Tagged: kitty
Mommy instinct is fallible. And…I think it’s gonna be one of those months.
In case you were waiting with baited breath to find out how Moosh is…
He’s fine. This has been confirmed with a vet visit. He did pee on Monday so I wasn’t worried about crystals anymore but since hanging out in the bathtub randomly isn’t always a good sign either, I decided to take him anyway. This decision was partly based on the fact that he was also overdue for his yearly visit. That fact made me feel like much less of an overreacting freako crazy cat lady.
Listen, if there’s one really good thing you can say about crazy cat ladies, we know our kitties. (Well, that and we take an awful lot of cat pictures.) When something’s off, it’s off.
Such an angel.
But in this case, whatever was making Moosh more weird than normal had run its course by this morning, because he was acting perfectly fine. I rushed home from work, lured Moosh out from under the bed with treats and tried to stuff him in the carrier before he was fully awake. Didn’t work. The boyfriend came home just as I was attempting this lovely task, guess who got to help? And guess who got clawed? Sorry baby, thanks so much for the help though!
For a laid back cat, Moosh sure hates the cat carrier. He NEVER meows, except for when he’s hungry, and then it’s a wussy ass “meeewp” but in the carrier, he’s like Taco times 10. He’s really got quite a range.
Escape while you can!
Anyway. He’s all normal. Including his weirdness, he’s back to his normal weird, instead of the weird weird. The vet pointed out that it may be the changing weather or changing furniture. Probably has something to with the glass breakage too. I found another giant chunk of it tonight. Not quite sure where that was hiding. These boys are lucky they’re not sliced to hell. Taco, on the other hand, didn’t even eat tonight because he’s too busy hissing at Moosh. This will last 3 days. Come ON, Taco, it’s only your freakin’ brother that you see every freakin’ day. He can’t possibly smell THAT different. Starve, then. See if I care. You eat your brother’s food all the time anyway. It’s about time you know how he feels.
Taco hiding out in the closet from Moosh. THAT’S a switch.
My boys are crazy. Just like their mother.
Oh, and then I got home, and decided to check my coolant levels because it smelled like burning antifreeze. Surprise! There’s a leak. I just got a new radiator, I am going to assume that is the most expensive thing that would cause a leak and I can rule that one out, so we’ll pretend for now that it will be a cheap fix. See? Power of positive thinking in effect. At least my babies are healthy. And I have a boyfriend willing to take a claw for me.
And I got to gush over these adorable babies at the vet!
Squeal!
YOUR LOSS, ANIMAL PLANET
Surprisingly, I received a response from the My Cat From Hell people, asking where I was located. In case you missed the post about how I answered their casting call, you can see that here. I was overly hopeful because in the past, they only asked for people living in the LA are, which, if you’re familiar with geography, is rather far from Florida, although not in the grand scheme of things. Hawaii is much farther. I am incredibly grateful that I was able to vacation there a few years ago but they really need to do something about the long plane ride. Frankly, I’m amazed that no one has come up with a less deadly version of the Concorde yet. How were they more technologically advanced in the EIGHTIES??? So back to the point, that they didn’t have a requirement, and the fact that they answered me back in what seemed to NOT be a form email got my hopes up that my cat pee couch dilemma was interesting enough for them to consider our little family of furballs.
Until I got the email that said “Thanks, but you’re too far.” (That’s not a direct quote, I paraphrased.) Oh well. I think Florida is a perfect place for Jackson to come. We have many unique kitty challenges, like not having real dirt, just a dirt-like sand that is the favorite of fleas, as well as not having a winter that gets cold enough to kill off the fleas, and even if you have indoor-only cats (which of course I do, because in addition to sociopaths and vehicles, we have alligators and supposedly coyotes but I’ve never seen one of those) fleas will come in unbeknownst to you clinging to your socks like a hobo on a train. They’re a bitch to get rid of. How come dogs don’t seem to have as much of a problem? They go out every time nature calls. And they ROLL AROUND in the dirt that the fleas love so much. Cat fur better? Everything cat is better. I could do without the fleas, though.
But alas, the boyfriend and I are just going to have to bite the bullet and do something about the couch and the figuring out of how to ensure that Taco never uses it as a litter box again. For now, though, I’m going to continue to procrastinate. Would have been so much easier to have someone to fix the problem for us. For a smart girl, I’m awfully lazy.
Honey Boo Boo got nothin’ on my cats.
I have to admit, I love my fair share of horrid reality shows. I watch Dance Moms, So You Think You Can Dance, Jersey Shore and some new one I found on CMT, Cheer. I have, as of this moment, been able to resist Honey Boo Boo. The only reason I know about Honey Boo Boo is that this child and her redneckiness make the news. Really? The NEWS? Because there’s not, you know, an election coming up, or political unrest, or other completely valid news-y things to report on. With the exception of Jersey Shore, I maintain that my reality show watching is at least based on hard work and talent. I suppose child pageants have talent shows, but still.
Moosh would make the BEST pageant contestant.
I did, actually, answer the My Cat From Hell casting call. They’re finally branching out from LA, which is good, because Florida is nowhere near LA, and in fact, I’ve never been there. I wrote a very compelling email, and then guided them to my blog. I don’t know if it will even get read, but this blog is as comprehensive as you can possibly get in documenting all of my cats’ issues. I am HOPING that the producers find my cat pee couch story interesting enough that they help me. Cat pee couch hasn’t been done on the show yet. And I really really really want to fix Taco and have my couch back.
Taco is just so freaking cute.
And it does cause problems in my relationship. The boyfriend is not as connected to the boys as I am, although I know he loves them dearly, but he’s definitely not on crazy cat lady status. It’s frustrating enough to have a cat peeing on the couch and being personally upset by it, and then add in the friction of the boyfriend’s frustration and some weird form of guilt (I was raised catholic, although I’m an atheist now, the catholic guilt is ENGRAINED permanently) because we most likely wouldn’t have cats if I wasn’t a crazy cat lady who needs cats.
