Tagged: kitten

She works hard for her money — then spends it on cats.

As any kitty mommy and crazy cat lady knows, one’s purchases revolve around one’s cats.

For example. I went to Target yesterday for kitty litter, among other things (I never leave Target without spending far more than I’d planned to).

I spotted this.

Despite not having any human children of my own, I’m familiar with the Diaper Genie and its place on the “must-have” list for human parents. WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THIS??? Literally everyone I know with cats saves their bags from the grocery store and uses those for litter. This normally would create a problem for me because I (try to) use reusable bags at all times. Fortunately, my boyfriend is not as environmentally savvy and never uses the reusables. (Side note: I also collect plastic bags from people I know for my mom to use at her used bookstore, if you live in the Tampa area or even if you don’t, check out Sam’s Books. Thank you in advance for allowing my shameless plug for mi madre.)

Litter Genie. Really. And it was cheap! 15 bucks to avoid the spillage that usually occurs when I try to scoop the TONS (I do mean tons, I cannot fathom how my 2 cats expel SO MUCH) of used litter into the plastic grocery store bags.

I realize that many of my purchases are done with my cats in mind. For example, my fancy vacuum cleaner. I would have bought a Dyson except this one came just as highly recommended for a lot less money. I love it. It’s changed my life. You wouldn’t BELIEVE how much fur this thing picks up. Every time I dump out the canister I wonder how my cats are not bald. WHERE DOES THE FUR KEEP COMING FROM???

Shark. Highly recommend it.

Bucket of cat toys. Filled with all the toys the cats only mildly like, because the ones they adore inevitably disappear into the abyss of I-don’t-know-where. Like those mousies with the real fur. Those are pretty much universally adored, right?

Other various cat things.

They like these.

One of the rare occasions this piece of furniture meant for the cats is used by one of the cats.

I have yet to buy a cat tree, though, I can’t find one that I like enough to spend that much money on, or I find ones that I like that I can’t possibly afford. I keep telling myself I’m going to make one but haven’t quite gotten around to it yet.

There’s also the useless purchases, like the beds they won’t sleep in, or the litter mats that do absolutely nothing to keep litter from getting everywhere. But there’s more used than not.

Had you told me, say, 10 years ago, that any of these purchases would one day excite me so, I would have laaaaaaaughed and laughed. But now I am a grownup, sorta, and a full-fledged kitty mommy. So I’ll just shrug. I did it all for the kitties.

This is what a Crazy Cat Lady’s workspace looks like.

I admit it. I decorate with cat. I don’t mean to. A leftover halloween decoration here, a funny kitty card there…it just happens.

Let’s start with the calendar.

Standard kitty calendar. Ok. Moving on.

Kitty knick knacks

One of my shelves. Yes, I know you’re probably looking at the FABULOUS captain’s hat first, but focus. Weird grinning cat my mom gave me, a black cat from halloween my mother also gave me, and a Toy Robot cat my friend and fellow crazy cat lady Yvonne gave me.

Cat on the phone. So silly.

Next up. My bulletin board. Here we have a funny cat postcard.  Next to that, a picture of Fatty and Little, and then a picture of my dearly beloved Jager who is no longer with us. I don’t have Taco and Moosh pics up, I see them enough. Look closely and you’ll see some George Michael buttons. And a Rays schedule. Yay Rays!

Ignore the easter bunny. Does not apply.

A view from the outside. I have thoughtfully placed arrows next to the cats. My lone lolcat is very reflective of my job, i.e. proofreading.

And finally, the piece de resistance. My crazy cat lady. Life imitates art.

Marvel at her glory!

For the love of cats (and hatred of fleas)

I stopped by my mom’s yesterday. I haven’t seen Fatty and Little for a couple weeks.

Little and Fatty, back in the day.

Cats are really funny. They are both so much better. So much so, in fact, that Little went back to his routine of hiding from me immediately, and Fatty punished me for my recent absence by ignoring my love for awhile. No purr.

It was funny, the moment I could tell that he decided I had suffered enough. He jumped down from his box and swirled around my arm, started purring and plopped his fat self down on my hand. Apparently I should visit more often.

Little never did come out from under the bookcase, even with treats. I got him to move a tiny little bit for one, but Fatty ran under and ate the others. I naively thought that Little meowing at me to pet him a few weeks was because he decided he liked me. Silly me, it’s just because he felt like shit. If you are a crazy cat lady, you understand this feeling of failure. In my mind, every cat should love me because they should KNOW. Just like I think every stray cat I see, whether it’s at a shelter or on the street, is saying to me “I KNOW you would love me SO much and I would LOVE to come home with you. PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!”

