Tagged: black cat

Forced brotherly love.

It’s afternoon, so it’s kitty sleepy time. Taco was asleep in the computer chair, while Moosh was in his makeshift cat bed that wasn’t supposed to be a cat bed but converted to one once I realized that he was going to continue to use it as a cat bed whether I liked it or not.

 

The boyfriend wanted to sit in the computer chair occupied by sleeping Taco, so he picked him up without disturbing his position and placed him right on top of sleeping Moosh.

 

What happened?

 

Nothing.

The afternoon sleepy is the sleepiest of all. They were both too sleepy to protest. I was surprised that neither of them moved, and even more surprised when they STILL didn’t move while I got my phone and snapped some pictures.

Whatevs. Crazy humans.

Another picture? Yup.

After about 10 minutes of this, Moosh had enough, stood up, which annoyed Taco, and moved to the box next to the bed. Taco, being annoyed, grabbed on to his back leg and tried to swipe him but both were really too tired to pursue anything more and resumed sleeping. Which they’re still doing. I wish I slept that well.

Busted!

Most of the time, Moosh and Taco live separate existences. Except, of course, when they’re fighting. They’re well-matched in that regard, they’re about the same weight although Moosh is more bulk and Taco is long and lean. I don’t worry about it much until Moosh meows his wussy ass “mreep” and then I break it up. Otherwise there’s no hissing involved, and the only sound is the snapping of jaws and paw swipes making contact. Oh, and Moosh’s huffs. He does that when he’s really pissed.

 

So the other morning I woke to something heavy on my feet. Heavier than a cat. What’s heavier than one cat?

Caught on camera.

 

TWO CATS. That’s right, these so-called tough guys got busted spooning. SPOONING! So glad I had my phone next to the bed.

Kids? Yeah, I have furry ones.

I’m 30, and I’m pretty sure if my biological clock was going to start ticking, it would have by now. Granted, my mom was 38 when she had me so I probably have time to change my mind if I so desire.

But I’m pretty sure I won’t.

I don’t get all goo-goo-ga-ga over kids. Sure, they’re cute, but I’ll take my cats any day. They depend on my for food and attention but for the most part, they’re pretty self sufficient. I don’t have to take them to school or make them do their homework. I don’t have to worry that they’re hanging out with a bad crowd. I don’t have to let them borrow my car. Not that kids are BAD, by any means, but I think they’re not for me. I’ve heard the whole “Oh, when you actually have one, you’ll understand.” Ok, but what if I DON’T? There’s no 30-day trial period where I can decide “Eh, this just isn’t a good fit” and stuff it back in there. There’s no going back. And on top of that, there’s 9 months of morning sickness, swollen feet, kicking baby to get through first. And if that wasn’t enough, let’s throw in labor pains and the actual process of shoving a watermelon through…well…you get the idea. I’m crossing my legs just thinking about it.

How cute is my lil baby? I mean, come ON.

Cats? I’ll goo-goo-ga-ga over them every time. There’s something so innocent and loving about them that doesn’t turn into teenage angst someday. I love being a cat mom. But in some respects, I think it’s a hard choice because unlike kids, you’re almost guaranteed to outlive them. So theoretically I’m setting myself up for repeated heartbreak. I’ve been there. We put our beloved 1 1/2-year-old baby Jager to sleep after a month or so of tests, medicine x-rays and a surgery ruled out everything except Feline Infectious Perionitis. There’s no test for it, because cats can carry the virus that causes it without it ever turning into FIP, so a positive result doesn’t necessarily mean that’s what it is. There’s also no cure. It’s fatal. It was an extended heartbreak because every test carried a little bit of hope that just got smashed, and the dread slowly built until it was settled. There’s another thing you don’t have to do with human kids. Decide if euthanasia is the humane choice. Yeah, there’s the decision to take off life support but you’re not actually giving the orders to essentially cause the death. And worse, you have to decide WHEN. Too soon? Too late?

Even when he was really sick, my lil boy loved sleeping in the newspaper bin. I miss you, kittania.

