Tagged: crazy cat lady

Taco, the Cat Jekyll and Hyde. Part 2.

So now you know why Taco is the devil incarnate. But for every evil, there is a good. Taco kinda takes both sides to the limit. He’s not big on moderation.

Taco’s saving graces:

  • He doesn’t just sit down. He hurls himself onto the floor. It’s a melodramatic “WHUMP!”
  • He melts. I have never seen a more melty cat. When he lays down he BECOMES whatever he’s laying on.

    This is one of his deep sleeps.

  • He snuggles with me at night. I’ll wake up to find him stretched alongside me, at which point I have to start petting him because he’s so damn cute. Then he starts purring, which wakes Jason up because he’s like a motorboat. This is a point of contention between us, I find it soothing. Last night he melted on my chest. This MAY be why I am so tired today — who can sleep with a PURRING KITTY PUDDLE on you?
  • He purrs all the time. I love it.
  • He happy meows. Whenever you touch him, he does this thing that is a mix between purring, meowing, and that weird “MRRRRP” noise cats do. My favorite is when he does it when he’s half asleep, it turns into a gurgling yawn.
  • When he sniffs the floor, he comes back up with his mouth slightly open.

    This kitty is “special”

  • He can jump chest high. Literally. And when he does, he hurls himself into the air with absolutely no control, getting sideways and shit. He once hit his head on the bottom of the counter. It also makes for some very awkward landings.
  • We think he’s part bengal. His fur is, as my vet called it, luminescent. His colors are so vivid. From afar he looks like a regular brown tabby but when you get up close you can see how beautiful he is (I realize I am like every other mother in the world who thinks their child is the best, don’t care, I’m right).

    Both cats love my closet. Go figure.

  • He’s the alpha male of the house, even though Moosh is bigger and older.
  • Despite his alpha male status, he’s a pussy at the vet. He shakes the whole time.
  • When he and Moosh fight, it’s like watching the Matrix.
  • He can catch bugs like no other. Sometimes even at the expense of a stinger in the mouth.
  • He is chock full of personality.
  • He has a little freckle on his left temple.
  • He hates when Moosh sniffs his butt. I do too. It’s so unbecoming.
  • When he jumps on the bed, he usually does it with a full running start, a meow and a leap. Sometimes he overshoots.
  • He has a brush-like thing shaped like an arch that is meant for the cats to rub on and therefore remove loose hair, but Taco puts his head upside down (JUST his head) and chomps on it. No clue why he needs to do it upside down or how it could possibly feel good in his mouth.
  • Did I mention the melty thing? God, he’s cute. I mean, really cute.

    SO PRETTY

    At the end of the day, the cute thing is probably what saves his ass. Oh, and I love him. Jason does too, when he’s not giving him the silent treatment for peeing on the couch.

Cats as props.

I like to justify things. This is how I make myself feel better about decisions. I feel that my morals are fairly centered, so these decisions aren’t really earth-shattering.

I like to fuck with my cats. If you’ve ever put scotch tape on the bottoms of your cats’ paws and watch them run around (don’t lie, everyone I know well enough to admit this to me has done it), you’ll know what I mean. Look, I’m a vegan. I’m all for animal rights. I would NEVER do anything to harm an animal. But I’m not totally against using them for amusement here and there.

My justification? I feed them. I love them. I give them a home. I scoop their shit out of a box. No one disposes of MY waste like that. So every once in awhile, they get to dance for their dinner.

Exhibit A:Props in photos. They look miserable. But it’s a TINY moment of their lives and cats can’t recognize themselves in mirrors or in pictures so they don’t know to be embarrassed. That’s a scientific fact. At least the part about the not recognizing themselves. Lack of embarrassment is my own correlation.

Black cats make the picture.

He loved it.

Pose for the camera, bitch!

Exhibit B: Dressing up the cats. Who DOESN’T like to play dress up occasionally?

Pissed? Nah.

