Could have been terrible

26 10 2009

The weather’s been really nice lately. And in our efforts to bring our electric bill way down while we have the chance, we’ve been keeping the A/C off and opening the windows. Especially the back door — we have only the screen door up almost all day and night.

And then, last night. I was in the kitchen while C was sitting in the living room. It was about 2 in the morning? I hear this massive crash. Our cat has seen another cat on the porch, attacked, and pushed the screen door right out. Not the screen, the entire door.

I run into the living room as C pulls the sliding door closed. Looking around, I ask where the cat is. We have a small disagreement about whether or not the cat would go outside. C says she never tries to go outside and I argue that maybe through sheer momentum, she couldn’t help it. We look inside for the cat, including all her favorite hiding places. Nothing.

At this point, I’m maybe freaking out just a little. I like this cat, I’m quite fond of her, and I don’t really fancy losing her. C goes outside with a flashlight, in the rain, and starts patrolling the green space behind our apartment. I stay on the back porch in case the cat comes back. After 30 minutes of this, I’m freaking out a little more because really? This is the day I lose my cat?

I run back inside to grab some catfood to shake around, and as I approach the back door I see a streak of white and C waving frantically. The cat has just rushed by our porch and is slinking through bushes. C finally grabs her and hands her over the rail to me.

My cat was wet, muddy, and kind of freaking out herself. But she’s home.

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It’s just so stupid

14 09 2009

Last night I’m playing with my cat and her new favorite string.  Suddenly, and I don’t think this is my fault, she runs over my foot.  This results in long gashes going across the tops of four toes.  This quite naturally hurts, so I start screaming and carrying on like a giant girl.

C, hearing the commotion, saunters on over.  I pick up my foot and wave it at her.  She says, “Oh, geez, she just scratched you.”

Of course, that’s when blood starts gooshing out of my foot. Hahaha, that’s what happens when you make light of my injuries!  She sprints to the bathroom and returns with a considerable wad of toilet paper which she then strategically smooshes around on my foot.  Thusly staunched (sort of), I announce that I’m going upstairs to stick my foot in the tub, pour some peroxide on my foot, and clean the cuts out.  She tells me that she has just finished putting Drano in the tub, but I can certainly hop up on the teeny wittle counter in the downstairs bathroom and put my foot in the sink.  For those of you without a visual, the counter pretty much is the sink, so what she’s actually suggesting is that I either: 1) do a weird combination ballet move/flamingo stance and clean my foot or 2) somehow stick my foot into the sink that my ass would be sitting in.  Neither of these options is sounding really attractive, and the blood that had been held at bay by a wad of Angel Soft is now threatening to end up on the carpet.  So I demand that she go into the kitchen and fetch the big pot.  Which, of course, turns into “What pot?” “The BIG pot!”  “The one you make pasta in?” “No, the OTHER big pot!”  “The new one?”  “NO, the one that would fit a foot!!”

Correct pot having been located, she fills it with water and somehow hits my foot because while I’m expecting her to, you know, put it on the floor, she’s holding it mid-air and raising it to meet my foot.  I swear, she defies all logic in my world.  The cool water feels lovely, and it’s really neat how little pink bubbles seem to be coming out of my toes.

She goes upstairs for supplies and comes back with the following: a roll of gauze, some Neosporin, handsoap, a giant pack of bandaids, and an Ace bandage. For real.  She’s nothing if not prepared.  She then attempts to wash my foot which means she’s attempting to not only touch my foot but she’s about to touch the things that hurt and that is not allowed.  Ask my mother how many times I locked myself in the bathroom with an injury as a child.  No one touches my scrapes, my splinters, and certainly not the bloody cuts that hurt.  So I snatch my foot away and, okay, yes, splash her in the face a little.  It isn’t on purpose so I don’t see why she gets all huffy.

Once I feel sufficiently de-germed, she pats me dry with a towel (after I object, of course, to the first towel because I claim it’s too “linty”).  And then I am gracious enough to let her put bandaids all over my foot.  I decline the gauze, tape, and Ace bandage, though it’s a sweet gesture.

