It's a shame that cats aren't welcome to roam freely in Toronto anymore. Back in the day, when I had a half-hour walk to school, I used to have a route with stops, like a bus, except I stopped to say hello to cats. Young cats on the prowl, old cats napping in a puddle of sun. They were all reliable friends to me, back in the days when I was lonely and in need of friendship.
These days it's a lot less common to see a cat outside, at least in any upscale neighbourhood. I understand why. Gardeners don't take kindly to cats crapping in their flowerbeds. People who put out bird feeders don't want to see their wee birdie friends massacred. Not to mention that cat owners don't want to see their pets run over by local traffic. So the cats stay cooped up inside, for the most part, and lose their minds.
My first cat was an outdoor cat. She would go out to survey the neighbourhood even on the coldest winter nights. She had her territory to explore and defend. She was also mentally the healthiest cat I've ever known.
All the indoor cats that I've met and cared for, much as I've loved them, have been neurotic, restless, and destructive. They go looking for trouble when they're bored, uprooting houseplants; chewing and clawing their humans' valued possessions; and eating things that aren't meant to be eaten. Instead of maturing into lithe, self-possessed mini-kings of the jungle, they grow up to be fat, whiny babies.
Take Shadow, for example, cat of my first serious boyfriend. That big, dumb lug would eat anything he could fit in his loud mouth. Don't get me wrong - I loved that silly furball. He was very affectionate, generous with the purring. But he didn't have an ounce of sense.
One of his weaknesses was curling ribbon. You couldn't leave an inch of the stuff anywhere around him, or he'd gulp it down like a long spaghetti noodle as soon as your back was turned.
One time, just before Christmas, I used my key to let myself into my boyfriend's apartment. I noticed two things. 1) Shadow did not show up immediately to greet me, as usual. 2) The apartment didn't smell very nice.
I called for Shadow. I heard him answer, a little whimper from a corner somewhere. Then I hear his paws on the hardwood, approaching, gaining speed, and finally running past me in a panic. I could see why. "Something" was chasing him. That something was attached to his derriere. The faster he ran, the faster he heard it coming behind him. Terrifying to his tiny, primitive brain.
After some chasing of my own, I finally pinned him down for an examination. The problem: a length of gold curling ribbon, still curly and bouncing, was hanging from his anus. It was itself "decorated". With poop. In between the poop bits, the gold ribbon glinted in the light. It was... mesmerizing.
That was memorable, but Shadow hadn't shown us everything yet. Several years later, when he was well into his senior years, he fell ill. He prowled the apartment for days, howling, refusing food, straining in the litter box unsuccessfully. At this point he was living with my boyfriend's mother. She made a vet appointment, but the problem resolved itself.
Shadow pooped an entire Bounce scented dryer sheet into the litterbox.
That's impressive in itself, but really. Think of it. How did he manage to eat that sonofagun in the first place? How would you like to gulp down an entire twin-size bedsheet, soaked in cologne? Let alone pass it through your gut, and then your butt. No wonder he was crying.
In the end Shadow passed away of natural causes. His cast-iron digestive tract survived all the punishment that he dished out.
There have been other dumb cats in my life, but Shadow is king in my books. God rest his stupid, snuggly soul. I miss him tremendously, and if I could have him back, even if it meant more chewed gifts and poop cleanups, I'd do it all over again.
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, June 30, 2008
Like Herding Cats
On Sunday I had planned a date with my mom, to help her along with her computer skills. I arrived at 3:30 in the afternoon, raring to go for a good three solid hours of hacking before dinnertime.
My mom was waiting for me out on the porch steps. She had one hand pressed down on the back of The Dude (one of her two young, male cats), who was crouching beside her.
"What's he doing out here?" I asked.
My mom's last set of cats (a pair of females) were both allowed outside. They had the run of the neighbourhood, and frequently pissed off the neighbours by killing birds, pooping in flowerbeds and/or vegetable gardens, and otherwise making pests of themselves. When my mom brought The Boys home, she was determined that they would be indoor cats.
