That's why we need brown towels

We thought we'd experienced 'wet dog.'  We'd had a partial autumn with our new furry family member.  But  really?  Present April showers make last November's cold rain seem like puppy play. The wet dog stench, the splattered walls when you don't get to him before he shakes, the muddy footprints...  My grumbling mantra:

"I will not kill this dog, I love this dog, I want this dog, I will not kill this dog, I love this dog, I want this dog."

Torrential rain pour this morning.  Something David said to me as he kissed me during my teeth brushing stuck in my head.."Uh, hon?"
 
"Yes?"

"When you said you'd thrown the dog towel into the dryer to dry...?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you mean the really muddy one?"

"Yeah..."   He's sensing that something's up, I can tell by his voice.

"I'm just gonna maybe put in on top of an air vent instead," I say as I pull it from the dryer, where is has been tumbling... along with freshly washed tea towels and our kitchen rug...

David's eyes narrow, he'd been proactive, he was helping. "O...kay...?" (pause, two, three...) And then his eyes widen.  "OH...  Right."

I have a premonition:  I see us buying bulk hand towels in a muddy brown colour that we shall then place at every door.

Kitty Parkour

In our old house, which had six staircases (two to the basement, two to the 2nd floor, two to the attic), our three cats never laid across them.  They never lolled, never reclined, never became a stair obstacle.

Our new house with one staircase to the 2nd floor?  Is the cat equivalent to the local mall.  Our three beasts loiter for days upon these stairs.  They stretch, they 'downward dog,' they make it their day's work to create peril where once there was none.

  (Can you see three cats in these photos?  Neither could I.)

"HOLY FUCK!!!"

"What?  What happened?"  Rissa asks.

"Sorry!  Sorry.  I mean HOLY CRAP!!!"

"Why?  What's going on??"

"Cats!  EVERYWHERE!!!  As far as the eye can see - except the eyes CAN'T see them, at least not in the dark, on this staircase.  It's okay for Steve - he's an orange tom, but freakin' Minuit and Lola are black cats!  Do you know how difficult it is to see black cats on a staircase in the LESS THAN ADEQUATE LIGHT?!?"

"I know Mummy.  I know, just the other..."

"HOLY FUCK!!!"

"Daddy!

"Sorry!  Sorry!  CATS!   Why must ALL of the cats lie upon the stairs?"


ps.  This also happens...

Her name is Lola - she self-Brazilians...

I'm not sure what we do to them, but eventually, all cats in our household run galloping towards madness.  We've had cats who spontaneously paralyze, suck on carpet and hiss at the doorbell.  Since we moved to the new house, Lola - sveltest of our felines - is now attempting to change breeds - she is licking herself hairless.

Evolution to Sphinx...

  I give her six more months... et... voila!!

It all comes down to chicken vaginas...

"So what did you do in school today?"

"We had a work period in English."

"Journal entries for your ISU?"

"Yep."

"Oh, and in Geography we got to watch a video."

"What kind of video?"

"A video about sewers.  It's called Crap Shoot."

"Seriously?"  I burst into laughter.  "Madame showed you a video about sewers and it was called Crap Shoot?  That's freaking brilliant!"

"Not only that, but this is the second time I've seen it."

"I'm sorry?"

"I've seen it twice now."

I almost pee my pants.  "You've seen Crap Shoot twice?"

"Yes.  Last year in Science Class.  But that's not even the best part."

"There's a better part than just getting to watch a documentary about sewers called Crap Shoot?"

"There's this big sewer in Rome, one of the earliest sewers ever, and it's called the Giant Chicken Vagina."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's called the Cloaca Maxima - which is latin for Giant Chicken Vagina."

I snort.  "You're making this up!!"

"I am NOT!"

"This was in the documentary?"

"No, Connor just knows this because she lives on a farm.  A cloaca is part of the reproductive tract - pretty much a chicken vagina."

"So Cloaca Maxiuma would be...?"

"Giant Chicken Vagina."

Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!

"What is going on up there?" asks David from the kitchen below us.

"Clo...clo... a....ca... Max... i... ma!"  My stomach hurts from laughing now. "Seriously??" I ask.

"Seriously.  Connor and I almost got kicked out of class last year because we were laughing so hard.  This year, Connor isn't in Geography class with me, so I had to keep the hilarity inside."

