Finally Fixed

Three months have passed since we unsuccessfully launched operation kitten capture. Our plan was to sneak up on Felix, catch him and get him neutered. We never expected him to go quietly but with the element of surprise, we assumed he'd be easy pickings. Instead, he surprised us by forcing open the cat box door and fleeing the scene. Since then, I allotted us April, May and June to win back Felix's trust.

Well, we never earned his trust but over time, he's dropped his guard.

So just the other day Martin, the one-handed-bird-catcher, donned fire-retardant gloves, recalled Steve Irwin's tips on croc wrestling, and pounced on an unsuspecting Felix, whose head was buried in a food dish.

Once he pinned Felix inside the crate, the trick was to remove his arm without letting the cat escape. On the count of three he extracted his hand while I slammed the carrier door and I drove Felix to the vet. He yowled all the way.

That afternoon I retrieved him. I set the cat box on the cool barn floor and unlatched the door. He slunk out, cast a dirty look over his shoulder, and streaked outside.

Well, I thought, that's the last we see of you. At least you won't leave a trail of kittens in your wake.

But since the big snip, Felix has turned a corner. He doesn't bump up against our legs, but we can pet him and he's joined the cat crew that accompanies us on dog walks.

I don't think he'll ever be as friendly as Spook, but he's coming around.

Poor Spook

Our 5-year-old barn cats, Mel and Frog, are utterly phobic of cars. They scatter at the faintest hint of gravel crunching on the drive and they'd never deign to venture down to the road.

Unfortunately Spook, our once-wild cat, was not so wary.

On Saturday night he was hit by a car. The neighbors discovered him and brought him up to the house. But he was gone.

Spook had already been fed for the night and we'd seen him just a couple hours before. I never imagined that he'd head to the road since he didn't venture far from the house. Maybe nocturnal hunting got the best of him.

We placed him underneath a pine tree, not far from where Drippy and Old Kitty are laid to rest.

Felix, who generally keeps his distance, sat nearby and watched us bury Spook. Afterward, he camped out on the fresh earth.

Poor Spook. That once feral beast had become our friendliest cat.

Look who just wandered into our lives

I'm curious, is there some secret message on our barn that only cats can read that says: give us your tired, your poor, your huddled feline masses....

Martin was at work in his office this evening when he heard a horrible yowling from the barn. He thought that one of our cats was stuck or in pain but when he fumbled for the light, he saw this:

A tiny ball of black and white fur --probably 8 weeks old-- with a powerful set of lungs. We don't know where the little guy (or girl) came from. I called the neighbors and no one reports having a litter of black and white kittens so someone either dumped the kitten at our house or possibly along the road. We'll never know. He was dry (despite the soggy conditions outdoors) and appears to be in decent shape. He's just hungry and lonely and very loud.

We considered bringing him in the house or locking him in the Mouse House, but ultimately decided that he's happiest with company. Spook, who also mysteriously appeared in our barn a year ago, has stepped into the role of foster dad.

Tomorrow we'll decide what to do with him. Tonight, we're hanging onto our Friday the 13th black cat.

Better than flowers or chocolate

This past weekend I loaded up Thing 1 & Thing 2, as well as all the accessories needed to A) supply a third-world nation, or B) travel with toddlers for 2 days. With our bounty of sippie cups, juice boxes, goldfish crackers, diapers, portable crib, blankets, pillows, swimming gear, multiple changes of clothes, etc, we drove 3 hours to our friends' house in the mountains. Martin held down the fort at home.

All he had to do was feed the sheep, horses, and smaller beasts. Muck the stalls. Entertain the neurotic dog. Mow around the house, bush-hog the fields, weed-whack, water the new trees, spray them against pests. And move his office furniture into the Mouse House.

We both know that he got the better end of the deal. Cake walk.

Still, it didn't stop my long distance nagging ("that farm better look ship-shape when I get home..."), though admittedly, I didn't expect much. Even when he claimed that he cleaned up the barn.

Well, imagine my surprise when I rolled up the drive at 11 pm -- knee-deep in McDonald's wrappers, with two limp, slack-jawed toddlers in the back seat -- and snapped on the lights to see this:


Sorry, no "before" photos available but take my word for it: even when the barn is clean, it's a mess. It's always awash in cobwebs on the ceiling, grime layers on the walls, and dust bunnies the size of snow drifts. And that's just the dirt. Don't forget the debris.

Traditionally, "tidying" the barn means taking all the random junk -- mountain bikes, garden hoses, extension cords, saw horses, tools, horse blankets, jumps, buckets, paint cans -- and condensing it all into one corner of crap. Where it can gather more cobwebs, horse hair and dust bunnies.

