Nicola Griffith's Blog, page 47

Kitten report #03

Note: This is a story whose ending is not yet written but is definitely on an upward trajectory.

As discussed in previous kitten reports, our kitten Charlie has been falling behind his brother George in terms of size and weight. His stertorous breathing was getting worse and he has not been thriving as he should. After several visits to the vet, followed by various scans, we all agreed that this was most probably a nasopharyngeal polyp blocking his airways. This apparently happens a lot to young cats who have had a lingering upper respiratory infection. Usually they grow bilaterally: two for the price of one. But the only way to find out for sure is to sedate the cat, and go after it surgically. This is pretty standard surgery, apparently; nothing to worry about.

But.

Charlie is not a young cat, he is a kitten. A very small kitten weighing only 3 lbs who has been ill. He did have a polyp, just one, on the left, but it proved difficult to manipulate because he’s so tiny, and getting it out—it broke into three pieces—took a long time. During the operation he crashed, and for a couple of minutes had little to no oxygen getting to his brain. He suffered a neurological accident.

For the first 24 hours we were not sure he would survive and, if he did, whether he could have a good life. He did not seem to be aware of his surroundings. He could not see, hear, sit, eat, swallow, or void his bladder. He stayed under expert veterinary care for three days: steroids, antibiotics, pain killers. He was hand fed with a syringe, and helped to empty his bladder. He lost even more weight. But within 24 hours he could sit up. Not long after that stood—and tried an alarmingly wobbly stretch. He began to use the litter tray if placed in it. Then he began to eat on his own. He began to purr when held, then sleep without being held. He could take tentative steps. Now he began to eat a lot–making up for lost time. He started to track sounds and occasionally reach out to bat whatever was making the noise. He seemed to be able to tell there was something there, if it was black on a white background, or white on a black background.

Meanwhile, here at home, George was in a state. He loved the first twenty-four hours of having us to himself: all the attention and cuddles and food he wanted; king of all he surveyed! Without fearless Charlie to lead the way he had had to become a bit bolder himself. But after thirty-six hours he got restless, prowling into every corner, making querulous chirruping noises, and finally beginning to cry: What had we done with his brother? Fuck food, fuck feather, he wanted Charlie!

Fortunately, at that point the vet judged Charlie to be robust enough to come home. The first two hours we kept Charlie in his carrier so he could adjust slowly without George jumping on him. But we put the carrier on one si——de of their favourite sofa, I sat on the other side, and we put a cushion in between for George to sit on if he so chose. He did. And stared at Charlie in the carrier—who was curled up tight as a kitty ammonite. This lasted about 30 minutes. Then he sat on my lap and yowled piteously: Let his brother out to play! Then he decided he would make his brother play, anyway. He stuck his paw through the wire door and pushed at the kitty ammonite. The ammonite stirred slightly. So then George jabbed. The ammonite huffed a bit. George jumped on top of the carrier and tried to dig through the roof. At which point Charlie woke up and George got frantic: Out! Out! Let him out! So we did.

Charlie has always been fearless. Being unable to see has not changed this. I could write ten thousand words on the next 12 hours (I think I’ve lost about 5 years from my life) but let me just say: within an hour Charlie and George were racing around the kitchen and family room full tilt. This of course meant that Charlie hurtled headlong into the glass sliding door that he did’t know was there. Nearly decapitated himself on the cross bars on the kitchen chairs. And got fallen on like a ton of bricks by a brother who did not understand why he could rear up on his hind legs, giving Charlie plenty of warning, only for Charlie to appear surprised when George pounced. George didn’t understand, either, why when he ran to Charlie and tagged him, Charlie would run in the wrong direction. He brought Charlie a paper ball to play with, and Charlie stared about 20 degrees to one side.

The last two days have been amazing. This tiny, fearless kitten and his much bigger brother George, are utterly in charge of their world. They run around chirruping at each other and tussling, and sleeping companionably. Yes, Charlie still sometimes walks through his food dish. Yes, he still sometimes gives himself a good crack on the head when one of us forgets to leave a door open just the right amount. But by using his whiskers, keen sense of smell, those bat-like ears, and amazing spacial sense, I think some visitors might not be able to tell that he is, mostly, blind. And he is growing and gaining weight visibly.