Even better?  I get to recount this to David when I go downstairs.  He too, was impressed with a sewer documentary called Crap Shoot.

"Hey Rissa!" I yell upstairs.

"Yes?"

"Cloaca Maxima!!"

"BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAA!!!!"

Cat Lap Dance...

Minuit, the oldest and most crotchety of our cats has a predilection for lap dances.  Not the pervy receiving of...  it's not like she's hanging around at the Brass Rail with $5 bills in her paws, waggling her eyebrows at the dancers.  This cat, this 6 year old, overweight feline... she gives a kick-ass, albeit slightly disturbing, lap dance.

Seconds after you sit on any sofa in our house, Minuit appears.  She wends her way over the arm of the sofa and begins her descent lapward.  She'll take a moment before slowly placing one paw at a time upon any and all available thighs.  On occasion, she has been known to straddle two laps, front paws on one and back on another.  Then, the kneading begins.  It's usually at this time that David says 'I'm out!'  and shifts her to my lap.

This morning, as Rissa snuggled up to me on the family room couch, Minuit bestowed her lap dance upon us.

"WHOA!!  NOT COOL MINUIT!!" from the kid.  Rissa turns the cat around so that her front paws are now on my lap.

As Minuit once more displays her mad kneading talents, Rissa cuts me a glance. 

"What?" I ask.  "I'm just trying to figure out how we can make money off this ability."

"You're so gross."

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'practical'."

I thought we were past the baby gate stage...

We watch as he makes a beeline for the living room.  "Bodhi??  Where you going, buddy?"  He doesn't even acknowledge us.  He takes his 100 lb bulk and climbs up into the Lazy Boy, squeezing his hairiness between the arms of the chair - legs splayed - head over the side.

"Bodhi.  Dude.  You don't belong on there.  DOWN."

His eyebrows droop before he slides dejectedly off the Lazy Boy.  He immediately moves towards the sofa.  "No.  Bodhi, NO."  Head down, he moves past us towards the kitchen/family area.  I beat him to the punch, going the other way around the stairs and place a kitchen chair on its side on top of the family room sofa.  "Dude.  Seriously.  No couches.  No.  You shed too much."

He sighs, cocks his head to one side, and gives us the eyes... you know the ones... the "how could you do this to me, aren't I the most adorable thing you've ever seen in your life, why are you punishing me when I am so new to your home?" eyes.

"Stand your ground," I warn David.  "Don't let him play you.  We have to be a united front."

"I'm thinking this is a losing battle."

"Everything is going to smell of dog."

"Well, he is, in fact... a dog."

"Yes, but the furniture isn't.  Find the baby gate."

Thankfully, we've just emptied the storage locker and have yet to move its contents into our... I was going to call it a basement, but crawlspace/cellar is more accurate - it has an egress door and a dirt/gravel floor.  Two baby gates lean against the wall of the living room - we haven't had to use them in years.  We wrestle with the old-fashioned wooden gate.

The doorways in our new house aren't the same width as our old house.  The original markings that we'd left with Sharpie on the gate are now completely wrong.  It takes us about 6 tries before we get the geometry right.  The gate now blocks the path to the living room.  Bodhi stares at the gate and huffs at us.

"Sorry dude."

He walks away.  He goes over to his food bowl and stands there... crestfallen.  He glances sidelong at us, using his peripherals - I guess he's trying to figure out if we're going to steal his food now too.  He sighs again and slowly sinks to the floor, lying with his head on the rim of his food bowl, but not eating.  He just lies there.  His eyes cut to us and then back to the bowl.  He takes one piece of kibble and begins to chew.  As he finishes the piece, he glances over at us again.  He's holding his breath.  We're holding ours. 

David raises his eyebrows questioningly.  I shrug.  He motions over to Bodhi with his chin.  I shrug again.

"Have you ever seen a dog do this?" he whispers.

"No," I whisper back. "I think maybe his old cat used to stalk him while he was eating."

"Ahhhhh..."

We sit on the bottom stair, silently watching as Bodhi eats with the daintiness of a 18th century debutante.  He finishes and looks back at us... wags his tail.

