“I will cut you when you sleep.”
The agony of bath day
And on the 7th day She said, “Let there be cilantro.”
After reading this story about a special needs kitty, *heart. breaking*, I realized I most likely have one of my own, judging by my shredded forearms. I don’t need tips, thanks. I’ve tried everything, believe me. I think Buckley just needs to outgrow the biting. And the crazy wall climbing. And his love for the sound of things breaking. He didn’t have a mom, so he never really learned appropriate play, when it comes to the biting. Or boundaries when no play is involved.
I’ve learned to recognize the signs of upcoming hellboy behavior. Like this look. He first started getting this crazy look the night I brought him home from his neutering. My first reaction was ‘whooooa, that can’t be right’. But I love him to death, and wouldn’t change a thing, if it meant I didn’t have him in my life.
After the recent death of my 19 year old girl Indy, and knowing how happy she was, I’m pretty sure I can give him a good life. I’ve learned to take full advantage of the times when he’s as sweet as he can be. Like in the middle of the night, when he crawls up to snuggle against my cheek, purring into my ear. Those are the times that get me through the crazy ones.
<3. Our kitten — the Beatrice for our Dante (click through for some pix if you’re curious) was also abused and wouldn’t let ANYONE TOUCH HER EVER — except for Dante, and him only rarely — which presented some real challenges, but also some real rewards (sorry to be so cheesy about it, yall, but that’s what it was).
Buckley seems to have similarities with my babe, Murphey. She was born wild next to my father’s pigeon coop, and abandoned with a lame leg mere days before autumn’s first frost. The feral creature was absolutely alien to me, a lifelong dog owner, but I fell in love with her kitten blue eyes and took her to college in Connecticut.
Her first years were marked by crazy behavior and biting just like Buckley. She used to climb my bare legs after I showered. When sleeping, my hands and feet were fair game. She also would clime in to my box-spring and claw at the springs, in effect making my bed a giant drum. When I was abroad she had some quality socializing with my parents’ dogs. That seemed to help a lot.
Six years later, she’s opened up. Cuddle times occur almost daily, albeit brief. It’s been totally worth it. My late rescue dog was abused and it took her 2 years of rehab to adjust. Their scars never heal, but they learn to trust.
Empress Murphey
once her domain included dogs.
Murphey
Retro Murphey in my old apartment.
Murphey all up in my space.
