I haven't written in ages due to a nasty case of sciatica. It's hard to sit for any length of time, let alone concentrate. Bear with me, please.

A wee paw just shot out from behind my laptop screen and attacked the mouse, signaling that nap time is over and play time is beginning. A long nap behind the screen permitted me to get some work accomplished unassisted. Zoey just discovered the computer today. She is enthralled by the tapping of my fingernails on the keys and wants to do all she can to help. That is, in between chewing on my work papers and attacking the mouse. Then there's watching Phantom on his stand. That's pretty fascinating as well. The life of a kitten is just one amazing distraction after another - for the kitten as well as for any humans in the vicinity. I would be hard pressed to find anything as cute as playing kittens. It's no wonder cat videos are so darn popular.

Zoey and her brother Zeke are around 12 weeks old. They were born in the deck furniture cushion bin/cat shelter on our deck to one of our many semi-feral cats. (One that would have been spayed back in the days of disposable income.) There were three "orange" tabbies in the litter, but one was not destined to survive. When it died in the bin, Mom (Halle - named for hubby's favorite actress) moved her surviving brood into the garage where they camped out on an old dog bed on a shelf. Once their eyes were open and they became a bit mobile, mom cat moved them to a safer spot. To our delight, though she kept moving them as their needs changed, Halle never hid them, allowing us the chance to acclimate them to humans from a very early age. After the shelf, she moved them onto the floor behind some cardboard. After that, she took them under the deck beside a thick clematis on a trellis. When that spot proved lacking in protection, they moved across the way to den under a turned-up wheelbarrow in the side yard. This offered much better shelter from the rain and fluctuating early summer temperatures, as well as a wealth of play opportunities. All the while, I was able to track them, spend time near them, and eventually earn their total trust.

From before their eyes were open, I picked them up and held them to my chest, talking softly. Zoey was the larger of the two and Zeke was the vocal one. Zoey nestled in against me, while he put up a fuss, alerting his mother that the nest was being disturbed. Halle growled a warning at me more than once, but never really did anything to prevent me from interacting with the kittens. She watched with a wary eye, but grew to trust us with her babies. Not only us, but Bailey the boxer.

Bailey has been sticking her nose in their space since they were born; in fact, it was she who alerted me that there was something quite interesting in the cushion bin. She has been fascinated with them from the beginning. And they have tolerated her invasive muzzle and awkward, from a kitten point of view, efforts to play. There has been a fair amount of hissing and puffing-up, but they really don't mind the dog at all as long as she respects their space. Sniffing is fine, boxing is not. The kittens lay on the deck near her and have no problem walking under or around her. They're still a bit hesitant to be out in the open yard with her, though, feeling just a little too vulnerable with those big paws racing around. I am sure that they will both do well with a cat-friendly dog who respects their space. It wouldn't surprise me at all to eventually see them curled up next to a canine buddy.

A few evenings ago, a thunderstorm developed while we were cooking dinner. Much to my surprise, a meowing kitten climbed the screen at the deck door, loudly complaining about the conditions on the outside. I opened the door to see what I could do and both kittens marched right into the family room. This wasn't their first foray into the house. Zoey had spent several hours one rainy afternoon snoozing away in a cat bed. They had both come in for a dish of wet food in the morning or take a quick tour to check out the in-house happenings. But to have them "ask" to come in was something new. They were so relieved to be in out of the rain and noise and flashes that they settled down for a long nap in a cat bed by the door; a nap which stretched into the next morning. The following evening, they both came in again and spent the night. (I think Mom was willing to let us take on the night shift as long as she got them back in the morning.)

While I hesitated to let them mingle with the indoor cats, I also knew that acclimating them to the house is crucial to getting them adopted into a family where they will get all of the love and care they could want. I needed to know that they behave well inside - including using the litter box. The first time I introduced Zoey to the box, she showed no hesitation in putting it to its proper use. Zeke, being a little less willing to embrace new things, jumped right out at the initial experience, but I soon caught him taking advantage of the "facilities." Whew!

Zoey's play session was short lived. After a snack, she is back asleep behind the laptop. (How can a furry creature be comfortable next to a heat emitting machine on an 80+ degree day? One of the mysteries of the universe...) She has always been the more independent of the two, ready for new adventures and to meet new beings. Zeke is a little more tentative, but is a very sweet little guy. The saga of the sweet little marmalade siblings in search of a forever home continues. While we are thoroughly enjoying their time with us, we are so anxious to know that they will find a home/family where they can entertain with their antics and show their appreciation with purrs and ankle rubs a plenty.

It's a sunny Saturday morning here in NEPA, just perfect for spraying half the kitchen with water, according to Peaches. She signals her bath attendant (guess who) by repeatedly running to the sink divider. Taking her cue, the attendant removes the dry dishes from the rack, arranges the non-slip bath mat (aka dish cloth), adjusts the water spray and temp, then stands back.