The problem with keeping a couple of energetic young cats cooped up is: they will destroy your home. They're bored. They're restless. They need a challenge. Instead of stalking squirrels and discovering secret shortcuts across the rooftops, The Boys are literally chewing the furniture, clawing holes in the beds, pulling kitchen cupboard doors off their hinges, knocking over potted plants, and generally getting into every kind of mischief you can imagine.
On Sunday afternoon, The Dude was "mewing piteously" (a direct quote from my mom) by the screen door, so she decided to bring him outside. Not on a leash, not in her arms, just... outside. I could see already where this was going.
Of course, as I watched, The Dude wiggled free from her grasp and chased a flying bug out into the middle of the driveway. Then he stopped and realized where he was: FREE! He started mewing and dashing around in excitement. In a flash he was off and running down the driveway to the backyard. I chased behind him. I knew that my mom would have a nervous fit if The Dude vanished and she didn't know where he was, so I was determined to keep up with him.
I caught up just as he was nosing his way into the next-door neighbour's backyard, scooped him up, and brought him back to the front porch. I thought my mom might want to bring him straight back inside, but I guess she didn't have the heart to imprison him again so quickly. As soon as his paws touched the ground, he was on the move again, this time into the dense foliage of the front garden.
Quick as a wink, he vanished under the porch.
Here we go, I thought. We'll spend all afternoon trying to get him out now.
"Under The Porch" is a bad place. Generations of local cats and raccoons have used it as a litterbox. It's full of bugs, mould, rotting leaves, and possibly one or two minor demons and a golem. There is no access for humans. It's like an exclusive, sexy, dangerous nightclub, feline style.
My mom and I each took up a different position - her from the front, me from the side - peering into the gloom. It was impossible to see anything except the occasional flash of The Dude's eyes as he roamed around his new territory. He disappeared and reappeared in the shadows so quietly and randomly that it seemed like he was warping around in some alternate universe.
Now, cats that are used to being outside learn to come when their name is called. They want to get in from the cold; they want to be fed; they have to learn the signal for "the door is open, come NOW!" I don't know if The Dude even knows his own name. We called him, clucked, psst-psst-ed, all in vain. Finally my mom brought out his dry cat food and rattled the bag. No sale.
We were stuck. My mom wasn't willing to "go all the way" by leaving him unsupervised, and he wasn't willing to come out. It was a stalemate. We couldn't even go up and sit on the porch chairs because he might scoot out and disappear while we weren't looking. So we milled around uselessly in the front garden and driveway, ducking frequently to peer under the porch, and doubtlessly looking completely insane to any neighbours that might be watching.
Finally, after a long wait, The Dude stuck his head out between two wooden slats to sniff at the cat food my mom had left out. Mom was quick - she grabbed his neck with one hand like she was about to wring it. His eyes bugged out a bit as she hauled him into the open, but no harm done. She was as gentle as she could be, all things considered.
Of course The Dude was Like, Totally Psyched, Man! after his crazy adventure. We got him inside (and the cat food, and the various toys that had failed as cat-fishing lures), where he promptly sat down inside the screen door and resumed mewing piteously. Hey, it worked once before! We ignored him.
Finally we sat down at the computer together. Within a short time I noticed the mewing had stopped. I went to check the status quo. The Dude was passed out on the carpet, exhausted, and fast asleep.
My mom was waiting for me out on the porch steps. She had one hand pressed down on the back of The Dude (one of her two young, male cats), who was crouching beside her.
"What's he doing out here?" I asked.
My mom's last set of cats (a pair of females) were both allowed outside. They had the run of the neighbourhood, and frequently pissed off the neighbours by killing birds, pooping in flowerbeds and/or vegetable gardens, and otherwise making pests of themselves. When my mom brought The Boys home, she was determined that they would be indoor cats.
The problem with keeping a couple of energetic young cats cooped up is: they will destroy your home. They're bored. They're restless. They need a challenge. Instead of stalking squirrels and discovering secret shortcuts across the rooftops, The Boys are literally chewing the furniture, clawing holes in the beds, pulling kitchen cupboard doors off their hinges, knocking over potted plants, and generally getting into every kind of mischief you can imagine.