I know there are people who don’t feel the way I do about the furry babies. People who wouldn’t think twice about putting a cat to sleep. But this is me, and the older I get, the more I think I was meant to be a cat mom. I know the parents want grandkids, but frankly, I think I’m too selfish for that kind of commitment. There are days when even scooping out a litterbox is too much of a bother. How the hell would I deal with diaper changes and 3am feedings? And GODDAMN how do people afford children? The boyfriend and I both work two jobs, and while we don’t make crazy money, I’m pretty sure our incomes are above average. I couldn’t possibly see how we could add that expense in. Hell, I don’t know how my mom did it.

There are plenty of kids in this world. Ones that go hungry. Ones that are abused. Ones that are homeless. In some ways I feel that it would be pretty selfish of me to bring another one into this world just so I could pass on my (admittedly amazing) genes.

For now, I’m good with things the way they are. I haven’t even come to terms with the fact that I, myself, am an adult now. I just bought a pair of ballet shoes on a whim. Am I taking dance lessons? No. I just want to play dress-up, apparently. I’m obviously unfit for motherhood.

It’s hard to write a blog with a cat on your lap.

Yet here I am, writing a blog with a purring Taco curled up like my lap is the only place in the world that’s remotely comfortable. And even that’s a stretch, because he keeps getting up and readjusting and flopping down like his legs are broken. Taco’s a funny cat. He doesn’t do anything halfway. I give him mad props for that. When he loves you, he REALLY REALLY REALLY loves you. When he’s playing with a giant moth, he’s going to play with that hideous thing until…well…until I pick it up and throw it outside. I couldn’t find it half the time, and the few occasions that I did, it was in Taco’s mouth and that just plain grossed me out. I’m really not sure how that thing was even alive, but it was flap-flap-flapping away. Wasn’t really going anywhere. But it sure was fun for Taco. Moosh just kind of tagged along when he felt like it. I guess it was too much work for him to have any real part in it. Besides, Moosh’s specialty is attacking moving lights. He’d starve in the real world. I think he’s a little “special.”

Moosh LOOOOOVES his pillow time.

Cat is off my lap. That’s good, because he made a horrible armrest. Too furry.

Taco on my lap, one day when it was sunny. Fun fact: he will only sit on my lap while I’m sitting at the desk.

It’s a rainy, crappy day today and I don’t feel inspired by anything. So this is just some random musings. I didn’t even get to do my weekly retail therapy at Le Boutique Target today. There was thunder and lightning. Lots of it. Sure, I’ve got galoshes for the rain part, but I’m not willing to test out my lightning strikeability anytime soon.

 

So. Lazy boyfriend, lazy cats, lazy me. Anyone doing anything fun and sunshiny? Don’t tell me, I don’t wanna hear about it. Sigh.

 

Taco is a FOUL beast. Ugh.

Cat-related injuries. It’s an epidemic.

I am a klutz. I’ve always been a klutz. I trip over things it should be impossible to trip over, I run into things that weren’t even remotely in my way and I’m covered in bruises.

 

There was the time that I got off a machine at the gym, bent down to pick up my bag and smashed my forehead into the arm that holds the plates on the leg press that was next to me. That left a dent. I was shocked it didn’t split my head open.

 

I put a knife through my hand emptying the dishwasher. That was two stitches.

I know. It’s kinda gross.

 

I sliced my shin open moving a broken mirror while trying on outfits for my 7th grade picture day. Stitches…haute couture accessory!

 

I fell off a docked sailboat while getting off onto the dock, straddling the rope that moored it — resulting in the only broken bone I’ve ever had — tailbone. At least I think I broke it, I couldn’t sit for weeks. It still aches a little while doing lunges.

 

Last night I caught my thumb in the door hinge while closing it. Not sure how I did that, really.

 

These are just a few examples of why I own the title “Princess Grace.”

 

So. WHY do I have cats that add to the injury tally? Today, I closed my foot in the door because I thought I stepped on one of them and put my weight back on the foot that I was in the process of moving out of the way of the closing door. This wasn’t REALLY the cats’ fault, the rug had bunched up and that’s what I stepped on…but if the cats didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have thought I stepped on one.

