Tagged: cat people
Voice recognition software.
I could google this, but for the sake of this post, I’ll allow my curiosity to fester.
“This” is the phenomenon of my cats seemingly recognizing my (and maybe the boyfriend’s) voice. I know that I’ve read that cats respond better to women’s voices, something about the tone. Moosh and Taco seem like they respond to our voices, particularly by their names. Taco is less of a sure thing, he just talks all the time, and to whatever variation of his name we use. But he at least looks like he knows that he’s being talked to. Moosh, on the other hand, knows his name like the back of his paw. Maybe it’s just the tone that we say it in, or the way that “Moosh Moosh” sounds. Saying it sometimes gets him all worked up, like I’m petting him without actually petting him. He’ll close his eyes, purr, and look like he’s in ecstacy.
He’s a happy boy.
It’s funny what you discover from years of co-existing with your animals. How you can figure out what their triggers are. Why do they have the triggers they do?
The best response I can get from Moosh is by shaking my head back and forth while saying his name in a deep, cooing voice. He’ll come running almost every time. Unless he gets distracted.
Taco’s ultimate call-over involves more energy. He responds best to an excited voice. Less coo-ey, more OMG, but still in a deeper voice. He gets all jacked up and runs over. If I’m laying down, combining that with patting my chest plate loudly will get him up and on my stomach purring.
This is what happens when you’re bored and have too many apps.
So…am I crazy? Does anyone else know quirks this intimate about their furry children or do I just look waaaaaay too far into things?
Sharing my pillow.
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.
Exhibit A:
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.
Exhibit B:
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.
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.
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?
I’ve invested more in my cats than in my 401K.
Part 2 of vet visit. The bill. The one that made me faint.
My vet is not a bargain vet. I could find a cheaper one. But I’ve been to a few, and I’ve learned that the peace of mind that comes with having a vet you have complete confidence in and really like is worth its weight in gold. And I don’t just like my regular vet, either. I like the other vet in the office, and the staff as well. No one talks down to me, everyone patiently listens to my bazillion questions and my overanalyzing. I find that I like women docs more, too. I can probably chalk this up to the fact that I’ve only had interactions with 2 male vets and I didn’t feel like either of them were particularly affable. I’m sure there’s plenty of really awesome male docs. I just haven’t met them. In conclusion, when your cats are your children, nothing is more important. So I’ll happily pay a lil more for their care.
I’d expected a decent-sized bill. I just didn’t expect HOW much.
1. Exam. Expected.
2. Bloodwork. Expected. Not expected? Adding the charge to recheck Taco for FeLV and FIV. Suggested because one of his pupils was noticeably bigger than the other. Apparently, even kitties have been screened for this as babies, it’s recommended that they’re screened again 2 months after moving into forever home. Taco wasn’t, and either of these could be a cause for different sized pupils. This is where paying extra for a good vet comes in…Upon your kitty’s first visit, they take his or her picture for their records, as well as make a little laminated tag to put on the carrier. My vet compared the picture to the live Taco and noted that his pupils were fine in the pic. DETAILS. I LOVE THEM. I haven’t gotten the results back yet. Also another reason I love my vet? They’re super up on technology. They email.
3. Rabies vaccine. Expected. Don’t necessarily agree with this one, but it’s required for his kitty license and if we need to board them on vacay.
4. License. Forgotten about, but expected. Stupid, because they’ll never get out. Of course it’s possible, but my cats are terrified of the outside world. Twice the door has opened accidentally and not noticed for a few hours and no one went near it.
5. Kitty probiotics.
Ask your vet about this if your cat’s poop makes you gag.
Don’t laugh. Taco has the MOST rank-smelling poo in the world. It’s impossible for me to understand how he and Moosh eat the same thing but comes out SO much more foul from his ass. Adding the probiotics helps a bit. Worth the money. I promise.
6. Revolution.
Die, fleas, die.
Not expected. Was reminded it’s coming up on flea season again. Wish to avoid an invasion. And yes, I know there’s natural options for fleas but I’ve tried all of them, and trust me, they don’t work in Florida. It’s all dirt here, which is flea heaven.
7. Kitty food.
Urinary health cat food. Yay.
Taco’s stupid prescription food. I suppose it’s not horribly expensive but in my eyes, it is for crap food that’s not natural or organic or byproduct-free. But it helps him, so who am I to complain?
And that, my dears, is why Mommy is eating PB&Js for awhile. I never thought I’d spend so much on a vaguely healthy cat. Sigh.
