![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mad_andyWebster is getting old.
He's 12 this year, which isn't ancient - as cats go - but my dear Grimma was only 13 when she left us so I hope you will forgive me if I worry over him just a little more.
He's a strange boy, this one; he came to me at less than three weeks old, full of cat flu and calici virus and fleas and worms and lice - oh, he was a picture. He was born wild, his parents part of a feral colony that roamed the old airfield and warehouses near us. His mum had abandoned him, presumably because he was so sick; whether his siblings had all died or he'd been left behind as the only poorly one, we'll never know.
But the people that found him did their best. He spent his second week of life living in a cardboard box under a heat lamp, eating dilute condensed milk and the mashed up innards of people's sandwiches. It's a busy supply depot up there, and that he survived at all is down to the kindness of those people that took him in. But they knew he needed a full time home and a lot of vet treatment - so the word went out.
And as it happened, I had mentioned to my neighbour that I wanted a kitten and so via a convoluted series of whispers he came to me.
He was such a mess I didn't think he'd live the night.
The following day he was still alive, the mad cat lady over the road (who I had gone to for advice that night, she always having a houseful of cats and kittens of the pedigree variety) having given me some cat milk - the proper mum-cat replacement stuff - and some guidelines. And wished me luck, which I was sure we were going to need.
The vet said between two and three weeks, baths, eye drops, antibiotics, wormer, flea treatment, don't hold your breath. I saw her point; his chances of survival were still approximately three fifths of fuck all at this point.
But - as some kittens will - he made his mind up that he was going to live, and he did. He went from strength to strength, although his early illnesses had left him a little... damaged. Add to that the fact that all hand-reared kittens are somewhat mental anyway and Webster is one odd little cat.
I say little; he tipped the scales at almost 8 kilos at his peak (approximately 17 and a half pounds!), short and cobby with a long coat that rarely matts. He has the classic feral long coat, which is known (when it occurs in a pedigree) as a semi-longhair. Semi, because the undercoat is short and only the topcoat is long!
He looks very much as the first 'persian' cats did; short and cobby, small ears, long fluffy tail, strong with large eyes. He is an absolutely beautiful cat, and sometimes it still amazes me to see him looking so stunning when he was such a scrawny scrap of muck at first!
But he is mental. There is a good possibility that his illnesses left him mildly brain damaged; certainly he displays some behavioural oddities that I've never seen in any other cat. Oh, except one; he has hyperaesthesia, always has had, and that is not uncommon with brain injury. Or neuroses. (Like owner, like cat...?)
(His is not as serious as in the article - he's never self mutilated, or pulled his fur out. Just has spazz attacks and runs around the house trying to get away from his own tail, which is trying to beat him over the head. And yes, that's exactly what it looks like!)
His balance is pretty bloody awful too. When he first learned to jump over the garden gate he did so by running at it full tilt, flinging himself at it with all four limbs akimbo, and when he hit it (with a resounding BANG), running like hell until he either fell over the top or fell off onto his back.
He's also fallen off a lot of window ledges.
His best performances are in front of the kitchen window, catching moths. He swipes, thrashes, and falls off the water butt while the moth beats its head on the window in astonishment at the feline goofball doing his little dance right there in the lamplight. He did try catching them with both paws, and Slay and I were privileged to bear witness to his finest performance...
Webster, atop the water butt next to the kitchen window, jiggling with excitement at all the moths coming to visit. He hops on his hind legs, leans out and slams his front paws together; hurrah, success!
Antennae and legs and wing edges are visible between his clenched front paws...
...which are resting on thin air.
He was angled out at full stretch, and eventually gravity noticed him.
He did shoot a glance at the ground which was so clearly captioned "oh SHIT" that Slay and I were helpless with laughter, which earnt us a rather dirtier look as our dear black and white furball vanished over the edge of the waterbutt to land with a crash in the drain below.
He dragged himself through the catflap mere moments later, unhurt but with dignity in tatters. He never tried that particular trick again, but learned that if he leaned (hard) on the window itself he could SPLAT the moths against the glass and sliiiiiiiiiiide them around to his mouth so he coud eat them. Which left a quite revolting pattern of squashed moths against the window pane, interspersed with filthy pawprints where he had, of course, missed.