He is TRYING to kill me.

 

So many times I’ve had to attempt extreme body contortion to grab the railing of the stairs while going down or up when a cat ran underfoot. Countless pulled muscles there.

 

I’ve had more than one lovely black and blue mark from the cats chasing each other at full speed and I had the AUDACITY to have my leg in the way. Those little buggers have really hard heads. This also causes a rise in my anxiety levels as I watch for signs of concussion. I don’t even know if cats get concussed, yet this is a valid concern for me.

 

And the scratches. Dear lord. I have more scar tissue than…I don’t know, someone with a lot of scar tissue. Moosh is usually pretty good with the perching on the shoulders but every once in awhile he loses his footing and my chest gets the bloody end of the stick. My most unfavorite is when I’m holding one or the other and something spooks them, resulting in an unwelcome claw stuck in the skin, while I frantically try to stop the spooked cat from flailing and attempting to remove said claw with the least amount of damage possible. And it’s always somewhere fleshy and painful, like a boob or armpit.

See that evil look?

 

My conclusion is this: my cats will outlive me.

Bad kitty mommy again.

This picture of Moosh in a kitty bed on the human bed does not relate to my story at all. Just felt like throwing it in here.

I have been a bad kitty mommy this week. I’ve been so busy and cranky and having to deal with a bazillion things that I didn’t notice the litter box was at capacity. The other night, Taco loudly made his displeasure known. When I realized the cause of his discontent, I went over to deal with it. But the Litter Genie was full, so that took some extra time to re-set.
I noticed Taco had stopped meowing. Why? Because he was peeing on the couch. Yes, we have puppy pads there for this very reason, but he TRIED to hold it. From the sheer volume of pee there, I assume he’d been holding it for quite awhile. Those puppy pads kinda suck, too, his paws were wet — so I panicked and did what everyone (I think everyone, anyway) would do…I marched him to the bathroom to attempt a paw washing in the sink. This did not go over well. I got a couple of vague rinses in and gave up, tried to dry them off with toilet paper and promptly locked him in the bathroom for what I thought would be an appropriate amount of time for him to clean himself up and not get cat pee smell everywhere. As I did that, he meowed weirdly, in a way that sent me into yet another panic that I had hurt in somehow in the sink struggle.

 

I think he was just traumatized, because he seems to be fine now.

 

It’s been awhile since he peed on the couch, but it’s just as frustrating and even more so because I could have prevented it. I mean, living your life with a shower curtain and puppy pads on your couch is hardly a way to live…and I didn’t need to make matters worse. Of course, it pissed off the boyfriend too (who yes, could have cleaned the litter box as well) which I do understand…after all, he did buy the couches and all. But he’s a cat (Taco, not the boyfriend), and it’s mostly my fault anyway.

 

This week has just been unpleasant overall. But this always raises my spirits:

Furry bed.

So we’d had the same duvet cover for like 4 years, and I was getting bored with it. It’s nice enough, brown and tan in a damask pattern, but I was bored and ready to change things up a bit.

Moosh hoggin’ up the old duvet cover

I wanted some sort of gray comforter, but it would seem that those are rather hard to find, and as the story of my life goes, every one that I found and liked was astronomically priced. I swear, it really is a curse to be blessed with such amazing taste and no riches to back it up. Thanks a lot, parents. Geez. If you were relying on ME to make the millions, you would have been better off trading off some of the smarts for a little more drive. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m just talented enough at things that I feel I don’t really need to work on them as well as not driven enough to exploit said talents.

I digress. This is about our comforter. So anyway, I ended up settling on a nice black duvet cover. I was KIND of disappointed with it because the fabric was so thin, but that’s besides the point. It’s also rather disgusting what they charge for duvet covers. It’s basically buying a oversized pillowcase, yet they rape your wallet. Honestly, I could have made one with two sheets, but I gave up that idea based on the margin for error involved. And the aforementioned laziness.

