05 February, 2010

Tiny fur rugs.

We have a pair of female kittens, sisters from the same litter. They're six months old in a week, but as they started going into heat earlier than expected (about three weeks ago) we arranged to have them spayed immediately. Turns out immediately meant yesterday, as that was the earliest appointment available, which meant we had to live through the full duration of their insanity.

On heat, they rampaged around the flat at around four each morning, chirping at each other and bounding over the bed, rolling around in the floor and yowling for attention. Last night, post-op, they rampaged around the flat at around four in the morning, banging their buster collars (the lampshade things) against the doors and doorframes and licking the insides of the collars, which being textured make a fabulous rasping noise.

Don't get me wrong, I love the little monsters. They're hysterically funny most of the time. They each chose one human to own, Kit claimed Himself and Sophie chose me, and they have distinctly different personalities. Kit's more frenetic at play, pouncing at anything under the duvet and climbing the curtains, while Sophie's more laid back and dignified, but once roused Sophie will deliver the killing swipe of the paw without a second's hesitation and send Kit tumbling head over tail. They can smell tuna from anywhere in the house, and no food or drink is safe, including Himself's cuppa last Sunday morning (Kit helped herself). They're obsessed with the tape measure, the mere sound of it being drawn out has them running, and they persist in looking for the laser pointer a good half hour after it's been turned off and put away. They're also both fascinated by running water, and have been known to sit in the sink with the tap dripping on their heads. Kit's fallen in the bath with me twice due to overactive curiosity.

When I picked them up from the vet yesterday afternoon, Sophie came out meek and mild, let him take her IV out without fuss and went back in the cat box willingly. When the vet went into the back to get Kit, I couldn't figure out what the awful noise was until he came out with a double armful of screeching ball of fury (credit BFG for the terminology). She yowled, she hissed, she growled, she spat. The vet had to get the practice nurse to bring a towel to put over her head and hold her down while he tried to get her IV out. I say tried, because the first towel didn't pass muster and a larger, thicker one was soon sought out to put over her entire body. It was truly an experience.

So now, we wait. The buster collars suck, I mean, SUCK, and they're both fed up with them. We tried taking them off just to see whether the girlies would bother with their stitches, and five seconds after Kit was released she was ripping at her stitches with wild abandon and the collar was forced back on. It's disappointing because that means they'll definitely have to wear the collars until the stitches come out a week from now, and if tonight's anywhere near as bad as last night was I'll be enforcing the "noisy kitties sleep in the bathroom" rule. Himself takes pity on them, but a tired Gabs has more pull on his sensibilities than sad faced moggies. I'm meaner than they are. *grin* One more night without sleep and we'll have a new pair of tiny fur rugs.

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