Category: #kittymommy
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BABIES!
Today is the shared birthday of my baby boys.
Gawd, Moosh looks like a fatty.
The boyfriend refuses to believe this is possible. Moosh’s birthday is, of course, not as definite, since he was found as a kitten after being thrown out of a car, but given that Taco was birthed behind my friend’s house, I DO know this for a fact. Whatever, they don’t care when their birthdays are. As long as they get extra treats, they’re ecstatic. I don’t know how to bake cat cakes, or else I would. Maybe hash brownies with catnip instead of hash? I don’t know how to make hash brownies, either. I’m pretty sure chocolate is bad for cats, too. Well. They’ll just have to deal with a little extra love today. Crap, I think I need to buy them wet food, too. Boy, I’m an awesome mommy.
Moving on. Moosh Moosh is officially an old man at 5, which in cat years is 37.
Does he always have to be sitting on something black?
He’s older than ME! But still younger than the boyfriend. HAH!
Taco is still a little younger than me, 3 actual years, 29 in cat years.
My little Billy Idol.
Shouldn’t he be running out of steam yet? He thinks he’s still a kitten. I just tried telling him that and he looked at me, then continued to lick his foot. Ah, to not care about one’s age! Then again, I think I’m still in my twenties. At what age is it no longer appropriate to wear neon? I hope never. I’m not a fan of Chico’s or Ann Taylor Loft. But I don’t want to end up looking like those ladies who can’t let go of their youth, wearing midriffs and stripper heels. Please smack me if I’m ever that lady.
I suggested taking the kitties to the beach for their birthday, after all, it’s one big litter box…but they hate fresh air, and probably water. Oh well.
Vacation hi-jinx.
Despite the fact that I’m only on half vacation until 3pm tomorrow, I’m trying to make the most of my off time. So far, I’ve accomplished very little, except that I’ve actually been to the gym EVERY DAY this week! So what if it’s only Tuesday? This is still something to give accolades for. Yay me.
I also spent some quality time with my mom and my other cats today. By this I mean one allowed me to maneuver under a chair to pet him and the other demanded attention to his fat belly.
The fat powers the lasers.
The mother is not used to having my undivided attention, so as usual, she forgot everything she was saving up to talk to me about. But we had a lovely time anyway, going through books and old photos. And I did all her “tech” stuff. You can lead a horse to an iPhone, but you can’t make em update it. 
Then I came home. To a Taco that seems to be extra loud. He’s been meowing up a storm lately. I am ready to punch him. I won’t, of course, but I threaten him anyway. He meows in response. I’m considering not coming home at all tomorrow.
I plan to spend the rest of the time off with the boyfriend. Hopefully on the beach. I stockpiled a crapload of books (it pays to have a mommy with a bookstore when you’re a bookworm) and I even bought a fancy new towel that slides right on to your beach chair. Please hold out, weather!
Happy Mother’s Day to ME.
Yep. It’s that day again. The day we all celebrate our moms. And deservedly so. The mothers of the world do so much for us (and put up with a lot of brats like me). I appreciate my mommy every day of the year, except, of course, when I’m trying to get off the phone with her. This is a common mom thing, I hear. I think there’s a secret school for it somewhere. You have to start at least 15 minutes before you absolutely HAVE to get off the phone.
But enough about that. I know I posted something like this last year on Mother’s Day, but it’s worth saying again.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO THE KITTY MOMMIES!
My oldest.
You’re underappreciated. Especially those of you with special needs kitties. It’s not often understood why someone would take on caring for a pet who needs so much help. I really want to punch people who think that animals with problems should just be “put down” because after all, “they’re just animals.” One of these days, I probably WILL punch someone for saying that. And I’ll be ok with it.
One of my fellow bloggers has a paraplegic cat. I admire the hell out of her for it. It warms my heart that there ARE people out there who don’t need to be punched. On the newest episode of My Cat From Hell, the trouble cat had a neurological disorder that made it positively heartbreaking to watch him attempt to walk. And only one eye. But he had someone that took him in and gave him the life he couldn’t have gotten on his own, or maybe even with another caretaker who wouldn’t have had the patience to love and care for him. And despite the fact that he was hell-bent on tormenting the other cat, she never in a million years would give up her baby.
He thinks he’s king.
Taco is vaguely special needs. He also has a neurological disorder (that makes him pee where he’s not supposed to when he has a flare-up), but it’s not life-threatening and while it wears my patience extremely thin sometimes, I wouldn’t trade him for the world. He’s my baby. So is Moosh Moosh, despite being what I’m pretty sure can only be described as “a little slow.” I love them just as hard as I would love my own flesh and blood.
So. To the responsible, loving, amazing cat moms — *I* appreciate you. And I’m giving myself a little pat on the back today, too. Because we deserve it.
