Old Wives' Cat Tales

Spring here means, amongst many other things, lots of "lost cat" posters on the telephone poles, taped to the inside of the bus stops, slapped on the bulletin boards at the supermarkets, etc. I see one and I think, "Road pizza". I just don't understand how people can let their cats run free and not expect them to meet up with, say, an angry dog, a sociopathic serial-killer-to-be (they're here, too), spilled antifreeze, etc. This being the spring, too, narcissus flowers and other deadly-to-cats plants are in full bloom.

We are in the minority because our three kitties coexist almost entirely in a small two-bedroom apartment (two bedrooms and a living room and a kitchen, actually), and while they have free access to our balcony on sunny days, they seem to prefer the greenhouse effect of our picture windows in the morning. They are healthy, and while two of them are technically in renal failure, you wouldn't know it by looking at them. Well, maybe you could guess with the Tweeb. But at any rate, our litter boxes don't stink, and except for the two weeks last year when the Tweeb got hauled to the vet and began peeing on our bed at the injustice of being the only cat subjected to such indignities, they haven't got any behavioral issues, either. There is occasional growling and hissing, but by and large the three have reached amicable terms of coexistence.

I say this to refute the old wives' tale that cats need to go outside to be happy and healthy. Noodle, who was previously allowed outside, has shown no desire to so much as be on our balcony (though his curiosity is finally starting to get the better of him--after 3 years). But now that we're in verwachting, there's another old wives' tale that we've been getting from both sides: that cats and babies can't get along, and that we'll have to send our kitties away.

First of all, not bloody likely. The cats were here first. And...well, honestly, who else could be suckered into adopting the Tweeb? Besides, there are enough videos floating around that clearly refute the so-called "fact" that cats are dangerous for babies. If anything, I could probably use the help:



But it's strange how persistent these myths are, despite the higher literacy levels in Europe, and the greater appreciation for animal welfare (especially in the Netherlands). I guess there are some things that not even science or rational thought can trump.

"Everything's gonna be all right"

There are moments when I wish I knew Latin, so that I could swear like Batiatus (my favorite whiny man, from Spartacus) and say things like, "Finally, the gods see fit to remove c**k from @$$," which is fantastic in plain English and is grandiose enough to vent with. But for true vexation and petulance, only Latin will do, although I understand that Japanese is a close contender.

Last week, we found out that Noodle, like the Tweeb, has chronic renal failure (or, in more PC parlance, "chronic kidney disease"). It's a bitter, albeit not unexpected, pill to have to swallow: Noodle's kidney values were elevated at last spring's dental, so we all decided that a six-month checkup would be a good time to confirm or refute the findings. Alas, the findings were confirmed: Noodle's kidney values moved from "high-normal" to "high", and since then we've been feeding him the same prescription diet as the Tweeb has been getting. Luckily, Noodle will snarf anything, and I don't think he's noticed the change in his food.

As a quasi-public-service announcement, though, I'd like to point out that neither Noodle nor the Tweeb displayed any symptoms of renal failure prior to their blood tests. They did not drink excessively, the number of pee-balls in the litter box hasn't changed, they were not reclusive or lethargic (although, being cats, I must admit it is hard to objectively qualify what counts as "reclusive or lethargic"). In most cats, by the time symptoms of CKD start to appear, they only have 25-30% renal function left, and by then they usually only have a few more months before crossing the rainbow bridge. We caught both Noodle and the Tweeb well before that point, and indeed, besides an occasional bald patch (where they shave the fur before drawing blood), there's no indication at all that they are sick.

The point is, if you have a cat that's getting up there in years (10, thereabouts), please consider getting them tested for chronic diseases (CKD and diabetes), even if they show no signs of disease. We intend to get Shadow a blood test at her next visit (she'll be 8 years old!) just to see how things are, and every few years after that. Catching something as insidious as CKD early on might make a world of difference between simply changing their food and having to administer subcutaneous saline and a battery of pills every day. The Tweeb has been with us for five years since she was diagnosed, and at the rate she's going, it won't be her kidneys that kill her. We're hoping that the same will be true of Noodle. Of course, every cat is different, but early detection and good management will maximize your kitty's chances.