A week and a half in... I'm totally going to cave.  I might as well start shopping now for possible quilts we can use to cover the family room sofa. 

p.s.  There IS a dog bed, bought - BRAND NEW - the day he arrived.  It sits on the floor beside the family room sofa - his disinterest is EPIC.

Causing cardiac arrest in caterpillars

I don't do it on purpose.  It's just that in my capacity as impulsive animal saviour, I may, on the rare occasion, leave them with PTSD. 

There you are, a woolly bear caterpillar or a fat earth worm, trying to make your way across the asphalt bike path, when you suddenly find yourself rolled, pushed, nay verily, road-rashed to safety.

It's fall and it rains a lot. There are wee furry caterpillars and earth worms all over the freaking place. Were my finger nails long, I could use them as pincers to grasp the fur of the woolly bear caterpillar (or the full width of the earth worm) and lift it into my hand.  However, my finger nails are not long, which is why I generally make several failed attempts in my catch and release manoeuvre.   I end up having to roll them around a bit before I can gain purchase upon their carcasses and then I walk them over to the grass and set them back a good 4 feet from the bike path.  I worry that after I release the wee furry/slimy little bastards their compatriots have to rush over with wee defibrillators to stave off the cardiac arrest I've set them headlong into.

"I was just out for my Tuesday stroll... heading to the Country Style for coffee and a bagel...  From out of nowhere, a great, hulking shadow appeared above me.   I was squeezed and lifted a good centimeter off the ground before I was dropped - 4 times.  Then I'm rolled like some cheap carpet, over and over again before I find myself in its hideous grasp - travelling at MACH 10 to the grass."

Oh God.  I'm probably seeing the same caterpillar over and over.  A poor woolly bear caterpillar that struggles to make its way back onto the path after I've moved it.  It's probably trying to cross the freaking road.  And there I am, every morning, forcing it to re-enact its very own version of Groundhog Day.  I'm a monster!!

I just have to streamline my rescue process.  I could spray the animal with some sort of topical anasthetic - you know, to sedate it.  If I laminate some small pieces of very thin cardstock - I could use those as rescue boards for the transport, getting them underneath the body so that they don't have to be rolled so much.  I could play Holsts's Neptune the Mystic, not the ominous beginning part, but later, like 6 minutes in when the angelic chorus starts... I could shroud myself in an ethereal cloak - so that the beast believes it's having a religious encounter.  Then, and only then, may I transport it safely across the road...  To a caterpillar playground/spa...   I may have to leave the house earlier in the mornings. 

Choking the chihuahua

"Get out of her!"  Firm shake.  Firm shake.  "OUT!  YOU. GET. OUT. OF. HER!!!"

My hands around her throat now - Chi-Chi's eyes bugging out even more.  She's making gagging sounds, but I can still see it's not her.  "GET OUT!  OUT!  OUUUUUUUUUUUUUT!!!!"

"Heather."

"GET OUT!!!"

"Heather..."

"YOU. LEAVE. MY. BABY. RIGHT. NOW!"

David's hand firmly on my shoulder.  "HEATHER."

My eyes pop open.  I've been crying.

"My chihuahua was possessed."

David pats me consolingly.  "It's okay love, I'm sure she's alright now."

"She was possessed."

"I know."

I'm still hyperventilating a bit, wiping away tears  "She was... She was...  I had to... (beat)  We don't have a chihuahua do we?"

"No love."

"Oh thank Christ..."

Good thing she's cute.

Butt.  Butt.  BUUUUUUTT.

She is the smallest of our cats, but she packs a punch when she's headbutting you first thing in the morning.  Her small feline cranium careens into my temple, followed by little cat teeth attempting to groom me.  Then this:

"Puh!  Puh!  Puh!  Gaaaaaaaag!"  as she realizes that shoulder-length human hair is much more difficult to clean than cat hair.

"Lola!  Dude."  My arm pushes her off my head.  I crack an eye open to look at the clock.  I can still sleep for another 5 minutes.

Butt.  Butt.  BUUUUUUTT.  Her lower cat teeth now failing to comb through the back of my skull.  "Puh!  Puh!  Puh!  Gaaaaaaaag!"

"Seriously, cat."  My hand pushes her off the bed.  Almost before she's hit the ground, she is back up on the bed, headbutting me with added ferocity.

BUTT.  BUTT.  BUUUUUUUUUUUUUTT.

