Welcome to the Brutons.... SCOUT

We've finally succumbed.

Molly's spent a long time pestering us over this. Pitiful notes left overnight "I'm lonely and would love an 'ickle friend to cuddle" was one of them. But various things got in the way, most obviously Molly's GCSE revision and exams (results are on the 20th August). But then a work colleague announced that their cat was pregnant, and due whilst Molly's exams were on, meaning the kittens would be ready to wean and rehome around now.

This was them a couple of days old...

 

Yes. Spectacularly cute.

Louise had always said there was no way she'd have another ginger tom after she had so many years with her wonderful boy Timmy (see here and here). But all it really took was a photo of the bundles of fur and she was sold. So today we went and picked up our new member of the family.

As for the name, Molly came up with SCOUT (from Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird) before we knew we were getting a boy. But it's just stuck. So Scout it is.

And here he is.... getting acquainted with life at Bruton Mansions...

 

 

Boys will be girls ......

You know the rats we got from Pets At Home? Those lovely boys Buzz & Woody?

Well, to cut a long story short, seems they're not males at all. So the boys are actually girls. Thanks Pets At Home for that. The way it happened was this... Woody (the brown and white) had been getting all cage aggressive with us - beautifully behaved out of the cage but if we dared to put hands inside we'd be bitten and attacked. Rather nasty.

Best advice for males aged about 4/5 months is to get them done and talking to the vet they recommended that if we get one boy done we should get both done. Which was fine, they were booked in for the day and I dutifully took them in to be dropped off before work. And that's when the vet looked at them and gave me the news. To be honest I felt a bit of an idiot, because talking to the vet, boys are VERY obviously boys and these VERY obviously weren't, but I ask you - would you know how big a male rats bits were meant to be?

The vets advice was still to get both girls spayed, as this should cut out the cage aggression or at least reduce it so that with training they get used to us as part of their territory inside the cage. The main problem was that it would be both a more complicated op and consequently much more expensive.

Molly was really shocked and upset when she got home and I told her about it. She'd wanted boys because they tend to be less manic and get fat, lazy and cuddly as they get older. There were tears, as she tried to come to terms that her lovely boys were actually girls. But I tried to get over to her that, boy or girl, they were still her Buzz and Woody. And after a little while she calmed down and started to get concerned about the op and how they'd be afterwards.

Off to the vets to pick them up and bless them, they looked terrible; huge shaved patch, massive slash of stitching up their bellies and obviously woozy as hell. The wounds were horrible, and rats being such wonderfully clean animals, don't help themselves by doing their best to clean the stitches away either. But to wrap this up, all was well, Molly's "boys", as we still affectionately call them, are recovered perfectly now and they go to the vets tomorrow for a final check up. Molly has recovered from her shock and now treats them just like she used to.

Meanwhile, Pets At Home have been in touch following an email expressing my annoyance that they got this so wrong. I had a most refreshing conversation with the manager about the problem, and he surprised the life out of me when he started by completely accepting the blame, said it was inexcusable and that the store apologised for all the upset. I know I shouldn't be surprised by someone admitting that the thing that is 100% their fault is actually 100% their fault, but it seems to happen so rarely now. Then, without me even having to mention it, he said the store would cover the vets bills.

Which is why yesterday we were in York on a bit of a shopping expedition, Molly looking for boots, tops and a coat in her new favourite place; New Look. I eventually left them to it and went for a lovely lunch, a read and a bit of a write. Louise and Molly came back a couple of hours later laden with bags and Molly was beaming with the stuff she'd bought. A very good day indeed.

So Molly's lovely "boys" are girls, but she still thinks they're lovely, even if Buzz and Woody have proved to not be the most appropriate of names after all.

Pet decisions

It's getting closer and closer to pet decision time at Bruton Mansions. The background to this goes back a while.

Our family had a dog when I was a child. Mopsa was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier who was around when I was born and eventually was put down at the grand old age of 18 when I was a teen. Mopsa came from Shakespeare's A Winter's Tale - Dad was an English teacher, hence the name - always interesting at the park when other people are calling Rover and Spike and I'm calling Mopsa. She was a lovely, sweet, perfect family pet and she looked after me when I was a baby; one of mom's favourite stories is of Mopsa sitting out in the garden by the side of my pram, constantly vigilant and forever worried when I cried out.

So the Bruton's are dog people. But Louise is a cat person. Timmy had been her cat for years and became our cat when we got together, then became Molly's first pet as soon as she was old enough to be trusted not to just yank his tail. He lasted 19 long, good years and he's been gone two and a half years, dying just a few weeks before we made the move up to Yorkshire.

