Tag Archives: stray cats

Missing Cat

I’m feeling very down today. I’m not sure why. It could be a case of the “gets-worse–before-it-gets-better” Prozac blues. I am also feeling not at all connected to people, or humanity in general. I was supposed to go out with colleagues from work last night, but I decided not to go because (a) I was exhausted (Prozac again?) (b) while I like my colleagues, they’re not people I would usually associate with if I hadn’t met them at work and (c) I’m tired of going out and getting drunk, and making superficial connections with people.

I had texted a colleague earlier that afternoon to let him know I wouldn’t be there, and he only texted me back at 11:30 p.m. saying “Hey, thanks for the heads up. I just noticed you weren’t there”. Really? It took him 3.5 hours (the night-out started at 8:00 p.m.) to realize I wasn’t there?! Other colleagues had texted me wondering where I was, but, of course, I concentrated on the one who didn’t. I was immediately filled with anger towards this guy, and found myself thinking “Fuck you, you self-absorbed dick”. It’s not great that I had this reaction, but I now at least try to ponder what could be the real emotion behind the anger. With me, it’s usually sadness I guess – feeling that I’m not important, that I don’t matter, that nobody notices me or anything I do.

Since I’m feeling so lonely, I indulged in a little bit of romantic intrigue via email with the incredibly witty and smart client I mentioned in a recent post. We really hit if off during the massage session a couple of weeks ago, and once he got home that night, he emailed asking if he could take me out for a drink. I was tempted to take him up on the offer, but no good can come of a sex worker dating a client, so I declined. But that didn’t stop me engaging in some flirty witty banter with him yesterday. Thankfully, I’ve nipped it in the bud, as email/text/iMessage flirtation is often the way I start to get obsessed with a guy.

I know this is incredibly hypocritical given that I’m perfectly happy to take their money, but I don’t really respect or trust any of my clients. I’m not saying that they’re bad guys (because they’re not) but they’re probably not the healthiest of people. They’re either seeing me behind their partner’s back, or they’re single but using my services to avoid facing some difficult area of their life. I just don’t want to get involved with a client because that’s not the kind of man I want for myself. I would like somebody more self-aware. Before you leave a comment telling me what I hypocrite I am, please know that I do realize that I am not the healthiest person either.

I am also sad this weekend because of an encounter with a cat yesterday that ended badly. About a month ago, a big, friendly, fat tom cat turned up outside my door miaowing loudly one night. He was there two nights in a row, which struck me as odd, as he didn’t seem like the kind of cat whose owners would let roam about at night. I fed him, and he didn’t seem particularly hungry, so I just assumed he belonged to somebody but maybe liked wandering about occasionally. I told myself that if he was there three nights in a row, I would assume he was a stray and do something to help. He never came back. But yesterday he did, and he was completely fucked up. Skinny, nose covered in scabs, eyes all gungy, and with a wound on one of his hind legs with maggots crawling on it. I took him to the local vet who said he thought he had been hit by a car. The poor wee guy didn’t make it. He died shortly after arriving at the vet’s.

I feel very bad because it was tough to see this once healthy cat in such terrible condition. I hate to think about how much pain he must have been in. Some “Missing Cat” posters appeared in my street earlier this week, and the cat on them looked very much like the cat who died. I called the owner and he visited the vet to view the body, and he confirmed that it was indeed his cat. Apparently the owner was in-between apartments, and had given the cat to some friends temporarily, and he had escaped weeks ago. The guy doesn’t own a car, and lives on the other side of town, so that’s why it had taken him so long to put up the “Missing Cat” posters. I feel that I should have taken better care of this cat when he arrived on my doorstep the first time. Looking back, I can now see that he was really affectionate and attention-seeking the two nights he was outside my house. I have eight cats of my own for God’s sake, so why did I not recognize that he was lonely, confused and wanted somebody to help him?

Poor kitty cat. If any good came out of this, it’s that he died somewhere comfortable with people with him, and not lying in the gutter all alone.