We Will Survive

Weather in the Netherlands is never reliable, not even with weather reports. This is, in part, due to the fact that the country is miniscule, but also because the eastern part of the country, where we live, is right at the boundary between coastal and continental weather. You don't really notice the difference, until you get into a train under the auspices of golden rays of sunlight, and step out into a downpour. I've been drier getting out of the shower.

So planning vet visits is always dicey. First and foremost, of course, is finding a day when we're both free, which is hard enough. Then we have to find a day and time when the vet is available, which is even harder, since they charge an extra €20 on the weekends. But lastly, we'd like it to be not-too-hot, not-too-cold, and preferably not-raining. This latter is nearly impossible to plan for, as we usually schedule vet visits weeks in advance. And it's been COLD.

The temperature this past week has been below freezing all week. I've been wearing leggings and long johns to go running and get to work. It's been so cold that wet laundry freezes stiff in ten minutes--after fifteen, it can be used as a weapon (the upside, though, is that it smells INCREDIBLE after it dries). Not that I would know.

So walking to the vet with our Kitty Tower of Terror required a few extra considerations, on top of the usual concerns about bungee cords and figuring out to cram all three fuzzbutts into their respective carriers without having them hide in impossible places. The Tweeb, in particular , is all skin and bone and and thin fur, so she got a hot water bottle in hers(much to our regret, as she was plenty comfortable enough to belt out her own operetta of howls and yowls). The entire KiTT was wrapped in one of our fleece throw blankets, which we thought would convey the added benefit of screening the kitties from seeing the enormity of the whole wide world. Alas, all it did was keep us from smelling Noodle's stress-turd until we go to the vet's. By then, Karel was quite frazzled--and I wouldn't have put a stress-turd past him.

Like Shadow, I bear these trips to the vet with an equanimity that's not quite grace--they're part and parcel of having fuzzbutts, so it must be put up with. Still, even though I'd prepared for it and checked my balances ahead of time, getting socked with an €[ungodly number] vet bill is something that you never really get used to, no matter which side of the Atlantic you're on.

Day of Cats

The Netherlands has the fewest national holidays of most of the countries in the EU, so while Americans may grumble and roll their eyes at the luxurious holiday benefits most workplaces offer, you need to remember that there is no Martin Luther King Junior Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, or Thanksgiving. And not to mention the host of other lesser holidays--Presidents Day, Valentine's, Halloween, St, Patrick's, etc. None of these get so much as a token observance here, except via the seasonal decorative kitsch that appears in the Blokker.

 But there is one international holiday that is routinely noted, if not observed: Dierendag, or World Animal Day, as it's officially called. It falls on 4 October every year, the day of Saint Francis of Assisi (yes, the guy with all those cats). It's supposed to be a day to appreciate what animals do for us, and consequently it's no surprise that it's virtually unknown in the US.

 In the sixty-odd years that it's been celebrated in the Netherlands, Dierendag has lost its religious connection to St. Francis and gained a host of animal rights activism that tags along with any sort of "thinking about animals". On academic campus centers with animal facilities, picketers will demonstrate their opposition to animal research, and you might even get a few crazy souls preaching the virtues of a vegetarian diet. For clarification: the Dutch don't eat much meat compared to the quantities that are common in US restaurants (nobody would order a triple-burger, for instance), but they would never think about eliminating it from their diets entirely.

 It's also evolved into a day where you spoil your pet, and to make that task easier, the pet stores all have their sale-of-the-year during this time. The flyers for Dierendag appeared in our weekly junk mail assortment this week (and yes, we do go through our junk mail, because you never know when kitty litter and cat food will go on sale). Yesterday, having learned that it's a bad idea to try to haul 2/3 of your own weight in kitty litter on a bike, I took our little trusty shopper and walked to the Intratuin, with the intent of getting 40 kg (that's 88 lbs) of cat litter.

 Imagine my shock, then, to see the store getting outfitted for Christmas. Now, the kruidnoten and pepernoten (seasonal, spicy cookies) are always out early, so it didn't surprise me to see them at the grocery stores. But the Intratuin--where we get our Christmas tree ornaments--was setting up a full-sized carousel, taking down the deck chairs, and putting up Christmas ornaments. In September. Dutch culture purists can't blame the US for this one--Christmas doesn't start until Halloween.

Fluff 'n Stuff

So about two weeks ago, the Tweeb got sick and we dragged her to the vet for observation and treatment. What I didn't tell you is that, when she came back from the vet, she promptly had her vengeance, and wet the bed. And pooped in it. Twice.

