Tag Archives: animals

The Negotiator

Posted on November 19, 2012 | 27 Comments

The other day I came home to a chipmunk domestic in my yard. It was like COPS: Small Woodland Creature edition, minus the mini wife beater tanks and camera crew.

Considering there was plenty of food under the feeder for all to enjoy, it made me wonder what could tick off these little buggers so much that they would scream and chase each other around the yard. Does he always leaves the seat up? Does she only cook up corn?

Yes, I spent a few moments pondering this.

Perhaps I’ve just been watching CSI: NY for too long. It’s pretty much the only “serious” show that I’ll watch on TV, due in part to the fact I feel a special connection with Gary Sinise after he and his Lt. Dan Band—yes, it’s a thing—were the entertainment at a Halloween party about five years ago.

But I do like the characters and the show, despite the fact each episode would only last about 20 minutes if you took away the music and shots of the medical examiner looking fascinated every time he picked up a scalpel (accompanied by aforementioned music.)

While I don’t live in New York and am fairly confident that I’m not part of an underground Mafia ring, I am a little hyperaware of certain things.

I think people sitting in their cars in empty parking lots look creepy—even if they’re just taking a lunch break, going into a bank makes me feel like I’m part of “Oceans 11” minus the hot guys and I assume anyone who pulls up behind me at an ATM is the Unibomber out for a jaunt.

But if (god forbid) something did every happen to me, I’m pretty sure I would be the world’s worst hostage.

The perps would most likely “remove me from the situation” quickly or surrender to authorities ASAP, preferring jail to my incessant requests to get home in time to watch the new “Chopped.”

Along with the wrath of me missing my TV show, they would have to contend with the fact I drink water all the time. Drinking water all the time combined with a bladder the size of a Cheerio means I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.

And hell hath no fury if this “situation” falls within any of the five windows during the day in which I engage in my feedings.

If for some reason things did get carried away and a ransom note was required, the criminal would have to let me put my artistic OCD skills to use in cutting out all the letters from magazines myself. In addition, I would need to edit and possibly revise said ransom note before it could be sent out to authorities.

If it has my name on it, I want it to look good.

At any rate, the news description of what I was wearing when I went missing would probably cause my family to pretend they don’t know who I am. “Yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a streak of hummus in her hair? Nope, I don’t know her.”

That would be unfortunate, because I’m pretty sure the criminal would ante up funds simply to send me away if my above requirements weren’t met. After all, I have chipmunks to feed, and apparently you don’t want to piss those guys off.

You never know what they can do.

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Tagged animals, Chopped, crime, CSI: NY, house, OCD

Pet Cemetery

Posted on January 15, 2012 | 39 Comments

Neighbor’s cat passed away. Just buried it in my backyard. He’s wearing a sweater. Carry on.

This was my tweet the other night as I sat at my dining room table, just a bit before dusk, when I looked up and saw my mom and two friends walk out to my garden with a shovel and a large lump wrapped in a blanket. I knew what that meant.

It was time for a pet burial.

This isn’t him, but it looks a lot like him—only, you know, alive—and I needed a visual. Play along.

A Little Background

My mom has a pet cemetery that is currently home to everything from our cats and birds to friends’ pets that needed a final and proper resting place. All are buried with their favorite “thing,” be it a toy, a blanket or a treat.

This includes my late neighbor’s dog who we buried a couple weeks ago on a dark rainy night, clomping through the muddy back yard with a shovel and a bundled up blanket. We concluded the event by serenading her with “Gangsta’s Paradise,” as it was in my head for some reason and “raising the roof” fit the mood.

Surprisingly, my mom’s neighbors haven’t called the cops. Yet.

We haven’t run into many issues, save for having to keep my bird in the freezer for three days or having to cut holes in a shoebox for my pet rabbit when I was in elementary school. Evidently rigor mortis couldn’t wait to set in until after I got home from wherever it is six-year-olds go, so the little rabbit’s legs were sticking straight out by the time we tried to put him in the box.

