensive, and I’m not sure the treatment did much for him. I don’t think it prolonged anything but my own hopes, although for a while, the fluids did make him feel better. And I won’t have as much disposable income after next month. I’m closing on my new condo the first week in September. My housing costs will be more than doubling.

So we will take a look at things after the first of the year, and see what the vet recommends, and what I think is worth pursuing. She’s eleven years old. She’s had a heart murmur all her life, and I knew it would affect her eventually. I’m all for treatment if it accomplishes something, but when all is said and done, she’s a cat, not a person. She’s already lived far beyond what her life would have been had she been a feral cat, or if her owner had destroyed her instead of dropping her and her littermates off at the Clifton Animal Shelter.

Of course, I may say the exact opposite come January. But we shall see. Right now, she seems perfectly fine and happy. Well, except for the vet smell, Tig, and being annoyed by him regularly. She liked being an only cat again today. That probably will never happen again.

Been recovering from latest iteration of Stomach Bug (yes, yes, I know, I’m prone to them, and I wish I weren’t). No posts, just kitty pictures.

Pull my tail

This one was taken today. I am in awe of Tig’s tail already, and he’s not quite six months old. And his ruff is coming in quite nicely—I saw a Tig-to-be pose today while he was sitting, and he reminded me very much of his predecessor.

Orange on orange

It turns out Tig likes tissue paper, too, so he joined Gracie on hers, annoying her mightily. I’ve spread the paper on two cushions, but one of the things Tig likes to do is play on the paper, which shreds it. That may be part of what’s annoying Gracie. The funniest thing Tig does is after he’s shredded a piece. I roll it into a giant paper ball and throw it, and he chases it, then picks it up in his mouth and leaps onto the sofa to play with it. I’ll try to get some pics of that. He’s not quite as close to her size as these pictures make you think, but he’s getting there. I think he’s seven pounds now.

I’ve got a secret

Tig3 is trying very hard to be pals with Gracie, so he licks her ears, too. And Miss Gracie deigns to accept the worship. I’m sure it’s some kind of social behavior among cats, and it must be male-to-female, because Gracie never so much as spits in their general direction. Well, actually, she does when they’re annoying her, but it’s a different kind of spit. They’re still playing, but it’s difficult to predict and funny to watch. Tig is hesitant because Gracie has batted him more than once. A few nights ago, I was trying to sleep and they were playing. Gracie leaped at Tig, who then thought she was attacking him, and who ran onto the bed and hid against my side while Gracie stood on her hind legs, paws on the bed, trying to get him to play. Sometimes they get it right, though, and while I’m downstairs watching TV or blogging, I hear them running around upstairs. And no yowling or hissing. Their favorite time to play, of course, is my bedtime. Sigh. New Tig, same old routine.

I love the way they look together. Can’t wait to see them against the background of my new condo’s carpet. Or the railing upstairs. Or on the marble by the fireplace, which I expect to see a lot of during the winter. Oh, forgot to tell you. The condo passed inspection with flying colors. I should be out of the Craphole Apartments by the end of the first week in September. Tig and Gracie are going to love the new place. Bigger, with more stairs, and a fireplace and a deck. I’m going to get the deck screened in as soon as I can afford it. Cats in the sun in the morning is a wonderful, wonderful sight.

I wrote a lot about Tig while he was dying (as well as tons while he was alive and healthy), but I couldn’t bring myself to write much about his last day. Not when it happened, not shortly afterward, not even after I got Tig3.0 and the pain pushed back to something that only comes out once in a long while, and causes a pang of grief and loss that only lasts until the new Tig makes me smile.

But I was looking for a recent picture to send to a friend that I hadn’t heard from in over twenty years, and I decided this one would do.

And then I read the post, and the comments, and remembered back to that day. When I woke up that Saturday morning, Tig was in my room, in a corner near some boxes. He hadn’t slept in my room in weeks, maybe months. Something had frightened him again—I assumed it was the bed monster, or the blanket monster, or whatever it was that stopped him from sleeping in the bed for months at a time. But the sicker he got, the less he came into my room. He’d taken to sleeping in a box in my office, which I made more comfortable for him by adding some towels. The box is the first place I checked every morning, always greatly relieved to see him awake and alive. So when I woke up that Saturday and saw Tig in my room, I knew immediately something was really wrong. He wasn’t crying or panting, but he was in my room, as if to say, “Something hurts. Make the pain go away.”

