The Newnan-Coweta Humane Society is currently in 6th place in Parade Magazine’s “America’s Giving Challenge”.  The top 8 finishers get $50,000 each, and NCHS is raising money to build a no-kill shelter, the first of its kind in the south metro Atlanta area, and something that’s desperately needed.

The competition is based on the number of individuals donating at least $10, and the deadline is Jan 31st at 3pm EST.

Today I emailed this to Chris:

I actually saw Suzie give Taz a couple of slurps on the top of the head this morning.

Later, she was sitting on her brisket a little distance from Taz facing away from him with her tail wrapped around her as she does, so I reached over and petted her, which caused her tail to come unwrapped and within reach of Taz’s face. He managed to slurp it maybe three times before Suzie realized that probably wasn’t me, and she yanked her tail away and wrapped it around herself again. So I petted her again and the process repeated almost move for move. The third time she yanked her tail away, took a couple of steps away from Taz and turned around and looked at him and me like, “Just what the @#$!! do you think you’re doing!?”

After a little bit she came over to me and snuggled up close to me so I could put my hand against her between her and Taz, and her tail shifted toward Taz again. This time he was allowed to get his Suzie-tail-slurping urges out of his system without interruption, which took all of six slurps. Then Suzie rolled over onto her side and then almost onto her back for some belly rubbin’, and she stayed in that position even while Taz and Mickie were vigorously slurping each other just inches away from her belly.

Mickie came over and made like she wanted to slurp Suzie’s face but Suzie pulled her face away and half-lifted a paw, so Mickie went back to Taz.

This has been your kitty dish for Friday, September 14.

Her reply:

I may have to change the name of my catblog.

“Kitty Dish.” Hmmmm.

Dammit, dammit, dammitall. I knew I was gonna cry. Hate that.

My boss left a book on my desk one day, with a note saying he thought I’d enjoy reading it. The book was Marley & Me by John Grogan, about the big adorable wrecking ball of a yellow Lab that was part of his family for many years. There were plenty of warnings in the reviews on the back cover—“a funny, touching tribute…”, “tenderly follows its subject from sunrise to sunset…” I knew I’d thoroughly enjoy most of the book, even while dreading the end. And sure enough, Marley’s exploits were a pure delight. Last night I was still reading for a good while after Kevin had gone to sleep, and I had to stifle several good outbreaks of mirth. A great book. I guess it’s a trade-off that those of us who will enjoy such a book the most will also be the most saddened when the wonderful furry protagonist’s time on Earth comes to a close, in large part because it brings to mind our own experiences of losing a pet in the past, and our dread of losing the dear ones who share our lives now. Lucy benefited greatly from my finishing that book—she got invited in for hugs and treats even though she was kinda wet.

I’m going to have to recommend that book to some folks who live in our neighborhood. Their goofy yellow Lab, Sandbag, comes to visit us sometimes despite the electronic fence around his yard. (I have got to ask them one day if he got his name because someone saw him all curled up as a puppy and said “Aww, he looks just like a little sandbag!”) I get the feeling they think he’s quite a handful, and I won’t disagree, but he’s also a very sweet boy—and next to Marley I bet he’s a model of canine deportment!

When Sandbag comes to visit I take him home. Someday when we get a proper fence I’ll be happy to let him romp with Lucy for awhile (she seems to think he’s an absolute rockstar—I swear last time he came by I saw her throwing a bra—and he’s not discouraging her one bit!) For now, I take him right home, and I hope his people don’t misunderstand. I tell them every time, I love him and I love his visits, I just want him to be safe. There are a couple of women who walk in our neighborhood (I don’t think they live here, so who invited ‘em anyway…) carrying big sticks. They seem to be quite irrational about dogs. One time Lucy ran up to them in her usual “Ooh, more people to love!” fashion, which if they had any grasp whatsoever of canine body language they should have realized, but one of them raised her huge stick over her head and whacked it hard on the ground in front of Lucy—fortunately not making contact, or she would have had to deal with me. OK, I can try to have some sympathy for severe dog phobia because my mom has it too, but dang it, even with the phobia Mom adores Lucy. So those women need to get a clue, and give a sweet loving dog a chance.