So when we moved up here, Molly decided that she wanted a dog, desperately, passionately wanted a dog. It's probably because she sees so many of them walking around here. But a dog isn't really an option with everyone out of the house so that option has had to be, unfortunately ruled out.

The current standings are:

DOG: Molly and my first choice, but ruled out because of work. It's just not fair to leave a dog home alone for so long.
CAT: Louise's choice. But way down the list for Molly and I.
GERBIL: Cute, clean, fun. But rather too nocturnal from what we've read. Still high on the list though.
RAT: Another one that Molly and I are really in favour of. More like a proper pet than other rodents, not completely nocturnal and smart. The big problem is that Louise is not so sure. Getting different reports over how much they smell though.
HAMSTER: Another cute option but again the problem of being nocturnal.
RABBIT: Nope. Not a real pet as far as I'm concerned. Pets do things, respond to being in a family. Rabbits just sit and eat. You may as well get fish.

Now that we're actually talking about pets Molly thinks we'll be off out tomorrow to get one. So it's all she wants to talk about. But we're still deciding and it may take a while.

Timmy & the vet

Well, the last few days have been shit.

Ill over the weekend, ill on Monday. Very tired and suffering from the classic back to school bug that always seems to hit the staff after a few weeks back.

Sunday night - Louise's cat Timmy was obviously very ill. His back legs gave out completely. Poor thing was staggering around the kitchen obviously confused and wondering why his legs weren't working properly.
Once we got him settled down and he rested a little he seemed to perk up, the legs worked a little better, but it was obvious that something had gone seriously wrong with him somewhere.

We decided to book him into the vets the following day. It was fairly obvious that he was going to be put down. Nearly 20 years old, legs gone, kidneys on the way out, ragged breathing. We both knew what the vet's verdict would be and to be honest we thought it would be for the best.
4:50 we arrive at the vets.

Louise upset. Molly upset. We'd told her about it in the car home from school.
Poor thing, her first brush with death. She listened to me talking about taking Timmy to the vet, him being very ill and us possibly having to have him put to sleep.
Then she asked if that meant he might die.
Then she burst into tears when I told her it might mean that.

By the time we got to the vets, she'd calmed down slightly.
Sitting in the vets she kept stroking his paw through the bars of the cat basket.
Then she seemed to steel herself and told us that she'd like to come into the room with us to share Timmy's last moments.

When we got in the room, it took the vet about 20 seconds to recommend putting Timmy to sleep. He reassured us that he wasn't in pain, but was likely to go downhill fast and it would possibly be heart failure that got him very soon, in which case he would be in pain.
At this both Molly and Louise got upset.
Louise and I asked Molly if she wanted to stay in the room when Timmy was put to sleep and to our surprise she calmed down and very firmly said she wanted to stay and say goodbye to Timmy properly.
So very proud of her at that moment.

The vet gave Timmy the first injection and told us it probably would be this one that put him to sleep as Timmy was very weak.
Having fought with him in the kitchen to get him into the cat basket Louise and I weren't surprised when the vet needed to get another injection. Good lad Timmy, strong to the last.

In the end, he relaxed and gently slipped away.
It was very peaceful and a good way to say goodbye to a lovely cat for all three of us.

Timmy.

Louise's cat Timmy was put down today.

He'd been with her, through thick and thin for 19 years.

He was a lovely, gentle, content ginger tom.

Over the past 6 months he'd been getting slower and slower and his back legs and kidneys were slowly giving out.

Unfortunately, last night, his back legs gave out completely.

We made the difficult decision this morning to take him to the vets one last time.

Goodnight Timmy.

Sleep tight.

Timmy

Louise's cat Timmy is 19.
Being 19, he's pretty old for a cat. Recently we took him to the vet for claw clipping and she suggested his kidneys were on the way out, meaning he's got somewhere between 1 day and a couple of years to go.

He's in no pain so we've decided just to leave it and keep monitoring the situation. Obviously if he starts to suffer we'll take him for one last visit to the vet.

Of course, Louise has had Timmy for 19 years and Molly has grown up not knowing anything but having Timmy around. This means it's going to be me who has to do sort everything out. I also know that if he does pop off suddenly it's bound to be me who either sees it happen or finds him.
That will be fun.
No doubt we'll end up doing the whole burying a shoebox thing and having a solemn ceremony in the garden and flowers on the grave for days. This will, after all be the first proper death experience Molly has been old enough to realise what is going on.

Of course the other side to this is that every time the poor cat has a mild snuffle both Louise and I are getting ready to ship him off to the vet.