My friend Heidi speaks of a contract we have with our pets. That unwritten contract states that it is our duty to feed them, love them, take care of them, and make sure that they do not die in pain if we can help it. In return, we get the unconditional love that dogs and cats give their owners. The contract ultimately dictated my behavior that day.

I took him downstairs and tried to get him to eat. He couldn’t eat. The ulcers in his mouth probably hurt too much. But it was a beautiful day outside, and he could lie in the sun. So I let him out and thought about what to do. I called the vet and told them that it might be time, and asked how late I could bring him in. They told me 11:30. I had to decide whether to bring him in then, or hope against hope that he’d make it through the weekend. But I was worried that he was in pain, and he’d get worse, and I’d feel awful if I decided to wait until my vet was back in the office, instead of paying an emergency vet three or four times what it would cost to put him down. And above all, I did not want Tig to suffer. If I decided to wait another couple of days, and then saw that Tig was hurting, I would never forgive myself if I thought he was in pain because of my indecision or selfishness.

I called Sarah, and told her what was happening, and I can’t remember if I asked, or she offered, but she came over to go with me to the vet. She took the final picture of us, at my request. The picture was taken just minutes before we left. It’s the very last picture of Tig. And he was purring while Sarah took it. To the very last, Tig purred—not his loud, deep, throaty purr, but a purr nonetheless. We were outside in the back, sitting in the sun, until Sarah got there. And even in his weakened state, Tig had to be crated to go to the vet. He didn’t exactly go gently into that good night. But I kept my end of the contract. He went with a minimal amount of suffering, and he spent his final hours in the sun, with me by his side, petting him and listening for those faint purrs.

Losing this Tig was even more painful than losing my first Tig, for some reason. And it still hurts to think about the loss of my orange boy. But his successor is sitting calmly in the window with Gracie right now, having failed in his attempt to get her to play with him. And he makes me smile and laugh, every single day.

He shadows me constantly, just like his namesakes did. When I go upstairs, he goes upstairs. He supervised the cleaning of my closet this weekend (pictures to come). When I go to the bathroom, he follows me inside. When I take a shower, he sits on the side of the tub, or he does Tig things until the water goes off, then he comes inside the bathroom, knocks my razor off the side of the tub onto the floor, licks the water off the bottom of the tub or off my legs (ew), and generally gets in my way completely. And that’s pretty much what his namesake used to do. I never close the bathroom doors when I’m home alone. The cats will just stand outside and yowl until they’re opened, anyway.

And now, Tig3 is sitting next to me (he moves around a lot while I write), showing me that no, the medication hasn’t yet fully gotten rid of his flatulence problem, and when I reach down to pet him, he licks my hand. And then he bites me, because je suis un cat toy, as I’ve been saying since I got him.

I suppose that must be the circle of life that everyone talks about. One cat goes, another arrives. I miss the first Tig, and the second Tig. But I have Tig the Third, and Gracie, and we’re all doing quite well, thank you.

Go here. Wait. First, put down everything you are drinking, and do not be eating. Trust me. (H/T: Stretch.)

Okay. Now click.

This story is as funny as one of Harrison’s. (This one is one of my favorites, one that caused me to almost break a rib trying not to laugh out loud at work.)

Lots of pictures from which to choose (I am feeling very Strunk & White this morning, if not positively Funk & Wagnalls.) But I chose, and here they are:

Urban Sprawl

It’s a common sight, and one that never ceases to amuse me.

Going green

The Tigster is urging us all to go green. Well, actually, he’s sleeping on his chair at the table, which happens to have a bag of stuff on it. Gracie long ago staked ownership to the one right next to me.

Two levels of sleepiness

They’re getting along much better, but Tig isn’t sharing Gracie’s bathrobe. (Which is actually my robe, but when I put it on the sofa, it kept her from sleeping on my chair. Easier than picking her up and moving her every time I want to sit down.)