"You are killing me cat."  I open my eyes and she's at my face, all sweetness and light, before headbutting into my forehead.  She then rolls on her back, displaying the tummy she's licked bald.  Oh, look at me, I'm too cute to strangle...

Sleep has abandoned me, I might as well enjoy the bath.

"Give it your best shot, cat."

Butt.  Butt.  BUUUUUUTT.  "Puh!  Puh!  Gaaaaaaaag!"  Butt.  Butt.  BUUUUUUTT.  "Puh!  Puh!  Gaaaaaaaag!"

The carpet's not charcoal - it's beige, covered in cat hair...

"Minuit!  Minuit!  For the love of....  Scoot!!  SCOOT!!"

Minuit lies upon our bedroom floor, a vision of feline pulchritude.  She splays every splayable part of her body.  Rolling onto her back, she raises an eyebrow.

"Menh...?"

"Seriously?  I just vacuumed.  How can you produce this much hair in 2 hours?"

"Menh..."

"Plus, I just brushed you this morning."

"Menh..."

"I took a small Siamese worth of cat hair off you."

"Menh..."

David wanted the wall-to-wall carpet in the bedroom.  You know, for the cushiness under one's feet,  for the warmth in the winter, for the monochrome colour.  From the instant that carpet went down, Minuit spent her every waking moment rolling on it, leaving cat versions of crime scene outlines all over it.   On her back, with her left leg thrust against the wall and front right paw on her ear.  On her right side, curled into a little ball - but she must have been dreaming because her tail has left a windshield wiper swath of hair behind - sort a cat hair angel on the carpet.   I am this close to shaving her.

You're supposed to live in a house for a year before you make any big changes.  I don't think I'll make it.  Either I will have to devise a vacuum in a backpack that I can wear at all times when I'm in the bedroom, or I will I rip up the wall-to-wall with my bare hands in a fit of psychotic OCD, before manically installing laminate with a small multicoloured - easy to camouflage cat hair - area rug under the bed that doesn't require vacuuming every 12.3 minutes.  Not 100% sure, but I it's just possible that my hormones may have coloured my rationality.  I'm going to pour myself a Scotch and see if it comes back.

Cat Fanatic.

"Rissa!!! BEST WALK EVER!!!"

"It was?"

"YES!!  One cat on the way there... Three, no wait!  FOUR cats on the way back..."

"Two cats there, Mummy.  You saw two cats on the way over."  We had walked Rissa over to her friend's house.

"I did?"

"Yes,  the long-haired dark grey one and a tabby."

"I can't believe that I forgot the tabby!  You're right, there was that tabby, too!  It must be all the other wildlife that's throwing off my counting."

"All the other wildlife?  What did you see?"  Like any other child raised watching Zoboomafoo, in Rissa's mind I was walking hand-in-paw with a panda bear who, in turn, had a duck-billed platypus riding upon its back, with a couple of cabybaras thrown in on the side.

"Some crazy-ass squirrels, and you remember that basset hound that you and Daddy wouldn't let me veer off course to pet?  Him.  We somehow just managed to walk down that street to come home, I don't know how it happened, it's like I have some sort of freaky furry radar.  But before we got to him, there were three other cats."  I have now morphed into an addict who got an unexpected fix. 

"Three other cats?"

"Yes.  One on the one side, close to the basset hound.  But then there was another one on the other side of the road - kitty corner to the basset hound.  There was one cat on the sidewalk that I went over to talk to, "I was all, hey cat, how you doin?" And then a second cat came from the backyard, rolled onto its back and demanded that I pet its stomach!  Plus, the other day - bunny right on the sidewalk!!"

"Plus a bunny?"

"No, the bunny was the other day, but up until today, that had been my best petting spree because there was the bunny, which didn't let me pet it, but did let me get really close to it, but then there was a cat, plus two other cats who all let me pet them - all on the same block.  It was a magical block.  But then today - BOOM - record broken!  Because on top of the all of those animals - that same long haired dark grey cat was still out and ran over to meet us when we came around the corner!!!  He ran,  from his house, all the way to the corner when he saw me!"  I'm holding my hands out - soaking up the feline spirit into my palms.  Eyes closed, thankful for the gifts I have been given.

"So, you like animals, I guess?" says Rissa's friend, who up until that moment had been standing slack-jawed at my rant.