Little, the loner kitty.

But I digress. It’s a huge relief to see them acting like normal, since the fleas took so much power from them. I hate fleas. I really hate them. And I hate that the lack of winter here, hence lack of cold, cold that I HATE, is partially to blame for the fuckers’ survival (the fleas, not the cats).

I live in a townhouse so I don’t really have much of a yard for fleas to live in. This is probably why I have been able to somewhat control them with Moosh and Taco. But I am terrified of them taking root. I have boraxed, revolutioned, vacuumed and washed. Taco was ok with the natural flea spray the first few times I used it on him, but now he will gouge me to get away.

By the way, that stuff REALLY freakin’ works. Vet’s Best. I used it on myself. I read the bottle…it doesn’t say not to.

Anyway. Fatty is good. I’m pretty sure Little is, since for him, hiding is normal. Fatty is getting back to being fat. He actually only weighs a little more than Moosh and Taco, Not quite sure how his giant gut does not factor more in to the equation.

And now Taco is eating my sandal, so I think that means I have to go pay attention to him. This is fine with me, I’m sick and feel like crap anyway. Laying down DOES sound like a good idea.

And IN my shoes. Sigh.

Really, really weird cat.

So, Moosh. He’s a weirdo. After we initially fell in love with his face nuzzling, we got him home to learn his many quirks.

In addition to googly eyes, he also has one tiny fu manchu whisker on his chin.

First, he was kinda cross-eyed when he was younger. We really didn’t think he could see up close at all. It seems to have straightened out a bit but sometimes I still don’t think he can see up close. He also needed to try everything once. I found him climbing a wall. He singed his whiskers sniffing a candle. He’s never done either of these things again.

We also learned that he was a biter. If you walked away from playing with him, he would lunge at your leg and bite your calf. Not hard, but weirdly…like he would just open his mouth and aim at your leg. No paws, just like a shark. He’s a little better now that he’s older but every once in awhile he gets a wild hair and nips.

Most random thing ever: he licks blinds. I don’t know WHY he licks blinds, but he tends to do it more in mornings than he does at other times of the day.

He has the pussiest of meows. I know from past experience that he is capable of a howl, but he chooses to squeak instead. He is the bigger of the two cats and it’s hilarious to hear them whine together…Taco’s big MRROOOOWW to Moosh’s “mreep”

He gets what we call the “skinny face” when he’s happy. It’s hard to explain, but his face looks skinnier when he’s in la-la-land purring. It might have something to do with his eyes getting super dilated to make his face extra black (because, as you know, black is slimming), but then, he does that when he’s ready to pounce too. Who knows.

Do not want.

He loves the vet. He hates getting there, but once he’s there he parades around the exam table like it’s his time to shine. He doesn’t even mind the rectal thermometer.

He HAS to be up there.

He perches. You can’t just hold him. He needs to be on your shoulders. He’s really pretty good there, although he claws the boyfriend a lot because he never listens to me. You have to adapt to his climb and put your arm up to help. Otherwise a back paw will gouge your chest…or push your shirt down, putting you at risk for flashing.

I like these perches most of the time (when I’ve been dutiful about clipping his claws), there is nothing quite like walking around with a cat as a parrot on your shoulder.

For the cat moms (or whatever kind of animal your baby is)

Happy Mother’s Day to the forgotten — the mothers of the furry ones. The mothers who will forever answer the question “When are you going to have kids?” with the answer “I have cats.” Those of us who are amazing at raising furballs, who read the labels on cat food, who don’t just think of their animals as pets.

Kitteh mommy and proud of it!

We’re just as mother-y as if we’d given birth, but with some extra perks. My babies will never borrow my car, go on dates with strange boys, never stay out all night or get arrested. I can lock them in my house without DCF coming after me.

I worry about them as much as I would if I had a human baby, obsessing over odd behavior and whether it’s vet-worthy. And I can do this, because I know them so well that I know when one is even the slightest bit off.

I’m not saying we’re better than human mothers, we’re just a different breed. It takes all kinds in this world and someone’s gotta do it. Kittehs need love too. And they give it back ten-fold.

So to all the mommies out there, the kitty mommies, the dog mommies, the ferret mommies — whatever kind of animal mommy you are — HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY. Even if your cats forgot to get you a card (*cough cough* thanks a lot, boyfriend), I salute you.