But his lack of balance isn't his only peculiarity. He seems to be a little fuzzy as to the difference between species.
He knows he's a cat. Grimma hammered that into his dense little skull as he was growing up.
But the world, for Webster, is a simple place. it is divided in family... and not family. That's it. If you're family, he loves you with all his heart although he will sometimes bite you, but it's not in any sense of viciousness, just that he sometimes forgets.
Forgets what, I don't think he remembers.
So he played happily with the ferrets, wants to curl up with the snakes, and used to spend hours watching the pretty fishies. He would lie with his face pressed up against the rat cages, purring fit to bust, and his delight at being able to sit and observe the pygmy mice was hilarious to see. He never had that 'Ha! prey!' expression, more of a dopey 'awww, I want to love him and hug him and call him George' thing going on. And he used to tease the greyhounds something wicked, and when we fostered Nelly he thought she was like them - until one night she ripped a lump of fur out of him.
He never gave any dog a chance after that, which Axl used to take advantage of; he would hide behind things, wait for Webster to creep past, then leap out on him and (to all intents and purposes) yell BOO and watch - looking very pleased with himself - as the poor cat tried to run in four directions at once.
He is very happy now that Barclay and her cohorts are in the big tank downstairs, and what prompted this post was the tick-tick-tick of his claws on the wooden floor as he wandered past - to go and plonk his backside down in front of the turtle tank, and watch them while he purred and purred and purred.
He has a very loud purr, but ridiculous squeaky meow, which I blame on his feral heritage.
He's a hero, in his way; he's given blood four or five times, saved several feline lives. It wasn't with his blessing, mind you; the first time we tried it he freaked out and kicked a pair of clippers clean across the prep room, destroyed them totally. And after he'd been sedated, had the blood removed and woken up all he wanted to do was crawl up under my uniform and hide. It's his daddy he loves unless he's feeling poorly - and then he comes crawling to his mum....
Including when he gets a cold, a lingering legacy of his kittenhood illness. He picks up respiratory infections and crawls up onto my chest, all runny eyes, and sneezes.
"*Wheeze*Ma! Look! I gots a runny - *whaCHOO* - nose! *snorfle*"
Loves to share, that cat. But he puts up with having eyes and nose bathed, and after a few days he's right as ninepence. Sometimes he needs antibiotics, and tableting him is pretty easy; wait for him to amble around the corner, head full of fluff, and pounce. Grab cat, roll in a towel, open jaws, thrust pill down, unroll towel, leave room at speed.
This leaves him standing in the middle of whatever room the attack has taken place, wide eyed and incredulous. Then you stroll in with a kitty treat and he's all "MA! I gots MUGGED!"
Small plate of treats later and he's forgotten all about it. He never learns, bless him!
He often forgets how to use the catflap, and we have to retrain him a couple of times a year. He's not a lapcat, but he does like to sleep next to you on the bed; well, he especially likes to stretch out behind me when I'm lying on my side, his head between my shoulder blades and his back along mine, bum to bum and his tail jammed alongside my legs.
The first few times I woke up and discovered him stretched out like this - his purr making my kidneys vibrate - it gave me a hell of a shock. Because I sleep with nothing on, you see, and it was the twitching of his tail that woke me....
Anyway.
He's slowly sliding into old age, and becoming far more affectionate as he does so; you can pick him up and fuss him without him suddenly reverting to the wild cat he's so sure he is, and trying to rip your nose off. He's more affectionate, purrs as readily as ever and although he's getting quite creaky now he can still race around with Djinny, making it sound like we have a herd of wild elephants about the place. I hope his health stays good until, well, until it's his time, because he really isn't very bright and pain would only confuse him. He is, after all, a cat that can happily watch the wall go by for hours at a time.
We have always said that any time he gets over and above that first 24 hours (which is how long the vet reckoned he had to live without the medication, proper cat milk and pretty intense care) is a bonus, so he's doing well. Hopefully he'll stay nervous of roads and strangers, and will slide into genteel senility without falling from too many windowledges!
He's a special boy (in so many ways), and life just wouldn't be quite the same without him.