There is nothing wrong with Charlie’s eyes. The visual impairment is a cortical processing issue. The vet—the wonderful Lora Schuldt from Cats Exclusive—suspects there’s still the possibility of further healing and improvement in the next five weeks or so. Selfishly, I’d like that. I’d like to stop nearly having a heart attack when Charlie jumps up on things and heads blithely for an edge he can’t possibly know is there. And it would be lovely to hear a crash and thud and not think: Oh my god he’s fallen and broken his back leaping from the counter onto my Rollator that’s no longer there. Or to feel confident that he won’t just knock over a boiling cup of tea and scald himself. But he seems perfectly happy; if he never sees any more than he does today, he will continue to adapt and have an enormously fine and adventurous life.

One thing: the vet thinks it’s possible, given that the polyp broke into pieces, that it might regrow on the left—equally, that one my eventually grow on the right, or that there may be no more polyps. (She thinks it seriously unlikely that George will develop polyps.) But I’ll keep you apprised of goings on. Meanwhile, here are a couple of pictures from the last two days.

For the first time since he’s back, Charlie finds his way onto my lap on his second favourite sofa and sleeps blissfully while I read a book I’ve been sent for a review, and George gets on the red cushion next to me and stares, making sure I don’t harm a hair on his little brother’s head:

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Charlie: Tell me when he stops staring…

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George: I’ve got my eye on you

That evening, Kelley and I relax with wine while George sleeps on her lap and Charlie does his utterly, fearlessly unconscious, boneless thing on mine.

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Relaxing with kitten and wine

They are both spending an inordinate amount of time eating and running around, but I only remember to take pics when they’re still. So here’s one more of Charlie until I manage to catch them in fearless (oh god) action.

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Charlie swears he will never go anywhere again

Kitten report #02

The cats are growing. George is still sneezing occasionally but is getting bigger and stronger every day. Charlie is also growing, but less quickly. We’re consulting with the vet and will have more information on that in a few days.

They’ve been tearing up the house and they want to play all the time. The other morning, between breakfast and lunch, we played foil ball, then chase-the-red-dot (laser pointer), then hurtle about the place chasing the feather on a fishing line, then eat the shoelaces, then steal a piece of roast beef, then paper ball (well, actually, first they played knock the wastebasket over, then recycling bag, then paper ball…). After that it was destroy the sunglasses, followed by round 2 of paper ball, and round 2 of foil ball. At which point Charlie thought it might be a fine idea to knock all the candles off the counter, subdue the microwave, and murder the catnip mouse. When I made lunch they watched the water.

CHARLIE: What is it?

GEORGE: I don’t know.

CHARLIE: Should we hit it?

GEORGE: I don’t know.

CHARLIE: Right. We’ll just watch it for a while.

GEORGE: Okay.

CHARLIE: And then hit it.

The family motto certainly seems to be becoming clear: Hit it, or put it in your mouth.

At lunch time we all rested. After which they played king-of-the-condo, followed by watch the water again, then hit the water, bite the water, sneeze, and fall off the sink. Then of course there was nothing for it but to fall into the toilet and dash about soaking wet for a while. At which point it seemed to me that discretion was the better part of valour, and I retired to the kitchen deck and left the house to their tender ministrations. George, of course, was not happy about being left behind and decided to seek an alternative escape route.

They are in serious learning mode. Just in the last week their hunting methods have changed. Instead of running madly back and forth after Feather, they have taken to lying in wait behind bits of furniture to ambush it on appearance. George is developing impressive ball control when we play pawball. Charlie and I sometimes play Feather badminton: I prop the stick into the back cushion of the sofa, then we sit, one at each end, batting Feather back and forth while George perfects his aikido rolls over the foil ball on the carpet.

They seem to have passed through the chase-their-own-tail stage already, though are still fascinated by each other’s…

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They continue to approach the world from different perspectives. Charlie might be smaller and more fragile but he’s a fearless explorer. He has no idea George weighs 30% more than him and tends to regard him as an annoying little brother. George, on the other hand, ponders everything deeply before doing.

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Charlie strides through the sun like a young god.

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For George, the day is grey and full of uncertainties

Sometimes, though, they simply sleep companionably while giving the impression that they’re quite grown up. I know better. They’re simply gathering the energy for another mammoth assault on all they don’t yet know.