I’m not sure, but I’d almost bet those women were involved in a disgusting episode several years ago. The dogs next door at the time were Smokey and Cassie. Smokey’s part Chow, and he does bark (that’s all!) at what he considers potential invaders. Also, at that time, he wasn’t contained in the yard, so he might have ventured into the cul-de-sac. But somehow, the dogcatcher was called to come get him out of his own yard. And when the dogcatcher couldn’t corral Smokey, he instead picked up and hauled off poor Cassie, who was so old and arthritic she could barely walk, much less bother any pedestrians. I caught this performance, gave him a piece of my mind which he of course ignored (and then lied barefaced to me, denying it all when I confronted him about the Auschwitz-like extermination methods used at our lovely Coweta County “humane” facility…) In the end, all I could do was to track down my neighbor at work and let him know, so poor harmless Cassie could be sprung as quickly as possible. Grrrrr… Yeah, I know, I’m irrational too—but mine’s the good kind!

But anyway. Next on my critter reading list is a story I know has a happy ending (and in my brain it’s going to freeze-frame that way!)—From Baghdad, With Love, about a puppy who was adopted by some Marines in Iraq, and who has now been brought back to the States to live happily ever after with the unit’s commander.

Cats can suffer from a feline form of Alzheimer’s disease, Edinburgh scientists revealed today.

A study into aging cats identified a key protein which can build up in the nerve cells in their brains and cause mental deterioration, similar to that in humans.

The research was carried out by scientists at the University of Edinburgh, as well as universities at St Andrews, Bristol and California.

Dr Danielle Gunn-Moore, of Edinburgh University, said: “We’ve known for a long time that cats develop dementia, but this study tells us that the cat’s neural system is being compromised.”

» Scotsman.com:   Cats at risk of Alzheimer’s

I don’t think either of Chris’ eventually-elderly cats—Lyric and Furrari—suffered from dementia. Lyric’s eyesight was failing but her personality didn’t change much from what Chris has told me of her kitten years; other than the usual mellowing with age (which in Lyric’s case is a relative thing, at least with regard to other cats). Furrari had kidney troubles and eventually went blind, which was accompanied by some odd behaviors but for all I know that’s how a completely blind cat behaves.

Still, this suggests something to watch for as Taz, now eleven-ish, gets older. So far his personality hasn’t changed much though. His proportions of cranky to cuddly have changed slightly but that’s that mellowing-with-age thing. Plus having a cuddly young thing like Mickie slurping on him whenever she gets the chance.

My mom’s cat Fred gave us quite a scare a couple weeks ago. My stepfather has entered the wandering phase of Alzheimer’s, and apparently in the middle of the night he opened the front door and managed to shut both Fred and Cookie in between that and the screen door. (Yes, new locks have since been installed…)

As you might expect, Fred was not amused, said nuts to you fella, tore a hole in the screen door and left. Cookie did hop through the hole Fred made (this is a guess; we’re blaming him because he was apparently the most motivated!), but she hung out on the porch until Mom discovered the situation in the morning. Cookie is still a very petite kiddo, even though at two years old she’s theoretically full-grown; not being quite so squeezed, plus her easygoing nature, may account for her equanimity in the face of such an insult. But Fred has been known to make himself scarce inside the house for hours when, say, Kevin and I would come in the door with suitcases (this was early in Fred’s and our relationship; he’s completely cool with us now.) So this quite understandable disappearing act was not exactly out of character.

Mom didn’t let me know about this until Fred had been gone for a day and a half, and she was just at her wits’ end. She had gone all over the neighborhood talking to people and putting up flyers. The neighborhood children, trying to be helpful, had run around all over the place calling him (which was just about as likely to bring him out of hiding as, say, a 747 landing on their street.)

After we got off the phone, I tried to think of ways I could help. I wondered if any pet detectives worked in the area. A Google search turned up the website of Carl Washington, Pet Detective, plus a number of highly complimentary articles about him from other sources, including one that mentioned his successful search for a dog in Chattanooga.

I will admit, I was still a bit skeptical—then I saw that one of the recommendations was by none other than noted cat expert Carole Wilbourn. Ms. Wilbourn’s book Cats Prefer It This Way has been a favorite of mine for years.