I managed to get up early today, around 7:00 a.m., which is a relief. It was hard not to with the new kitten climbing on my head, and purring loudly in my ear. He also has a very annoying habit of nibbling on my extremities, and sometimes on my chin. I can only hope he will grow out of this. For a cat who was given to me in the most pitiful, malnourished state, he really is incredibly frisky and naughty. Probably the naughtiest, most energetic kitten I’ve ever had actually! His eyes are much better, but there does seem to be some recurrence of the feline herpes virus, as his eyes are running a little now. New flare-ups are apparently common in cats who’ve had this disease, especially at times of stress or with a change of environment. I need some new antibiotic ointment for his eyes, which I was gratified to learn I can get online without a prescription, thus saving me an expensive trip to the vet (hurrah!). For those people who find this blog while searching for information about cats and the feline herpes virus, let me just add that giving cats a regular dose of the amino acid l-lysine is supposed to help prevent flare-ups. I’ve never tried it myself, but I might get some this week.

Right now, I’m feeling not too bad because it’s good to have some food in the house. It’s very depressing to have empty cupboards. I’ve enjoyed my several cups of coffee. It’s amazing, isn’t it?, just how important the simple pleasures in life are. When I have plenty food, and tea or coffee, it never occurs to me how lucky I am. Then, when they’re gone, life is a small misery.


Yesterday at the grocery store, I noticed that there was coffee for sale containing whole vanilla pods. Apparently you just grind around 1″ of the pod along with the coffee you’d need to make a full pot. I nearly bought this coffee, but then I thought ‘Why pay more for them adding the vanilla pods when I can just buy my own later and add them myself?” I’m very excited about the idea of adding vanilla to my coffee. I just looooooove vanilla. It makes things smell so warm and soothing. Nearly all of my beauty products have vanilla in them.

I’m somewhat interested in Ayurvedic Medicine, and it’s just fascinating to me how all of the food stuffs I naturally gravitate towards, such as vanilla, are the ones which are apparently good for my body type (“Vata” I think). There are things I enjoy which Ayurveda says are bad for me (coffee and alcohol are the ones which spring to mind!) but, oh, I know they’re bad for me. It’s crazy. I used to always feel bad, as a vegan, for despising raw vegetables. There’s really nothing I would rather eat less than a salad! According to Ayurveda, though, this is because I get chilled easily (oh, yes!) and cold vegetables are not warming, and are hard for me to digest (oh, yes!). There’s no way in hell I’ll ever be a raw food vegan. Oh, my God, no. The torture!

Sometimes I really wish I could become a herbal medicine practitioner. I’m most interested in Western Herbal Medicine, and Ayurveda. Chinese Herbalism doesn’t interest me so much. As a Western European, it doesn’t make sense to me that so many people of European-extraction here in the US study only Chinese Herbalism. Why not study Western Herbalism as well given that it also has such a long lineage, and that’s where your roots are? It seems that the two systems really complement each other, and that it would be best to learn both.

However, now I’m waffling so off I go to start my day. Take this quiz if you’re interested in finding out about your body type is according to Ayurveda!

“And all men kill the thing they love…”

It’s Monday morning, and the day has not started well. When I went into the bathroom for the first pee of the day, I found that my wee blind kitten had managed to step in his own crap again, and had left little shitty kitten paw prints, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, all over the floor. Sigh.

Also, there was nothing nice to have for breakfast. Breakfast is my favourite meal of the day, and I’m always put out of sorts if it’s not good. Usually I like to have something sweet for breakfast, but today I was craving breakfast tacos, which are probably the most perfect breakfast creation ever. They will be one of the few things I miss about this place when I leave. And, oh, margaritas, too.

There were, however, sadly no breakfast tacos or margaritas for me this morning. Instead I had porridge, made the old-fashioned way with just salt and water. When I was growing up and asked my mum if I could have sugar in my porridge instead of salt, she said that I couldn’t because “that’s the way the English eat their porridge”. The implication was that the English were too effete and spoiled to be able to handle salt in their porridge. She may have been right.

I have also run out of my usual organic Earl Grey Tea, and therefore had to slum it with Tetley (one of the most popular brands of tea in the UK), which I had bought once when I was overcome with nostalgia in a shop selling foreign items. God knows why this stuff is so popular…it tastes like warm goat’s piss (or, well, what I imagine warm goat’s piss would taste like).

After my Oliver-Twist-in-the-workhouse-like breakfast, I started to write in my journal, which has become a bit of a chore lately given that I normally end up repeating everything I write there on here. I’ve started leaving out lots of the more juicy things in the journal because I know I’ll just write about them in my blog instead. This makes me worry that my great-grandchildren will think I lead a very boring life, lacking in imagination, when they find my journal one hundred years from now, growing mouldy in an attic somewhere. Perhaps I should put a sticker on the front of my journal with my blog address to avoid such a disturbing occurrence?