On Sunday afternoon, The Dude was "mewing piteously" (a direct quote from my mom) by the screen door, so she decided to bring him outside. Not on a leash, not in her arms, just... outside. I could see already where this was going.
Of course, as I watched, The Dude wiggled free from her grasp and chased a flying bug out into the middle of the driveway. Then he stopped and realized where he was: FREE! He started mewing and dashing around in excitement. In a flash he was off and running down the driveway to the backyard. I chased behind him. I knew that my mom would have a nervous fit if The Dude vanished and she didn't know where he was, so I was determined to keep up with him.
I caught up just as he was nosing his way into the next-door neighbour's backyard, scooped him up, and brought him back to the front porch. I thought my mom might want to bring him straight back inside, but I guess she didn't have the heart to imprison him again so quickly. As soon as his paws touched the ground, he was on the move again, this time into the dense foliage of the front garden.
Quick as a wink, he vanished under the porch.
Here we go, I thought. We'll spend all afternoon trying to get him out now.
"Under The Porch" is a bad place. Generations of local cats and raccoons have used it as a litterbox. It's full of bugs, mould, rotting leaves, and possibly one or two minor demons and a golem. There is no access for humans. It's like an exclusive, sexy, dangerous nightclub, feline style.
My mom and I each took up a different position - her from the front, me from the side - peering into the gloom. It was impossible to see anything except the occasional flash of The Dude's eyes as he roamed around his new territory. He disappeared and reappeared in the shadows so quietly and randomly that it seemed like he was warping around in some alternate universe.
Now, cats that are used to being outside learn to come when their name is called. They want to get in from the cold; they want to be fed; they have to learn the signal for "the door is open, come NOW!" I don't know if The Dude even knows his own name. We called him, clucked, psst-psst-ed, all in vain. Finally my mom brought out his dry cat food and rattled the bag. No sale.
We were stuck. My mom wasn't willing to "go all the way" by leaving him unsupervised, and he wasn't willing to come out. It was a stalemate. We couldn't even go up and sit on the porch chairs because he might scoot out and disappear while we weren't looking. So we milled around uselessly in the front garden and driveway, ducking frequently to peer under the porch, and doubtlessly looking completely insane to any neighbours that might be watching.
Finally, after a long wait, The Dude stuck his head out between two wooden slats to sniff at the cat food my mom had left out. Mom was quick - she grabbed his neck with one hand like she was about to wring it. His eyes bugged out a bit as she hauled him into the open, but no harm done. She was as gentle as she could be, all things considered.
Of course The Dude was Like, Totally Psyched, Man! after his crazy adventure. We got him inside (and the cat food, and the various toys that had failed as cat-fishing lures), where he promptly sat down inside the screen door and resumed mewing piteously. Hey, it worked once before! We ignored him.
Finally we sat down at the computer together. Within a short time I noticed the mewing had stopped. I went to check the status quo. The Dude was passed out on the carpet, exhausted, and fast asleep.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Kitty Update
The Dude says "Hi".
Here he is sitting on the kitchen counter, where he's not allowed. At least, in theory. I pointed out this transgression to my mom.
Mom: [tickling The Dude behind his ears] No no! You're not supposed to be up here!
Me: Mom, I'm beginning to doubt your commitment to disciplining these cats.
She just laughed. Although later in the day she mentioned that they've been lying on their backs under her bed, chewing holes in the underside of the box spring mattress. I think they must be part termite.
Stinker was too hyper to sit still for a photo. This slightly blurry shot was the best one I managed to get.
Mom and I were planning to have a computer lesson on Sunday, but the weather was against us. It was TOO NICE out! The first plan (the most sensible one), was that I would come over after lunch and we'd put our heads right down and get to work. Then my mom had the thought that maybe we could meet and have lunch together. Then it turned out that the place we planned to eat was closed for renovations, so we went for a walk around the neighbourhood to find somewhere else. We lingered over lunch, which was prolonged further still by my mom's ritual insistance that I get "a little something" for desert. Of course I gave in.