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Sloth = growth. George (top) and Charlie (bottom) dream of future destruction

Kitten report #01

Turns out I was wrong about the kittens’ age in my first post. They are now, apparently, 15 weeks old. And they are teething. Which mean they’re chewing everything. They chewed one belt loop off my favourite trousers. The blinds in the kitchen have had their pull cords cut. Someone gnawed through the tube on the blood pressure cuff–I can guess who. George is partial to anything with a tube or line: the blinds, the iPad charging cord, the strings holding the dangling ball on the scratching post. Charlie prefers corners: my old Kindle, the rug in the family room, the corner of a floor cushion. But either of them will go for anything. Even my Rollator has little chunks of hard foam gouged from the backrest. (They still are wary of the wheelchair, so at least that seems intact.)

They both have upper respiratory infections. Apparently this is typical (inevitable, basically) of rescue cats from shelters: you get them home, they get sick. But after two trips to the vet (and a third scheduled for next week), the vet says they’re essentially okay. The sneezing, apparently, could last for weeks. Oh, joy. (I’ve been woken up several times in the last week by being sneezed at directly in my ear.) Charlie is in a worse way, with a very sore throat that makes his breathing worryingly noisy. (And when he sleep–y’know, all the time–he snores like a drain. An astoundingly large noise for such a tiny thing.) But they’re both eating, sleeping, playing, purring, fighting, growing, learning. George is now beginning to look like a proper cat, if small, while Charlie is still more kitten-like.

Here are some more pics.

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Charlie, hanging in the sun

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George, showing off his fetchingly striped legs

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George on the breakfast table: kitty croissant or furry ammonite?

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Charlie really likes his new condo

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Charlie ponders male role models

And of course new pictures, and video, are going up all the time on Instagram and Twitter.

New Interview up at Disability Arts Online

Disability Arts Online is a UK organisation led by disabled people dedicated to advancing disability arts and culture. Just published in their magazine is a new interview with me about all things #CripLit, and So Lucky.

For Griffith, whilst the industry needs to change, she is clear that it’s disabled writers who have to be at the vanguard of that change, or else it will be hollow.

“For me, the first step to vanquishing ableism would be to have more well-published fiction written by disabled authors—then reviewed by disabled critics. Then submitted for prizes, given grants, and turned into popular film and TV. Very little fiction is authored by disabled writers (most disability literature by disabled writers that is published by big trade presses is memoir). Publishers don’t want disability fiction, they say, because no one wants to read it, it’s depressing. Well, they think that because the only fiction they’ve read about crips is the crap written by non-disabled people which is depressing.”

 

Itty bitty pretty kitties

We haven’t had a cat since Zack died at the ripe old age of 17 in 2008. For the first year or so we just weren’t ready. Andn then ur lives became unpredicatable enough to not want to introduce kittens into the mix. But about two weeks ago, Kelley andn I just looed at each other and said: It’s time. It took a bit to assemble kitten paraphenalia–toys, litter trays, kitty condo, food–and then to find just the right beasties to share our lives for the next twenty years.

Meet our new kitty overlords: brothers Charlie and George. They’re about 12 weeks old, sole survivors of a litter of six from Yakima. We met them at Seattle Area Feline Rescue, and within two hours they were in our house. Which, in the natural course of things, is of course now their house. They have kindly retained us as staff.

George, though bigger (he looks about 10 days older than his brother), is much more skittish. Charlie is fearless (not necessarily a winning evolutionary trait; he’s already crisped his eyebrow whiskers on the gas stove) and very happy to demand attention. Their coats are pretty different. George is more traditionally striped but Charlie is stippled. The first few days the only sound they made were odd little chirrups (George), with the occasional squeaking creak (Charlie). But in the last three days both have begun to essay the tiniest little mews. Both purr like buzzsaws.

Here’s a photo taken on their first morning. That’s the bathroom sink they colonised as a nest for the first few days. The picture’s fuzzy because every time I tried to get close they hid behind their kitty carrier, so this is an extreme iPhone zoom.

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George on the left, Charlie on the right.

By the next day they were venturing into the family room–as long as they kept the bathroom and their comfort blanket in line of sight. Here’s Charlie finding the sofa for the first time (bathroom floor visible behind  him).

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Charlie likes the sofa

And this is George trying to decide whether or not to risk it.

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George worries about the sofa

A day or so later, they discover the bed:

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George (back) Charlie (front)

And at this point this most definitely rule the sofa. (All that clutter around the sofa are blankets and sheets which we stuffed in gaps their first few days so that if they got freaked out, or, worse, hurt, they couldn’t hide anywhere we couldn’t reach. Plus a brown paper bag because, well, cats.)

Here are a couple of them looking particularly themselves, Charlie self-possessed:

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Charlie loves this trunk. It is the source of all toys.