You’d think it would be exactly the opposite, though, wouldn’t you? You would think that I would want to keep the most intimate, embarrassing and gruesome truths of my life for myself in my journal, wouldn’t you? Nope. I most definitely prefer airing my dirty laundry online in the blogosphere. Perhaps it’s because I’m tired of being stuck inside my own head, and crave readrers with whom I can interact.

I do find all this writing therapeutic, though. I think I carry a lot of unresolved anger around in me and writing, specifically blogging, allows me to work through my issues far more thoroughly. This morning, for exampe, while writing in my journal, I suddenly felt a surge of anger towards Midwestern Man. It came out of the blue but I suppose I must have been unconsciously thinking about yet another conversation we had yesterday about his inability to finish his art projects. As you know it bugs the shit out of me that he’s nearly thirty-two and that he doesn’t appear to have got his act together.

The reason why I would be a good teacher is because I’m very encouraging and supportive of other people’s dreams, but somehow I can’t manage to be this way for Midwestern Man. I went through a phase when I’d talk to him all the time about teaching, persuading him to train to be one, too. I do think he’d be a good teacher actually, and he already teaches some evening classes in art, but my constantly harping on about it just made him resentful and bitter. I suppose I should just leave him be, but even if I do, and never say anything about the situation to him again, he’s going to sense that I, deep down, don’t really believe he can do it. I want him to do it, but I just don’t have much faith in him. I know that’s terrible, but I really don’t. I realize that my lack of support (whether vocalized or not) will only make the situation worse, but I don’t know how to make myself believe in him. I don’t have any evidence from his past I can use to help me develop more faith. All I see is a long trail of procrastination and unfinished projects.

I even hate the art form on which he’s decided to focus – the graphic novel. Well, that’s not entirely true, as I do like things like Persepolis and Maus but that’s because they talk about real things, important things. Whenever I look at the graphic novels Midwestern Man reads, they’re all fucking fantasy scenarios…bombs exploding; femme fatales with their anatomically impossibly big breasts bursting out of their tight clothes; apocalyptic scenes….It’s all fucking bullshit. Nothing I can relate to because it’s not linked to reality in any shape or form.

Midwestern Man accuses me of “not having an active fantasy life”, which I find amusing because I think I’ve got far more imagination than he does. It’s not really true either that I don’t like fantasy. In fact, my favourite genre of fiction is probably magic realism because it combines fantasy with (guess what?!) REALISM! When I read Gabriel Garcia Márquez, for example, I don’t think to myself “Oh, here is an author who has taken refuge in the world of fantasy and spirits because he spent all his teenage years, and most of his young adulthood, hiding in his bedroom, never getting laid, because he was too socially awkward”. This is exactly what I think when I see the vast majority of comics and graphic novels, however.

I despise fantasy and science fiction because these are genres written by people who do not have a handle on reality. And how can you write good fantasy if you haven’t yet mastered the skill of seeing the fantastical in everyday, commonplace happenings?!

I would say that Midwestern Man does not have a very good grasp of reality. However, as I was writing today in my journal, it occurred to me that this was precisely the quality in him I had fallen in love with, except that I had viewed it in a much more romantic, positive light. I adored the fact that Midwestern Man was so idealistic. There is a childlike innocence and simplicity to him, which was so refreshing to me, caught as I was in my world of handjobs and depression.

I had admired that quality in him but now, if I really examine myself, I think I would like to destroy it. Pluck it out of his heart, dash it to the ground and stamp on it again and again, leaving a crushed bloody mess, completely unrecognizable.

I wonder why that is. Perhaps I am jealous that he has survived so long and managed to remain this pure and free. Perhaps I want to drag him down with me…Whatever the reason, I want to crush him, kill him, drain him. I’ve done it before to men who loved me, and I want to do it again. The sheer depth of my cruelty astounds me.

I hate his fucking guts. I love him so much. My poor husband.

You and the kitten! Put your weapons down, and come out with your hands in the air!

Yesterday I took my new little kitten to the vet again to get his ulcerated eyes checked on. I was supposed to drop him off around 10:00 a.m., but I managed to sleep through my alarm, and didn’t get there until 11:00 a.m. Given that I don’t own a car, and had to cycle five miles uphill, in the heat and humidity, with the cat in a carrier slung over my shoulder (there are closer vets, but this one is super cheap), I wasn’t amused to discover that the vet’s practice was closed for some odd reason, and wouldn’t be open again until 2:00 p.m!

