6 a.m. He's still alive. Not sure about me. He's gained a gram and is at 108, slightly more than a skein of sock yarn. Feedings at 11:30, 2, 4, and 5. We spent the night on the couch.
Random Luciano notes:
It is possible to have an outsized personality when you fit easily into a human hand and weigh about the same as a skein of yarn. He is intense and determined. He's even busy when he sleeps.
Contrary to everything I have heard from the excellent rescuers at Hope4Paws and our splendid vet and all I read on the Net in my first frantic Google binge, his feeding pattern is:
1. Wake up, yell for food, and bang his head on my chest.
2. Eat a little.
3. Eliminate. (Surely he didn't eat that much?)
4. Refuse to settle, yell much louder and try to suckle on anything within reach.
5. Eat a lot.
I have no doubt the normal pattern is eat, eliminate, sleep, but this little one is not interested in the normal pattern.
When he's done eating, he turns his head away and thrashes with all his paws. When he's done eliminating, he clamps his tail under his belly. These are extremely effective strategies.
Being weighed is misery for Luke. His shrieks bring Daisy running to try and protect him from the evil ape. He writhes in the tray. He manages to look remarkably like Gollum for a few moments, instead of being the cutest baby ever. The whole tantrum stops as soon as he's back on my chest. It seems baby mammals need to be worn.
He is gaining strength: he has learned to climb from the pouch I wear on my chest to my neck. He wiggles a lot. He is far stronger than he looks.
He looks far more like a river otter than a cat; he has the fat, shortish tail, the stubby legs, the high-domed skull, and the elongated body shape. If there were otters around here, I'd be suspicious.