Finally the dishes were cleared, the bill was paid, and we were out the door. Just a few blocks' walk to my mom's house, and we could get right to work. But then there was an open house that we just had to see, of a rare million-dollar condo in a historical building...
We got to back to my mom's place exactly 11 minutes before I was supposed to leave again to go meet a friend. Then I had to take a few pictures of the cats...
Maybe we'll do better next week!
Right now my priority is making sure my mom enjoys our time together, since she's still pretty blue from my step-dad's departure. From that perspective I can say: Mission Accomplished!
Monday, April 28, 2008
Bad Kitties
On Saturday night, I stayed out late, shaking my booty at a wild party and drinking myself silly.
No, wait. Sorry. I just lied compulsively there. Sometimes I like to pretend that I live that kind of life.
In fact what I did on Saturday evening was have dinner with my mother and then spend two hours working on setting up her new computer.
I don't recall it taking this long to get my own computer set up, even though it's almost exactly the same as my mom's. For some reason, my mom's setup process is stretching longer and longer, with glitches at every possible opportunity. First the internet connection wouldn't cooperate. After an hour on the phone with tech support I had it working, and then as soon as the technician got off the phone it started cutting out again. I also can't seem to get her .mac e-mail address to work, even though that should be easy as pie.
Throughout the process, things are slowed further by the presence of Stinker and The Dude, my mom's insane cats. All they want to do is get in the way and chew on wires and cables. The Dude was so intent on chomping through the phone cord that I had to put the help desk on hold while I booted him out of the room. No amount of taps on his nose would deter him from his chewing. Once he was locked out, he spent a long time trying to burrow under the door before finally ambling off to pull the weather-stripping off the bottom of my mom's front door.
A while later, Stinker asked to come in. I had been sitting for 15 minutes watching software updates download to the hard drive, so I was bored enough to consider letting him in. I thought he might be better-behaved than his brother. I thought he might want to sit and have his ears scritchy-scratched, or just snuggle on my lap. My hopes were ill-founded. He made a beeline for the tangle of cables under the desk and started eating the power cord. I pulled him away, and as soon as I let him go he went right back to it, as though that particular wire had an irresistible magnetic attraction for him. So Stinker got booted out too.
My mom said that these dopey cat-brothers don't respond to the disciplinary measures that have worked on all her past cats. Yelling at them just doesn't register. You can push their faces away from the "no" object as many times as you like, and they'll just come straight back. Even a whack on the nose or the rump doesn't faze them. They just shake it off. (Of course they never get swatted hard enough to cause pain. It's supposed to piss them off, nothing more. But these cats are too easygoing. It's impossible to piss them off.) My mom tries to have a water mister handy to spritz them when they're bad, but she can't always have it in her hand, and there are some places (like near electrical equipment) that a mister isn't practical.
I advised my mom to get a taser. She's thinking about it.
No, wait. Sorry. I just lied compulsively there. Sometimes I like to pretend that I live that kind of life.
In fact what I did on Saturday evening was have dinner with my mother and then spend two hours working on setting up her new computer.
I don't recall it taking this long to get my own computer set up, even though it's almost exactly the same as my mom's. For some reason, my mom's setup process is stretching longer and longer, with glitches at every possible opportunity. First the internet connection wouldn't cooperate. After an hour on the phone with tech support I had it working, and then as soon as the technician got off the phone it started cutting out again. I also can't seem to get her .mac e-mail address to work, even though that should be easy as pie.
Throughout the process, things are slowed further by the presence of Stinker and The Dude, my mom's insane cats. All they want to do is get in the way and chew on wires and cables. The Dude was so intent on chomping through the phone cord that I had to put the help desk on hold while I booted him out of the room. No amount of taps on his nose would deter him from his chewing. Once he was locked out, he spent a long time trying to burrow under the door before finally ambling off to pull the weather-stripping off the bottom of my mom's front door.
A while later, Stinker asked to come in. I had been sitting for 15 minutes watching software updates download to the hard drive, so I was bored enough to consider letting him in. I thought he might be better-behaved than his brother. I thought he might want to sit and have his ears scritchy-scratched, or just snuggle on my lap. My hopes were ill-founded. He made a beeline for the tangle of cables under the desk and started eating the power cord. I pulled him away, and as soon as I let him go he went right back to it, as though that particular wire had an irresistible magnetic attraction for him. So Stinker got booted out too.
