My little girl kitty refuses to come inside. I think she might be onto something.
Integrating new cat into house day seven
Cats are nocturnal assholes, the worst kind of assholes in the world.
Integrating new cat into house day five
Integrating new cat into house day three
So I let Henry out of his spare room prison.
Hey, if could have heard his crying (especially at 4 a.m.), you would have, too.
Full disclosure: I never “sleep-trained” my kids either. I guess I’m just that kind of mom.
He’s walking around the house. My kitties are watching with unbelieving eyes.
“Is it a bear?”
“Is it a dog?”
And then the fighting begins…
Integrating a new cat into the house: Day One, Continued
Home.
We shut Henry into the spare bedroom with some food and a litter box. He cries and cries and cries. At 2 a.m., I relent and move him and all his paraphernalia into our bedroom. At four a.m., I kick my husband with the universally understood stop snoring jab to the kneecaps. But hubbie doesn’t stop. It’s a chain saw in here. I kick him again, closer to the groin. He rolls over. The snoring continues.
It takes me about twenty minutes to realize that Henry is the one snoring like a grown man.
Did I mention my mother-in-law has lost most of her hearing ages ago?
My kitties sit outside the shut door, mewing. I think they’re saying, you okay in there? You want us to call 911? Have you lost your mind? I sit inside, unable to sleep. My bedroom reeks of obese cat, kitty litter, Tuna Delight Kitty Yum, and kitty farts.
There is a strand of kitty snot slung over Henry’s head like a jaunty scarf. I will later learn these are called “shoelaces” by delighted vets who are eager to take my money which I will be eager to give for a cure for whatever ails Henry.
But that night, I know deep in my heart, that whatever ails Henry will be with us for quite some time.
Integrating a new cat into house, day one: Meet Henry
My mother-in-law is moving in with my brother-in-law and his wife, so someone must take Henry the Cat. We draw the short straw. Henry is now ours.
Don’t get me wrong. I love cats. I have two. So what’s the big deal about three?
Well, this is Henry.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Sophie, he’s not so bad! What is your problem, Sophie? This cat is beautiful. Sophie, are you some sort of inhumane monster? Are you a—(deep breath)—cat hater?
I swear, by some fluke, Henry photographs like a supermodel. Photos cannot convey the enormity of Henry and his issues.
But let me tell you, this boy is HUGE. I’m talking obese–27 pounds o’ mamouth kitty! This boy is LOUD. I’m talking snorting, snot-slinging, wheezing loud. You know how Darth Vador breathes? That’s how Henry breathes, only without the electronics. This boy smells, and not like daisies. This boy is greasy and dandruffy and covered with benign tumors. He has seven toes on each paw.
SEVEN!
This gives him for all intents and purposes OPPOSABLE THUMBS!!!!!! (Yes, we discover later, he can open doors by turning the knob.) Also, remember that each finger has a claw. A big claw. And Henry aint afraid to use them.
And yet, we load him into the cat carrier for the three-hour ride from Connecticut to Philly. This procedure involves copious amounts of screaming (ours), blood (ours), and farting (his).
He cries the entire ride.
My kitties have no idea what’s about to hit them.