Still waiting for my brats to start working. The slugs are sleeping at the moment.
Get up and make me money.
I’m about to send them out with resumes.
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.
Cat career hopes.
I’m 31. I’ve never really figured out what to do with my life, I thought that at some point it would just dawn on me. It hasn’t. Except maybe it has, but maybe it’s too late.
I’ve written about this before, but my desire has reawakened watching the new season of My Cat From Hell. I’d make an awesome cat behaviorist. I KNOW cats. This seems to be my only choice as far as cat-related careers. I don’t have the patience nor the desire to be a groomer, my heart hurts too much to work at a rescue organization, and there is NO FREAKING WAY I could do anything vet-related because I would cry. All the time.
Oh, behave.
Cat behavior? I can do that. It’s about the human element anyway, and who loves telling people what do to more than I do? I’m passionate, I’m intuitive, and I’d be helping kitties. And make bank (one cat behaviorist charges $250 for a phone consultation).
But I’m super stuck on how to do this. I googled my ass off. It seems my only options are 1) go to school for vet stuff (there’s no degree for cat behavior) or 2) start emailing every single cat behaviorist I can find to find an apprenticeship. Except there don’t seem to be any around here.
So what happens when you think you’ve found your life’s calling but can’t make it work? The only other thing that I think I’d love to do is be an NTSB investigator. I’m obsessed with aircraft crashes. I have been as long as I can remember. And I love flying. My dad’s a pilot. I’ve been flying since I was in the womb. I have some hours under my belt. I’m fascinated with how accidents happen. But it seems that is a little out of my reach as well. I’d have to finish getting my pilot’s license, probably get some degrees in aeronautics, you know, easy stuff.
Anyone have any advice? I’m a smart girl, but I have little drive, probably because I rely on my brain to skate through. Maybe it’s time I get my hands dirty. But how?
WTF, instagram?
I recently discovered that my number of followers on instagram is pitiful. I have 84. I think a lot of them are fake accounts, too, although I’m not sure what their purposes are. I guess in hopes that I’ll follow back and they can give me a virus or something? Who knows. It’s not like I TRY really hard to get instagram followers. I do go a LITTLE hashtag crazy, but I see way more over-the-top ones. My friend, who is a crazy dog lady like I’m a crazy cat lady, told me last night she has 100 followers. Are there more dog people? Are my cats not cute enough for the cat people? This news is distressing.
In case you think I’ve lost my marbles, I’m not DEEPLY upset about this. It’s not keeping me up at night.
But…JUST LOOK AT HOW CUTE MY CHILDREN ARE!!!!
If you feel bad enough for me that you’d like to follow me (hint hint) it’s @meowhearthis.
Such an angel. Not.
I’m his favorite bed.
Here’s looking at you, kid.
Moosh n’ boots!
Hello, cutie pie!
What does baseball have to do with cats?
A lot, if your team is the awesomest. By this I mean the Tampa Bay Rays. And before ANY of you say something shitty about our team’s attendance, come to Florida. We have an amazing fan base for being such a young team, but guess what? Everyone here is from somewhere else. Our stadium is full when we play the Red Sox, but who didn’t show up for the last few games of the season when the Red Sox were biting it? So much for loyal fans. So you can take your criticism and stick it where the sun don’t shine. And by young team, I mean that when I was born, there was no team. In fact, Tropicana Field wasn’t even built. I was a kid when it was, and it was the Thunderdome then, and I remember this because I danced in the grand opening event. And then it housed the Tampa Bay Lighting. And now the Rays. Who used to be the Devil Rays, but some whacko priest made a stink a few years ago and managed to convince them to change the name. Whatever.
Today is the Rays opening day. I am currently watching it in between jobs instead of going to the gym, which I feel slightly guilty about, but not really that much.
So what does this have to do with cats?
We have two mascots. I’m not totally sure what Raymond is supposed to be, but our most recent addition is DJ KITTY.
DJ Kitty is in the HOUSE!
Yeah. That’s fabulous. It started as a scoreboard gimmick, with a video of a cat in a Rays jersey DJing, because why not? DJ Kitty is now so popular that last year they made him an official mascot.
The REAL LIFE DJ Kitty.
EFF YOU, REST OF BASEBALL! Call me when you’re as crazy cat lady-friendly as my hometown team.
Oh yeah, and we have the Cy Young Award winner. Ya got that, Yankees? Oh, and is your pitcher on the cover of MLB2K13? I think not.
GO RAYS! GO CATS!
MEOW hear this! 