Needless to say, the peas who sleep in this pod were not amused. The bed got stripped, and everything that could be sent to the cleaner's was sent--it wasn't that stinky, truth be told, but since Karel has rarely had his comforter cleaned, we decided that it was time. The cleaner's around here typically charges by weight, but they have special pricing methods for comforters and pillows. It ended up costing close to €50 for everything to be cleaned, but we counted the money as worthwhile, knowing that everything was pee-free and dust-mite dandy.

At least, until I started sleeping in it.

My allergies raised unholy hell that first night we got the covers back. In the mornings, I'd make the bed and then end up taking to it, because I'd sneeze myself into exhaustion. Y'know how your body sometimes knows how to avoid things that you don't necessarily know? For the last few nights I'd been falling asleep on the couch, and then moving to the bed--hoping, I suppose, that once there I'd resume sleeping, rather than suffer the art of falling asleep while my sinuses got progressively more clogged. And to top it all off, the Tweeb peed on the comforter--not on the bed, which was unmade, but she actually went out of her way to wee on the thing--again on Wednesday. Sunday's bed-piddle was the last straw. I did what any self-respecting person would do with a cat that doesn't respect their property.

I went and bought new bedding, of course. In light of the fact that Karel's bedding is older than our relationship, it was probably just as well. The original idea was to go to IKEA and get a new mattress as well, but the new "luxe" mattress protector adds enough plushy-squishy feeling that Karel was happy enough to have that. But I'm happy to say that, after some apprehension, I was able to climb into bed last night, and sleep.

Missing You

The Tweeb has pulled through! I didn't have to force-feed her (much) this time--once she got the idea behind the rich fatty food, she couldn't get enough of it. There were a few trying moments (especially when she pooped on the bed) but after Friday morning it became pretty clear that she wasn't in any more danger of passing prematurely. And by Friday evening, her squawking had resumed its full volume and frequency. She even demanded a treat.

It was a relief to see that the Tweeb was back in form. It's a bit strange, when you think about how much we grumble about her, and her demands, her ugliness (let's face it, she's not exactly pretty), how far out-of-the-way we have to go to get her food, her vet bills. Why do we love this cat? Is it because, or in spite of, these things?

Back when the Tweeb was Tabitha, her adoption page said that she was "a bit clumsy but full of personality". Her picture? A black cat with a pink cast and her face in a food bowl. I wish I could say it was love at first sight. But it was more like, "Well, we'll see if she gets along with Shadow." And then sort of quasi-hoping that she wouldn't.

Truth be told, she never did--she got along with me. She and Shadow will roughhouse from time to time, and play kitty-ping-pong, but if there's a quiet moment, she will come and sit on our laps, and in the morning, it's her anxious little face we see, peering at us from our stomachs, asking if it's time for breakfast yet.

I wish I could pinpoint a reason as to why we put up with her, and her demands, and her tendency to poop on our bed when she's unhappy. But really, we're just glad she's okay, and that she's just as demanding as ever.

Finnessing the Cat

One of the mistakes many dog owners make is to treat their dog like a child. I can hear Cesar Milan's voice, saying, "When you take things out of nature, they become unablanced." Happily, cats take to being treated like a human child the way a duck takes to water: it's their prerogative, after all, being the true lords of the universe. The Mayans were right--the world will end on December 21, 2012. Because the Tweeb will die that day, and take her true form as the Goddess of Fickle.

The Tweeb has been on a prescription renal diet for the past two years. She eats both kibbles and wet food, getting about two tablespoons of kibbles for her breakfast, and a packet of wet food at night. We cheat a bit--she'll get some fish when we have it, and every night I lace her wet food with some of the normal kibble because otherwise she won't eat it--but overall we're pretty strict about making sure she stays on the prescription diet.

About two weeks into the regime change--we didn't change her food until her blood values remained elevated for two tests in a row--she started getting, well, bored with the food. And every night since has been a comedy of errors, to try to convince her to eat her food. It comes in two acts, repeated over and over again: the suspenseful build-up of squawking increasing in both frequency and volume; and the granting of said food. The last requires you to act like a teenybopper who's just been kissed by God Justin Bieber, and getting her to eat it required administration of constant praise and occasional--but not too frequent--pettings.