And then, for the rest of the evening the cat stays near me and even sleeps next to my foot on the ottoman.  It’s a weird sort of protectiveness, even though she’s the one that did it.  C claims that the cat feels bad, but I know better.  I caught her sniffing the bandaids and trying to claw the back of my foot when she thought I wasn’t looking and I’m keeping an eye on her.





A sad day

23 11 2008

C and I are taking her cat, Tiger, to the vet tomorrow to be put to sleep.  This is a hard thing to do.

When C was 10 years old, she found a kitten.  She kept it in her room until it was willing to come out from under the bed.  She named her Tiger for her stripes and fearsome manner.  Tiger has been fiercely devoted to C for 19 years, and vice versa.

Tiger doesn’t like many people and I still maintain that C decided I was worth dating because Tiger allowed me to pet her and even snuggled up with me in C’s room at one point all those years ago.

For the last 9 years, Tiger has been my cat as well.  She is sweet and kind and loves me, though she makes it abundantly clear that C comes first.

We had Tiger in our first house together, in all houses and apartments since then, and we evacuated her with us for Katrina.  As long as I have known C, Tiger has been present.  And tomorrow we are putting that to an end.

She has had a good, long life and that is a great thing.  But that doesn’t make this hurt any less.  Most of all, I wish there was anything I could do for C.  This hurts her, and it’s hard for me to see her heart breaking like this without being able to help.

So, I love you, Tiger.  You were a good cat.  And thank you for giving C something to love though those bad years when it all seemed so desolate.

My friend, A, asked if Tiger was a symbol of C and me, the girls who met, and if this felt like some final thrust into adulthood.  Perhaps.  Although to be “thrust” into adulthood at 29 is pretty sad, shouldn’t we be adults already?

Regardless of what she may or may not symbolize, Tiger has had a place in our cobbled-together family.  And she will be sorely missed.

tiger





Hork if you’re tired

5 09 2008

So H evacuated Slidell and went north to Ruston.  I asked her how the process went, how her family’s doing, and how the cat, Mina, handled the evacuation.

Here is her story as told by H (and recreated as faithfully as possible by me):

Well, we had to board up both houses and we were trying to leave ahead of contra-flow.  But Mina had decided to hide in the depths of the house, you know, like she does when I really need her to be out.  And I realized I hadn’t seen her in hours and then I noticed the front door was open and I’m like “Oh my god, what if she got out.”  But I figured she was just hiding from noise and dogs and such.  So we went to my house because the renters didn’t do ANYTHING before leaving and, oh!  Did I tell you about the spiders?  So it’s late at night and we’re putting up a board and there’s a HUGE spider and I make Casey kill it by stomping on it but THEN there are like a gajillion spider babies exploding everywhere.  That’s when I say “screw this! We really have to get going like RIGHT NOW because of, um, contraflow!  That’s it!  Off we go!”

So we go back to the house and find Mina THANK GOD and pack her, the two dogs, and all the stuff into the car.  Also, I couldn’t find either of the cat carriers that I know are somewhere so I had to make one out of a box with tons of holes punched in it and tape.  So we put the box on top of all the stuff and Mina starts the pathetic “Oh god you hate me, I want to die” noises that she makes even when you pick her up so we don’t take her all that seriously.  After 30 minutes she stops scratching.  An hour later, I look back and her entire head is poking out of the box.  She had nommed one of the holes until it was wide enough for her head to poke through.  A few minutes after that I hear this weird noise, look back, and Mina has lugged her body through the nomming hole.  And now she insists on riding up front in someone’s lap, preferably whoever is driving.  So . . . yeah.

We FINALLY make it to Ruston and stop at my mom’s house.  And you know how during Katrina, even, Mina wouldn’t eat or anything on the trip?  Well, same thing this time.  And so we finally leave my mom’s house on our way to my grandmother’s and you know all those hills?  Well Mina freaks out and starts drooling all crazy and there’s like these clear threads coming out of her mouth and then it turns into bubbles and then I guess she’s trying to throw up from motion sickness but she hasn’t eaten so all this weird gooey shit keeps coming out until me, Casey, and the entire front of the car are covered in kitty hork and it’s just so bad.  Casey’s all like “Damn, I took a shower so I could be clean and non-smelly to meet your grandmother and now I’m covered in kitty goo, so . . .whatever.”

