Last Monday I said something along the lines of “Just two more weeks ’til I can have babies back in this house! I can’t wait!” to Fred. We had agreed that we’d wait the whole six weeks of my recovery before we had more fosters.
Then on Tuesday I got an email from the shelter manager asking if we could take a pregnant cat, though she assured me that if we couldn’t, it was okay. I hesitated long enough to call Fred at work and say “THERE IS A PREGNANT CAT WHO NEEDS FOSTERING I WILL START SCOOPING THE LITTER BOXES AGAIN IMMEDIATELY I AM GOING TO TELL HER YES, LOVE YOU, BYE!”, and then emailed her and said “GIVE TO ME THE PREGNANT CAT!”
Fred, who has been scooping the litter boxes since I had surgery was only too happy to turn the scooping back over to me and had no complaints about bringing a pregnant cat home. Fred, if I haven’t mentioned before, LOVES the Momma kitties, and the Momma kitties love him back with an unsettling crazy-eyed passion.
Friday, after Fred got home from work, we went up to the shelter to get her.
(She was rescued from a kill shelter in Tennessee, and had to go to the vet for testing, and then be delivered to the shelter, which is why we didn’t have her immediately.)
She is a total sweetheart.
The shelter manager estimates her to be about 8 months old. I believe it – she is one tiny cat. We don’t know how far along she is, though she’s visibly thick through the middle. I did some Googling around this morning and due to the fact that we can’t actually feel the babies in her midsection, let along see them moving around, I’m going to guess she’s less than seven weeks pregnant.
That’s pure conjecture on my part, though, of course. She doesn’t like to have her belly touched, but she was laying on her back letting me rub her chest yesterday afternoon, and I stared at her belly the entire time. There was absolutely no movement, and on the rare occasion she does let us touch her belly, it just feels like muscle. No distinctive little kitten heads or elbows or feet to be felt just yet.
Whenever I go into the room to hang out with her, she spends the entire time purring and rubbing up against me. I’ve gotten her to play a few times, but she’s more interested in love than in playing. She kneads on anything she happens to lay her paws upon – the floor, a toy, my leg, my arm – which necessitated the clipping of her claws. She put up with it, though she didn’t like it, of course.
I swear, she’s the most laid-back momma cat I’ve ever seen.
We (Fred) moved the chair out of the foster room because I was pretty sure she’d end up going under there to give birth, and while I’m not opposed to her giving birth where she’s comfortable, I wanted to be able to get to her if I need to.
I set up two different nesting areas for her, giving her the choice between a very large plastic storage bin on its side, piled up with towels and blankets, and a kennel piled with towels and blankets. (When we had Kara, we put a cardboard box on its side in one corner of the room, and that worked just fine, but when the babies got older, they peed in the corner of the box, and I wanted something we could clean and reuse.) She appears to have gone in and dug around in the kennel, but every time I go into the room, she’s either headed toward the door because she heard me coming, or she’s asleep in one of the cat beds on the floor.
Did I mention she’s a sweetheart? She totally is.
At this point, we haven’t named her. I was leaning toward giving she and her brood (whenever they arrive!) Irish names in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, but if the little ones aren’t going to be here for a few more weeks, I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. “Maura” is Celtic for “Raven”, and I think that’s a pretty name. I’ll have to think about it, though. We’ll see!
Fred wanted to name her “Floozy.” Ha!
Just call us the Love & Hisses Home for Wayward Teen Mothers!
Jake is 93.8% sure he’s not supposed to be in the back yard, even though I’ve repeatedly assured him it’s okay. Whenever I approach him and he’s outside, he runs for the back door, sits on the steps, and watches to see what I’ll do next. If I take even one step toward him, he races up the steps and through the cat door. He’s such a nut.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.