He's 12 this year, which isn't ancient - as cats go - but my dear Grimma was only 13 when she left us so I hope you will forgive me if I worry over him just a little more.
He's a strange boy, this one; he came to me at less than three weeks old, full of cat flu and calici virus and fleas and worms and lice - oh, he was a picture. He was born wild, his parents part of a feral colony that roamed the old airfield and warehouses near us. His mum had abandoned him, presumably because he was so sick; whether his siblings had all died or he'd been left behind as the only poorly one, we'll never know.
But the people that found him did their best. He spent his second week of life living in a cardboard box under a heat lamp, eating dilute condensed milk and the mashed up innards of people's sandwiches. It's a busy supply depot up there, and that he survived at all is down to the kindness of those people that took him in. But they knew he needed a full time home and a lot of vet treatment - so the word went out.
And as it happened, I had mentioned to my neighbour that I wanted a kitten and so via a convoluted series of whispers he came to me.
He was such a mess I didn't think he'd live the night.
The following day he was still alive, the mad cat lady over the road (who I had gone to for advice that night, she always having a houseful of cats and kittens of the pedigree variety) having given me some cat milk - the proper mum-cat replacement stuff - and some guidelines. And wished me luck, which I was sure we were going to need.
The vet said between two and three weeks, baths, eye drops, antibiotics, wormer, flea treatment, don't hold your breath. I saw her point; his chances of survival were still approximately three fifths of fuck all at this point.
But - as some kittens will - he made his mind up that he was going to live, and he did. He went from strength to strength, although his early illnesses had left him a little... damaged. Add to that the fact that all hand-reared kittens are somewhat mental anyway and Webster is one odd little cat.
I say little; he tipped the scales at almost 8 kilos at his peak (approximately 17 and a half pounds!), short and cobby with a long coat that rarely matts. He has the classic feral long coat, which is known (when it occurs in a pedigree) as a semi-longhair. Semi, because the undercoat is short and only the topcoat is long!
He looks very much as the first 'persian' cats did; short and cobby, small ears, long fluffy tail, strong with large eyes. He is an absolutely beautiful cat, and sometimes it still amazes me to see him looking so stunning when he was such a scrawny scrap of muck at first!
But he is mental. There is a good possibility that his illnesses left him mildly brain damaged; certainly he displays some behavioural oddities that I've never seen in any other cat. Oh, except one; he has hyperaesthesia, always has had, and that is not uncommon with brain injury. Or neuroses. (Like owner, like cat...?)
(His is not as serious as in the article - he's never self mutilated, or pulled his fur out. Just has spazz attacks and runs around the house trying to get away from his own tail, which is trying to beat him over the head. And yes, that's exactly what it looks like!)
His balance is pretty bloody awful too. When he first learned to jump over the garden gate he did so by running at it full tilt, flinging himself at it with all four limbs akimbo, and when he hit it (with a resounding BANG), running like hell until he either fell over the top or fell off onto his back.
He's also fallen off a lot of window ledges.
His best performances are in front of the kitchen window, catching moths. He swipes, thrashes, and falls off the water butt while the moth beats its head on the window in astonishment at the feline goofball doing his little dance right there in the lamplight. He did try catching them with both paws, and Slay and I were privileged to bear witness to his finest performance...
Webster, atop the water butt next to the kitchen window, jiggling with excitement at all the moths coming to visit. He hops on his hind legs, leans out and slams his front paws together; hurrah, success!
Antennae and legs and wing edges are visible between his clenched front paws...
...which are resting on thin air.
He was angled out at full stretch, and eventually gravity noticed him.
He did shoot a glance at the ground which was so clearly captioned "oh SHIT" that Slay and I were helpless with laughter, which earnt us a rather dirtier look as our dear black and white furball vanished over the edge of the waterbutt to land with a crash in the drain below.
He dragged himself through the catflap mere moments later, unhurt but with dignity in tatters. He never tried that particular trick again, but learned that if he leaned (hard) on the window itself he could SPLAT the moths against the glass and sliiiiiiiiiiide them around to his mouth so he coud eat them. Which left a quite revolting pattern of squashed moths against the window pane, interspersed with filthy pawprints where he had, of course, missed.