Anyway. I hope they at least give me a chance. We’re very interesting, and Taco could have his OWN damn show. Not to take away from Moosh, he’s my lover kitty, and Taco is the entertaining one. He’s also more photogenic, and I do kind of feel bad that I have more pictures of Taco on my instagram than Moosh, but half the time when I take Moosh’s pic he just looks like a ball of black fur.
Oh, and my favorite reality show of all? FOOTBALL! Sundays are fun days again. Except when my fantasy team loses, which is likely this week as my tight end got me a big fat goose egg on Thursday. Can’t win em all, I suppose.
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.
Gratutious cuteness.
I couldn’t help myself, Taco was being adorably sleepy yesterday…so I took something like a bazillion pics. I’ve never really fancied myself a photographer (I DO, however, consider myself an artist, but I prefer sketching and crafting) so my little low-grade point-and-click camera has always sufficed. So now that I am trying to get all crazy getting good blog pics, I realize it is much tougher than it seems to take a good picture. Of course, this could be because I don’t have a $500 Nikon (they have one of those in pink! Not a good reason, I know, but I am a sucker for product presentation – I’ve been a Mac girl since I was a kid compliments of my dad’s preference and I fell in love with Apple all over again when they really started pushing the pretty product envelope…so excited about the new iPhone! And although I need a laptop and I know I could buy a perfectly good PC one for a fraction of the price of an Apple…I refuse. So I keep putting the laptop in my cart and then chickening out. I suck at saving, but I’m terrified of big purchases even though I end up spending just as much on a bunch of little ones. I’m pretty sure impulse buying is an addiction, and I need an intervention. Wow. Totally off topic here.) so maybe I just have to take a crapload of pics to get a good one. I prefer thinking that over the option that I am a bad photographer, I’m good at everything I do. And if I’m not, I don’t do it.
So without further adieu, I present my very first gallery, along with titles. I call it “Eau de Taco.” Should you like to purchase prints of these works of art, I’m sure that can be arranged for a small fee.
“Why Are You Doing This”
“One Lone Softpaw”
“I See What You Did There”
“Enough With This”
New cat drama, yay!
Like I really want new cat drama.
These little devils cause gray hairs.
Today, Taco has puked 5 times. All throughout the day. There’s really nothing in the house that he could have gotten into and he’s acting perfectly fine otherwise. We’ve taken him to the vet before for the puking, and she said that based on his age and the normal tests, it was likely just upset stomach and prescribed him Pepcid AC. Yes, the human kind.
Only Taco, being the smart little asshole he is, figured out Pill Pockets, and refuses to eat them anymore. So when he stopped puking so much and started ignoring the Pill Pockets, I just gave up. Since then, here and there he’s been pukey, but really, what cat isn’t? Even Moosh pukes sometimes. Mostly hairballs, I mean, it IS Florida and all, and I see how much hair they have. It’s only natural. I hear pumpkin puree is supposed to work for that, has anyone tried it?
Anyway, I don’t think it’s the hairballs today. He’s puked up all his food AND some Greenies (which will turn your beige carpet a lovely shade of green!) and even did the weird MEOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW thing that cats do right before they puke…only MY cats have never done it right before they puke. In fact, the only reason I know about the MEOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW “I’m about to puke” noise is from Jager…who was sick with FIP. My vet said that the noise was normal, but I now associate it with a dying kitten (which I know, logically, isn’t what’s wrong with Taco as it’s really only a disease that hits cats under 2, and usually way younger than that) and that’s extraordinarily unnerving.
And this is supposed to be my vacation week and I was looking forward to “me” time tomorrow (by vacation week I mean I have the week off one job and 1 and a half days at my day job which may not seem like a vacation week to you but believe me, it is to me) but now it looks like I’m going to have to take Taco to the vet, which also makes me feel like a horrible cat mom and horrible person in general for lamenting the loss of my “me” day for what could be a sick kitty. But something always happens on my days off. And I don’t get a lot of them. Plus, the vet costs money. Money I don’t want to spend at the vet. I love my vet, but really, I would like to see less of her. Just got the “Time for Moosh vaccinations!” postcard in the mail the other day. I should really get a volume discount.
But I suppose I should be happy I’m not getting hit with a hurricane and using my day off to evacuate. And although the RNC is going on just on the other side of the bay, I haven’t had any run-ins with crazy republicans. I did, however, put my “Republicans Hate Kittens” sticker on my car (it has a sad kitty face on it too) in hopes that I offend someone. I reason that any republican who actually does not hate kittens is probably an ok person and wouldn’t be offended by such a sticker anyway. I see the bright side. I guess I just feel like wallowing today. In addition to worrying about the kitty.
My kitty amusement for the day.
Taco is a smart little f-er. He was being whiny and annoying, so I decided to give him treats to shut his loud mouth up.
First of all, he grabbed the treats with his paws and didn’t let go until he hit the ground so he was sure he’d have it. The time he missed, he whacked it under the wire rack in the kitchen. It’s just wide and low enough that he can’t fit his fat paw all the way to the back where the treat landed. So I gave him another, and put the bag away. I walked away for a sec, and came back to see him FRANTICALLY trying to figure out a way to get to it.
He looked at me, meowed the HOARSEST meow I’ve ever heard, as if he were a starving child in Africa and that was the only morsel of food he was ever going to have again and OMG what am I going to do…and his tail was straight up and absolutely QUIVERING.
Then he went back to frantically trying to get to it while I fell on the ground laughing at him.
Oh, these cats.
GIVE ME MY FOOOOOOODZ
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.
MEOW hear this! 