So, at 10:30 at night, I called Mr. Washington. He was on his way to Miami for a search, but said if necessary he’d head to Chattanooga afterward.  Meantime, he suggested his very reasonably-priced service where he examines aerial photos, etc. and draws up a specific search plan for the owner to follow, based on his years of experience with the behavior of lost pets. Sounded good to me, so I sent the money via Western Union the next day, as requested, so he could pick it up where he was.

Immediately, even before he had a chance to prepare the custom map, he sent me the generic verbiage that goes along with it, telling what the various marks mean, and what to do at those locations. I immediately forwarded it to Mom, and the instructions were clear enough that she could implement some of the ideas even before she got the map itself. Lo and behold, Fred was enticed home that evening as a direct result of one of the suggestions. Mr. Washington, you have gained several more fans, and you have our heartfelt gratitude.

“Combine Cats and Celts and you have Irish Drinking Songs for Cat Lovers, a CD for the wonderfully demented kitty cat fantatic.”

I think if you look up “wonderfully demented cat fanatic” on Wikipedia, you might just see my picture.

Now Hear This World: I have officially begun my Christmas list.

The correct URL for cats. iz. perverse. is now http://mcgeheezone.com/catblog/. If you have a bookmark or blogroll link to the old McGeheeZone.com URL, please update it. Old links to existing entries will remain valid for the time being, but if you would be so kind as to change the base URL to the new domain, that will ensure that the links don’t break at some later date.

This change has been made to restore membership login capability at this weblog. ExpressionEngine is supposed to support multiple domain cookies, but apparently Verve Hosting does not. Or something. Anyway, if you have already set a login cookie for Yippee- Ki- Yay. us, it will now work for this blog as well as for Yippee-Ki-Yay! Member privileges for cats. iz. perverse. will be fully restored as soon as I can test my own login on this post.

We have managed to control our curiosity fairly well over the past week or so, just venturing a cracked-door peek every other day. But tonight, we opened the shed door all the way to see how things were going. The sound caused five little beaks to open up in anticipation of dinner, with a chorus of tiny cheeps. Mama bird was apparently at the grocery store. I tried to get some pictures, but my camera was just not cooperating for some reason—even the best picture I took turned out fuzzier than the little birds themselves. You can still make out some beaks, though. I’ll post it if I can force my stubborn computer to download the pix.

Well, I’m awake now. So is China.

I was out working in the yard, and I went into the tool shed to get a particular implement of destruction. The shed has shelves with attachments on the front that you can hang tools from.

On the shelf behind my desired thingy was a wad of dried-up yard stuff, which looked like it might have been removed from under a lawnmower or something. But on a shelf?? I gave it the fishy eye, decided it was unlikely to house wasps, and gingerly reached for my tool. Whereupon, out from the wad of debris jetted a bird, so fast I couldn’t even tell what color it was. It exited through a space at the back of the shed where one of the doors is loose (apparently the way it had been getting in there all along).

So now I’m concerned that, between my inadvertently getting too close to the nest, and the wake-the-dead squawk I made when the bird zoomed out, I might have scared a mama bird away from her eggs. Is it still hatching season?

Sure would be cool to set up a webcam for Bird Watch ‘06.

Sneakers has a story to tell.

But unfortunately, there are secrets the 11-year-old feline is going to keep to himself.

Like why he disappeared from his yard in Seattle and showed up in a Sacramento animal shelter—10 years later.

By all accounts, Sneakers happily spent his kitten year with a Seattle family.

Then, after he turned a year old, he disappeared from his yard, leaving only his collar behind.

His 5-year-old mistress, Hilary Keyes, was brokenhearted.

She and her mother combed the neighborhood, posted his picture and pined for his return.

“I was devastated when he went missing,” said Keyes, now 14.

» Bee: Sneakers the cat—missing 10 years—is going home

Ten years later, he’s dropped off at the animal shelter, where they check him for a microchip—and that’s how they connect him with the Keyes family.

It’s good that there was a chip. Otherwise Sneakers, no longer a kitten, might have ended up an ex-cat.

Spay or neuter—and chip—your pets.