It took us a while to work out the twisted map of the Tweeb's psyche. OK, I exaggerate. It's quite simple, really: CAT-MOMMY MUST BE WITH ME ALL THE TIME OR ELSE. Cats were once revered as gods--and while I'm an atheist, frankly...well, given the Tweeb's ability to break glass with her voice and throw temper tantrums, the "or else" bit is probably best left undiscovered.

Babies and toddlers eventually grow out of this stage, I'm told. This must be why we've started discussing children.

Kidney Kitties

Yesterday morning, rather than breakfast, Noodle got ambushed and keel-hauled to the vet's, where he got his teeth cleaned. Dentals are all-day procedures, so we'd also booked a late-afternoon checkup for the Tweeb, with the idea of bringing both cats home at once. Cost was rather--and surprisingly--modest, given that Noodle needed pre-anesthesia blood-work done, and that the Tweeb got some antibiotics (she's been having this weird little cough that makes us worry about heart failure).

One of the things the blood-work revealed is that Noodle is also on the brink of renal failure. His kidney values, while still within the normal ranges, are approaching the point of worry, and falling in the "high normal" range. Right now, the plan is to monitor him, which means keel-hauling him to the vet AGAIN in six months for another blood test.

It's one of the cardinal rules of owning cats, that the ones that need to see the vet most often are the ones that are the most problematic. The Tweeb, for instance, has taken to piddling on me when we put her in her carrier. Noodle just hates his carrier--in fact, he infinitely prefers the vet to his carrier, and I strongly suspect that the only reason they could get him into his carrier yesterday was because he was so strung out on ketamine. Shadow, on the other hand, goes to the vet about once every other year and is as pretty and as perfect as a picture, and always goes in her carrier with a minimum of fuss.

What's so daunting about the prospect of Noodle having to see the vet as often as the Tweeb, then, is not the cost--it's unpleasant, but affordable. It's the emotional toll that comes from dragging a whining, howling cat to the vet and back again. It's figuring out how to outsmart the cats and get them to a place where you can catch them. It's waiting for the vet to call and tell you that the Tweeb is still normal/better/worse than she was the last time. Costs may increase in a linear fashion for every sick or borderline-sick cat, but dread goes up exponentially.

True Power

I don't often post about our cats, which is strange if you think about how much control they exert over our lives: twice a year I have to take a day off from work to take the Tweeb to the vet, to get her renal panel checked. The Tweeb is our broken kitty--there's no other way to describe her: deviated septum, clipped ear, broken voice, mangled ribs, BB pellet in her front leg, kidney failure, broken hip, crooked tail. She weighs all of 2.8 kg, which is slightly more than half of what FatBoy weighs, and only 60% of Shadow's weight. This cat looks like a living version of a Picasso-cat.

The other cats of the house, Shadow and FatBoy, are your typical, well-cared-for moggies: Shadow is sleek and beautiful in every way, and FatBoy is a cuddle-whore. Both of them are sweet in their own way, and lovable after their own fashions.

However, not one of them has a paw on the Tweeb when it comes to exerting true power over the food-monkeys. The Tweeb tells us when to get up, when to feed her, when to sit down, when to pet her, when to go to bed, when to scoop the poop, and, to some extent, determines what we eat for dinner (tilapia--she disapproves of salmon and pangasius). In other words, my poor boyfriend is not only henpecked to death by me, but squawked at by the Tweeb.

I'm not entirely sure how many Dutch people feel the same way as we do about our cats. God knows there are a ton of outdoor cats in our neighborhood. It does seem to be atypical to let your cats sleep with you in the same bed--we get stares of disbelief when we reveal that seemingly innocuos fact, far more so than if we were to say that I'm into Japanese rope bondage (which I'm not). We don't exactly spoil the cats (minus the occasional croissant, banana chip, and tilapia)--I buy them a few €0.90 toy mice every few months, and they get canned food once a week. We do, however, take very good care of them, following the vet's directions to a "t" when it comes to feeding the Tweeb, and monitoring FatBoy's food intake.

And as a result, the Tweeb has been living with the diagnosis of renal failure for the past three years, and the FatBoy has lost nearly 150 g (that's 5 ounces) in six months. His arthritis has improved markedly and he's becoming ever-so-slightly less allergenic. The Tweeb still has no idea that there is anything wrong with her, continues to rule over the house and the other cats with an iron paw.