I run back the soundtrack from the last minute and a half in my head.  Crazy Cat Lady ALL over it.  I shrug, now playing at nonchalance.  "Yeah.  You know.  Whatever."

"So the same dark grey long-hair came to you?" Rissa asks.

"HE TOTALLY DID!!!"

Don't think of it as an infestation - think of it as having hundreds of new pets...

What's most difficult, is telling them all apart.  I've had to invest in a high-resolution magnifying glass in order to differentiate.  I'm thinking of sewing wee little smocks with their names on them.  Alistair, Bernice, Connal, Dee, Ernest... I'm going for asexual in style - I don't want to limit them.  Should they decide in 20 days that they don't like the names I've given them, they can let me know what they'd like to be called and I'd be cool with that.

If I were truly practical, given their numbers, I could farm them.  Raise them, kill them humanely and then create a new niche Canadian niche food market, but who am I kidding? Now that I've named them, I can't just lead them off to slaughter.  I'm just too darned attached.  Who can resist Freddi with the little red eyes and luminious coat?  And George - sweet little George with the maginificent forelegs? 

I'm feeling a kinship with Snow White - although my human-to-wildlife ratio doesn't have bluebirds, bunnies and deer.  She'd have one lousy bluebird on her finger - me, I have easily 3 dozen fruit flies perched upon mine.  I even have them lining up all colour-coded in their wee smocks.

"No Hank, you're there, next to Iggy, who's beside Jem...  That's right... Who's a good fruit fly?  Who is?"

I've been keeping the fruit bowl full, just for them, but I wanted to give them a real treat - something to show them I cared.  I've been known to stop drinking the last inch in a beer bottle, just to set it out for them, but now... sob... I realize that their appetite for hops is killing them.  Let's face it, in the summer the wine and beer flows more freely in our home, I find them hanging out around the empties - determined to grab what ends up being their... sob... last taste...   I knew I'd have to say goodbye, just not this soon...

Best Nature Channel Ever!

"CHIPMUNK!!"

"Where?  Where?"

"There, by the BBQ - Lola's losing her mind"  Lola is at the screen door, nose pressed to the mesh, tail flicking, teetch chattering.

"There!  Do you see him?"

"Where?"

"There! Now he's by the post!"

"Where?"

"There! Now he's by the bike tire..."

***
 
"BUNNY!!!!"

"Where?  Where?"

"There!  Half way down.  Ears - twitching."

"Where?  Where?  I can't see it!"

I stand behind Rissa at the back door.  Move my hands to either side of her head and direct her gaze.  "It's the little one.  You have to look close."

"I need my glasses.  This right here is why I need contacts, so that I can see things right away - all the time."

***

"GROUNDHOG!!!  The groundhog is back David!"

"Where?  Where?"

"There!  By the fence.  He's there!"

"You're sure it's a groundog?   Maybe it's a gopher."

"Nope, I googled it.  Definitely a groundhog.  They're way cuter - less toothy.  I will call this groundhog Chuck."

"Chuck?"

I wait for him to get it.  Two... Three... Four...  "Like as in Woodchuck?"

"Yep.  Also known whistle-pig, or land-beaver..."

"You're making that up."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

***

"MEDIUM BUNNY!!"

"Where?  Where?"

"By the garden.  Eating part of it."

"You're okay with that?"

"I am."

***

"SQUIRREL!!"

Silence.

"SQUIRREL!!"

Continued Silence

"Guys!  Seriously.  There's this black squirrel with a completely brown tail out there!  I'm not making this shit up!"

"Where?  Where?"

***

"Happy we moved?" whispers David.

We're standing by the back door - he has his arms around me.  

I whisper back.  "Yes."

"You don't miss the other house?"

"Not really."

"The other yard?"

I look back at him with incredulity.  Raise my eyebrows.  "Dude, there's a bunny, RIGHT there."

Approximate represenation of the woodland creatures
found in our backyard.  I never remember to take pictures.

After dinner entertainment

"Uh... Heather?  Can you come here for a second?"  David's voice sounds hushed, a little odd.

"O...kay..."

"We have some visitors at the back door."

Who?  Who would be walking all the way to the back door?  Everybody comes to the side door - the one to which the other door, the first side door with the sign points. 