I really had no desire to take the cat home with me, as that would have been a total waste of time. Also, I was very concerned about his eyes and I really wanted them to be examined again. I was also desperate to get him de-wormed ever since discovering an adult tapeworm in his shit that was so big I could have sworn it winked at me.

I decided that the only thing for it was to leave the kitten on the vet’s back porch, and to leave a message on the vet’s voicemail letting him know he was there. I also had a client to see shortly afterwards, so I couldn’t hang around until 2:00 p.m. Unfortunately, the vet’s back yard was entirely fenced off, so I had to scale the fence to leave him on the porch. A girl who had turned up with a sick Bassett Hound puppy helped me scale the fence by holding a wheelie bin (“garbage cart” to you North American types) steady, so I could stand on top of it. This nice wholesome American girl never mentioned anything about trespassing laws at the time, so I didn’t think much of my actions.

Also, there just happened to be a ladder lying on the ground on the other side of the fence (which greatly facilitated the return journey) and it seemed to me that this was just the universe’s way of telling me to leave the kitten on the back porch!

While I was scaling the fence, some old, crazy, drunk, toothless homeless lady with a black-eye and a bad attitude staggered up muttering something incoherent that contained the word “illegal”. Since I couldn’t make out a word she was saying and had no desire to engage her in conversation (as she was clearly the type who would rant at you if given the chance), she tottered off in the direction of some nearby shops.

Just when I was back safely on the other side of the fence, and was looking back, with my heart breaking, at my poor kitten in its carrier case on the porch (“Would he think I was abandoning him?”; “What if something happened to him?”), I noticed a police car pull up.

Then a second one.

Then a third one.

I was surrounded by three cops! (and the cops in this part of the world are not nice!)

Apparently, the crazy homeless bitch (no doubt ecstatic at finally being able to get her revenge on somebody “privileged”) had gone off to the shops to get somebody to call the police on me! An attempted (cat) burglary had been reported! I wonder why they thought I was carrying a kitten. Perhaps they thought he was my accomplice, and I was going to push him through a narrow window and get him to open a door. You know like Bill Sykes did with Oliver Twist?!

For a few terrible moments, I imagined myself and kitten wearing striped prison pyjamas and locked up in the country jail. However, luckily I had my trusty weapons with me, which saved the day – my vagina and my accent!

The officers were briefly stern with me, but once I muttered something in my “adorable” “foreign” accent about how I was just trying to save a itsy bitty kitten, who could clearly be seen in the cat carrier on the porch, they were very pleasant. It’s at times like these that I’m grateful I’m a girl and I’m a foreigner. It also doesn’t hurt that my countrymen and countrywomen have a very good reputation abroad (unlike, say, a slighly larger country to the south). Before long one of the policemen was sharing stories of his time working with some of my countrymen in his old job and how they were a lot of fun to be around.

They even shook my hand before sending me on my way!

And you’ll be glad to know that the kitten is now safely home after his close encounter with the law, and his eyes are better, too! No thanks to that crazy homeless woman, though! Since when did the down-and-out and the dispossessed become allies with the police!?

Rain, and cat dreams.

When I woke up this morning, it was raining. Most people in town are happy because this summer has been so incredibly hot – so many days over 100 degrees fahrenheit (38 degrees celsius) – and there’s been a drought. It amuses me the way people in this state whine incessantly about the hot weather, though. The only time most of them encounter the weather is when they walk from their nice air-conditioned houses to their air-conditioned cars to get to their air-conditioned offices. I, on the other hand, do not own a car and had to cycle around under the blaring sun. It was so hot that it melted the plastic on my bike’s handlebars!

I’m a skinny girl (maybe only 110 pounds, and five feet six inches tall), so there is nothing I hate more than being cold, as I don’t have much natural insulation. I love being warm, and feeling the sun’s rays on my skin, and I would prefer to be too hot than too cold any day. Interestingly, I have only ever fallen in love with men who emit so much body heat that they are like small furnaces. I never consciously chose men like this but I certainly can’t imagine loving a man with a similar body type to me. We’d be one big nasty mass of bony knees and elbows! Yuck!

Despite my love of warm weather and sunshine, I can’t help but find it somewhat bland and boring when you have it practically all year round. Americans always ask me about the notoriously rainy weather in my country of origin but, to be honest, it never really bothered me when I was there. I’m not even really sure anymore that it did rain that much. I think it was mainly just overcast. I know the dark, cloudy skies affected my mood greatly when I still lived there, but I miss them now. They made everything look so brooding and mysterious.