My mom said that these dopey cat-brothers don't respond to the disciplinary measures that have worked on all her past cats. Yelling at them just doesn't register. You can push their faces away from the "no" object as many times as you like, and they'll just come straight back. Even a whack on the nose or the rump doesn't faze them. They just shake it off. (Of course they never get swatted hard enough to cause pain. It's supposed to piss them off, nothing more. But these cats are too easygoing. It's impossible to piss them off.) My mom tries to have a water mister handy to spritz them when they're bad, but she can't always have it in her hand, and there are some places (like near electrical equipment) that a mister isn't practical.
I advised my mom to get a taser. She's thinking about it.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Post Number 111
Don't ask me what happened at post 100. I must have had an attack of apathy that day. "Meh, Post 100... everyone has 100 posts. Who cares?" Anyway, celebrating post # 111 is just as good. Hurray! I made it this far!
This also marks my 61st consecutive daily post. I've been daily since December 25, 2007. How much longer can I go on? Only time will tell.
My step-dad is back in town. Good news - he didn't get eaten by alligators. He invited Ken and I out for dinner again, but this time he's not trying to include my mom. That's a relief. I guess the reality of the situation finally sank in.
My mom is still bravely carrying on. She's now comfortable enough on her computer to be sending me e-mails. I can't tell you how shocking it is for me to receive e-mail from my mom. She's not even entirely comfortable operating a DVD player, so it's amazing that she's managed to learn Outlook. I'm proud of her.
Tinker and The Dude (my mom's cats) continue to misbehave in spectacular fashion. Last week one of them climbed up to the shelf that she'd had specially installed to keep her houseplants out of the reach of Bad Kitty Paws, and SMASH! Her favourite ceramic flowerpot was in pieces on the floor. Earth flew everywhere - down the back of a cabinet, and all over her kitchen countertop. It took her ages to tidy up.
Tinker (a.k.a. Stinker, in my books) has developed an oral fixation. He chews everything. He's gnawed through 2 phone cords. He took a chunk of wood off a carved, antique table. The other day she forgot to hide the rubber band from her daily newspaper, and he ate half of it before she realized what was going on. And last night she caught him nibbling at the filler between the wooden slats of her hardwood bedroom floor.
There is food in your dish, Stinker. Eat that, and leave my mom's stuff alone! You're driving her to distraction. Bad cat!
This also marks my 61st consecutive daily post. I've been daily since December 25, 2007. How much longer can I go on? Only time will tell.
My step-dad is back in town. Good news - he didn't get eaten by alligators. He invited Ken and I out for dinner again, but this time he's not trying to include my mom. That's a relief. I guess the reality of the situation finally sank in.
My mom is still bravely carrying on. She's now comfortable enough on her computer to be sending me e-mails. I can't tell you how shocking it is for me to receive e-mail from my mom. She's not even entirely comfortable operating a DVD player, so it's amazing that she's managed to learn Outlook. I'm proud of her.
Tinker and The Dude (my mom's cats) continue to misbehave in spectacular fashion. Last week one of them climbed up to the shelf that she'd had specially installed to keep her houseplants out of the reach of Bad Kitty Paws, and SMASH! Her favourite ceramic flowerpot was in pieces on the floor. Earth flew everywhere - down the back of a cabinet, and all over her kitchen countertop. It took her ages to tidy up.
Tinker (a.k.a. Stinker, in my books) has developed an oral fixation. He chews everything. He's gnawed through 2 phone cords. He took a chunk of wood off a carved, antique table. The other day she forgot to hide the rubber band from her daily newspaper, and he ate half of it before she realized what was going on. And last night she caught him nibbling at the filler between the wooden slats of her hardwood bedroom floor.
There is food in your dish, Stinker. Eat that, and leave my mom's stuff alone! You're driving her to distraction. Bad cat!
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Love Cats
The guys have been on duty 24/7 lately, providing my mom with lots of love and silly distractions from her ordeal.