Miss Gracie has nearly fully accepted Mister Tig. They were playing last night, after he mrowed and mrowed and mrowed her to play with him. At one point, they ran upstairs to play and I heard the thumpity-thump of little kitty feet (there is no pitter-patter, even when it’s just Tig, who is nearing the seven-pound mark). It makes me smile. A lot. I am still fairly stunned that Gracie changed from a nasty, hissing old witch to a cute, kitten-like playful cat. Tig’s one of the sweetest cats I’ve ever known, and apparently, he’s sweet enough to win over even Gracie. Although when I think about it, Tig 2 didn’t so much as play with Gracie as bully her. Now she has a playmate who doesn’t try to beat her up all the time, and she’s discovering it’s rather fun to chase each other around the place. When Tig and I have our regular bedtime play session, Gracie pops in to have her turn as well. At the age of eleven, she’s rediscovering her youth.

This is not to say that she doesn’t smack him down occasionally when he gets too annoying. But that’s good, too. I took him away from his mother, and he needs an adult cat to set boundaries. I’m really hoping the dynamic doesn’t change as he gets older and bigger. We shall see. In the meantime, we shall document the stages of Tig’s growth, and his changing relationship with Princess Gracie. And of course, I’ll share with you.

Herschel is one of my longtime regulars. Chico was his.

Chico

Jan. 8, 1988-July 30, 2008

When last we mentioned Tig’s particular, ah, ailment, it was under control. The antibiotic ear goop that the vet prescribed had cleared up his gastrointestinal upsets, and the kitty flatulence was conquered.

Or so we thought.

Tig started getting more fragrant towards the end of Mom’s visit. It became particularly noticeable when he was playing, and moreso when it was time to clean the litterboxes. So I called the vet, and the vet prescribed the pill form of the antibiotic this time. He thinks it’s a parasite. I think it’s extraordinarily annoying. Tig can’t be happy about it, either, as he is the one who had to deal with the aftermath. But oh. my. gosh, he stinks. He reeks. It’s horrible. And the worst part about it is, Tig simply loves to cuddle, thus reducing the nose-to-fart ratio.

He has been given many nicknames since this started, including: Fartster, Fartman, My Little Stinker, Stinkbomb, and tonight, Chris suggested His Imperial Fartness (or His Royal Fartness, as Tig is really not the imperial type). Then Chris suggested you all pitch in and help me out with more nicknames.

Go to town, folks.

He’s only been on the antibiotics since Thursday, so (sigh) it’s going to be a bit longer before they kick in effectively. And he’s on them for about three weeks. The vet is trying to knock those little parasites out completely. Oy. I really need this to happen. My sense of smell is most acute in the morning, and that’s when Tig climbs into bed to cuddle. And then farts.

Really. It’s just a bit much. I have never had a flatulent cat before, and I never want to have it again.

His Imperial Fartness, looking like he’s about to toot. (In reality, he’s about to leap on a string.)

Meryl’s new sheets, decorated with cats.

First, Mr. Tig, who found something to do while I was in the shower yesterday.

Then Miss Gracie, who wants you all to know that she looks even more beautiful on my new sheets than does Mr. Tig.

That’s the chiropractic foam pillow I got. Apparently, it works for cats as well as people. (Works really well, too, since I got my foam-topped mattress. I don’t wake up with a neckache any more.)

My new bed is really working out for all three of us. But I wish they’d paid their fair share.

Oh, okay. Tig plays on the bed and makes me laugh every day. Gracie jumps up for her evening or morning bellyrub (though she’s not quite there yet; she lies down and then gets up immediately). And I suppose I can’t count getting woken up by Tig playing with my feet this morning. After all, I apparently moved under the covers while sleeping. Silly me. Either that, or he found the ping-pong ball I took away from him at midnight last night and stowed under the blanket.

But it’s okay. I get even. I wake them up when they’re sleeping. It’s only fair.

So Mom has met her grandkitty, and found him adorable. She is, of course, spoiling him rotten. Look what she thinks is a fine thing to let him do:

I swear, my cats are the worse for wear every time Mom comes over. I had Gracie just about completely broken of her habit of demanding to be petted while standing in the bathroom sink. A couple of years ago, Mom did nothing but accede to her demands, and that was the end of that.

