We have 3 litterboxes. Both cats prefer just one. That one happens to be the one in the living area, conveniently located next to the open-concept kitchen.
I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that this can make for some uncomfortable living circumstances. Even if I IMMEDIATELY place the poop in the Litter Genie (which is AHH-MAY-ZING), the potent smell of poo lingers. And lingers. And for some reason, my cats’ shit seems to be of the extra smelly variety. Adding to that is the airflow in the house, which somehow manages to disperse the disgusting aroma to all areas, even upstairs.
I’ve tried baking soda in the box. I’ve tried kitty probiotics. And my most recent foray into eliminating the foul odors emanating from my boys’ “outbox,” I bought a package of “Stool Deodorizer” treats. All-natural, of course.
Well, that was a disappointment. They might work. I wouldn’t really know because I can’t get my little brats to eat them. Moosh refuses them outright, while Taco can be tricked into kind of eating one by stacking another regular treat on top of it. I even tried burying them in the food. Moosh ate all around it and Taco left most. I hate them sometimes.
Anyone know how air purifiers work? Do they take out smells? If they don’t, the name is misleading, as a smell is really just TINY LITTLE MOLECULES of an aromatic object drifting into your nostril where it is received as a smell so in theory if the air is truly being purified, it would remove the tiny physical molecules of poo from the air. Are you disgusted yet? I’m gonna go vomit now.
You may not think that cats and cars have ANYTHING to do with each other whatsoever, save for being one letter different. You’d be wrong. See, they’re both money pits.
You know the old adage, “when it rains, it pours” – I’ve found this to be true about both.
Let’s start with cats.
Most of the time, my boys are healthy and thriving. However, I know that we’re always one sneeze/puke/bloody poop away from a vet visit. Something that is absolutely essential is to have a vet you can trust and ask a bazillion questions to and get informative answers without even a hint of an eyeroll. Someone you truly believe has your babies’ best interests at heart. I have one. This being said, while I do believe veterinarians should be paid handsomely for the work they do, my wallet says otherwise. The bills add up and up, even if you have an excellent vet who is honest about whether certain procedures are necessary. If you’re a worrier like me, you tend to fall on the cautious side and get the tests that are maybe 55% necessary, “just in case.” Then you walk out with a giant bill, and presumably, a healthy cat. Or, like me, you could go in for a simple checkup and walk out with the knowledge that one cat’s pupil is markedly larger than the other, possibly indicating a problem (this requires more tests, of course, and if I really wanted to get serious, a visit to the CAT EYE DOCTOR). It’s never just one thing. And lets not forget the constant maintenance of cat food, which seems to be getting more and more expensive.
Now onto cars.
Unless you have a brand spankin’ new car with a fancy warranty (in which case you’d also have a large car payment and the headache of the immediate depreciation driving off the lot), you have car problems. Having a trusted mechanic in your arsenal is equally as essential as having a trusted vet (I have one of these, too, and I went through a LOT of mechanics before finding Sam, who’s my godsend). Especially if you have a Volvo, which is like having a cat with special needs (okay, that’s a BIT of a stretch, but work with me here). Yesterday I went in for a new headlamp assembly (used, actually – new was a bazillion dollars) because a rock or a BB gun put a nice lil hole in the one I had. And a new hood latch, because the boyfriend broke it opening the hood to look at the headlight assembly when the hole was noticed. While I was there, I discussed having him fix a very slow oil leak that I’d been able to put off because of the very slowness of it. I’d recently noticed more oil where I park my car so I figured it was time. As he pulled my car out, there was a puddle of oil. NOT SO SLOW ANYMORE. So we bumped up that appointment. When I left, I noticed my dashboard light indicating a light out was still on. Brake light, this time. Oh, and my tires are bare. AND it’s almost time for timing belt replacement. And like the constant supply of cat food that’s needed, the car requires a constant influx of gas.
So I’ve come to the conclusion that I basically work to support my cats and my car. Neither of them appreciate it.
Ya’ll know what I’m talking about. The toys we so excitedly buy on a whim, imagination filled with visions of kitty splendor…only to be ignored entirely, not even worthy of being batted under a couch. In a twist of irony, in fact, the BEST toys get batted under the couch. I feel like these toys can never be found when you’re looking for them, but turn up in a giant stash under sometime that you only clean under once a year and then think “Oh, so THIS is where they all went!” BUT. When you look in this place at a later date to find what you now think is the honey hole of missing favorite toys, you find nary a one.
This rant is brought to you courtesy of an impulse clearance rack buy at PetSmart today. I only stopped in there to see if I could find a replacement wavy chaise longue (1. it’s really nothing like a chaise longue, it’s just a carpeted wave shape thing but the cats lie on it like I imagine I would on a chaise longue and 2. yes, I am spelling “chaise longue” correctly, it’s not “chaise lounge” as most people pronounce it – fact of the day) but alas, it was $30. Since I’ve never spent more than $20 on one, I refused to buy one for ten dollars more today, even if Moosh is out of a seat since Taco always shoves him out of the way to take the one remaining one. See, we HAD two, only someone’s fat ass broke one.
