Frank has made what appears to be an almost complete recovery.

My bf and I took Frank to the vet last week because he wasn't improving. He would lay around, not eat or drink, and worst of all... he could barely walk or stand. He leaned all the time and his head was crooked, usually laying against his side.

Fortunately, our vet is awesome. He concluded that Frank had gotten a scratch in his mouth and contracted a virus, which then attacked his nervous system. Frank wasn't contagious and there was nothing we could have done to prevent this from happening. Several shots and several days of holding our breaths later, Frank got better. He spent a lot of time in his pen getting lots of rest and special attention.

Yesterday was the first time in a week he went out to forage. He got really tired after a few hours, but there's no denying he's making improvements by leaps and bounds. He's walking without staggering or stumbling. His head is upright. He's eating and drinking again. He lets me pet him again without running away.


In other news, I was right about Hannah having kittens! She recently moved her one surviving kitten from wherever to under our porch. I'm guessing it's about 5 weeks old, a female grey tabby, and cute as a little button. I like playing with her whenever I see her on the porch. She and Hannah like to sleep in the straw we store there.

And thus, life resumes its position back to normalcy, and my mini-farm gets a little bit bigger.

No matter what anyone says, everyone plays favorites. It's not always the kind of favorite who gets everything while the others go without. Usually, the favorite is the one who knows how to melt your heart with a single look or gesture and avoid all hell breaking loose when they snap your final nerve.

While I do love all my cats (and goats!) equally, Karl is The Favorite Cat.

Cringer and Karl had a difficult beginning. Their mother went into (we think) premature labor and required a visit to the vet. Sadly, only two survived. The vet had to give the mother cat--Bitch Cat, as we called her--some kind of shot to make her pass the rest of the kittens. This shot, for reasons that escape me, caused her to act like a complete nutcase and abandon her living kittens.

My bf and I were doing a lot of work around his sister's house that summer when the kittens were born. I have a very soft spot for kittens, so I made it my job in life to ensure the kittens were fed by their mother (whether she wanted to feed them or not) and that she didn't kill them. We named the kittens Cringer and Karl.

Unfortunately, Bitch Cat not only did not like caring for her kittens, she also didn't like caring for Karl, who was the runt. She frequently pushed him away so he could not nurse. On a few occasions, I caught her laying on him. This did not bode well with me, regardless of how Mother Nature works. I repeatedly moved Karl back into position so he could nurse. My boyfriend teased me and called me "kitty social services."

Five weeks after the birth of the kittens, Bitch Cat abandoned the kittens completely. We arrived at my boyfriend's sister's house to find the kittens gnawing on dog food. Horrified, I made arrangements to take both kittens home with me. We were originally looking for one calico cat. Instead, we got two tabby kittens.

Karl was doomed from the beginning to be the melter of hearts. He was so fluffy that it was hard to tell where his body really was. His eyes were huge and his ears even larger. Shortly after bringing the two home, Karl was the first one to play with his "Hamtaro" kitty toy, which was nearly as big as he was. He played and fought with it until he fell asleep with it in his legs. He won me over from that moment on.


I was determined to have indoor-only cats, yet at the time, I couldn't keep cats indoors. I was forced to keep them outside in a "kitty habitat" (a large renovated rabbit cage on the porch), which broke my heart. Every day, I went outside and let the kittens run around the yard. It was always Karl who would wander off the farthest. He was the first to experiment with walking on grass, the first to climb a tree, and the first to slip through the fence and run to the road!!! *dies*

Yet every time he does something wrong, he curls up in my lap with nuzzles and purrs. He is the one who gives "hugs" when I pick him up. He's the one who leans his face towards mine for a kiss on his splotchy nose. He's the one who snuggles me at night like a stuffed animal and plays a fierce game of Bat the String. He knows how to get out of trouble by simplely flopping at my feet and purring as loud as he can. He knows I can't resist it. I still see that helpless kitten I rescued two years ago.

Once, Karl's "night frenzies" had me so frazzled that I threatened sending him to live with my mom. My boyfriend scooped up Karl and showed me Karl's feet. "You can't get rid of him!" he reasoned. "He's got fluff between his toes!"

Needless to say, I did not get rid of him.

Spoiled as my cats may be (including Karl), they are both very well behaved. My other cat-owning friends cannot believe how gentle my boys are and how well they mind "Furmama." They adore strangers and love babies of all ages. They even purr in the laps of other cat lovers. Karl has won over the most hearts to date with his fluffer-toes.