My babies. They sometimes fill my heart with joy.
I hate crying.
I watched My Cat From Hell last night.
Spoiler alert: The cat had cancer. Why don’t ya throw me for a loop there, Jackson? CRY CITY.
In honor of the lovely lady who had such a big heart that she took in this stray feral cat that for two years did nothing but eat and hide and strike at her, I am going to ignore the fact that Taco woke me up yesterday with a well-placed paw on a sore ab muscle and focus on how lucky I am to be in a position to have rescued the kitties that I have and that my boys give me love and affection (for the most part) in return.
I also don’t have much else to write about today, so this is a picture tribute.
Oh, and the kitty got surgery that removed all the cancer and with Jackson’s help, he even got domesticized enough to let the lady pet him. Hopefully that road continues to be a rewarding one for her. You go, girl. And props to the husband, who didn’t really understand her need to help this cat but went along with it all anyway. Ugh. I’m tearing up again just thinking about it all.
Taco in a box.
Tuckered out from giving SO MUCH LOVE!
My two adorable baby boys.
I’m annoyed.
My cats are being assholes today.
Sure, he LOOKS cute.
Taco slept on my stomach like an angel, up until about 5am when he puked on the bed. Then I woke up again at 7am because I heard him eating plastic. I don’t even know where he gets this crap. Discovered the puke on the bed also contained plastic. Thanks.
Moosh Moosh has been meowing all morning. Except since he doesn’t really meow, it’s more like whiny chirping. I’m trying to work at my desk for once (instead of on the bed with the laptop) because I really don’t feel like working and I have to work because I need to finish this work before tomorrow and finish it early today because I’m going to see Jim Jeffries tonight. (I am SO SO SUPER EXCITED about this! And even more excited because it’s a 6pm show, perfect for an ol’ lady who has to work in the morning. He’s really funny, and also really offensive, so if you don’t like offensive Aussies, don’t bother looking him up. I happen to love everything as offensive as it can possibly be.) But Moosh is jumping up on my desk in my face and getting cat hair in my eyes and dander in my nose and I’m already allergy-crazy today. Dick.
Have also caught Taco on the counter today, trying to get into the box of Cheerios. I can’t possibly imagine that he thought this was a good idea.
Shortly after, he was caught on the wire shelving we have in the kitchen. This is quite tricky, as he doesn’t have good footing there. Again, not sure what he thought he was going to get out of this.
He’s no angel either.
And I still don’t feel like working. BAH.
My biological clock knows my furry kids are enough.
We’re gettin’ serious today.
The older I get, the more I get confused as to why my biological clock isn’t yearning to procreate. After all, the boyfriend and I are in a stable relationship (stability is relative after 10 years). We’re far from rich but people raise children on far less; my mother did without taking any help (except child support, that’s a given). We’re not married, not because either of us are afraid of commitment (I think 10 years kinda proves that) but a) because neither of us are religious, therefore there’s no “living in sin” or any of that business, b) it’s cheaper to break up than get divorced and besides, it’s pretty clear that neither of us are going anywhere (right, honey?) and c) I adore being the center of attention so in light of A and B, the most fun part of getting married would be to have a wedding for ME, with a fancy dress and all sorts of selfish things, all of which are expensive, and I refuse to go into debt in order to do something that’s completely unnecessary.
But I don’t seem to want children. My best friend has a beautiful (not so little anymore, she’s almost taller than her mom now) girl, she was young and it was unexpected but from the moment she gave birth, she became this amazing mom whose world revolved around her baby. I’ve known her forever, so when I went to visit her and her newborn in the hospital for the first time, I saw the transformation. While I was awed that she made that little baby, I felt nothing more than aunty pride and love for my friend and her new addition. I don’t see babies and start cooing. In fact, I don’t even know how to treat babies, and for that matter, children. Do you talk to them like adults? Do you baby talk? Do you ignore them when they’re running underfoot? Do you pay attention to every single word they say? (If you’ve been around kids, you’ll know about that age when they never stop talking and asking questions regardless of anyone paying attention to them).
But cats. I see cats and I want to take them home with me. Cats I connect with.
A face only a kitty mommy could love.
I constantly wonder if I’m making a mistake. If one day I’m going to regret not having children. I’m 31 now. I expected that when I got older, more WANT would kick in. It’s not. Frankly, the idea of pregnancy alone scares the shit out of me. Nine months without a beer, even on a really bad day. Morning sickness. People touching my belly without asking. Swollen feet. And BIRTH. Gah.