I know, white’s not slimming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Exhibit C: I have no photo proof of this, but I can exact hours of entertainment throwing stuff around for them to catch. Sometimes pretending to throw them, that always throws Taco for a loop. Always good for a laugh. This one is EXTRA justifiable, because as Jackson Galaxy says, you NEED to play with your cats for them to be happy.

PETA would probably have a shitfit about this, since they refuse to even call them “pets” — they’re “companions” — but I’m a good crazy cat lady and if I sometimes want to put a piece of harmless tape on my cat and watch him run like he’s on hot coals, I will, dammit.

Fat Fatty McFatterson

He’s large and in charge.

Fatty’s the OG black kitty. I was 16, totally into punk rock and rebelling (while still being a mostly good kid as far as teenagers go) when my mom and I were at the thrift store for Friends of Strays. So convenient that they had kittens there as well.

I don’t remember why Mom relented and was so easily talked into a kitten, but Fatty (his name was Ernie then) was a tiny black fluffball with fu manchu whiskers and a purr that would melt ice.

I decided Chaos was his name, because, as I said, I was into punk rock and rebelling. It didn’t strike me at the time that this wasn’t a particularly great cat name. Not until we got another kitten two years later and he somehow morphed into Fatty while the kitten morphed into Little (CREATIVE ALERT).

Fatty likes to eat. Like, REALLY likes to eat. In fairness, he is a medium-haired cat so some of his bulk is fur. Aside from that, though, I have, on occasion, caught him laying on the floor with a bag of food knocked over and a fat paw casually scooping morsels into his mouth.

Sure, you fit in that.

He’s also a momma’s boy. In retrospect, I guess they all are. I take a certain pride in that. He’s been there for almost half of my life. When I moved out of my mom’s, I visited every weekend for months even though he was so pissed at me he wouldn’t come near me, resulting in months of weekends of tears and wailing “My baby doesn’t LOVE me anymore!”

He’s had his share of costly vet stuff, like the oh-so-common-in-male-cats crystals, but last week got really sick with severe anemia. It heartbreaking to see him so lifeless. So he got a blood transfusion, buying him some time for his body to start building up his own blood cells again. This is not a guarantee. Fortunately, he’s made a lot of headway getting better, so much so that he fights off his pills with claws of fury. Here’s a million-dollar idea: start a mobile “cat pill feeding” service. Taco figured out the pill pocket trick and won’t touch them and Moosh is such a picky eater that he turns up his nose at the pill pockets anyway.

Mom and the getting-better Fats

I luvs me some Fatty, even if he does love food more than he loves me. I never thought I would be so happy to see him wolf down food.

Moosh Moosh Was Meant to Be.

Moosh Moosh likes to flaunt it.

Moosh is turning 4 this month. Sadly, he started life being thrown from a car along with his litter as kittens and rescued immediately after. When I found him, he was with a shelter called Second Chance for Strays (amazing people, please support them). I was in desperate need of a kitten, having been without one since having to put our baby Jager to sleep. After you lose an animal, there’s a period of time when you can’t imagine having another. Once that stage of grieving is over, you feel like you have to have a new one immediately to survive.

I wanted a kitten-kitten, Jason wanted anything but a black cat (Jager was black, he thought it would be too hard to have that reminder, which sucked, because all I wanted was a black cat — or a bazillion of them), and what I found was a black 7-month-old teenager cat, the last to be adopted from his litter.

Jason is not a guy who does a lot of grand gestures, but he surprises me sometimes. And so begins the story of Moosh. I couldn’t find any kittens, so I was looking in between jobs and online. I saw Moosh (except his name was Oz). I thought, “K. This is a black cat and not as kitteny as I want. Buuuuut I’ll just try him out anyway. What’s the harm?”

As if he’d been training for this moment all his life, he nuzzled his face into my neck and I was in love.

I called Jason and said something like “iknowyoudontwantablackcatbutireallyreallyreallyreallyreallylikethisoneandwillyoupleaseatleastlookathimilovehim.” He managed to decipher this. I guess he’s used to it. I get excited a lot. Mostly about cats. He’s usually prepared with a NO before I get out the first two words.

Love.