When I move away from this city, I will surely miss the fact that I can run practically all year round without having to worry about buying thermals. However, there is just something decidedly too perky and positive in this place, and I think it has got a lot to do with the weather. The city where I’m from can be a hard, unforgiving place, but it’s precisely these qualities which make the people so fucking resourceful and tough with a great sense of humour. Most of all, I miss the clubs (one club in particular) where I’d dance all night, off my face on ecstasy. Like I said, it’s a hard city… and we party hard, too. “Parties” in this city are, in contrast, laughable affairs especially now that I’m in my early thirties. Americans in this part of the country tend to get married off in their mid-twenties and put “their partying years behind them”. Their “parties” consist of people standing around a beer keg, making civilized chit chat, and they’re usually over by midnight. Where are the drugs?! Where is the underlying sexual tension?!

The only time I ever liked this state was when I went off to the desert to get married. I couldn’t have found scenery more different to my own country’s but there was curiously something in its stark, harsh beauty, which reminded me of home. Yes, the sun was blaring down; yes, the desert is nearly always hot and sunny…but I loved the fact that I could die in such an environment…

Up until recently, I thought it would be a nice idea to get a job as a teacher in some desert town and move there with my cats and dogs, and, oh yeah, I suppose Midwestern Man would have to come, too…In the end, though, I realized it would be too tortuous a process to get certified to teach in this stupid state.

Speaking of cats, I’ve now started dreaming about them! It’s not the first time I’ve dreamt about cats, though – I sometimes dream about giving birth to a black cat. Fuck knows what that means. Last night – and I will keep this short, as I know there’s nothing more boring than hearing about somebody else’s dream – I was in a house (more like a strange, artist’s studio) with a long-haired man who was apparently my boyfriend. There were cats everywhere, with strange, crimped fur. There was also a journalist who was trying to pass herself off as an artist, but who had really been sent to spy on me (huh?!). My “boyfriend” gave me a kitten to take home with me but at one point I saw him trying to hide the face of a kitten which he had actually cut off, which I found really disturbing, as he had seemed like such a nice guy. At the end of the dream, he gave me some sort of meat on a stick to eat, which was really tasty until I realized it was dead cat.

Hmmm. I’d like to think that this meant something, but it probably just suggests that I need to stop spending so much time with cats, and should get out the house more.

Distracted by Larry Brown

So much for my new routine of getting up early, feeding the pets, writing in my journal, blogging and then going for a run – all before starting a day’s work. This morning I decided to read a “little bit” of the novel “The Rabit Factory” by Larry Brown, which had been sitting on my bookshelf for ages. I think I got it years ago for some book group I never ended up going to. I’m not sure why I never read it. It was possibly because the main blurb on the back of the book was from the local “newspaper”, which I find very provincial. I must have thought, snobbishly, that nothing championed in that rag could possibly be any good.

How wrong could I have been! What a bloody good read. A total fucking page-turner, and it has absorbed me the whole day. How rare it is to find a novelist who’s an amazing storyteller. I’m all for experimentation in literature, music and the visual arts but, goddamit, I want to be entertained as well!

Now that I have five cats and have officially earned the “crazy cat lady” moniker, the first sentence even had me grabbed:

“The kitten was wild and skinny, and its tail looked almost broken, kind of hung down crooked”.

There’s also a (male!) pit bull called Jada Pinkett! Oh how I laughed out loud when I read that!

Speaking of stray kittens, the new addition to my family is doing better, as his eyes no longer seem infected, but they do still seem to be ulcerated. I thought they would heal better than this, so I’m taking him to the vet again on Thursday. I really hope that they can save his vision, even if only in one of his eyes. Cats are just such amazingly resilient animals. I doubt this kitten can see very much, as his eyes are pretty fucked up, and yet he still scoots about the floor chasing a little ball! I once had a cat with no eyes (he had to have them removed because they had also been attacked by the feline herpes virus, but they were too badly damaged by the time I found him) and you would never have known he was blind unless you looked at him very closely. He did all the things my other cats did, and only very, very, very rarely bumped into a piece of furniture, and usually because I would have moved it from its normal location.

Just how do cats do that? I’m just in awe of them. God, just listen to me. How many times can I blog about cats? I just got an email from Blogcatalog telling me that my blog had been approved for inclusion, or whatever, and guess what the google ads are on my blog page?! There’s one about sex and another about fucking cat litter! Sometimes I think Google doesn’t only scan the content of my emails and blog, but also has a window into my soul.

