Feral followup

October 25, 2015
         It has almost been a year since Daisy came to live with us. She is the feral Foffdaughter trapped before moving.  And she has become a project for FoffDad, a lovely project.  FoffDad has done a very nice job of socializing Daisy. She allows petting if she knows you.  Mostly.  Occasionally, I am still greeted by a hiss if I surprise her, but she rapidly settles and comes up for caresses.  She can be a bit aggressive with her nails and teeth, but again slowing down the play brings her self-control into focus. She is still hyper-vigilant and quick to flee.  Any new sound, even from outside the house, can elicit the terrorized flight.  She is allowed out to roam a larger part of the house at night, and she loves this.  She has not made much progress in cat to cat socialization, and I am not sure she ever will.
        Advice for anyone going down this path would include months of patience.  I did not see this cat for three months. She was fed twice a day and her litter box done every other day, so I knew she was in there.  But I literally did not see her. She was like a ghost who ate and used the box.  When FoffDad started to work with her, he would bring a book and sit in the room on the floor for 30 to 40 minutes each day.  Slowly she began to show herself.  But the process requires much patience and time.  She will always be a feral cat at heart.  I realize if she escaped outside we would probably never see her again.  She will never be a good cat for a chaotic household with children for instance.  But I think we can provide a safe boring home for her, which is what she needs.
     We are still FULL.  We lost a barn cat last July.  Elwood left, vanished, relocated.  It is impossible to say but it is a hazard of keeping cats outside.  We had had him for nine years.  I miss him. I think our cat count is now 15.  We are FULL. 

....why?

First it was the IRS giving whaling vessel captains a break on their taxes, and now, this?!

Source:  https://www.animallaw.info/statute/ky-horse-chapter-189-traffic-regulations

Damn. That really impacts my planned activities!

Mr. S.D.

Sometimes I get... uncomfortable. 

My face gets red and my mouth goes dry all at once. 

A flash of cold washes over me and I start feeling sick; like I could really, possibly be sick right there (wherever 'there' may be). Now is when I start to sweat. 

When I am uncomfortable, my whole body sweats and any fabric laying against my skin becomes blotting paper for the perspiration; it is discolored quickly.

 I know at this point, that there is only a certain amount of time left before I start to stink. 

There is no moisture in my mouth and I know that anything I say will be hard to understand at this point. My tongue feels as if it may clog each one of my nervous gulps (which all take coordination and effort) but meanwhile I cannot stem the flow of moisture coming from my palms. I try to surreptitiously dry them, but my expectations are pretty low, to be honest.

When I absolutely cannot get out of speaking to someone, there is a wobble in my voice and I know that it isn't my imagination- everyone definitely hears it. I struggle to understand what is being said when I'm being asked a question that I am THEN expected to hear, process and reply to. Voice wobbling is the disguise that falls apart if I must say an entire sentence, and there is no hiding the full-blown vocal tremors in that case.  

Since I am feeling uncomfortable, my (sweaty) hands will start to shake as well.

I can put my hands in my pockets, make tight fists of them, rubbing each in turn to relax them.

I can try to squash them by sitting on them or by jamming them under my armpits. My fingers reach for Gibbs- for his full, dark coat, which is long enough at his ruff to conceal the worst of my shaking. Giving Gibbs a good, satisfying scratch is the perfect excuse to keep my hands hidden, and he enjoys when I itch underneath his collar(s) and vest for him. 

I cannot continue. Leaning down to reach Gibbs' chest created a roaring sensation between my ears, accompanied by darkness at the edges of my vision. Passing out would, most assuredly, make me feel even MORE uncomfortable, and that threat makes me lean on Gibbs until I am squatting beside him. I'm not red in the face anymore- momentary plus!- but I know that only because I can feel how pale I've become. The world still seems to keel and pitch just like a sloop of war in rough seas, and I shakily tangle one hand in the fur between Gibbs' shoulder blades to anchor myself. Less than 1 minute passes before I am back to feeling the standard uncomfortable. 

 Gibbs doesn't mind; he doesn't think that stuff is a big deal.

Jokes make themselves

While checking the local Craigslist 'pets' section, I saw this:

                                                  

Which I INSTANTLY assumed was connected to this awesome joke:

"I went to a zoo the other day. 

It was completely empty, except for a single dog. 

It was a Shih Tzu."

So of course I started laughing (which was unavoidable) and it would have been great if I hadn't been in the middle of gulping some juice when this happened, but I was when it did. 

It occurred to me while I was cleaning juice spray off my computer screen, that there wasn't actually any connection between those two things. 

Gibbs (the Flattie one)

TB racing related link

Every so often, I get stuck on the horse racing industry- Thoroughbred racing mostly- and this relates to THAT so.... I'll care enough to write about how much I care later.

Breakdown related fatalities at an all time low (Yippee!).....possible that expectations were just too high?

Bloodhorse article on the topic. 

eh? (foffdaughter)

Huh!... How interesting!
(Click the image below to make it bigger)

Source: http://www.irs.gov/publications/p526/ar02.html

So full.. remember FULL?
     Text message with picture of pitiful skinny kitten from Foff daughter.  Anguish and angst from both of us.  Complicated by the fact that Foffdaughter was 4, 3, 2, 1, day from moving to a new location.  And here, in the front yard of her soon to be former house, was an obviously starving, obviously feral kitten.  Sigh.  Foff daughter has a good friend who said IF this kitten was domesticated, she could give it a home.  To be honest, it didn't matter.  When faced with misery and a probably early death, we were incapable of just ignoring the creature. Foffdaughter managed to HavaHart trap her in 48 hours, rather impressive.  Noah's Ark, our favorite feral vet, once again did an outstanding job. The best news was that this girl was negative for Fe leuk and FIV. The spay went well.  The entire time I transported her in the covered HavaHart, she crouched in fear mode as far as she could get from me.  The vet tech said she held and stroked the kitten for 2 hours as she awoke, and that kitten was sweet and responsive.  This is a glimmer of hope for me.
        So what to do?  Foffdaughter's home was in moving chaos.  So the newbie went in a spare bedroom at my house about a week ago.  I have reviewed domesticating ferals on line.  I have respected her space, knocking on the door before entering, not searching or even looking (OK, looking much.  She can't tell I peer under the door from 10 feet away can she?) for her in her hiding place.  Apparently they need to feel secure. She eats well and has used the litter box from the very first hour.  Yesterday FoffDad was in the room for a few minutes, and he noticed her peering around her hiding place to study him.   I tried last night, nada.  Later last night, he had a sighting again.  So we will see.
       And Foffdaughter and company got moved successfully, her four-legged crew have adjusted and she is beginning to be able to sleep again.
       We are FULL.  SIGH.  

Gibbs is such a good boy.