Well, Crap Mountain is gone. I have no idea what Martin did with it -- I assume it's been relocated to the loft -- but frankly I don't care. The barn is junk free. And the wall are so clean, they look white-washed.


Bottom line, I don't know what inspired Martin's cleaning frenzy and I don't want to know. It was an awesome surprise. And anytime he hears that disaster we call an attic beckoning him, I say: don't fight the urge...follow your instinct and clean, man, clean!

Spook status report

Almost a month to the day when I first mentioned my efforts to woo Spook, the feral cat living in our barn, I nabbed the little guy! Well, actually, I caught him, lost him, then caught him again.

In the past month since the Spook post (see: http://furnaceford.blogspot.com/2009/02/wooing-of-spook.html), I've spent a little timeeach day edging closer to him, standing nearby while he ate and eventually graduating to resting my hand next to him. Finally, one night the temptation of canned cat food was too much. With his face buried in the dish next to Drippy, he let me pet him.

That's about as far as I got. Sometimes I could sit on the hayloft stairs and he'd inch down a step or two to meet me. But Frog would inevitably chase him away.

Today, Spook ventured down for a drink of water and Frog chased him into the tack room. I quickly shut him in and planned to box him up when I was done riding. But when I returned, Spook had vanished... he shoved the door open and squeezed out.

By now, I was hyped to catch him. My friend Liz, who has worked in vet clinics, had given me a crash course on cat wrangling 101: grab the scruff of the neck and if you can, his hind legs so he doesn't scratch you; put him in the cat box hind-end first.

I lured him from the loft with food, pet him for 10 minutes and before he knew what had happened, I had grabbed him and plopped him in the box.



He was one ticked off kitty, and quickly shoved his little paw through the grates to take a swipe at me. (I dropped the box and cat twice, thanks to that move). But 10 minutes later he was at the vet, where he will be tested for feline HIV, get vaccinated and lose his manhood.

No doubt, the month of winning his trust just evaporated, but if all goes well, he'll be a happy, healthy, ball-less barn cat.

The wooing of Spook

As if we don't already have enough dependents on this property, another freeloader surfaced about 6 weeks ago.

Martin spied him in mid-December, this blur of fur that popped out of the cat food container like a jack-in-the-box and shot out of the barn. What the hell was that? A cat, a fox? A raccoon?

We didn't give it another thought until the morning after a trip to LA. Jet lagged and bleary eyed, I dumped cat food into the trays and noticed that our orange cat had morphed into two. I blinked a couple times. No, there were still two orange cats. Weird.

Enter Spook, the feral cat residing in our barn. I think he's an adolescent, neither kitten or cat, who set down his little rucksack and threw out the welcome mat in the hayloft. It's warm, there's a nearby food source, why not?

I have to interrupt to say: I don't even LIKE cats. I am a dog person for Christ sake.

As a kid I knew that felines were inferior when my granny's cat Grover was begging at the table, and my father thumped Grover on the head with his butter knife. (Granny took note, another strike against Dad. But he had never been a contender for son-in-law of-the-year anyway.)

I grew up knowing that dog owners were active, social, outgoing people who belonged to tennis & swim clubs, and went to dinner parties where they kicked a few bottles of wine, bitched about their bosses, debated Reaganomics and argued about who really killed JR.

Cat people were eccentric weirdos who wore house dresses to the grocery store, used coupons, and drove rusted caddies that they parked in carports and then draped in car covers. They never mowed their lawns and they popped up at yard sales where they bought bad paperback romances that never should have been published. Cat people were crazy.

But here's the thing: if you have horses and you have a barn, it's your civic duty to own cats. Aside from their mousing services, there are far too many cats in shelters. You got a barn, toss 'em a bit of food and they're good to go.

So, back to Spook. Call it my pet project but I'm determined to de-feralize our wild cat. Plus, I'm out of work anyway. I've got nothing better to do than work on my resume. Uff.

That's why I'm clutching a store-bought rotisserie chicken under my arm like a football and perched alone on the hay loft stairs singing out "Spo--ook. Come here spooker...come on...comere kitten..."

Holy crap.

I'm becoming a crazy cat person.

I only want to win him over. Earn his trust, pet him and love him and wrap my arms around him....and then shove in a cat box, drive him to the vet and have his balls cut off.

I don't know why he won't come to me. Maybe it's time to try pot roast.

Tempting Spook with freshly cooked Harris Teeter chicken (nothing but the finest)

Unfortunately, he's not so sure

Spook status reports to come....