This is Tinker:
And this is The Dude:
Tinker is the strong, silent type. He's bigger than The Dude, but he doesn't take advantage of his dominant status. He's more likely to stay calm, to observe instead of jumping right in, and to sit still on a lap for some snuggles.
The Dude is a loveable mischief-maker. He's the one who hides under the bed and attacks my mom's toes while she's changing the sheets. He'll be the first to gallop after a cat toy that's been thrown down the stairs. If you try to hang on to him for hugs, he'll squirm until you let him go.
He loves to sit on top of an old, folded-up quilt, purring, kneading it with his paws, and sucking on the edges until they're soaking wet. He also likes to get into my mom's closet and nibble at the edges of her clothes. When she puts on a blouse to go out, there's a high likelihood that the hem will be damp.
I can't wait to go back and visit with them again.
Edited to add: Much as I wish these guys were my cats, technically they are my mom's. They live with her, and I live with Ken, who is allergic to everything with fur and feathers.
This is Tinker:
And this is The Dude:
Tinker is the strong, silent type. He's bigger than The Dude, but he doesn't take advantage of his dominant status. He's more likely to stay calm, to observe instead of jumping right in, and to sit still on a lap for some snuggles.
The Dude is a loveable mischief-maker. He's the one who hides under the bed and attacks my mom's toes while she's changing the sheets. He'll be the first to gallop after a cat toy that's been thrown down the stairs. If you try to hang on to him for hugs, he'll squirm until you let him go.
He loves to sit on top of an old, folded-up quilt, purring, kneading it with his paws, and sucking on the edges until they're soaking wet. He also likes to get into my mom's closet and nibble at the edges of her clothes. When she puts on a blouse to go out, there's a high likelihood that the hem will be damp.
I can't wait to go back and visit with them again.
Edited to add: Much as I wish these guys were my cats, technically they are my mom's. They live with her, and I live with Ken, who is allergic to everything with fur and feathers.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Questions are the Lubricant of Conversation
Dear Loud Woman Who Sat Near Me In The Restaurant Last Night:
It warms my heart that you love your dogs so much. I am an animal lover too, and I am sure you are the bestest Mommy they could ever hope for.
The two other women at your table nodded politely throughout your 45-minute-long monologue, however I am guessing that they probably felt the same way as I did, which is that we really didn't need to hear about your dogs in so much detail. Especially because the details you chose to share were inappropriate for a public place of eating.
We didn't need to know the quantity of poop left by your Lab and your Husky in your back yard, and how long it takes you to pick up all the poop every week on Sunday, which is poop-harvesting day. Nor did we need to know how excited your dogs get when they see you handling their poop.
We didn't need to know about the time your Lab got into a scrap with a squirrel and sustained a significant flesh wound, which bled all over your kitchen. I'm sorry that he needed four stitches and that the vet bill was $300, but that is the cost of being a good pet-Mommy. When one of my cats decided to pick out her stitches (with her teeth) after being spayed*, at midnight on a Saturday, and we had to bring her to an emergency vet at great cost to get her sewn back up again, I did complain about it, but NOT at the dinner table. Because it was gross.
We didn't need to hear about how monumentally disgusting your Husky's farts smell after he's been out hunting and has eaten raw squirrel, bird, and heaven knows what else. We particularly didn't need a detailed visual description of what bits of the bird/squirrel the Husky leaves behind on the lawn when he's finished chowing down.
In closing, Loud Woman, you do seem like a good-hearted person. I think you just don't realize a) how far your voice carries and b) that good dinner conversation should be neither gross nor dominated by you. Questions are the lubricant of conversation. Show some interest in your dining companions! Let them get a word in edgewise! Would you give that a try?
Yours Sincerely,
S. Red.
*Anticipating the question: why would a cat pick out her own stitches? Answer: Because they were itchy. Isn't that what you would do if your stitches itched?
It warms my heart that you love your dogs so much. I am an animal lover too, and I am sure you are the bestest Mommy they could ever hope for.