Maybe This Time

Learning the Dutch language isn't really required for my daily life. I mean, I have to demonstrate to the Nijmegen gemeente (and therefore the IND) that I'm serious about learning the language and integrating into a model member of the Dutch hive mind, but in my daily life I'm fairly certain I could get by without knowing a single word of Dutch. In other words, my internal motivation for learning the language is fairly low. It might be higher if I had any functional brain cells left at the end of my workday....

But there is one reason why I really actually do want to learn the language: the Tweeb is in renal failure--not that you'd know, judging by how she begs for food and keeps herself clean and all that. Just last night, when I came home, she went to the closet, sat down in front of it, and started squawking (there's no way that you could possibly call the sound of her voice a "meow"). Turns out my boyfriend had moved the kitty treats there--and she wanted one. She's been in renal failure for three years already, and a large part of why she's in such good health is because we've been diligent about feeding her the super-expensive prescription diet, and getting her to the vet twice a year for a blood test.

The way our vet visits usually go is that the Tweeb pees on me when I put her in the carrier, I change pants, we walk her to the vet, and then the vet talks with my boyfriend while doing the examination. I hold her for the blood draw and then the vet calls back about 3 or 4 days later to tell us about the state of the Tweeb. I know enough Dutch to follow what the vet says to my boyfriend, and enough to tell my boyfriend what to tell the vet, but it doesn't make for a satisfying professional relationship with the vet.

And that's really my only reason, currently, for wanting to get really good at Dutch. I'm about 1/3 of the way through my B1 course--so maybe this time I'll be able to talk with our vet...

Animals

The subtitle of this blog, "Life in the Netherlands, With Cats," may seem a bit misleading, as so far I've written exactly two posts about our three fuzzbutts. Fear not, though--cats have not been forgotten. And today's post will be about cats, and their favorite toys prey items, mice. To be exact, my lab mice.

I moved Shadow and the Tweeb with me when I came to the Netherlands three years ago, and thankfully the biggest incident was the Tweeb peeing on her puppy pad about halfway through. For the most part, they adjusted to the change quite well, and for the most part, things are largely the same. When the Tweeb's renal failure progressed to the point that she needed a renal diet, we were able to get it from the vet, much as it is in the States. The pet stores here are smaller, but they still have the different supplies for cats and dogs and sometimes things for fish and small animals. For the most part the variety is the same, though I did have to import our Da Bird from the US.

There are, however, two major differences. First of all, cats are mostly indoor-outdoor here, which is encouraged by centuries of "just how it is" and some stupidly old-fashioned vets. Secondly, cats and dogs here are just cats and dogs, as opposed to stand-ins for children: when I lived in Philadelphia, there was one pet boutique across the street from where I lived that sold things like organic cat food and special dog cookies (seriously--these were shaped like flowers and had "icing"). The doggie clothes that were sold there outclassed my wardrobe. Granted, I was in grad school, so that's not saying much.

From this, an amateur anthropologist would assume that Americans are much better at anthromorophosizing animals than the Dutch. So then why is it that American standards of care for lab animals and livestock are so substandard in comparison to the Dutch animal welfare laws? Institutions in the US that do research on animals are required to adhere to IACUC guidelines, but they pale in severity in light of the restrictions that are placed upon lab minions here. You need to have taken and passed a national course in animal welfare and have a master's degree before you can even touch a mouse here.

It's not really a question of which side is better, or which side is more correct. It's more of a reflection of what each society values: personalization in the US, versus standardization in the Netherlands.

Tweebly drama

On Thursday night I got a phone call from Boy at 1 am, saying that the Tweeb had diarrhea-and-no-it-wasn't-just-soft-poo, horking, wouldn't look at her food (very alarming in a cat that is always hungry), and was hiding under the sofa. The Tweeb has renal failure, so this was Very Bad News. He called the vet first thing on Friday morning, and my boss, upon hearing the VBN, sent me home early, so I got home in time to accompany the Tweeb to the vet.