I got home from work that night to find Moosh. My darling boyfriend went to see him, unbeknownst to me. Moosh laid the charm on thick with the ol’ man. Put a paw on each side of his neck and nuzzled in. Jason thinks he’s a tough guy but he’s really a pushover for kitty snuggles. He’s going to kill me for making this public. But his friends won’t read this, and in the event they do, they’d have to freely admit they looked at a blog about cats. Catch-22, suckaz.

Anyway. That’s when he took him home. Moosh is mostly a momma’s boy, so every once in awhile Jason reminds him who took him home (he still loves me more).

Seriously, black cats are the best.

Crazy cat ladies also collect crazy cat facts.

I shouldn’t know so many weird things about cats.

PEW PEW PEW

Most recently, I learned that vets have “donor kitties” that they use to get blood from when it’s needed for a transfusion. I don’t know how they sign a consent form, but apparently they don’t mind so much.

This got me thinking about the other weird things that I know about cats.

Taco’s insides.

  • The floppy pooch of skin on their belly is a trait from their big cat relatives…it gives them extra stretch when hitting full stride running.
  • I know what the inside of Taco looks like. It’s actually my desktop at work and my cover photo on Facebook. I find it intriguing. My vet was super excited to offer to email it to me, so I guess I’m not the only one awed by kitty vertebrae and undigested food (his little tail bones are so purrfect!).
  • Revolution (the flea medicine) can be given orally. It’s not recommended. But it’s totally fine if you accidentally put it somewhere lickable. They MAY foam at the mouth, but they’ll be fine.
  • Male cats were built really badly in terms of their urinary system. If you’ve ever had a male cat with crystals (and a big vet bill to go with it), this is why.
  • A sign of anemia in cats is pale gums. This is NOT a useful thing to know if your cat is black with black gums.
  • Speaking of black cats, they’re the least likely to be adopted. I don’t understand why ridiculous superstition has any place in modern society. Black cats are my favorite. Never had a bad black cat. I’d have a harem of them if it were up to me, but my boyfriend thinks it would be “too confusing.”
  • Despite the many representations of kittens lapping up a bowl of milk, it’s actually a horrible idea to give your cat milk. Also a horrible idea to give them a ball of yarn, which they will eat and then get stuck in their intestines.
  • Declawing is really really really BAD. It’s like removing the entire top of your finger from the joint. That’s not declawing, it’s an AMPUTATION. There are no health benefits for the cat and can, in fact, have a negative impact on the cat’s personality. It’s also illegal in most civilized countries. Just not the U.S. Shocker.

It’s a bird…it’s a plane…it’s a Moosh!

As you can see, I ask a lot of questions at the vet’s office (and my vet doesn’t mind, this is why I love her) and watch a lot of Cats 101 and My Cat From Hell. I’ll probably think of 10 more things the second I post this.

Taco. The bad son.

I don't know how he got on top of the punching bag. I really don't.

I decided to introduce Taco next. He’s the newest addition to my harem but by far the biggest brat. By “brat” I mean that he keeps us all on our toes. We adopted him from a friend who’d rescued a preggo stray, Taco being one of the litter resulting from said preggo stray. She named him Fernando, which I loved, but a condition of Jason’s (that’s my other half) was that he was to be named after Taco from “The League.” So whatever. Taco’s fine with me. It works for him.

Anyway, I thought that his introduction to his brother Moosh Moosh would be seamless, as he already had a black brother, Zorro. I seriously live in a dream world sometimes. Like he would be tricked into believing all black cats are his brother. What ACTUALLY happened was an awful lot of hissing on Taco’s part. Moosh was intrigued but pretty much “whatever” about the whole thing.

So we did what you’re supposed to do when introducing a new cat. Put him in a separate room and let them sniff each other through the door for awhile. THIS is when I was introduced to Taco’s lungs. You haven’t heard a cat meow until you’ve heard Taco. This little shit can go for days. This is also when we discovered that he despises closed doors. Whatever’s closed off, he has to be in. But that’s another story.

Now, what makes Taco a brat?

The bag of calming treats I accidentally left out. Had to call the vet, he's only supposed to have 3 a day.