Now there’s one, and Taco keeps puking on the sisal part (ever tried to clean puke out of woven sisal?).
There I go again, wandering away from the point. The POINT is that I ended up buying some sort of natural treats that are supposed to “deodorize” your cats’ shit. Considering that the boyfriend and I actually send each other texts to warn of impending poop smells, I would have paid a small fortune for them, but to my delight they were only SIX DOLLARS! This, to me, was worth standing in line for. It was in this line that I discovered the clearance rack. For a mere 2 something I could have a TREAT DISPENSER.
I don’t know what I thought this was, but it seemed cheap, and the cats like treats, so why not?
Yeah. No. This is what it does: you put treats in it. You wind it up. Put it on the ground. It spins a few times. Scares the cats. Spits out a few treats. Stops. Cats stare. Notice treats. Hesitantly walk toward them. Eat them. Ignore the spinny thing.
I hate the brilliance of whomever discovered these impulse lanes. I know that the grocery stores have employed such tactics for years, but only recently stores have discovered that putting in a veritable MAZE of goodies and calling it a “checkout line” is highly profitable. Forever 21, Marshalls, PetSmart…I hate you.
Funny how we all have our own thing when it comes to food. I personally have a love/hate relationship with it, as it makes me fat. The funny thing is, I’m a SUPER picky eater and vegan, so in theory, it shouldn’t. But it does. For 9 weeks straight I’ve been hitting the gym regularly and not drinking beer during the week and watched the scale crawl up 1 pound at a time, and it’s maddening. I wish that I could just view food as fuel and not, you know, want it. The boyfriend has the metabolism of a…um…something that has a fast metabolism. He eats whatever he wants and remains super skinny. I hate that. I was almost thankful for a stomach bug earlier this week that made me very unhungry for a few days.
But enough about me, this is about the cats. Moosh is looking pretty hefty these days. I know he’s not as active as Taco, which is fine, but he’s also the one who gets pushed out of his own food because Captain Stuffmyface already finished his and wants to hijack his brother’s. Which, in turn, leaves me with a very whiny kitty half an hour later when Moosh discovers that he has not, in fact, had enough to eat. So then I have to feed him again, and try to keep Taco away. Taco, despite eating two helpings, gained exactly one ounce in the year between vet visits. Go figure.
I wonder where picky eating comes from. I know I drove my parents crazy as a kid, because I was the only person on the face of the planet who didn’t like pizza, I refused to eat onions, and although I eventually came around to both of those, I still dislike mushrooms. It’s a texture thing. Moosh has been picky from the start. He doesn’t particularly care for wet food, and I went through a ton of brands of dry until he finally decided he liked one. Then Taco had to go on the crap prescription food, and fortunately, Moosh was ok with that, because it seemed like the organic food I was feeding both of them made Taco puke. Seriously, he is a beast of a puker. I have to give him Pepcid. So Moosh likes the crap food most. And he won’t even eat real turkey. Taco, on the other hand, will even eat TOFUrkey. So where does this all start? Is it in our genes or is it learned?
I honestly think I have the loudest cat in the entire world. Taco seems to just get louder and louder and louder and louder. And NEVER EVER STOPS. Is it possible for a cat to get more needy as time goes on? It almost seems like the more attention we give him, the more he requires. I’m ok with the meowing sometimes, on occasion I even find it cute. But he overdoes it.
I hate to constantly reference the show My Cat From Hell, but I recently saw an episode featuring a cat that was overly attached to his humans and freaked every time they left…to the point that it would perch in the (2nd story) window anxiously awaiting their return…and once fell out. For all of my confidence in my feline knowledge, I really had no idea that cats could suffer separation anxiety. Hell, their attention span seems worse than mine, and that’s saying a lot. So I wondered for a bit if this was Taco’s problem. We already know his wires are a little crossed anyway with the Idiopathic Cystitis. But he has his brother all day, and while both me and the boyfriend work two jobs, one or both of us is usually home for a bit between them and even when we’re here more often than that, he still gets all in yo’ face.
I suppose I’m not going to get any answers. The boyfriend got so annoyed last night he told Taco “I can’t wait until you get old and lazy and do nothing except lay around all day.” I second that.
But then, when that happens, I’ll probably want a kitten.
The cats were mildly disturbed by the firecrackers. Granted, it was mostly because some punk kids were setting them off extraordinarily close to my front door, so close in fact that the boyfriend and I stood outside and looked menacing until they moved on.