And when THAT unpleasantness is over, you’re suddenly responsible for a LIFE. And it’s not just the responsibility of keeping them alive, although that’s rather important. You have to decide how to raise them. Worry about how the decisions you make will form them. I’m incredibly happy with the way I turned out, and I thank my parents for that, but I also know there’s a large genetic component there, one that I can’t control. What if my kids are nerdy and unpopular? I wasn’t the most popular kid in school, and I had my fair share of bullying, which I think most people do, but it made me stronger and I learned how to stand up for myself. I learned how to find friends that were like me and not worry about being popular. What if my kid doesn’t flourish?
I read an article this week written by a woman who regretted having children. She was incredibly open about it and although at some points I felt she was a little too callous and seemed to have a bit of a superiority complex, it made me feel better. Having a child doesn’t come with a 30-day trial. If after 9 months, I find that my “mommy instinct” doesn’t kick in, what then? It seems to me like an awfully big gamble.
Cats I can do. Cats fit with my own selfishness. They’re there when I need them (and often when I don’t) but can take care of themselves, and can do so as soon as they’re weaned. They don’t have to wait for me to take them outside to poop. They’ll go when they please.
People don’t understand this. They tell me I should want kids. That cats aren’t a substitute. Well you know what? Fuck you. Humans aren’t all they’ve cracked up to be. And there’s plenty of us out there. Too many, in fact. Kids are cute. I like them. But I also like giving them back. I love my “me” time. Cats don’t take much effort. Some food, some love, some play, and I can go about my day. I feel rewarded.
Sometimes I wish I wanted kids so I wouldn’t have to wonder about my future regret. But I can’t justify “giving it a go” only to find our that I was right in my own self-realization all along. It’s a life we’re talking about. Who wants to grow up feeling unwanted?
The road to the vet is not a quiet one.
Yesterday was Taco vet day. Just a yearly checkup thing. He’s been fairly healthy. Annoying, but that’s not a health issue. Only in regards to my mental state.
Getting Taco to the vet is a two-person job. I knew he wasn’t going to go quietly, so I asked the boyfriend to do the prep work and have him ready to go. However, the little MFer immediately ran under the bed when the carrier came out, at which point it required both of us to tag team the effort. Upon getting him in the carrier, he immediately began thrashing about. Not even out of the house yet. Then the meowing started. Then the meowing didn’t stop.
It’s a 15-minute drive. Of loud.
Big Mouth in action.
Of course, I then began embarking on the futile effort of soothing him with calming words. And I continued to despite the fact that it did absolutely nothing. Although I did discover that he answered me in different tones here and there, which amused me. It seemed that saying his name resulted in a slightly lower volume, but only the 1st two meows. The 3rd went back to gutteral. We continued like this all the way into the vet, where he announced himself loudly upon being carried in.
Thus begins part 3 of the vet experience. The shakes. For all of Taco’s bravado, he’s a big freaking baby. He scrunches into one corner of his carrier and shivers. With an occasional loud meow, attracting all onlookers to comment on what an adorable cat he is, which at this point, doesn’t even fill me with mommy pride because now everyone can see what a wussy cat I’ve raised.
Part 4. The exam room.
Here he is on the exam table, refusing to look at me.
Still uncooperative. Still meowing. The vet and the vet assistant have trouble holding him. He is really quite a talented squirmer. I will give him credit for not lashing out with claws. Except that would kinda be less wussy. Despite his best efforts (and a loud, random meow on the scale), I learned that he was healthy, that he gained an ounce (this I don’t understand, he eats everything) and that he runs hot at the vet from all the shaking and flustering. Oh, then the vet noticed one pupil was larger than the other and suggested I take him to an animal ophthalmist (however the hell you spell that. I’m not looking it up.). I’m not overly concerned about this. My eyes do that too. My eye doc said it’s unlikely I have a brain tumor because I’d know it by now. But nonetheless, we threw on FeLV and FIV testing into the bloodwork just in case, because he’s only been tested for those once.
Then I paid the bill. Now I’m broke. That’s a whole other story for another post (although I will add that I wasn’t OVERcharged, he’s just expensive). And Taco still hasn’t gotten a job to pay his way. I’m not taking him to a cat eye doc until he earns his damn keep.
There was, however, this lovely view from the exam room. That cat looks quiet. Jealous.
Can you teach old cats new tricks?
My mom is redoing her bathroom. While that may sound very fancy, please keep in mind that it is actually her ONLY bathroom, and has never been updated the entire time she’s lived there, save for some well-meaning wall painting I once started and never finished. And it’s rather small. Despite the fact that it’s rather small, she also shares it with the kitties’ shitbox and food dishes. I’m not sure at what point we decided this was a good place for these (I was 16 and living at home then so I have to assume part of the blame), or how much smaller the bathroom must have felt sharing it with two cats and a teenager, but this is where it has remained for two cats and 15 years.
Fatty making the stinkface.