We cut some holes. We worked around it.

Some people might think we’re crazy—I wouldn’t argue with that claim—but I would argue it’s not because we care about our pets. They become members of the family and deserve a proper goodbye, just as we deserve to mourn them. We plant flowers, we place markers, we know that they were loved.

Sam I Am

That brings us to me sitting at my dining room table, watching this cat burial.* *It was cold. I stayed inside. Respects could be paid later, as he wasn’t going anywhere.

The normal view of my birdfeeder—often surrounded by squirrels drunk on fermented fruit and power—was instead filled with my mom and my late neighbor’s two best friends. They were there to bury Sam, a 16-year-old 25-pound cat who had lived with all of them at some point.

Seeing as he lived next door to me for a while and liked me better than crazy neighbor lady anyway, it was thought a proper burial spot would be in my garden.

Things appeared to be progressing normally until I saw my mom hand Sam off to Jeff and pull something bright red out of a bag. There was a little bit of discussion before Jeff unwrapped the blanket and held Sam up by his armpits.

At this point I was intrigued.

The next five minutes involved my mom carefully trying to finagle what appeared to be a bright red dog sweater over the head of a dead cat as Jeff tried to keep Sam up in the air and maneuver his legs through the holes.

When at last it appeared Sam was “warm and styling up in heaven,” as my mom would later tell me, he was raised up in the air for final approval before being wrapped back up, placed gently in his new dirt bed and sprinkled with catnip.

A stone angel marker now designates this space, both to commemorate his furry little soul and to warn me not to dig there when I plant my spring seeds. There was a minor incident a couple years ago that involved planting flowers and hitting a shoebox, so it’s better safe than sorry.

But don’t worry.

Nothing larger than a 30-pound cat has been buried at my mom’s.

When the day comes, Gram is safe.

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Tagged animals, funeral, garden, mom, neighborhood, pets, Sam

Buy the Book. Save a Kitten

Posted on November 21, 2011 | 56 Comments

I’ve had a lot of people tell me I should write a book. And while I don’t like people telling me what to do, once in a great while I will humor them.

So I wrote a book.

You should probably buy it.

Thank you to Amy for her help with the covers.

Before you go thinking anything fancy, let me tell you that it’s self-published and the whole process has take more time and energy (and money) than I planned on. The pictures aren’t exactly stellar and I’m sure there’s at least one rogue punctuation mark somewhere.

But I decided I wanted a collection of my words I could hold in my hand and give to my mom, something I couldn’t accidentally delete while looking for a vegan cheesecake recipe on the Internet.

This is the front and back cover and it looks better in person, so you should probably just buy it.

So, the result is this book—150 pages of posts from the past two years that you can read while you’re on the crapper, either in paperback or Kindle format from the CreateSpace store orAmazon.

But that’s not the cool thing.

The cool thing is that if you buy this book, you can help save a shelter animal (this is where the kitten and/or dog and/or one-eyed hamster come in.)

I didn’t publish this book to try and make money, as that is a laughable notion. I published it so I could share my crazy view on things and maybe make you laugh, smile or feel a bit more normal. So if you invest a little bit of time and money into reading it, I will give a little bit of time and money back.

Any profits that are made from this book will go directly into an “Animals Have Issues” fund for the Humane Society and used to fund our annual gift.

You know I love my shelter animals, and more than 8 million animals enter shelters every year. As you know, you get what you give, and for the cost of some overpriced coffee, you can get something cool and give back something tangible (and avoid having to listen to someone in front of you order a half-caff, skim, sugar-free, extra hot mocha with 1 3/4 pumps of calorie-free syrup, extra oxygen and 75 sprinkles.)

So with a click of the mouse, a sharing/StumblingUpon/Tweet of this post, we can build up some kick-ass support for some animals that, well, have issues of their own and need some help.

Sound like a plan?

