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





Have you never seen these?

4 08 2008

I rediscovered Simon’s Cat today.  As the owner of a completely mental cat, I think these are great.  Enjoy!

Let me In

Cat Man Do

TV Dinner





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.

Read the rest of this entry »





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.