The black comforter. It seemed like a good idea. Moosh is black and Taco is mostly dark.

NOT DARK ENOUGH. It wasn’t really that noticeable with the brown duvet, but HOLY CRAP my bed is a freaking fur coat. I don’t know if the fabric catches the fur better or I can just see it more, but there is more cat hair residing on my bed than 2 weeks of vacuuming the entire house yields. Again, HOW ARE THEY NOT BALD?

Moosh furrin’ up the new duvet cover

I guess it’s just one of those things where you live and you learn. Or, it’s the perfect time to start shaving the brats. I could even spin that idea by saying it will cut down on hairballs and therefore improve their quality of life! I really should have been in PR. My gift for justification knows no bounds.

But first, I’ll probably have to either figure out how to put mittens on them or encase myself in full body armor.

MEOWlympics.

As most of the world is, I’m currently fascinated with the olympics. At the tender age of 30, I realize my athletic prime has passed and it’s unlikely that I’ll find my niche to win gold. But I think about the sports and activities that passed me by…like gymnastics. I’m 5’8″ now, and I’m broad. If I stopped eating, I’d still be a large skeleton. So that wasn’t a sport made for me. Rhythmic gymnastics? I remember having some cassette tape when I was a kid…it came with the stick with the ribbon and you were supposed to do twirlies with it but that’s about all I remember of it. Obviously rhythmic gymnastics didn’t make that much of an impression on me either. I did swimming for awhile, I wasn’t bad but I wasn’t Natalie Coughlin or anything. I took diving classes, I was terrified. Not of the height, but the flippy flips. I think I saw the Greg Louganis faceplant too early in life. Never been much of a runner, so that’s out. It’s just flat out amusing to watch me play tennis. I manage to hit the ball over the fence repeatedly. Fencing sounds fun but I never had the opportunity. Weightlifting, in theory, sounds like something I would be good at. I build muscle easily. But I’m also prone to injury and “clean and jerk” sounds like waaaaay too much opportunity to pop something out of place.
Now SHOTPUT. That is something I could have excelled at. Except I don’t recall them offering that in high school. Where does one go to start shotputting? I’m excellent at throwing things. Aiming, that is a different story. The safest place to be is where I am trying to throw something.

Which brings me, in a VERY roundabout way, to the subject of my post. Throwing mousies. I am SUPER KICK ASS at throwing mousies.

Unfortunately for the boyfriend, as per the above-mentioned aiming abilities, I usually hit him with the mousies. Face, crotch, the exact place on the floor where he will immediately step on it and curse me…this is not on purpose. The cats, bless their hearts, will come to a screeching halt when mousie lands on Daddy. They know better. It would probably be worse if he got hit with cat, too. I’m also one of those people who laugh at inappropriate times…which makes him even madder. My own ineptness at aiming and the hilarity that ensues brings on a giggle that can’t be controlled. The inappropriateness of it makes me giggle more, and well, you can see where that goes.

I’ve always thought that the cats lose the mousies under things and in closets and such…but after writing this I’m questioning that conclusion.

To be fair, there ARE cat toys everywhere, and it’s just the mousies that seem to go missing.

Seriously, though, if being a crazy cat lady was an olympic sport I would win gold every four years. I realize I have stiff competition, but I’m pretty crazy. I exercise my crazy cat ladyness EVERY FREAKIN’ DAY.

 

UPDATE: I just found the thing that I did with the cassette tape (and by that I mean I searched the interwebz) — GET IN SHAPE, GIRL! OMG I totally remember this! I wish I still had this. I sense a youtube 80s fest.

Pussycat polka. Meow, meow, meow.

I’m a dancing machine. Watch me get down.

I really love “So You Think You Can Dance.” A long, long time ago, I was a child. A child who took dance classes. Ballet, Jazz and Tap. I took gymnastics for a while too, but the gymnastics people told my parents I was going to be too tall for gymnastics so maybe I should focus my efforts elsewhere. I sucked at back walkovers anyway, and my balance beam balancing was vague at best. Being that it was a long, long time ago, I don’t remember an awful lot about my dancing skills ( I DID just buy a discounted deal to transfer VHS to DVD, and I’m super stoked about digitizing my old recitals) but I do know that I wasn’t up to par with the kids on Dance Moms (yeah, I watch that too, I’m sorry, I really like to watch dancing).