So in case you’re like me and need things spelled out for you:

Buy the book either here or here and the Kindle version here
Tell a friend or ten
Write a review on Amazon and help me get the word out
Save a kitten and a puppy and some abandoned one-eyed hamster
Enter the pantheon of awesomeness

Disclaimer: Amazon is still building the page, so there’s no description or “look inside” feature yet, but you can still buy it and I’ll update this when it’s done.

Also, I’m still trying to figure out how to pimp the book out with a picture/link on the front of my blog. It seems WordPress doesn’t allow the convenient link from Amazon, so I’m trying to figure out an alternative without violence (help!)

I promise not to hit you over the head with this for too long—I’ll be back to my regularly rambling neurosis soon enough.

But for now?

I wrote a book.

It’s the holiday season and this makes a fast and easy gift.

You should probably buy it.

Buy the book. Save a kitten.

*Press materials available upon request

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Tagged Amazon, animals, blogging, book, Humane Society, writing

CSI: Pond/Fountain thing

Posted on June 19, 2011 | 16 Comments

For the past couple of weeks I have been enjoying the soothing sounds of a gentle waterfall. No, I have not neglected to fix my runny toilet once again, but rather I speak of the fountain/pond in my backyard oasis.

We—and by “we” I mean my mom—got it running once again with the help of a new pump and some elbow grease, and the gentle tinkling of the streaming water has been providing a relaxing background as I swat off the bugs of summer.

Well, that went down the crapper.

The damn things sprung a leak—again—and has since emptied itself out to reveal a new spot for annoying white fuzzies and tree debris to congregate. I’m not quite sure why it happened, but I would like to blame something other than the fact that it simply sprung a leak.

Enter CSI: Pond/Fountain thing and the short list of suspects.

The Diva Chipmunk

When I left for work the other morning, there was a chipmunk frolicking near the crime scene. Due to my excitement at getting to work at 6:30 a.m., I failed to inform him that I was not running a private spa for small woodland creatures. It’s possible that if he chose to swim laps with unpedicured nails, the liner of said pond could have been torn.

However, I feel the small woodland creatures enjoyed the pond as much as I did and doubt this was an impulsive act to display disappointment in my failure to supply little fuzzy robes, acorn appetizers and complimentary slippers. I have eliminated all diva chipmunks as suspects.

The Masked Menace

While I have a soft spot for small woodland creatures, I have no such feelings towards large bastard raccoons that destroy my birdfeeder and refuse to fear me.

The first time I looked out my window and saw this thing climbing up the stairs, I thought it was a bear. (Never mind the fact that we don’t really have bears in my area.) This beast is huge, and when I ran out flailing my arms and making crazy sounds, it simply moved one step lower and looked positively bored. I swear I heard it sigh before slowly retreating, only to return the second I went back into the house.

So while I would love to nail this sucker to the wall for the crime in question, considering there is no food involved, I don’t think it would have the motivation—other than to piss me off.

Ernie the Gnome

With Ernie, jealousy could most certainly be motive. Uncle June gets a fair amount of mini-face time on the blog, whereas Ernie only appears in warm-weather situations.

It’s very possible that these feelings of inferiority could have manifested themselves into a vindictive act of vandalism, but alas, he would have been destroying his own little humble abode. I feel he must be eliminated from the suspect list as well—along with the turtle.

Long Shots

I thought about blaming the neighbor kids, seeing as they have been wandering around the neighborhood with their improvised nunchucks and potent pellet guns. But they haven’t really ventured into my yard since I moved in, at which point in time the little mouth breathers rode their bikes across my front lawn and dug holes in my backyard because the old owners apparently allowed that.

I calmly told them that I didn’t allow that behavior and was not above installing an invisible electric fence to prevent a repeat occurrence. I then added that both Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy had died tragic deaths as a result of their reckless excavation and bicycle operation through my yard.

With that said, they now call me “Miss Abby” and only come over when selling overpriced products for various Scout troops and cults they belong to.