Here’s Grandma under the covers, wiggling her hand so Tig attacks it. Oh, that’s going to go over well when Tig gets his full growth and she’s in a light summer blanket. (The quilt is because she’s always cold since she lost a lot of weight last year, and, well, it’s friggin’ summertime in Richmond. The AC stays on because it’s 95 with 70% humidity. And because I sleep upstairs, and it’s warmer up there.)

Mind you, this is the same woman I told not to feed my first Tigger scraps from the table who blithely ignored me and stuffed him with turkey during a dinner I held in my first apartment (I won a turkey from my place of employment at the time). That Tig was about twenty pounds at his fattest, and, well, his stomach fur kinda touched the ground once. But I put him on a diet after that and never allowed my cats to get quite so heavy since.

This time, she did not feed Tig any scraps. I’m serious about not giving him anything but cat food, though he may wind up getting tunafish, since that’s Gracie’s favorite treat, and I think I don’t want her to go without the rest of her life. However, Mom did manage to spoil him in other ways (see pictures).

Well, it’s been a good visit. We saw The Dark Knight (I liked Batman Begins better; this one is too grim). We’re going to a movie tomorrow. We watched Nate in his All-Star Little League (ages 8-9) game yesterday. Wow, those kids are good. Nate’s team won yesterday, just barely lost today, and will probably win tomorrow. We also got to the Virginia Bazaar, a flea market in Ladysmith, where I found a woman who makes such great gifts that I think I’m going to feature them on this blog. (More later.) Overall, Englishtown, NJ is way bigger. And not as hot. But it was a decent way to spend the morning.

Mom leaves Tuesday. Y’know, I’m pretty tired out from her visit already. Early to bed for me.

The world news is depressing, but the kitty news is nothing but good. Tig and Gracie continue their path towards becoming friends, although it has its pitfalls.

In this picture, Tig is trying to play with Gracie. They’d already had a session or three a bit earlier, and Gracie pretty much had enough. What I didn’t catch was Gracie telling Tig in no uncertain terms that she was tired of him. That being said, I have woken up the past two days with both cats in my new bed. I think they really like the bed. I do, too. It’s a Eurotop, which is the new name for a mattress that has a foam pad sewn on top of it, and it’s extremely comfortable without the price of a full foam bed. I found out just before they delivered it that my full/queen bed set only has a full frame. So rather than have them take it back and wait for a frame, it’s on the floor. (Which may add to the cat’s liking to be on the bed so much now that it’s lower.)

Mom’s coming into town today. We’ll go shopping for a new frame, and Sarah has volunteered to help me put it together (I really do suck at simple handy things like that, but you also need help moving mattresses). Meantime, it’s Tig’s playground, and Gracie is back where she belongs.

Yesterday, I woke up with Gracie at the foot of my bed in her old spot, and Tig sleeping on my shins. Today, Miss Gracie was up on the pillow next to me and Tig was sleeping on my feet again. Actually, he was awake and chirruping. Then he wended his way up to me while Gracie exited.

I really like having a two-cat morning again. I’m still pretty shocked that she’s accepting him, and even playing with him. I thought she was going to hate him until the day she died. All of you who told me to give them time were right. All of you who told me that bringing a young cat into a house with an old one rejuvenates the old one are right. Gracie is playing like a kitten again.

And speaking of playing like a kitten:

That’s him, on my new bed, with a rolled-up paper ball. And he just came to me for his morning snug while I was writing this post. Today will be exciting—Mom’s coming in, and he’s not quite used to people yet. But he’s getting better at it. Air Conditioner Guy came over yesterday, and Tig did come close enough to check him out. I expect he’ll be just fine with Mom by tomorrow.

She’s hoping to get one of the cats to sleep with her. I’m thinking she’s out of luck on that one. Now that Gracie has reasserted her property rights in my bedroom, she’s probably going to stay with me. And that’s just fine by me.

Two pictures of Tig during playtime this evening. The first, he’s waiting for me to throw a paper ball. Through trial and error, I’ve discovered that store receipts make the best rolled-up paper balls. They’re free, they’re the best type of paper to roll, and you never run out of them. And yes, his tail is nearly as long as he is.