The two other women at your table nodded politely throughout your 45-minute-long monologue, however I am guessing that they probably felt the same way as I did, which is that we really didn't need to hear about your dogs in so much detail. Especially because the details you chose to share were inappropriate for a public place of eating.
We didn't need to know the quantity of poop left by your Lab and your Husky in your back yard, and how long it takes you to pick up all the poop every week on Sunday, which is poop-harvesting day. Nor did we need to know how excited your dogs get when they see you handling their poop.
We didn't need to know about the time your Lab got into a scrap with a squirrel and sustained a significant flesh wound, which bled all over your kitchen. I'm sorry that he needed four stitches and that the vet bill was $300, but that is the cost of being a good pet-Mommy. When one of my cats decided to pick out her stitches (with her teeth) after being spayed*, at midnight on a Saturday, and we had to bring her to an emergency vet at great cost to get her sewn back up again, I did complain about it, but NOT at the dinner table. Because it was gross.
We didn't need to hear about how monumentally disgusting your Husky's farts smell after he's been out hunting and has eaten raw squirrel, bird, and heaven knows what else. We particularly didn't need a detailed visual description of what bits of the bird/squirrel the Husky leaves behind on the lawn when he's finished chowing down.
In closing, Loud Woman, you do seem like a good-hearted person. I think you just don't realize a) how far your voice carries and b) that good dinner conversation should be neither gross nor dominated by you. Questions are the lubricant of conversation. Show some interest in your dining companions! Let them get a word in edgewise! Would you give that a try?
Yours Sincerely,
S. Red.
*Anticipating the question: why would a cat pick out her own stitches? Answer: Because they were itchy. Isn't that what you would do if your stitches itched?
Friday, November 30, 2007
Tinker and The Dude
One of my six-month-old adopted twin brothers tried to chew through the handle of my handbag last night, when I was over at my folks’ house for a visit. I noticed before he got very far, and hid the bag in a closet.
Ha! I'm playin' with you! Were you picturing a kid? I bet you were picturing babies. But! These adopted brothers that I speak of are my parents' newest set of cats. Kittens, still. And they are soooooo cute. They are just the sweetest, shmoopiest, silly-williest lil' hushie gooshie whoooza cute wiwwle boy! Are you the cutest lil' boy? Yes you are! Yes you are!
*ahem*
Where was I? Yes. Sadly, the old set of cats both departed for the big litter box in the sky within the past year. Lucy was a stray that we found at the Humane Society. When we first met her she had ear mites, and a skin condition that had caused all the hair from her rear end to fall off. Lucy did not let her bare bum affect her self-esteem. Once she had claimed her position as Queen Of The House, she grew her pants back and ruled with a regal arrogance that could only be lovable in a cat.
Mitsou was a show cat: one of those super-fuzzy Persian breeds with her nose pushed all the way in and up between her eyeballs. She came from a proper breeder, with a pedigree. Try telling her that. All she wanted to do was prowl around out of doors, hunting mice and rooting around in dirt. Leaves and bugs got swept up in her long belly-fur and ended up inside, on my mother’s clean floors. Because of her messed-up face, (I’m telling you, it’s cruel to breed cats like that) she had no end of health problems. I got very handy at forcibly applying ear drops, eye drops, and pills to the various facial orifices of my very uncooperative patient.
(Seriously, if you need to give your cat a pill, and she keeps spitting it back out, call me. I’ll jump on a plane and come over to your place to help out. Neighbours used to call on me to give their cats their daily medications. But I digress.)
The new guys came from the Humane Society. All they do day in and day out is wrestle their way from one end of the house to the other, with stops along the way for tipping over houseplants, chewing through the phone cord, and jumping up on tables while people are trying to have a civilized dinner. Sure, they’re a little spoiled. But they’re doing everything little brothers are supposed to do: being annoying, getting into my stuff, and jumping into my lap for irresistible snuggles. And purring! Can your little brother do that?
Ha! I'm playin' with you! Were you picturing a kid? I bet you were picturing babies. But! These adopted brothers that I speak of are my parents' newest set of cats. Kittens, still. And they are soooooo cute. They are just the sweetest, shmoopiest, silly-williest lil' hushie gooshie whoooza cute wiwwle boy! Are you the cutest lil' boy? Yes you are! Yes you are!