So they’ve also been eliminated as suspects, leaving me right back where I started from—an empty pond and empty leads. But this investigation has not been for naught, as I’m thinking the neighbor kids might be included as possible allies in the war against the raccoon.

Let’s put those nunchucks and pellet guns to good use, shall we?

*No animals were harmed in the writing of this post, nor will they be harmed in the future. I can’t speak for any psychological damage that may have resulted from finding out the Tooth Fairy is not real.

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Tagged animals, garden, gnome, mystery, neighbor kids, pond, summer

Operation Procrastination

Posted on May 13, 2011 | 15 Comments

Alternate title: A post full of random irrelevant things I’m spending time sharing instead of actually packing for my trip.

Don’t get me wrong. Just about everything I need to take with me is in a pile on my floor next to the suitcase, but it just hasn’t made it into the suitcase yet. It will, it will…on to the randomness.

It was a very long winter, and I am neurotically happy about getting to sleep with the window open for two whole nights this month. I love laying on top of the covers with nothing but the breeze and the sounds of the night (often accented by the tipsy neighbor lady yelling at her little dogs while hacking up an emphysemic lung into her flower box, but I digress). Much like that neighbor, Mother Nature can be a moody bitch and I’m not naïve enough to think warmish weather is here to stay yet, but for now, I dig it.
Spring also brings with it beautiful flowers/garden planning and baby animals, both of which make me happy.

Flowers and gardens (early last year, but you get the idea)

Baby geese (nothing to put in parenthesis here)

I plan on enjoying these things until some random wild animal attempts to eat them, at which point I will enlist the hunting services of the juvenile delinquent next door that shoots his BB gun at his brother and was once overheard saying, “Poke it with a stick and then either bury it or eat it.”
Do not post a Facebook status that reads “I’m wondering if I should be concerned that two grocery store employees noticed my haircut tonight but my mom didn’t” if you are Facebook friends with the person who used to cut your hair until a month ago. I forgot this. It was awkward, made only less awkward by the fact that I really like my haircut.
Today I’m wearing the “Professional Asparagus Eater” T-shirt that my mom got me a couple years ago. If that were a real profession, I would be all kinds of awesome at it. Because it’s not, I wear the T-shirt all the time, hoping to be “discovered.”

According to WordPress, two people evidently found my blog by searching “Girls working out in thongs” and “Everyone’s having fun except you.” Really? If you’re working out in a thong, you probably aren’t having that much fun…or so I’ve heard.

Anyway, the banana has been eaten, the dog has been walked “one last time” and the grocery ad has been viewed with my list made out for when I return on Wednesday.

And for those who were wondering, Uncle June is ready to go.

Coincidence? I think not.

Now all that’s left to do is pack and hope I don’t oversleep my 4am alarm—and possibly clean the shower.

I promise more (or less) introspective posts in the future and a New York edition of FYIs, which are always fun.

But for now, enjoy your weekend and pray I don’t get stuck sitting next to a screaming child on the plane. If I do, see vodka above.

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Tagged animals, Facebook, flower, haircut, random, season, travel, Uncle June

A Good Nine Lives

Posted on May 3, 2011 | 24 Comments

Wendell, my Fuzzy Little Soul Sister, reached the end of all nine of her lives this week.

She was 16, but I’m still sad.

However, this isn’t a sad post—I promise. When it comes to death, I think a little bit differently than most people. I can usually frame it in a “circle of life” type of way. It’s inevitable, and instead of fight it or fear it, I tend to accept it.

But I’m still sad.

Anyway, Wendell the One-Toothed Wonder Cat’s situation just called to mind memories of pets gone by and some interesting circumstances surrounding their departure.

Keep in mind the fact that my mom is Dr. Doolittle and it’s normal for us to spend two hours coaxing a chipmunk out of a drainage pipe in 90 degree heat (he made it out safe, if not a bit dazed and confused), chasing a loose goat through briar patches (I made it out safe, if not a bit dazed and confused) or picking up stray dogs on the way to job interviews (I got nothing for this one—so much for symmetry).