Rissa and I make our way to the kitchen.

"Who's here?" we ask.

David steps back to reveal two bassett hounds framed in the kitchen door.  "BASSETS!!"  Rissa and I make our way outside.

This is WAY better than the neighbours bearing a gift basket with wine which is who I'd thought would be visiting.  Technically these dogs are neighbours - the back yard kitty-corner to the south-east of us has 6 bassets between two sides of a duplex.  I guess there's a hole in the adjoining fence somwhere.


(If I wasn't too excited to even think about grabbing a camera, and I'd taken photos, they would have been something like this.)

Someone else's basset hounds

Affectionate to the point of obscene, these beasts bare their bellies - showing off their un-neutered nethers - and more than a little excited to see us...   ("Dude!"  Rissa says.  "You're showing me way too much information!")  After a good tummy rub, they gallumph to the front of the house, before making their way into our eastern neighbours' yard.

Then, as we turn to head back inside, Rissa yells "Incoming!"  Two more basset hounds appear at the bottom of our yard... then two more...  then two more...  the bottom of our yard has turned into a basset hound clown car - they just keep emerging.  The math doesn't add up.  Then I realize what must be happening... they've found another hole in our neighbours' yard that takes them home, and the 6 bassets are now running laps between all the yards.

I'm not saying it was my best evening ever, but it was pretty damned close.

shot by Luke Askelson
http://www.lukeaskelson.com

My cat's a cougar

Minuit hated the kittens as soon as they entered our home.  Despised them.  She exhibited such violent loathing that we frequently had to physically remove her from their backs and spray her with water. At the age of 4, Minuit was well-on her way to being crotchety (not to be confused with crochet-y - although that would make us tonnes of cash in YouTube videos if we had her making wee blankets for the elderly cats in her neighbourhood.)

Since we moved to the new house, Minuit has had a change of heart towards Steve,  and who can blame her?  Steve is an attractive orange tom cat with lots of personality, who will stretch his long body across a quilt, showing off his sexy tom physique.  Lola, Minuit will still bully, gamboling after  her younger sibling as only a 1/2 paralyzed cat can, chawing on Lola's neck when she catches her.  To be fair, Lola is a bit of a drama queen and might over-react a titch when an open mouth turns toward her, but when I hear her yowling and turn to look, Minuit is usually pinning her down and growling at her by that point.

Minuit now sleeps with Steve.  Cuddles up to him, grooms him.  The other day I stepped in a wet, slimy, orange hair ball.  I assumed that it was from Steve's gullet, but in second consideration I'm pretty sure that the bile-covered hair came, in fact, from Minuit, who now seems to spend all her spare time glued to Steve's side.  For two beasts incapable of having kittens, they seem to be pretty damned intimate, often sleeping on top of one another.  I opened my closet curtain to get dressed this morning, and the look Minuit gave me was pure venom.  I apologized and left.  I think I may have twat-blocked her.

Mad Cats R Us

We turn them crazy...  our cats.  They start off normal, but somehow along the way, they lose their little cat  minds.  After a move, or the introduction of new kittens - they invariably go off their nut.

Minuit went mental when we went to live in New York for 6 months.  She had been fine until then.  We'd housed her when she was about 16 weeks, in that gawky, teenager stage of kitten.  She was snuggly and playful and svelte - until we went to New York.  She didn't seem to mind the trip down.  Her innate curiosity came out.  She didn't hide.  She sat either on our laps or on the stack of pillows beside Rissa in the backseat...  She chirrupped and purred contentedly.

The minute we opened the door of the apartment in New York, Minuit had a mental breakdown.  She disappeared for a week - the only proof  of a cat residing with us was a used litter box.  She didn't eat.  She would run from newcomers - skittered past David as if he was the Great White Cat-Eater - so fabled in cat mythology.  By the time we left New York - our svelte little kitten had morphed into a jittery mass of feline pulchritude.

Minuit remains terrified of David, even though, during this last move, he was the one to sit on the bottom cellar stair for quarter of an hour stretches to coax her to eat.  He was the one to cuddle her into his arms and carry her upstairs into our bedroom.  He was the one who put the electric blanket into the cellar, because he worried that she'd catch a chill.  If David so much as takes a breath near her while she's eating, Minuit high-tails it back upstairs under our bed.  Which is kind of hard for her now, seeing as her back end doesn't have full mobility since her spontaneous paralysis during the move in March.