And George a bit uncertain.

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George just still isn’t sure. Of anything.

More to follow. Meanwhile I’ll be running around catching falling vases, rescuing stuck adventurers, and referring free-for-alls between rambunctious kitty-kind and impertinent feathers, while posting the occasional snapshot on Twitter and Instagram.

Why you should never believe your own publicity

Google Alerts brought me this news today: in a ranking of Famous Essayists from England, I am number 6, outranking Samuel Johnson, Zadie Smith, and others. The tagline for the article says, “includes Christopher Hitchens, Nicola Griffith, and more,” that more including George Orwell, Stephen Spender, Max Beerbohm, Dorothy Sayers, et al who just aren’t, y’know, famous enough to be in the tagline.

All of which demonstrates the peril of algorithms. Because, yes, I write essays. And yes, to some people I am, sometimes, semi-famous. But am I a ‘famous essayist’? Not by any stretch of the imagination. Given that I’m on the list just above Pico Ayers, my fellow judge in the recent London Magazine essay contest, I can guess how the algorithm weighted what, and why I ended on the list. And on a weekday morning that’s good for a grin—in fact I’m still grinning as I type this, imagining the confusion of the kind of reader who takes lists like this seriously.

Though perhaps now I’ll go write a story about an alternate universe where, in fact, I am a Most Famous Essayist. That might be worth some more smiles on this lovely light-filled summery morning.

 

 

So Lucky shortlisted for Washington State Book Award in Fiction

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So Lucky is a finalist for a Washington State Book Award in Fiction. I’m in great company, including Katrina Carrasco’s The Best Bad Things, which I’ve talked about before:

“The Best Bad Things” by Katrina Carrasco, of Seattle
“The Lost Girls of Camp Forevermore” by Kim Fu, of Seattle
“So Lucky” by Nicola Griffith, of Seattle
“Night Hawks” by Charles Johnson, of Seattle
“Winter Sisters” by Robin Oliveira, of Seattle

The other categories (memoir, poetry, YA, etc.) are also strong this year. So take a look and put them on your TBR list. Many thanks to the hard-working judges for providing us with such useful lists.

Winners will be announced in October at Seattle Public Library’s Central Library downtown, Saturday Oct 12, at 7pm. It’s free and open to the public. If you’re interested in meeting the writers (and judges) why not come watch? The last time I went to one of these bashes there was great food, plenty of wine, and live music. Plus all the conversation about books you could possibly want. And do come introduce yourself. I love to meet readers.

 

More Hild-inspired art

If you need a break from the depressing and teeth-grindingly infuriating news cycle, go take a look at the page of Hild-inspired art (and crafts) and cat pictures (plus occasional dog). I’ve just added portraits of Cian and Hild—this time sent by young Catie LeCours, who was given the book by her mother.

It seems quite a few readers encounter Hild via their mothers (and occasional father). So yay for pets, parents, and readers of all kinds!

Meanwhile, if any artists out t here are so inclined, I’d love to see how you see some of the other characters, like Gwladus, Begu, Fursey, and Breguswith.

This year’s flowers

This year we started a bit late on sorting out the pots and baskets for our back and kitchen decks, for Reasons. But finally we got around to it. Before I get to that, though, here are a couple of pictures of the front of the house, showing how the garden blooms in May and early June. The first is taken from the drive. I worked years to get those roses to finally form an arch around the front porch.* Finally: success!

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Every winter our living room is oriented around the fire but every summer we move all the furniture so we’re oriented towards the huge picture window, because, well, what we see through it really is a picture—framed by those roses. We have red, white, cream, pink roses, all different kinds. Plus lavender. Lavender. Sage. An amazing blue bush that’s crack for bees. Wild strawberries, cloud berries, dahlias, Oregon grape, vine maple, so many things…

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One of the things we value most about our house is its serenity and sense of privacy. We live in the city, but from inside, we see just nature: birds, trees, and flowers. When we first bought the house, from inside the only visible sign of civilisation was the wall of the barn next door, on the other side of our north fence. It did not trouble us because on its south-facing wall there were no windows, no door, no second story veranda to intrude on our privacy. Here’s what you can see today, from our back deck, of the barn (now converted to an ADU (accessory swelling unit): three-car garage below, large self-contained apartment above, but still no windows on that south wall).