We’ve had tons of animals throughout the years, but these are just a few examples.

I will keep the stories short and sweet, unlike that disclaimer.

First there was Mitten, aka “Bun,” my rabbit when I was in preschool. The creativity for his name was inspired by the fact that he was a bunny with a white mittened foot. “Bun” met an untimely death at the hands of a homicidal cage cleaner—aka “dad”— that “accidently” used harmful chemicals to clean. I was at a friend’s house and by the time I got home, the body was already stiff. Determined to bury him in our backyard pet cemetery, holes were cut in a shoebox so his legs could stick out. I think we get points for creativity there.
In kindergarten, I received the best dog in the world and named him Cromwell (obviously more sophisticated than Mitten.) I don’t have a picture of him because I have no scanner, but he was a peak-a-poo and the cutest, most loving thing ever. There was an incident and he had a little crooked nose, but he was awesome. He lived to be about 3,000 in dog years, and when he passed away we had him cremated. He came back in something the size of a business card. I’ve seen more ashes on a sidewalk outside Starbucks.
Gonzo, a beautiful cockatiel, joined the family a couple of years later and lived to be about 3,000 in bird years. As I’ve mentioned, the little feathered bastard choose to pass away while I was on my first business trip ever (New York) a few years ago. My mom had to keep him in the freezer until I could come home and we could have a proper burial. It was very traumatic for all three of us (especially Gonzo.)
Speaking of the freezer, I also had to freeze a dead fish for some people I was housesitting for. That was awkward.

There are many more stories I could share—a cat getting it’s head caught in the rails of our dining room chair and me having to butter it to get it out (not unlike my mom buttering my own head when I was little and got my head caught in the rails of the stairway) or an accidental archeological find while planting flowers in the pet garden, for example—but I’ll leave you with just one more.

I would often dog sit for some people down the street. (Don’t worry—there is no freezer involved in this story.) They have a big dog and a little mutt that is about 3,000 years old in dog years—Burrie. When I was first introduced to the dogs, I was told that Burrie squatted when he peed instead of lifting his leg. That’s not that weird in and of itself, but the reason he squats is because he doesn’t have a penis. Apparently he was hit by a car when he was little and it was ripped off, never to be seen again. He was taken to the shelter and was going to be put down, but this family paid for his surgery and adopted him. I was told by the husband that if his penis ever gets ripped off, he just wants to be put down.

At any rate, Wendell will be missed.

She was buried in the garden cemetery among the many animal companions we’ve loved and lost throughout the years. We’re all sad, but I can’t wait for the flowers in that garden to bloom—especially the catnip.

Plus, it helps to remember that things could always be worse…

(But I’m still sad.)

Assuming their heads aren’t falling off, do you have a pet story to share? Mishaps? Cool tricks? Great name?

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Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged animals, death, humor, memories, video, Wendell

Potty Mouth

Posted on April 18, 2011 | 27 Comments

Alternate title: To pee or not to pee, that is the question…

I was in a clothing store the other day when a mother and her offspring came into the dressing room. Her little angel was shoved into the stall with the instruction to “be a big girl and come out with that dress on.” A minute later the “big girl” replied with, “Do they have toilet paper in here?”

I’m not kidding, and I’m also still not remotely interested in shopping or other people’s children.

Anyway, the mom freaked out and averted crisis, leaving me with her “Didn’t I ask you if you had to go before we left?” and the idea for this blog post. You can thank the incontinent angel.

Thanks to early (undiagnosed) onset of OCD, my mom never had to worry about asking me if I had to go to the bathroom before we went anywhere. It was—and still is—one of my compulsions.

Now let me explain.

Although I do have a bladder the size of a Fruit Loop and drink tons of water, it’s much more mental. If I’m going to be going somewhere or doing anything, I have to go to the bathroom first. Physically I might not have the urge, but I’m worried that I’ll have to go when I won’t be able to. Thus, I take preventative measures.

