TGIF!!!

PENNSYLVANIA Shelter

BAY STREET kitty

Holy Schmoly!  The winds!  It was crazy out there this morning...  Driving down the road at 3:20 am.  I think to myself, you are nuts.  But I had to keep going, the cats were waiting.  I didn't see everyone, but I did see some.  They are brave.  They stand there during those strong gusts of wind, some over 50 mph, because they are hungry!  I had to quickly lay down the bowls and get the food in there to weight them down before the wind blew them away.  Had to change a few wet towels.  But the shelters/tarps held up very well.  Thanks to Julie who, in the nick of time, sent her hubby over with a bunch of large heavy rocks, and those helped to secure the shelters. 

Garrett, my rescue from Grand Avenue yesterday, is now safe and sound in foster mom Gaye’s house.  She reports “this cat is drop dead gorgeous, and sweet as can be.”  That’s pretty much what the girls at the clinic said about him also.  He was already neutered, which I suspected after feeling around back there the past few weeks while I feed him every morning under the tree, but he was tested (negative), given his shots, and defleaed and dewormed.  Good to go.  Now to find him a home.   Pictures coming!

He and Muffin and Sara all need homes.  So does Rory and Lily, Elli, and Weenie.  We also have three new babies in my rescue, and I must find out more about them – they are around 4 weeks old – and are being fostered by my friend Patti.  We also have Henry and Joey (a girl) being fostered by Chuck and Danielle.  We also have Stella, and her newbies, who are now 12 days old.  Am I forgetting anyone?  Good Lord. We must get some updated pics of all and get them out there!

The following is from my friend Michelle.  She finds these clever poems and shares with me.  

Happy Friday!

February

by Margaret Atwood

Winter. Time to eat fat

and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,

a black fur sausage with yellow

Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries

to get onto my head. It’s his

way of telling whether or not I’m dead.

If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am

He’ll think of something. He settles

on my chest, breathing his breath

of burped-up meat and musty sofas,

purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,

not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,

declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,

which are what will finish us off

in the long run. Some cat owners around here

should snip a few testicles. If we wise

hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,

or eat our young, like sharks.

But it’s love that does us in. Over and over

again, He shoots, he scores! and famine

crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing

eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits

thirty below, and pollution pours

out of our chimneys to keep us warm.

February, month of despair,

with a skewered heart in the centre.

I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries

with a splash of vinegar.

Cat, enough of your greedy whining

and your small pink bumhole.

Off my face! You’re the life principle,

more or less, so get going

on a little optimism around here.

Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.