Confessions of a feline addict

I love my cats, even when they drive me bonkers. That, for the record, is 99% of the time.

As I noted just over a week ago, we lost one of our Maine Coons prematurely. She was only seven years old, diagnosed with kidney concerns about a year ago, but nothing more than “warning signs”. About two months or so ago, she went in for her routine bloodwork and had screaming high numbers. We jumped on it right away, fed her an appropriate diet heavy in wet food and low in phosphorous, with extra binder power added on top of it to pull any additional phosphorous out. We, unfortunately, were too late to save her and had to euthanize her last weekend to ease her suffering (she had gone toxic because of stones blocking her from being able to eliminate due to her kidney disease).

I was just looking at cats. earlier in the week. “Just looking”.

The family caught wind of this little mental masturbation and started asking me if we were getting a new cat, which I was decidedly not planning on doing.

At least forward facing while being dishonest with myself. Family kept poking me wanting to know what I was thinking and I finally admitted that I way perhaps-maybe-sort-of toying with the idea.

I’ve missed having Fenn around. You don’t realize how much you miss a giant cat until they are gone.

When I finally admitted I had a problem, it was already too late. I had started eyeballing Siberian Forest Cats. Then Norwegian Forest Cats (NFC/“wegies”). Both were available within a 2.5-hr drive of where I live.

The main reason I was looking is that I’ve wanted an “adventure cat” and was toying with the idea that it might be nice, but it was mostly daydreaming about leash training a cat to walk in the neighborhood or bring along on the short local hikes I take in on occasion.

The NFC breeder got back to me. I still haven’t heard back from the Siberian breeder, possibly because I asked some unusual questions in my introduction about health and proof of genetic disease status. I got smart after losing two Maine Coons to preventable diseases from the same breeder who focused more on looks than on health.

NFCs were always at the top of my list for consideration over the years. They are particularly good candidates for “adventure cats”. So are Maine Coons in general, but mine may not have been socialized and desensitized to noises and people, as they were both really nervous from the get go. Again, another weird thing about that breeder is that her cats all didn’t like socialization until several years with us. Wraith, in particular, is very jumpy — even when the noise or motion is common. But he’s come a long way since we picked him up seven years ago. And he hates people in reflective vests (growls when he sees them from the window).

Turns out that the economy uncertainty has had a trickle-down effect on the breeders as well. Instead of an expected wait list that would take me into next year where I could decide to bail, the breeder has six male kittens (3 now, 3 later) up for adoption. I had been counting on a long wait to keep me from getting too excited and to temper my enthusiasm for the idea.

Yes, I’m partial to male cats. I currently have three females and, over the years I have come to the conclusion that altered boys are more goofy and cuddly than the females cats. And cuddly is important.

I dodged the bullet about adopting one in the next week and that was a good call. I need time to kitty-proof parts of the home that adults don’t need protection from anymore. So, not immediately, but it looks like I might get one in late July. One of the marks of a good breeder is that she keeps them until they are 14 weeks old. As much as I would like to bring a little guy home sooner, it gives us both time to do things right.

As if this sordid tale was not shameful enough, I received pictures of the boy I had my eye on and the alternate from the same litter. I showed the pictures to everyone and got the “AWWWW! Can’t we have both?”

I resisted, I really did. But the doe eyes finally got to me and so I floated the idea to the breeder that “it is so hard to decide” to see if the economy is such that she might give us a BOGO at a discount.

After all, we have the makings of a perfect name combo, according to my eldest twin: Grendel and Grímnir (Grimm).

I can’t say that she’s wrong.

Oh… what have I done?