Going to bed? Go to the bathroom.

Going for a walk? Go to the bathroom.

Headed to a meeting? Go to the bathroom.

Ready to eat? Go to the bathroom.

While it’s normal to attend to basic human functions, I realized early on that I had a slightly dysfunctional take on the peeing situation.

When I was little, my mom would tuck me in, I would say the same exact prayer in the same exact way and place (another OCD thing, as I still say that prayer even though half the people and pets in it are dead now and I’m not religious) and it would be assumed that I was fast asleep.

However, I was paranoid and would compulsively get up and pee after going to bed. It got to the point where I would be sneaking out of my room and going 10-15 times, quietly trying to shut my door so that my parents didn’t hear me get up. Sometimes it worked, but other times the damn click of the doorknob alerted them to my covert urinary operations.

We discussed this issue and to be honest, I don’t remember how we scaled it down from 20 times a night to one or two. Maybe I got lazy or bed restraints were involved. Either way, it eventually diminished and morphed into some other dysfunction over time.

But I still have a bathroom thing.

Plane trips and movies freak me out, as I’m never sure if I’ll have immediate access if needed. I still plan long walks and activities on whether or not a bathroom will be nearby. It’s not that I don’t trust my strong and youthful bladder, but it’s just one of those things I need for reassurance, one of my neurotic quirks (I prefer that term to compulsions, thank you very much.)

I do remember the first time I tried to “hover” though.

My mom was quick to school me in anti-public restroom behavior, and we were shopping somewhere I can’t recall (but I can assure it it wasn’t in a dressing room.) I remember I was wearing this denim shirt and dress combo; the skirt had three ruffle things, all a different color. Don’t ask why I remember this, but I do.

Anyway, I pissed all over my skirt.

Hover fail.

Thankfully I’ve perfected the maneuver since then, but there are occasional incidents when I realize I peed on my hand when wiping without any idea how.

Now I’m just oversharing and embarrassing myself.

Let’s blame it on shopping and children.

If you’ve made it through this post, you deserve something special, so I present to you a baby raccoon taking a bath. It’s completely unrelated, but I just wrote about peeing and it’s cute. Hopefully that balances out.

Enjoy.

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Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged animals, OCD, peeing, shopping, video

Dog Day Detour

Posted on March 17, 2011 | 29 Comments

Since I covered sex and religion in my last two posts, I thought I would switch it up a bit and attempt another RDC prompt. Don’t worry though—an upcoming post is dedicated to plastic women with big boobs.

This week’s Red Dress Club assignment is to write – fiction or non-fiction – about a time when you took a detour. Where had you intended to go and where did you end up?

With a phone interview in 10 minutes, I was almost home when a dog on the street brought my thoughts back to Earth. Skin and bones, a soiled white, the ragged Pit Bull stood as a stark contrast to the neighborhood.

I slowed down my truck. She slowed down as well.

I looked at the clock. She looked so confused.

First lesson: Think with your heart and not just your head.

This dog was obviously dropped off on our street, callously left to fend for herself in an unfamiliar territory.

She didn’t know this. I did.

Pulling in the closest driveway, I got out and realized I had nothing I needed. No collar, no blanket, no leash.

She didn’t know this. I did.

Second lesson: Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

I did have dog treats and something that resembled a leash of sorts in the backseat of my Blazer, but with no collar I was forced to get creative. She must have sensed my good will, or the opportunity for free food, as she was sweet as could be and cautiously approached me.

Her nails were jagged and long; her delicate face was soiled and scratched, eyes filled with a look of confusion and hopeful trust; her ribs jutted out like prison bars.

I gave her a treat.

There was no struggle when I threw my makeshift collar/leash around her neck and led her to the truck. I dropped the hatch and spent the next five minutes trying to convince this dog that jumping into the back end was the plan.

She didn’t know this. I did.

After hefting her front paws on the tailgate, I was able to boost her massive frame into the back. I gave her a treat.