  1. He cries. All the time. For no reason. He acts like he’s dying. I would have no idea if he was actually hurt because he ALWAYS sounds like he’s hurt. He also has several different types. There’s the one where his tongue kinda sticks out and it sounds like “Mlllooowwwl”…the “MROW!” lookitme meow… and the howling “meooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww” one that will make me run in from another room.
  2. He HAS to be the center of attention at all times. He can be dead asleep and somehow SENSE that Moosh is getting attention and BOOM! He’s right there. Meowing.
  3. He can get into the accordion doors to the linen closet. Then he gets fur all over my clean towels.
  4. He knows JUST where to step on my gut to cause the most pain to wake me up to feed him. Then meow.
  5. He eats all the food. Moosh likes to graze. He eats a little and comes back for more later. Only there’s nothing left, because Taco already ate it all.
  6. He fucks with everything. He’ll be sleeping on my lap peacefully and out of the corner of his half-closed eye see a non-moving pen on the desk…and stick his fat paw out to grab it. He somehow managed to find a old bottle of diet pills in my closet, opened it, and tried to eat one, resulting in an epic freakout on my part (it turned out he didn’t eat one, but it was a frantic 15 minutes figuring that out).
  7. If a bag of treats happens to be left out on the counter and not put back in the pantry, that shit will be on the floor in the morning, COMPLETELY RIPPED TO SHREDS. I once left an open bag of treats on the floor that I had used to coerce Taco into his carrier for a vet visit. When I came back, Moosh was sitting right next to the bag. Untouched. Good son.
  8. He pees on my couch. This isn’t totally his fault, he has Feline Idiopathic Cystitis. When he gets stressed, his bladder inflames and in turn it makes it hurt to pee. When it hurts to pee, he pees in places he’s not supposed to. This is not fun for all involved.

So why would we keep this drama queen around? For one, I love him. I love his quirks and his meow (just not so early in the morning or when I’m in another room and think he’s gravely ill). And crazy cat ladies don’t give up on their lemons. But he’s also a pretty amazing cat, and he makes up for most of the evildoings. You’ll have to wait for part 2 to hear about that.

Meet me. I’m a crazy cat lady.

Me and one of the furballs.

Hi. I’m Sarah. I’m a 30-year-old crazy cat lady who has two cats at home (with her boyfriend, yes, I am not a single crazy cat lady) and two at her mom’s. I am reasonably sure that at least one of my cats (Taco, you’ll meet him later) could successfully fill a reality show. I have continuously had at least one cat since my parents divorced when I was 9 with the exception of two times…once when I moved out (even though I still really had two at my mom’s) and again after we had to put our Jager to sleep (even though I still really had two at my mom’s). I have enough google and real-life cat knowledge to put me through vet school, but as my mother so nicely pointed out, “You couldn’t do that. You’d cry over every single one.” And, she is right. I currently have Fatty, the big fat black cat I have had since I was 16, in my lap as he is trying to recover from anemia. So I thought, “Hey. Why don’t you blog about cats?” That’s what crazy cat ladies do in the technology age, right? So that’s me. I don’t believe in god or fate or anything but sometimes I do feel like the universe gives me the lemon cats so I can take care of them. I don’t mind so much until they make me cry. Which admittedly isn’t that hard, I’m a pisces after all.

So what else makes me a crazy cat lady? I’ll have to post a picture of my office. I didn’t realize I had decorated almost entirely with cat until a short time ago. I’ve probably spent more money on cat toys, cat food, cat litter and vet visits than it costs to feed a small army. I have googled such terms as “green cat poop,” “what happens if a cat eats a diet pill” and “feline idiopathic cystitis.” I talk to my cats as if they are babies and I imagine their responses. I know they have tiny brains but I just KNOW they know what I’m saying. I want to adopt every cat that I see. I could probably go on like this forever but that would really ruin future blog posts, so I’m going to leave at that for now. Just trust me. Eventually I WILL be that lady in a robe on the Simpsons who walks around with cats stuck to her.