And Happy Mother’s Day to the Evil Stepmother (who is not really evil at all), who is also a great kitty mommy and who was the only person on the planet who could have ever convinced my dad to get a cat.

And last but by FAR not the least, Happy Mother’s Day to my own awesome mommy, who not only raised a good kitty mommy but who is a fabulous kitty mommy and grandmommy herself. I LOVE YOU!

The woman who gave this crazy cat lady life.

I like my vet more than I like my own doctor.

The only reason I go to the same doctor is because I’m too lazy to find a new one, even though I don’t care for him very much. But vets, those are a different story. I am a veterinary snob.

Jager was my boo.

Jäger was the uber lemon cat. I say this lovingly. But he ALWAYS had something wrong. He had cat herpes. Yes, cats get herpes. It’s not like people herpes, it just had something to do with his immune system. He was always getting eye and nail bed infections (and it didn’t help that he got his claws stuck in EVERYTHING). I was like BFFs with my vet. Then he got really sick and in the process of figuring out what was wrong, I was there more than I was at home. The only reason I think I stayed halfway sane was because my vet was the shit. I ask a lot of questions. I want to know everything. And the kind of vet I like is the one that answers them and doesn’t treat me like an imbecile just because I google. Yes, I know I don’t have a veterinary degree. So sue me if I like to arm myself with information.

Also on the qualification list: must be a cat person. I have nothing against dog people. Dogs are fun and adorable. I’m just not a dog person. If I was a dog person, I’d probably want a dog person vet. We’re just different breeds.

Moosh, good son that he is, rarely has anything wrong with him, other than being a weirdo. So we went a long time without a vet visit after Jager died and we got Moosh. When it came time for his yearly exam, I found out my vet was gone. The new vet, he just didn’t do it for me. It’s not like he was a horrible vet — the bar is set very high and he didn’t quite measure up. The “it” factor wasn’t there.

Then I went on a new vet search (actually, first I tried in vain to find my old vet). I lucked out. My current vet meets my high standards. She answers my questions before I even ask them. And she ONLY treats cats.

Maybe I’m crazy. In fact, I’ve been told this a lot. But even if I don’t like my own doc, I can fend for myself. My babies can’t tell me what’s wrong with them.

Crazy is more fun than sane, anyway.

Crazy momma, crazy babies.

Why naming your cat is irrelevant.

Kitty eyes see all.

I’m pretty sure that not a single one of my cats has ever come out of their mother’s womb, been named something, and kept that name throughout their entire life.

Furthermore, once a cat name IS officially chosen and is permanent enough to be the one on file at he vet’s (although I have one that goes under a different name and one we had to change at the vet, read on), it is very rare that when talking to the cat, the cat is actually referred to as that particular name.

Shadow –> Baby
Ernie –> Chaos –> Fatty a.k.a. “Big Guy” at the vet, my mother refuses to let his official vet name be Fatty. In fact, she refuses to even call him Fatty.
Original name forgotten –> Mikey –> Little
Gus –> Jager
Oz –> Porkchop –> Moosh Moosh
Fernando –> Taco

Now, all of these names are used here and there, but most of the time either generic baby-talk names are instead or variations of the name. My favorites include Boo Bear, Boo Boo, Babycakes, Kittania, Snuggleface, Poopbutt, Bunny, Stinkers, Stinko, Fatboy or STOP IT NOW.

Moosh Moosh in all his glory.

Moosh Moosh, on any given day, could be Moosh Mash, MooshyMooshyMooshy, Mooshito, Mooshcakes, Mooshface, Skooshers, Skooshy, or  MoshiMoshi. When we got him, we really thought he was a good Porkchop until he smooshed our faces so much that Moosh Moosh just stuck.

Fatty? Well, that’s easy. Fat Fatty McFatterson, FattyCakes, Fatty Lumpkins, Fattilicious, Fatbaby.

Jager — Jagger, Woogie, Jagermeister or Cougar.

Taco, by far, has the most, I guess it’s just the easiest to mess around with — Taquito, Yablito, Tikki-Taco, Tablo, Cobblers, Jocko, Yacko, Taquerita, Toblerone, Yablo, Chimichanga, Blobblo or Taco-san.

And yes, I do speak to my cats in baby talk. Wanna make something of it?

Moosh Moosh ain’t havin’ any of it.

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.