But his lack of balance isn't his only peculiarity. He seems to be a little fuzzy as to the difference between species.
He knows he's a cat. Grimma hammered that into his dense little skull as he was growing up.
But the world, for Webster, is a simple place. it is divided in family... and not family. That's it. If you're family, he loves you with all his heart although he will sometimes bite you, but it's not in any sense of viciousness, just that he sometimes forgets.
Forgets what, I don't think he remembers.
So he played happily with the ferrets, wants to curl up with the snakes, and used to spend hours watching the pretty fishies. He would lie with his face pressed up against the rat cages, purring fit to bust, and his delight at being able to sit and observe the pygmy mice was hilarious to see. He never had that 'Ha! prey!' expression, more of a dopey 'awww, I want to love him and hug him and call him George' thing going on. And he used to tease the greyhounds something wicked, and when we fostered Nelly he thought she was like them - until one night she ripped a lump of fur out of him.
He never gave any dog a chance after that, which Axl used to take advantage of; he would hide behind things, wait for Webster to creep past, then leap out on him and (to all intents and purposes) yell BOO and watch - looking very pleased with himself - as the poor cat tried to run in four directions at once.
He is very happy now that Barclay and her cohorts are in the big tank downstairs, and what prompted this post was the tick-tick-tick of his claws on the wooden floor as he wandered past - to go and plonk his backside down in front of the turtle tank, and watch them while he purred and purred and purred.
He has a very loud purr, but ridiculous squeaky meow, which I blame on his feral heritage.
He's a hero, in his way; he's given blood four or five times, saved several feline lives. It wasn't with his blessing, mind you; the first time we tried it he freaked out and kicked a pair of clippers clean across the prep room, destroyed them totally. And after he'd been sedated, had the blood removed and woken up all he wanted to do was crawl up under my uniform and hide. It's his daddy he loves unless he's feeling poorly - and then he comes crawling to his mum....
Including when he gets a cold, a lingering legacy of his kittenhood illness. He picks up respiratory infections and crawls up onto my chest, all runny eyes, and sneezes.
"*Wheeze*Ma! Look! I gots a runny - *whaCHOO* - nose! *snorfle*"
Loves to share, that cat. But he puts up with having eyes and nose bathed, and after a few days he's right as ninepence. Sometimes he needs antibiotics, and tableting him is pretty easy; wait for him to amble around the corner, head full of fluff, and pounce. Grab cat, roll in a towel, open jaws, thrust pill down, unroll towel, leave room at speed.
This leaves him standing in the middle of whatever room the attack has taken place, wide eyed and incredulous. Then you stroll in with a kitty treat and he's all "MA! I gots MUGGED!"
Small plate of treats later and he's forgotten all about it. He never learns, bless him!
He often forgets how to use the catflap, and we have to retrain him a couple of times a year. He's not a lapcat, but he does like to sleep next to you on the bed; well, he especially likes to stretch out behind me when I'm lying on my side, his head between my shoulder blades and his back along mine, bum to bum and his tail jammed alongside my legs.
The first few times I woke up and discovered him stretched out like this - his purr making my kidneys vibrate - it gave me a hell of a shock. Because I sleep with nothing on, you see, and it was the twitching of his tail that woke me....
Anyway.
He's slowly sliding into old age, and becoming far more affectionate as he does so; you can pick him up and fuss him without him suddenly reverting to the wild cat he's so sure he is, and trying to rip your nose off. He's more affectionate, purrs as readily as ever and although he's getting quite creaky now he can still race around with Djinny, making it sound like we have a herd of wild elephants about the place. I hope his health stays good until, well, until it's his time, because he really isn't very bright and pain would only confuse him. He is, after all, a cat that can happily watch the wall go by for hours at a time.
We have always said that any time he gets over and above that first 24 hours (which is how long the vet reckoned he had to live without the medication, proper cat milk and pretty intense care) is a bonus, so he's doing well. Hopefully he'll stay nervous of roads and strangers, and will slide into genteel senility without falling from too many windowledges!
He's a special boy (in so many ways), and life just wouldn't be quite the same without him.