Now, Fatty is, well, fat. And gettin’ up there in years. He also has longish hair and he’s too fat to lick his butt. Little is just weird. One of them is peeing/pooping outside the box at random intervals. Clean box, no less. This is, of course, frustrating, but I think it’s a frequent occurrence
What’s my dearly beloved madre planning to do, she says?
Have a cat door built in the back door so that they have free access to the sun porch and put the box out there.
This, on the surface, seems like a splendid idea. Fatty always runs (he’s pretty freaking fast for his size) out the back door when it’s open and chills out there. It’s totally enclosed, and other than not being insulated or air conditioned, it ensures the kitties remain indoor ones (as they all should be).
But. The ages of these cats. I don’t know that you can just pick up and move a litterbox that’s been in one place for as long as they’ve been alive. And while I can see Fatty venturing out through this new door, Little spends all his time hiding. He’s really not very adventurous. I’ve been trying to think about what Jackson Galaxy would say, and all I can think of is that he would say something like humans live around cats, not the other way around, so don’t stress them out by moving everything around. However, he HAS had people on the show move boxes around. And wouldn’t the kitties feel better doing their business without a human doing THEIR business staring at them?
So what do you think? Are they too old to move the crapboxes around? Or will they adapt? Will they like the cat door? What happens if only one of them likes the cat door? How big is the cat door going to have to be to accommodate Fatty?
Lookit this giant fleshy mound of fur.
This is the first time I’ve ever had (yeah, they’re still mine even though I don’t live with them anymore) a cat this old, so I don’t know how set in their ways they are. I rely on you, dear readers, with your multitudes of cats and experiences. Don’t let me down.
Bohemian Rhapsody = Music to Annoy Your Cats By
Fun lil fact about Freddy Mercury: he was a crazy cat lady. He wrote a song for one of his many, and even had a “waistcoat” (it looks like a vest to me, but what do I know?) painted with all of his cats.
What a lovely man. And thoroughly missed. They just don’t make music like that anymore.
I’m sure Mr. Mercury would not be all that pleased (or maybe he would, who knows) to learn that I like to use one of his songs as accompaniment to cat torture.
How did this start?
Try holding your cat.
YOU LOVE MOMMY.
If yours are anything like mine, they will struggle, as if they are saying “Let me gooooo!”
That’s where it starts. I’ll start singing this to them as I attempt to force their wriggling bodies to sit on my lap.
“Mamma mia, mamma mia, mamma mia let me go”
“NO! I will not let you go! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!”
This goes on until I’m sick of this particular exchange. As my cats are named Taco and Moosh, it’s only right that I use their names here:
Taco Moosh, Taco Moosh, can you do the fandango? THUNDERBOLTS OF LIGHTNING VERY VERY FRIGHTENING EEE!
I’m certifiable.
Kitties for my birthday.
It’s my birthday! I’m thirty-one. I have officially been old enough to drink legally for TEN YEARS. My god, that thought is horrifying. I remember how far away 21 seemed when I longed to be able to buy my own beer, and now I’m 10 years from that on the other side.
If you’re wondering why I’m writing a blog post instead of doing something fun and exciting to celebrate, it’s because it’s miserable outside. The weather is always a little flaky on my birthday but it’s not usually outright COLD. And it’s cold. Sunny, but windy and and cold. And since I’m still expelling an ungodly amount of mucus, I’m not willing to suffer through it for even a spring training baseball game, which the boyfriend lovingly offered up even though his back’s all screwed up and I know he isn’t impressed with the weather either. Now that I think about it, it was really windy on my birthday last year too, but it was HOT. I passed up a beach day because of the wind since getting sandblasted is NOT fun (I was also really hungover). So I’m here with the boyfriend, who is laying in bed with his bad back, and the kitties, who are sleeping on the couch next to me and in the cubby hole of the cat tree. 
The boyfriend took me to get vegan pancakes this morning only for us to discover that the place serving the vegan pancakes is in fact no longer open. It was a truly lovely thought, though. And he got me vegan cupcakes!
Apparently everyone knows what I like, as most of my cards are cat-related. 
One meows the birthday song, which confused the hell out of the boys. Searching all over for the singing kitties.
I also got this amazing book, I Could Pee on This.
I also got a Richard Dawkins books, of which the title could ironically also refer to cats.
Poems by a cat. I assume they were dictated to a human. I had fun annoying the boyfriend while reciting some of them to him. Highly amused.
Except for the stupid weather, I feel loved and adored in my advanced age. I’ve had well-wishes and presents from all over, particularly on facebook, which makes one feel rather popular. Tonight I will drink with some friends and will attempt some sort of moderation, as hangovers have only gotten worse for me the older I get. We’ll see how that works.
MEOW hear this! 