Anyway, my parents divorced and I think dance lessons were not feasible financially anymore (neither was catholic school, YAY) and that’s why I stopped. I suppose I should ask my mom, she has a much better memory than I do. However, there IS a dancer in me that is yearning to get out. I’m more flexible than most people and I have rhythm.

The reason I’m writing about all this is because I had a lightbulb moment. One of the first dances on SYTYCD was to the tune of The Lovecats by The Cure. Awesome song. I love it. And I thought the dance was adorable as well, even though the two dancers dancing it are not two of my favorites. So I put it on last night while the boyfriend and I were playing mini golf on the Wii and having a few frosty adult beverages. As I was dancing around, I started thinking about how much of dance is cat movements. The slinkiness, the speed, the agility. Because I love connecting the dots, I continued this thought process. My first recital was to the song “Pussycat Polka” and we all had kitty faces on costumes and big kitty paw gloves. (I just googled this song, holy crap. It’s a super old Mousketeers song.) That led me to look at my iTunes.

Adorable, right?

Stray Cat Strut. That song always makes me feel dance-y. Cat Daddy. Which is both a song AND a dance (and I can totally do the dance). It’s not really about cats, I don’t think…in fact, I’m not really sure what it’s about. “Call me Sponge Bob, stackin’ crabby patties, bitch I go to work, doin’ my Cat Daddy.” …what? Whatever it all means, it’s a fun dance. Then I also have “Cat Dancer” by Leslie Hall, which perfectly fits my point but I’m not sure if it counts because I’m reasonably sure she’s a crazy cat lady too. In fact, all of her songs are about things I like, like crafts and shiny outfits. If you like crafts, shiny outfits and overall awesomeness, PLEASE check out Leslie Hall here.

Leslie Hall is A-MAYZ-ING.

I have no real conclusion to this, except that I like cats and dancing, and cats make good song subjects, I guess. Anyone have a better correlation?

Dance, Mooshie, dance!

Now I have to go ice my hip flexor because I pulled it trying to do a split last night (I should have warmed up more first, but injuring myself stupidly is MY THING).

Too busy for cats???

It seems like I never have time to write anymore. And when I do, I’m too tired. Both jobs have been busting my ass lately. Usually I would get out of the part time job early at least a few times a week, but this hasn’t been the case lately. Adding to that, I’ve been renewing my vows with the gym lately. No more “Eh, I’ll just go sit on my ass and mess around with my blog” between jobs. Only sweat. And pain. So sore. And I keep injuring myself. That’s normal, though, I am the super klutz. I will, however, take this opportunity to show off my new shoes, which I LOVE!

My sweet Asics. Too bad I suck at running. But they make me think I can! I tried. My knees hurt. Love you, elliptical!

So I think the cats have been feeling a tad left out.

Putting your nose in your brother’s butt is NOT gonna get you attention.

After all, there’s no treadmill for kitties at the gym, and they’re miserable when they leave the house, anyway. The upside to all of this is that they’ve been extra needy when I AM home, which makes me feel super loved. They have been so snuggly while I sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night to Taco giving himself a bath while curled up on my stomach. I thought it was an odd place to take a bath, but in a weird way I liked that he was comfortable enough there.

Moosh hasn’t slept on my head in months, but has the past few days. Taco’s been sleeping on my feet when I sit on the recliner, even. So cute.

Sleeping kitty…IN YOUR FACE

It’s also very buggy outside. Like, a lot. They keep flying in. Fortunately, Taco is a master of the hunt. Last night, one flew in and within 30 seconds he had it down and eaten. Lower food bills, to boot!

This is Taco eating his catch. Yum.

So I have no exciting cat insights today because I have been too busy to pester or enjoy them. What a sad life. Sigh.

So sad and alone!