At this point, I was laughing too hard to hear any more story.  Because “kitty hork” is just too good at making me giggle.  Mina is fine, H is fine, the houses are fine.  And yes, it’s a sad story of a sick cat.  But it’s also funny as hell.





Separation Anxiety

23 08 2008

It’s 2:45 in the morning.  I’m waiting around to take C to the airport for her VERY early flight.  It was originally scheduled for 10, but they bumped it up in order to try and avoid landing in Tropical Storm Fay.  Hahahaha.

I always get nervous when C leaves town, I can’t help it.  What if something happens?  Have I said everything I ever wanted to say to her?  Does she know I love her?  What if, what if.  I’m not a paranoid person, generally, but it’s easy to NOT be paranoid when I can keep an eye on the people I might worry about.  Having that person fly into a tropical storm, gosh, that just makes it more exciting!!

Ugh.  I know full well that I’ll be sad all day today.  It’s just too quiet when she’s out of town, and this will be for 5 days.  Thankfully, G and K have invited me over for a late breakfast and I think I might see a movie with M either this afternoon or tonight.

That doesn’t make coming home to an empty apartment any easier.

I joke around with C, asking her to help me come up with some ideas of trouble to get into.  But really, I get mopey when she’s gone.  I turn on the TV to keep some noise going, and play with the cats.  But I realize after a couple of days that unless I make a point to call someone on the phone, I can go without speaking for quite a while.  That in itself is just sad, right?  It make me have conversations with the cats that are more inane and in-depth than usual.  I mean usually it’s just like:

Me: Me-oh Maya!
Maya: Meow meow!
Me: I know! Where’s your string?
Maya: Meow meow!
Me: That’s so clever of you, you’re a sweet kitty.

But when I’m alone for too long and getting desperate it turns into something else entirely.

Me: Maya, I feel as though we’re not connecting like we used to.  You were napping on my leg and seemed perfectly content until that moth flew by and now it’s like you’ve forgotten our time together.
Maya: (hunting what is apparently the demon moth that will steal her food and toys and maybe upend her litter box if she doesn’t kill it soon) MEOW!!!!
Me: I know, I hear what you’re saying.  But what I’m trying to express is that I think you’re fickle sometimes.  And I’m saying this with love.  And that hurts my feelings, you know?
Maya: meow?

I’ve learned that when I try too hard to relate to the cat, she either eats my hair or manages to claw me.  I should probably stop that.

Okay, it’s time to take my girlfriend to her plane that will be flying into a maelstrom of death.  Yippee.





Maybe it’s the time of year

26 05 2008

I just woke up from the weirdest dream about my old cat, Koda. And while the details of the dream are quickly fading, I am really sad because I miss my damn cat.

Granted, it’s been six years. But I still feel so guilty.

Koda was born 7-8-99 (an easy date to remember, right?) in my parents’ living room. I had taken in his mother, a stray, who we felt bad for because it looked like something horrible had happened to her tail. We didn’t know she was pregnant. She was very sweet.

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Poor kitty

20 05 2008

Today I took my cat to the vet for her yearly checkup and shots. We found a new vet here in town and I really like the doctors. The cat is healthy and fine but she’s still a little miffed at me for putting her in a crate and taking her to a place where people poked and prodded her. On the way there she made these horrible noises from inside her carrier that sounded like a cat-seal hybrid. During the exam, she started shaking and I felt REALLY bad for her, poor thing. And then on the way home she started the seal cry again. But now she’s bouncing around and even playing with me for a few minutes before she remembers that she hates me for all eternity.

Also, I was given a bottle and told to collect a stool sample. Goody. And then, as if I would do this, the tech told me “If you can’t bring it until the next day, just store it in your fridge overnight.”

Yeah, because I really want a little vial of cat poo sitting next to the milk and butter and stuff. Ewwwww.

And, just because I feel like it, here’s a picture of the cat being all floppy and weird.  This isn’t me being cool and catching a moment in time . . . she actually just lies there like this.