The vet poked and prodded but couldn't find any physical cause for the sudden deterioration--she had been fine Thursday morning, yowling up a storm for her breakfast. Sub-cutaneous (sub-Q) fluids were given, and she handed me two cans of Science Diet a/d and an odd syringe with a ring around the plunger. The directions: force-feed the Tweeb, as much as she can take, and give 1 "click" of the stuff in the syringe (that's what the ring was for) to settle her stomach and make her poops solid again.

This morning, after a whole night of hiding under the bed, she got out from underneath the bed, and ate. On her own.

Here's hoping everything passes.

Making do, or "How to get arrested for animal abuse"

If we want to begin at the very beginning, then this story begins four years ago, when I lived in Philadelphia and found a kitten. The exact date was November 26, 2006, which I remember only because someone tried to scam me out of $400 in phony medical bills that were allegedly accrued on that date--as if medical bills in the US were ever that low, but that's another rant. Said kitten was a black kitten with a single white whisker, and I smuggled it onto the subway in my tote bag (which she then proceeded to piss and crap all over) and home to my apartment.

Meet Shadow:


Anyway, after spending $100 for the first vet check-up--during which she obligingly provided a perfectly fresh and stinky stool sample--I couldn't very well justify leaving her at the Humane Society or the SPCA or the Morris Animal Shelter. Therefore, I decided to keep her, and take on all of the responsibilities that a good cat owner takes on, which included adopting a second black cat.

Actually I hadn't wanted to adopt the Tweeb. At least, I didn't really want a second black cat, and one that was so stringy and mangy, not to mention completely broken and OLD (she was at least six), didn't exactly appeal to me. But the rescue assured me that she would get along quite well with a young and boisterous catten, and that she was a feisty old gal who could hold her own. After some thought, I decided to give the Tweeb a shot. So S brought her to my place, whereupon she immediately hid in my closet and refused to come out for two days. Three weeks later, the vet diagnosed the Tweeb with renal failure, but by that time the little girl had completely won me over so, in exchange for waiving the adoption fee, I got to spend the rest of the Tweeb's life footing her vet bills.

Meet the Tweeb:


So now we push the fast-forward button: Cats get shoved into carriers, driven to the airport, and we board airplanes for Copenhagen and Amsterdam. I get a new job, zip back and forth across the country between Nijmegen and Leiden, and pipette stuff. The Tweeb goes to the vet to get renal panels. And in 2009, I accept a new job in Maastricht.

My boyfriend, K, is a wonderful man. He is also very much a cat person. When I showed up in his apartment he had three massive bowls of chicken in the fridge. He loves the girls just as much as I do, and probably more. We joke about eating them when they scratch the couch, but it's only a joke, since the Tweeb is so scrawny there wouldn't be much to eat, anyway.

So when I got the job in Maastricht, it was assumed that I would take the cats with me. Both of them, since the Tweeb had to be with her mommy (me) and Shadow needed a constant companion to keep her little brain from atrophying. That would leave K WITHOUT A SINGLE KITTY to his name, so after some consideration we decided that we would adopt a third.

Meet FatBoy:


It turns out that life in Maastricht is completely unbearable without K, so I left the girls with K. This has its advantages--less trouble finding an apartment that would welcome cats--and its disadvantages: no kitties during the week for me. But it also means that we don't have to find a new vet for the Tweeb, who during this time has seen the vet three times to monitor the state of her kidneys, and has yowled every step of the way. And this brings us to the events of today:

Now, you, intelligent reader, have no doubt divined by my above paragraph that we don't have a car. A bike would ordinarily suffice to transport things like little kitties, but usually we walk. First of all, 1000 m isn't that far, and secondly, the chances of a disasterous crash are far less. Add to this the fact that K has never in his life been able to keep a bike for longer than 6 months without it being stolen, and that my bike currently resides in Maastricht, and you begin to understand the difficulties involved in transporting three kitties 1 km to see the vet: Shadow, because she needed her shots; the Tweeb, for her renal panel; and Leto, because K suspected he had arthritis and wanted the vet to look at it.

One kilometer isn't that far if you have one cat, but when you have three, you need to change tactics. To whit, build a Stargate, or bribe the vet to make a home visit, or procure the vaccines illegally off the Internet and hope they're more potent than salt water. Some way, in other words, to get these



1 km through urban Nijmegen to the vet.