I was also using the laser pointer tonight. I tried to make Tig dizzy. I failed. But boy, did he run around in a lot of circles on my bed.

Here’s a picture that shows his ruff coming in. He is going to look very regal when he gets his full coat, I think. Between that ruff and tail is going to be one very large Tig. Bigger than Tig the Second, I’m pretty sure. I don’t remember that Tig being this big at such a young age. Tig3 is nearly half Gracie’s size already, and he hasn’t hit the five-month mark yet. (Almost.)

What really amuses me about the ruff is how much it reminds me of those scruffy patches you see on teenaged boys before their beards grow in. The ruff is all around Tig’s neck, but it’s short yet.

I can’t go to bed at night without at least some playtime. Tig expects it, and if he doesn’t get it, he attacks my feet. Or just runs around the room getting into mischief. He’s been banished two or three times in the last week.

Tomorrow, I get my new matress, a queen. Even more room to play. More pictures will come, I’m sure.

Okay, so it’s Friday, not Caturday. But still.

So, remember all those goofy poses I caught Tig in?

Looks like his successor is going to be just as goofy. This is what I saw when I looked over from my downstairs laptop. The downstairs laptop is mine; the upstairs is the work laptop in a docking station. Tig follows me. The blanket is a fleece blanket that I picked up winter before last. I kept it on my chair this winter because it gets chilly downstairs, and the backs of my kitchen chairs are metal. I never wound up putting it away because, well, look at the picture. Somebody really likes it. Half the time, he’s underneath it and I see a grey lump right about where he’s lying.

I also discovered him in Tig 2 mode on my bed earlier today: Sprawled on his back with his paws in the air and looking utterly ridiculous. Apparently, that’s a Maine Coon thing, so we can look forward to more fluffy Tigger belly pictures. And he’s gained another half pound since I last checked his weight, so the boy is growing. He’s weighing in at over five and a half pounds, and he’s not quite five months old yet.

Tig’s got about a 75-25 record of sleeping in my room. About 25% of the time, he wants to play when I want to sleep, so after about two minutes of my saying “No!” as he jumps for my feet, leaps at my hands, races around the bed, and yowls for me to play with him, I catch him, throw him out, and close the door on him. And Gracie’s been coming into my room at night again, too, so it gets quite exciting from time to time. They’re taking turns chasing each other, I think. He literally chased her down the stairs the other day, because he was so excited that Aunt Gracie was upstairs with us that he ran over to her, which prompted her to make a hasty exit. Which made him think she was playing, so he ran after her, chasing her down the stairs. She’s such a wuss. But the other night, she came upstairs to sleep in my laundry basket, and held her ground when he came near. There was much hissing. I awoke to Gracie in the laundry basket, adding more fur to the dirty clothes in there. (I think I should go back to using the hamper, but then, I’m a softy for kitties, and Gracie can’t sleep in the hamper.)

One of the things that I find very interesting is that Tig has decided that he really likes playing on my bed. We have a nighttime game now: I throw rolled-up paper balls on the bed, and he chases them around (and off) the bed, retrieving them in his mouth and leaping back on the bed if they fall off. And he likes to chase the laser pointer on the bed, or strings, and all-around play on the bed. Well, when Tig and Gracie were kittens, I lived on the third floor of a converted house, and was careful about my neighbors. I encouraged the kittens to play on the bed, not on the floor. I’m in a townhouse apartment here, and don’t have to worry about neighbor noise, and Tig has free rein in the apartment. I’ve been getting him to run up and down the stairs chasing the laser pointer, because it’s just kitty noises, and doesn’t bother the neighbors. But still—it’s just a tiny bit eerie that he wants to play on the bed every night, like Tig the Second used to do.

Then again, it’s a whole lot of funny. He does all the classic kitten moves, including the leaping a foot straight up in the air before attacking the paper ball, turning around and pretending it was sneaking up on him, driving it under the blankets then trying to get it out, and, well, I laugh. Every night. Just like I used to do in the old days.

It’s a good thing.

When the world is simply too depressing for words, there are always: Cat pictures.