Something weird has happened to me ever since finding this fifth cat, though. It really does feel like I’ve been initiated into some kind of cat hoarding club. I can’t stop looking at my cats, and admiring their beautiful feline elegance and independence. God, I love them.

You may be glad to know that Midwestern Man and I finally fucked today. I’m nearly always too tired at night to have sex, so I decided to tell him to hurry back from work and fuck me in the middle of the afternoon. I didn’t really want to, but I know it’s not fair to deprive him of sex. It was really lovely, though, and I feel closer to him again. He says that I’m “like a man”, in that I’m only nice to him after we have sex. There is, sadly, definitely some truth to that. Today, one of my new favourite bloggers, Pandabox33, commented on yesterday’s post and said “I found that just doing it sometimes helps”. This resonated with me a lot because, yes, I find that iif just grit my teeth and force myself to have sex that I actually enjoy it…and then I want more of it. Unfortunately, we then have a small lull in our sex life and then I forget all about how much I like it. Sigh.

Well, must dash, as I’m attempting the Nablopomo challenge this month, and I have to post every day in September. It’s nearly midnight, and I don’t want to miss a day. Sweet dreams everybody.

Cats’ Eyes

Sometimes I wonder why the idea of having kids is so terrifying to me at the moment. I do want to have children eventually, but I’m in no way ready for the responsibility, either financially or emotionally (and you could add physically to that, as I can’t say I’m looking forward to pushing them out of my vagina!). However, when you consider that I now have seven bloody pets, it begins to make little sense that I don’t want kids yet. Surely having seven pets is tantamount to having one kid?! Well, OK, maybe not entirely, but it’s probably just as expensive and my pets keep me tied down to this city – which I’ve been wanting to leave for soooooo long – just as much as a child would. In fact, in some ways they keep me tied down more – if I wanted to leave this place, it wouldn’t be all that expensive or stressful to do so with a kid in tow; but seven pets?! How the hell do you travel thousands of miles across the country, or even the world, with seven pets? You cannae just throw some colouring books in the back of the car and a bag of sweets to keep them amused. Sigh.

Despite the inconvenience and expense of having so many animals, I do love them dearly. They are the light of my life in so many ways. For someone like myself who has experienced so little unconditional love, it has been very good for me to love them unconditionally, and to feel them love me right back. Midwestern Man says that the only reason I love animals is because I’m a control freak and because they do what I say, and don’t answer me back, but I think he’s wrong. True, it is unhealthy that I enjoy the way they need me, and will always need me – it’s not like they’ll be going off to university any time soon! – but codependency isn’t at the root of my love for animals. I just enjoy their presence and they are far more complex, dignified and noble than most human beings realize.

I often wonder, too, if certain humans are able to have a more honest and sincere relationship with animals than they are with humans? When it comes to romantic relationships with men, it has often been so difficult for me to separate my feelings for the person from all the fucked-up and overly idealistic fantasies you can’t help but internalize when you grow up in a Western culture. I’m sure that some people are able to love others in a simple, sincere way without tearing themselves in knots with questions and doubts, but I am not that kind of person. I wish I were, but I’m just not.

This is why animals are so refreshing for me. When I look at one of my cats, I don’t think “Hmmm. Not too sure about you…there was another cat down the street I saw recently and I think we might get on better together. Also, that cat had more attractive markings, and just looked like it took better care of itself…Yeah, just don’t know how I feel about you at all”. Instead, when I look at my animals, I just experience pure love and concern. I only found my new wee kitten less than two days ago, but already I would say that I love him.

As for the wee guy, I took him to the vet yesterday morning and, much to my surprise, the prognosis is good! He tested negative for feline leukaemia and FIV (yes, the virus that causes AIDS in cats), which is huge, as I couldn’t have had him around my other cats if he had had those illnesses. He does indeed have the feline herpes virus, as I thought, but the vet thinks that his ulcerated eyes will be OK provided I keep on administering the antibiotic eye ointment he gave me! The vet also gave him 250 mls of subcutaneous fluids because he was very dehydrated, and since then, the wee guy has been doing much better. He still looks like shit, but he’s managing to eat and is a cute wee bastard! He purrs like crazy whenever I pet him! But, hell, I’d be purring like crazy, too, if I’d just been picked up from the streets of the ghetto and magically found myself in a home where I’ll have the best cat food and lots of cuddles for the rest of my life.