Off we went.

Third lesson: Homeless dogs will not be content being shoved in the back of a Blazer—and they stink. A lot.

Three seconds into the journey, my canine companion decided to fling herself from the back of the Blazer to the passenger’s seat.

She wasn’t into sticking her head out the open window on her side, but she was into sticking her head out the window on my side. Nails digging into my legs, dirty hair shedding across my lap, the makeshift collar doing nothing to restrain her.

We eventually made it to the Humane Society, where after some paperwork she was turned over to the competent staff that would eventually clean her up, trim those nails and prepare her for her new life.

Fourth lesson: There are still people who understand that life happens—usually to me at the most inopportune time.

I drove back home and prepared myself for the call in which I had to explain to a prospective employer that I missed our phone interview because I was detoured rescuing a homeless Pit Bull from the not-so-mean streets of northwest Grand Rapids.

I didn’t think giving her a treat would work.

She understood. We rescheduled, most likely under her assumption that even if I was making up the story, those creative powers could be editorially harnessed and come in handy on the job. I’m not sure.

Either way, I got the job.

The dog got a home.

Detour taken.

Lessons learned.

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Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged animals, Red Dress Club, work

My Fuzzy Little Soul Sister

Posted on March 7, 2011 | 8 Comments

This is Wendell.

I don’t really have a more recent picture of her, but this one pretty much sums up her enthusiasm.

Wendell is 16 years old, and even though I moved out of my mom’s house a couple of years ago, I still consider her my cat.

She was homeless and rescued as a kitten, taken in by my mom and named after a song about a homeless man—Mr. Wendell—from an obscure band that was popular for an hour when I was in sixth grade.

I’m pretty sure her senility has kept her from noticing my absence, but it could just be her arrogance refusing to acknowledge my move all of three miles away. When I stop by she will occasionally make an effort to say hello, if it’s convenient for her, and it recently occurred to me that even though she only has one tooth, matted hair and a crooked crotch—we’re actually a lot alike.

Behold the evidence:

The Hermit Stage

We enjoyed her company for a good 8-9 years before she decided to disappear for a spell, surfacing only to occasionally eat, use the litter box and let us know precisely how uninterested she was in our existence.

As she aged, she went through a “rebirth” of sorts and emerged as a spry yet slightly senile and skinnier version of her former self. For the past couple years she’s been happy, fun and entertaining again, if not a little prone to selective hearing and occasional undereating.

Attitude

When it comes to dealing with others, she takes no shit. Don’t bother me her when ~~I’m~~ she’s sleeping, don’t bother her when she’s eating and don’t bother her if she’s going to the bathroom. If you follow those rules, you’re probably safe.

She’ll let you know if you’re not.

Social Skills

She’s perceived as antisocial at times, but is really quite the opposite and has a great heart.

When people try to get close to her, she often runs away until it’s convenient for her. But if ignored, she will make her presence known through subtle physical cues—a vocal range of noises that make sense only to her and/or awkward physical gestures that may include swipes with unmanicured claws or vain attempts to bite that result in a pathetic painless gumming.

* For the record, we will apply the gumming and clawing to me in a metaphorical sense, as even though I don’t get manicures and have all of my teeth, I have yet to resort to blatant physical attacks.

Yet.

Picky Palette

Even though she’s thin, she will only eat organic dry cat food and occasional treats as her mood will allow. While she’s been offered a variety of brands and options to try, she’s dead-set on organic or nothing at all. Budget be damned.

We differ in that she does enjoy sweets and meats, in moderation.

Thrill of the Hunt

She loves it.

When the mood hits and a bug appears, she will delight in chasing a fly around. Batting it here and trapping it there, she will let it escape before claiming her dominance once again. Once she gets it—the fly and the reassurance that she still has it—she gets bored and moves on.

Extracurricular Activities

Catnip makes her happy and she’s very content to lick herself (and appears to neither desire nor require a partner in this activity.)