Still, they didn’t seem TOO worse for the wear. Unless you count the fact that the next morning Taco was nowhere to be found as I got ready for work, which is pretty much unheard of. I spent 10 minutes looking for him only to find him downstairs sauntering towards me as if he didn’t spend EVERY SINGLE MORNING EVER meowing at my feet while I try to dress myself at 5 in the morning.
Never a dull moment, eh?
Anyway, my 4th was mostly rained out. Plus I had to work in the morning. That was fun, especially after getting not a lot of sleep thanks to the aforementioned punk kids and their firecrackers.
Here I go, blaming the cats for things again.
My neck has been killing me since Monday. The kind of hurt that makes it almost impossible to turn one’s head. It’s been really fun checking my blind spot while driving. It’s feeling a little better today, but as I was going through my photos, I realized that I captured PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE pointing the finger straight at Moosh Moosh.
Yes, my “good son” is apparently to blame for my latest injury.
The photo below was taken last Saturday night. At the time, I thought, “How adorable. My son loves me SO MUCH. I’m so very lucky to have this lil snugglebunny in my life!”
I see now that this was step 1 of the evil plan.
Sunday night. Gettin’ all up in my bidness. I still vaguely found it cute, but I was wondering if he was trying to take over my pillow entirely. It was a bit uncomfortable for me, but he’s my kid, and mothers have to sacrifice for the greater good sometimes.
It was all part of the master plan. The way I see it, this angel-faced devil hatched up this plan in order to force me to sleep in an awkward position which he knew would result in a stiff neck, keeping me out of my night job so that I would be home to spend time with them and feed them at an earlier time.
On the other hand, he’s not that smart. Maybe Taco was behind it all.
As a mother of any species can tell you, you know when something’s a little off with your children. And despite the fact that my brats are never really what I’d call “all there,” they’re acting weirder than usual. I don’t know if it’s the fact that they had their parents home for a whole 5 days or the weather or if they’re just feeling their age as a result of their recent birthdays, but even the boyfriend’s noticed. It’s not anything I can put my finger on. Just some weird crap here and there.
Moosh will stop in a part of the room he usually won’t (yeah, I notice this crap) and stare at me. Usually he just waits by his food bowl and stares. He’s also being really needy. Following us around and looking at us pitifully for attention.
Taco can’t sit still. He’s in my face 24/7, and when he’s not, he’s in weird places, like my closet (this is Moosh’s usual haunt) and in Moosh’s basket (also, as you might have gathered by the title of the resting place, Moosh’s). Taco’s also started kneading me when he lays on me in bed. Yes, I know this is a NORMAL cat activity, but he’s never really been much of a kneader (Jackson Galaxy calls this “smurgling” but never explained if that’s some sort of scientific term — it seems like an odd choice for a serious scientist to choose, but whatever) and he does it ON me. I’m fairly certain that my skin isn’t as rewarding to smurgle on as, say, a cushy blanket. I don’t mind it so much. It’s more like a change-up pitch in baseball. Throwin’ a fast ball at me forever and now you’re going to throw a slider? You know what? That’s a horrible analogy. I’m assuming you get the point.
I don’t know what this all means, but it throws me off. And I hate change.
It’s day 1 of our mini vacay. I couldn’t REALLY sleep in because I had an eye appointment early-ish anyway, but Taco wasn’t having any of that. SIX THIRTY. A-hole.
This is Taco last night. He’s practically dead. Why can’t he be like this early in the morning?
Now the boyfriend and I are too lazy to go to the beach. Rather, I had everything kinda ready and the boyfriend said “Why don’t we be lazy today and go tomorrow.” I was TRYING to be un-lazy. It didn’t take much to twist my arm. I’m pining for the great weather I see outside, but…I have 4 more days, right? Why is it so much harder to force yourself to do things the older you get? I’m tempted to buy a kiddie pool so I can lay out back and dip my feet in. That’s pretty much the ultimate in laziness.
We did, at least, go to a beach bar yesterday. That’s something.
Not WITH THEM with them, just their pictures. See, I got some of my instagram pics printed out, and I was planning to transfer them to canvas for some DIY art pieces.
Only it turns out that you’re supposed to use pictures printed on regular paper from a laser printer. Not photo paper. Good going, me.
So I’m going to attempt to modpodge them to the canvases and get it done that way. I’m so stubborn. We’ll see how this turns out. Especially with my “helpers” – i.e. the furry ones who get really curious particularly about anything I don’t want them around.
I have big plans. We’ll see how this goes.
As you can see, Taco is already being very helpful by playing with the bags of supplies I picked up this morning.
I think I would have been better off going to the beach.
Update: all of the square canvases I bought are 1/4th of an inch bigger than the damn pictures. “Measure twice, cut once” is awfully good advice, but I suck horribly at following it. In fact, I’m more like “Vaguely measure, make it fit.” This is probably why I’m not rich and famous for my handmade goods.