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Most of it is hidden by a cherry tree, a slow-growing privet hedge, and now a fast-growing vine/shrub thing I always forget the name of. In those pots are purple salvia (hummingbirds love it), veronica, impatiens and petunia; herbs (sage and marjoram); marigolds, flaming lips (another salvia—humming birds seriously love these) and more petunias; and sweet bay, a zillion petunias, and some kind of ivy vine things that, again, I always forget the name of.

When we first moved in, we didn’t worry about the fence on the west side of the garden because it was backed by trees growing in neighbours’ yards: a massive cedar tree (at least 80′) in the northwest corner, lilac tree, willow, bamboo, plums, more plums, more willow, all the way down to the ravine to the south. But then there were floods (partially a climate issue but also because of the city fucking up the drainage plan leading to a nightmare deluge for the neighbourhood), and most of the trees, except the massive cedar in the corner, had to come down in order for home owners to get at their ruined drains. So we tacked on a bit of extra fencing, and planted a zillion vines, a mixture of honeysuckle, kadsura, and evergreen clematis. We didn’t bother with the corner because the great big tree there hid everything and its shadow made growing anything else impossible. And then, of course, last year that tree was damaged in a storm and had to come down too. So now we have a hole in our perimeter where we can actually, gasp, SEE THAT WE HAVE NEIGHBOURS.

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They are perfectly nice neighbours, but still its even nicer not to have to see people—or be seen—except by appointment. So we’ll have to fix that. Last month we had our eye on a nice, already-big jasmine, but the seller abruptly went out of business and now we’re stumped again. I’m thinking we’ll just go with another combo of flowering and evergreen vines. Tune in next year for an update. Meanwhile, here are a few more flowers from the back deck. These are more petunias (I like petunias) growing with some lavender that we rescued and repotted.

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And because I like petunias (did I tell you I like petunias?), here’s a close-up.

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We grow most of our herbs and flowers, though, on the deck off the kitchen. Here’s the west side of the deck: fuchsia and veronica; thyme, parsley, and basil; another variety of veronica with more fuchsia (Kelley likes fuchsia); nasturtiums, oregano, sage…

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This, left to right, is a bit of the potted jasmine, just about to bloom; a basket of lavender and marigolds (the crows love to perch on that basket to yell at us for breakfast); a pot of begonias (‘mistral orange’); and a bit of a basket of salvia (‘flaming lips’) and petunias.

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Here’s a wider view. That pot on the floor in the corner is some kind of grass and yet another sort of fuchsia.

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And we have more fuchsia and geraniums (? not sure, actually) in the other direction, but the fuchsia’s not really blooming yet so I didn’t bother with a picture. As I said, these all got a late start, but hopefully by the end of July they’ll be a riot of colour. Stay tuned.

*I’m in a wheelchair now, so when I say ‘I did this or that’, I sometime—though not always—mean ‘I caused this or that to be done’. I do a lot of the container gardening, though this year I had help with getting stuff planted and repotted, but I prune and dead-head and fuss and water. And I choose the plants and direct where they’ll go. And when others offer to help with larger pruning of bushes and whatnot I gratefully accept and suggest what should come out where (though often the volunteer explains why what I want is idiotic and so does something different and better). Kelley does all the main garden watering because physically it’s beyond me. But between me, Kelley, friends, neighbours, and the crew we pay to actually mow the lawn and stop the driveway being overrun, we make something beautiful. I am grateful.

31 years ago

31 one years ago today I met Kelley at the Clarion workshop at Michigan State University, East Lansing. It was a miserably hot Sunday. I had no food (a vegetarian allergic to cheese in the midwest in 1988). I had no beer (an English person on a dry campus in a town that’s dry on Sundays). I was surrounded by aliens (a dyke on what felt like the straightest, whitest campus on the planet). Then Kelley showed up and everything was magically…fine. Better than fine. And in the thirty years since, things just keep getting better.

Last year I put together a love story in photos: pictures of us in different cities at different times and in different phases of our lives together. So if you want to see a picture with both of us in the same frame, go take a look—because I still don’t have any recent pics of us. (When we’re together tend to forget about other people, and photos.) But here’s one of Kelley taken in March, at work.

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Kelley, Seattle, WA.

And here’s one of me in a UK bar doing a classic Griffith family thing: mixing beer and babies—in this case, my great nephew who’s just been handed to me by his dad. Kelley was there, too, just not in the picture.

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Nicola and great nephew, Leeds, UK.

Check back here next year and maybe I’ll have a picture by then.