*ahem*
Where was I? Yes. Sadly, the old set of cats both departed for the big litter box in the sky within the past year. Lucy was a stray that we found at the Humane Society. When we first met her she had ear mites, and a skin condition that had caused all the hair from her rear end to fall off. Lucy did not let her bare bum affect her self-esteem. Once she had claimed her position as Queen Of The House, she grew her pants back and ruled with a regal arrogance that could only be lovable in a cat.
Mitsou was a show cat: one of those super-fuzzy Persian breeds with her nose pushed all the way in and up between her eyeballs. She came from a proper breeder, with a pedigree. Try telling her that. All she wanted to do was prowl around out of doors, hunting mice and rooting around in dirt. Leaves and bugs got swept up in her long belly-fur and ended up inside, on my mother’s clean floors. Because of her messed-up face, (I’m telling you, it’s cruel to breed cats like that) she had no end of health problems. I got very handy at forcibly applying ear drops, eye drops, and pills to the various facial orifices of my very uncooperative patient.
(Seriously, if you need to give your cat a pill, and she keeps spitting it back out, call me. I’ll jump on a plane and come over to your place to help out. Neighbours used to call on me to give their cats their daily medications. But I digress.)
The new guys came from the Humane Society. All they do day in and day out is wrestle their way from one end of the house to the other, with stops along the way for tipping over houseplants, chewing through the phone cord, and jumping up on tables while people are trying to have a civilized dinner. Sure, they’re a little spoiled. But they’re doing everything little brothers are supposed to do: being annoying, getting into my stuff, and jumping into my lap for irresistible snuggles. And purring! Can your little brother do that?
Friday, November 16, 2007
Why I prefer cats
Why do I post about work so much? Because home is kind of boring, in a good way. In a "no news is good news" kind of way. I don't have kids and I don't have pets (thanks to Ken's allergies). I do have an array of beautiful and much-loved houseplants, but somehow I think that appreciating houseplants is one of those experiences that doesn't translate so well into prose. It's one of those "you had to be there" kind of things.
If I'm wrong, and there are crowds of green-thumbers out there who would love to hear me rhapsodize about the new blooms coming up on my azalea, just let me know.
I used to have cats. I am a cat person through and through. I appreciate dogs at a distance, with all their spontaneous, wiggly, loving energy. Up close? I can cope with a clean dog. Dogs that want bathing, or drooly dogs - ew. I wish I could explain to a dog that I don't want to touch that sticky tennis ball. Nor do I want my face licked.
Why I prefer cats: The purring. The softer, more snuggable body. The lack of drooling. The self-cleaning. The litterbox advantage. The fact that there is no domestic cat big enough to drag me down the street by its leash.
I miss having cats around the place. On the bright side, I can sit down anywhere I want in my good clothes and not get completely furry. And of course, while a litterbox is an improvement over picking up your pet's poop while it's still warm, it's pretty nice to have no litterbox at all. However, if Ken's immune system could handle it, I would not hesitate to repopulate my world with cats. The love is worth all the poop.
If I'm wrong, and there are crowds of green-thumbers out there who would love to hear me rhapsodize about the new blooms coming up on my azalea, just let me know.
I used to have cats. I am a cat person through and through. I appreciate dogs at a distance, with all their spontaneous, wiggly, loving energy. Up close? I can cope with a clean dog. Dogs that want bathing, or drooly dogs - ew. I wish I could explain to a dog that I don't want to touch that sticky tennis ball. Nor do I want my face licked.
Why I prefer cats: The purring. The softer, more snuggable body. The lack of drooling. The self-cleaning. The litterbox advantage. The fact that there is no domestic cat big enough to drag me down the street by its leash.
I miss having cats around the place. On the bright side, I can sit down anywhere I want in my good clothes and not get completely furry. And of course, while a litterbox is an improvement over picking up your pet's poop while it's still warm, it's pretty nice to have no litterbox at all. However, if Ken's immune system could handle it, I would not hesitate to repopulate my world with cats. The love is worth all the poop.
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