For four minutes (the faucet has a timer), a delighted bird runs in and out of the spray, flapping her wings and sending droplets flying. Sufficiently soaked, she scales the dish rack to get to the swing hanging in the kitchen window. This swinging perch is her essential post-shower preening station. Not only is it in the southeast facing window, it has little strips of leather tied around it - just perfect for rubbing the sheaths off the new feathers on her head and neck. New feathers can be pretty bothersome and need some help. While the attendant mops up the wet counter tops, floor, and sink, the little princess busies herself rubbing and preening to get every little thing just where it needs to be before heading off to play in her "clubhouse," aka the top shelf of HER kitchen cabinet.

Meanwhile, the greys are sitting on their stands in the sunny window chuckling along with The Car Guys on NPR. I wonder if Tom and Ray have any idea they have a loyal parrot following...

"Peaches, put down that knife!" As those words came out of my mouth, the reality of my life became all too clear: mine was not registering anywhere in the normal range. When one finds oneself confronting a knife wielding black-headed caique in one's kitchen - and knows the bird on a first name basis - the handwriting on the wall becomes quite legible. And it says, "Things have most definitely gotten a tad odd around here." Albeit, it was only a small, orange-handled paring knife...

I was enjoying a rare respite a few days ago, lunching with a dear friend and relating the latest creature-based insanity of my life when she said, "You really should be blogging about this." So you can blame her for all that follows.

While it's not the sort of life I would recommend, there is a certain amount of entertainment value to the day to day happenings around the 5+ acres I inhabit with my husband and what we fondly call "the zoo." I figure I can spare you the pain of trying this sort of thing on your own and let you experience it vicariously. All of the laughs and none of the blood, so to speak.

Along with Peaches, the swashbuckling black-headed caique, the psittacine population includes two Congo African greys named Phantom and Phoebe. Phantom is the eldest of the group at 14. We adopted him at the age of seven from an exotic bird store where he was on consignment. Word to the wise: don't ever believe that you can kill an hour in an exotic bird shop without dire consequences. Peaches and Phoebe are both 8 year old females who came from a pet store in the area. And, yes, the parrots all talk. The greys speak very clearly and often fool unwitting humans - but not the dog. They have extensive vocabularies of both shared and unique vocalizations. Ranging from a sweet little "That good?" when they'd like to share whatever you might have to firm commands to the dog to piercing renditions of my bread machine beep. Peaches has a higher, less clear voice, but talks a good bit, especially for a caique. Anything she covets is a "good apple." There is nothing quite like living with creatures who can communicate in your native tongue.

I wish to make it clear that parrots are wild animals and do not make good pets for normal people. They are not creatures who can live their lives closed in cages, they need to be able to explore their environment (chew your woodwork, cabinets, books, computers,...), spend lots of quality time with their flock (you - Phoebe spends the better part of many days on my left shoulder), be loud (especially when you're on the phone), and  make a mess (ALL OF THE TIME, EVERYWHERE - it's their job in the wild). They are expensive to maintain (organic food, costly vets, new cabinetry, computer repairs,...) and require toxin-free homes (good-bye candles, cleaning products, Teflon, air "fresheners",...) . If you ever think that a parrot would make your life complete, please give me a call so that I can talk you down. Yes, they make my life much richer, but at great expense to my personal freedom and pocket.

The feline population is a whole story in and of itself to be dispensed in tiny pieces over time lest you are sorely overwhelmed. I will say that we lost our dear Eliot on Easter Sunday after 15+ years together. He was a lovely gentleman of a cat, a friend to all, and cuddle-er extraordinaire. He was the social facilitator of the whole brood and will be dearly missed by all who knew him.

Then there is Bailey my beloved fawn boxer. She came to me through a FreeCycle exchange for a bunch of Pfaltzgraff Heritage dishes. A tale for another day. She was rescued from neglect and found paradise. To sum it up, there's a sign on the back door, given to me by that same dear friend mentioned previously, that reads: A spoiled rotten boxer lives here.

Besides my position as staff for parrots and cats and dog, my life is filled with growing organic things, cooking mostly healthy things, cleaning way too many things (usually soiled by the aforementioned creatures), finding clever ways to do things (my dad was an industrial engineer!), looking at and up things on the internet, and working to see the hand of God in all things. I'm sure I have neglected to mention things important, but they will surely come out at some point along the way.


Disclaimer: all typos are the fault of a cat or a parrot. Thank goodness, the dog doesn't care for technology. As I type, there is a purring cat writhing on the keyboard (numerous corrections were necessary to get to this point with a good chance I missed a few).

Welcome to the journey! I look forward to opportunities to laugh, learn, share, appreciate, and enjoy one another's company along the way.