*No comment.

Easily Amused

She finds joy in eating, sleeping, laying in a patch of sun and aimlessly chasing after the light from a laser pen or a reflection on the wall. And as we know, I do as well.

Of course we have our differences—namely the fact that she’s a cat with only one tooth, matted hair and a crooked crotch—but some are more subtle.

I have two legs and she has four, four that are quite hairy. While I’ve never “enjoyed” shaving—and would question anyone who does, quite frankly—I take this female burden in stride. She opts to play the feline vs. female card and has never voluntarily had her excessive body hair removed.
Financially speaking, she’s basically played the “I was homeless and orphaned” card for 16 years, meaning she’s never had a job, paid taxes or contributed monetarily to the household. While we differ in that respect, I have to give her props for pulling it off so well.
Finally, she doesn’t enjoy the outdoors. Attempts to put her on a leash and roam the backyard have resulted in not-so subtle physical cues—a vocal range of ungodly loud noises and ninja-like physical gestures that included swipes with unmanicured claws, bites that resulted in somehow breaking skin with the one tooth that she has and an unpleasant spraying of urine (hers, not mine.)

Although we have our differences, I love the little one-toothed wonder. So when I stop by I occasionally make an effort to say hello—if it’s convenient for her, of course—brush her a bit and offer some catnip.

With us Leos, flattery won’t get you everywhere, but it can get your furry foot in the door.

After all, it takes one to know one.

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Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged animals, humor, personality

FYI: Honey Badger Don’t Care

Posted on March 4, 2011 | 17 Comments

I know there are big things going on in the world and for the most part, I’m a rather positive person.

But with that crap out of the way, let’s be honest. It’s usually those annoying little things that drive you nuts, that make you want to poke your eyes out with a dull letter opener or unleash the beast on a (most likely not innocent, but annoying) bystander.

Screw perky.

I present to you my evidence of crappy little things:

Hearing part of a song you hate and getting it stuck in your head for the rest of the day.
Thinking it’s later in the day/week than it actually is.
Having a mysterious beep somewhere in your house that you just can’t locate.
Locating that beep and then not being able to figure out how to get it to stop.
Falling up the stairs.
Getting halfway through a book you were excited about only to realize that it isn’t going to get any better.
Somehow peeing on your hand when wiping without any idea how.
Realizing you’re the only one who has ever peed on your hand when wiping without any idea how.
Having a DVD skip and then stop halfway through a movie.
Trying to throw a chewed piece of gum out the window only to have it a) stick to the outside of the window, b) stick to your hand or c) come flying back into the car. All can actually happen in that order with the same piece of gum. Trust me.
Missing your mouth entirely with a water bottle.
Somehow getting stuck in an article of clothing you’re trying on in the store.
Typing a whole e-mail message or blog comment only to hit “publish” and have it mysteriously disappear into cyberspace.
Typing a whole e-mail message or blog comment only to hit “publish” entirely too soon or possibly when you shouldn’t have hit “publish” at all.
Finding a used band-aid anywhere.
Dropping something in the toilet two seconds after thinking, “It would suck if this fell into the toilet.”
Getting a captcha wrong and feeling like a dumbass.
Realizing the digital TV Guide hates you, as it listed one program as scheduled to be on but ran another one instead.
Going to the store for one thing and remembering that you forgot that one thing as you’re already checking out.
Getting stuck behind someone at the store that just remembered they forgot something as they’re checking out, but decides to hold up the line and go get it anyway. Don’t be that person. We will hate you.
Not being able to remember where you know someone from or their name after having a full conversation with them.
Spilling rice.
Realizing that all of these things happened to you this week alone and that these are just the ones you can remember.

However, all is not doom and gloom, my friends. These are simply pesky little annoyances and for the most part, I honestly don’t care.

No big whoop.

But if for some reason you’ve had a bad week or dropped your phone in the toilet (serves you right if you were using it in the bathroom, by the way) check out my funny animal video for the day.