After much pondering, we hit upon a brilliant idea: a kitty stroller! You might think the Dutch are too pragmatic for this kind of extravagance, and for the most part, you would be correct. But any culture which keeps cats for pets has its fair share of crazy cat people, and crazy cat people create a demand for this kind of thing, if only to take their cats to the vet.

So we set off to the Windmill, which I will treat as a proper noun because it is the only windmill in the whole of Nijmegen. Said Windmill has a pretty big, at least by Dutch standards, pet shop in front of it. I'd seen a kitty stroller before--I was sure they'd have one now, since, as I said before, the Dutch are too pragmatic to buy such a thing.

But oh woe woe, was I wrong! There was no kitty stroller. The Windmill offered to order one for us, but we needed one today. So with sad faces, we made our way home. K decided to stop by the Blokker, because he needed new ink for his inkjet...

And that was where we had the brilliant idea of buying a shopper. One of these:



The hallmark of little-old-lady-hood in the Netherlands. You will never see one in use by a man, nor by anybody less than 55 years of age. It is the demarcation of elderly woman--you might be 80 but if you don't use a shopper when you do your groceries you're not "old".

This, then, is what we ended up pushing to the vet's:

*

It was a good deal trickier than it might seem. Every little bump made the front wheels threaten to fold under, to the consternation of the kitties loaded up on it. And plus we live on the third floor of the complex, which means stairs to negotiate. It was definitely NOT a one-man job, getting the kitty tower to the vet, and back again.

And this is without the stress of hearing FatBoy scream--quite literally scream--with terror. I don't know what kind of experience he's had with carriers in his day, but I'm pretty sure that today's excursion didn't help his previous impressions any. After a little while he stopped screaming, but he did let out a choir of melancholy yowls--I am fairly certain that more than one person wanted to ask us what we were doing to those poor cats. Because, even though Shadow and the Tweeb were silent, he was making enough noise for five cats.

The vet visit was uneventful. FatBoy was, as his monniker suggests, pronounced fat. The Tweeb got her blood drawn, and Shadow was praised to the heavens for being such a perfect cat (she really is a perfect cat, calm, quiet, and pretty). All three cats had ear mites, so we got a vial of eardrops for them.

When we got home we let the kitties out and they promptly began sulking in earnest, except for FatBoy, who'd not only peed all over the cage but also laid down an impressive turd in the corner of his hated carrier. And then we all had a good stiff drink.

*I'm quite aware that there aren't any cats in the carriers. The reason for this is that when the cats were in it I didn't want to stop and take photos, owing to FatBoy's panic and the stress it was causing the girls. So after we got home (and after we cleaned out the turd) I reassembled the tower for this shot.

Cat expenses

We are the owner (or minions, I'm not sure which) of three very cute cats. My boyfriend and I love them dearly, and all of them love us back--we think. Well, we can hope they do. They know their names, and they cuddle in our laps or on the keyboard when we're at the computer, and the bed at night is simply not complete without the Tweeb huddling on top of one of us. Most nights, that would be my boyfriend, as they now live with him and him alone, for 4 days a week. Often, we get Shadow, too--she likes the radiator, and rarely, Leto joins us.

Cat expenses here are like cat expenses in any other pet-owning society: we take the Tweeb to the vet a few times a year to monitor her renal function. Shadow and Leto have been as healthy as horses in their time with us--Leto is a tad bit overweight but we're working on correcting that. He is definitely lighter than he used to be--not by much, but enough to note the different. So for those two, we've delayed vet visits, although Shadow will need booster shots, soon. We plan on getting all three of them vetted April of next year, to the tune of what will most likely be €300.

Needless to say, this will definitely require some advanced planning on our part. We both have healthy savings accounts, and while we don't have any problem with the concept of paying mega moola for cat care, the practical aspect can sometimes be a little tricky to attain. We've got a rather nifty system for saving for planned expenses: jars, into which we empty our loose change or small notes. This year I'd set up 2. One for a fancy-shmancy dinner, and one to help out with Christmas presents. In both jars we've exceeded our expectations. The only downside, as far as we can tell, is that there's no interest being earned on any of it.

It's a rather good way to save up for big things, actually. Being able to watch coins accumulate towards a bigger goal is quite gratifying--and when you take your coins to the bank and dump them all in the coin-counting hopper, it's almost exciting to wait for the total to come back. I'm fairly good at estimating how much we have, but even I've been surprised--and always in a good way.