Today’s moment of kitty zen: Orange kitten asleep on black leather sofa.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

I am happy to report that the kitty flatulence problem that has plagued me since I got Tig3.0 has been resolved. The vet gave me antibiotics, and after a few days of rubbing goop into Tig’s ears, he no longer farts. You have no idea how much more pleasant it is around here. For a tiny little kitten, that boy could really stink up a room. He tended to fart right after he ate. And his favorite thing to do after eating? Cuddle with mama. I expect that’s because it reduced the nose-to-fart distance. He would also let fly if he got excited, like, say, if we were playing.

I was highly offended by Tig’s farting. Flatulence is a dog thing, not a cat thing. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, the vets out there with medical information can keep quiet on this subject and let me rant, please.) I have never had a flatulent cat before, or even met one, and I’ve known plenty of cats in my lifetime. So I am quite pleased to be able to retire Tig’s fart nicknames. (”Little fartster,” “stinker” “my little stinkbomb” and “fartman” were just a few of them.)

Tig had a playdate today. Sarah lent me one of her children to help socialize my little ex-stinker. She dropped Nate off this afternoon, and Tig reacted with utter horror and immediately hid. I spent some time with Tig and Nate, getting them used to each other, and showing Nate how to play with a kitten without getting mauled. Nate persevered enough so that I was able to go downstairs and work while listening to strange noises from upstairs. I’m used to kitten noise, but not “Boy meets kitten” noise. They had a grand old time. Laser pointer, paper wad, ping pong balls, string, any toy that Nate found upstairs that Tig reacted to was in use. Gracie even popped in on Nate to say hello. She likes Nate. She actually likes all of Sarah’s kids, just not all at once.

Gracie has started coming upstairs again, but she’s such a wuss that when Tig reacts with joy and runs up to her, he winds up inadvertently (and literally) chasing her down the stairs. But at least she’s getting less negative. She no longer hisses and swats every time he comes into reach—only when he oversteps his bounds and annoys her. (Which is pretty much every day, but hey—they’re getting along better.) I think it’s because I sleep with the bedroom door open again. Tig took exactly two nights to figure out that if he leaves me alone when I’m sleeping, he can stay in the bed. If he jumps at everything that moves, he gets locked out of the room. So from time to time, I wake up to see a Tigger on the pillow next to me again. Except this one is able to use the entire pillow as a cushion, whereas Tig the Second used to use the pillow as a pillow for his head. He doesn’t purr as loudly as the last Tig (or the first Tig, for that matter), but he’s still just a baby. He may grow into it.

I do still miss Tig, but a lot less than a few months ago. Tig3 is a worthy successor.

Compare and contrast.

June 11:

July 7:

He’s a growing boy.

One of my coworkers is particularly impressed by the double-curl of Tig’s tail. She says she’s never seen that before. Here’s a better picture of it:

It’s a cat thing.

From Tig to you: Don’t harsh my mellow, dude.

He hit the five-pound mark. I weighed him this morning. Yep, he’s going to be a big boy.

For thirteen and a half years, I never had to clip Tig the First’s claws, because he never scratched. From time to time I’d don a pair of gloves and he would know it was no-holds-barred playtime. He loved it.

For eleven years, I could not clip Tig the Second’s claws, because you couldn’t really do anything to him without a struggle. The last time I had the vet clip his claws while Tig was conscious, it was in New Jersey (over six years ago), and there was the vet, his assistant, and me. Tig was wrapped in a towel. He got two out of the three of us. After that, I only let them clip Tig’s claws if he was going to be unconscious for something else.

Well. Today, I picked up Tig3.0, put him on the bathroom counter, picked up a plain old nail clipper, and clipped his claws. My biggest problems? Finding the thumb claws and getting Tig to stop licking me or playing with my necklace.

As a reward for getting his claws clipped and behaving, he got a rolled-up paper wad to play with. And as a reward for my readers, here’s another picture of Tig expressing his Computer Fu. The Force is strong within him.

Yesterday, he changed my email display from date order, descending, to day order, threaded. And flagged another message as important. I have no idea how he’s managing to do so many things just by stepping on my keyboard at random. I begin to think it isn’t random, and that I’m in big trouble in the future.