"Can you grab the cutlery, hon?"

"I can't.  Minuit's eating."  David stands stock-still in the middle of the room, barely breathing.

When David is in the 'office' (loosely named - we can't fit a desk chair remotely close to the desk area), it takes Minuit a full 5 minutes to make her way past him.

Her head appears at the top of the stairs.  She ceases all movement when she spots him.  Impossibly balanced on her weak back legs - methinks it's through sheer force of will - because she has to sit side-saddle to eat now.  One paw moves imperceptibly, then the next.   Eyes wide, terror-filled, glued to the monster that stands feet away from her.  She hugs the wall until she is within inches of him and then careens past at Mach 10, chased, she is certain, by the  Hounds of Hell.

Steve, started talking to himself in the new house.  He prowls and yowls.  He's jonesing for the cellar.  Ever since we stopped letting the cats downstairs,  he now wanders the main floor crying to himself.  Rolling on the floors and wallowing in his despair before then sitting at the cellar egress door bawling.

"Why?  Why won't you let me down there?  WHY?!?  WHY?!?  You hate me, is that it?  You despise my very being... WHY?!?"

 I don't know what was so damned exciting about that damp, dank cellar - but it's the only place that Steve wants to be now.

And Lola?  Lola has started licking her nether regions bald since we moved here. 

That is NOT a white patch on her stomach.
It's where she is now bald. 

(It must be an after-the-move thing, because we had another cat, Bardolph, who licked himself bald from the waist down when we moved to our last house.)  She has also because an expert in cat parkour.  She likes to demonstrate her abilities in this area between the hours of midnight and 5:00 a.m.  She bounces off walls, bounds across our bed - only our bed, mind you - emitting blood curdling cat sounds.  She'll jump on my pillow and then bound from there to my feet. 

This house is 1/2 the size of our last one and yet she manages to get lost in it.  We'll be upstairs in bed and hear her wailing in the night.

"Lola!  LOLA!!!  We're up here!!"

"Prrrrrrrowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwl?"

"Up here dopey!"

"Prrrrrrowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwl?

At which point I usually leave the bed to stand at the top of the stairs "Puss-pussing" until she sticks her head around the corner of the bottom of the stairs. 

"Come on you dope.  It's bedtime..."

That's when Lola usually tears by me and bounds across the bed, using David's stomach as a trampoline.  We then shoo all three cats out of our bedroom, but that only works to a point, because our bedroom is Minuit's safe haven and at 5:00 a.m. she's the one strong-pawing the door.  Putting her shoulder into it. 

Thud.  Thud.  Thud.  "Please let me in.  Please, please PLEASE, let me in!!!  LET ME IN!   LET ME IN!!!  LET ME THE HELL IN!!!"

So, if you're finding that your cat is just a little too sane for you?  Send it our way - we'll set you up.

Happiest cats on earth...

Toms and Kittens, Strays and Collared, the Curious and the Curiouser... Step right up!!!  We welcome you to the Best, the Brightest the most BREATHTAKING of playgrounds!  A veritable

CAT CARNIVAL!  

Mainzer Cat Circus circa 1950s

   

Never in your cat lives have you experienced such Magic, such Mayhem, such MAGNIFICENCE!!! Stare for hours at the mouse-sized holes in the floors!  Hide in the floor joists!  Taunt your furry sibling through the unhemmed wall of curtains in the bedroom!  Balance precariously on the standing drywall.  We have it all and it can be yours!!  Demand food whenever you want - there are no bedroom doors to dampen your yowls.  All this, PLUS an unfinished basement that's as close to being outside as you can get!

Channelling Fred Astaire - Steve and Lola sing ...

Heaven
I'm in heaven
And my heart beats
So that I can hardly speak
And I seem to find
The happiness I seek
When we're out together
Playing hide and seek...
at 3:00 a.m...
In the bedrooom closet curtains
That you just hung
So that you didn't have to see all the crap,
But now you have to put up over
Top of the curtain rod because
The rustling is so loud when we play
That you threaten to decapitate us..

Adding bedroom doors has now become a priority.

 

Minuit, not quite back to her old self, still  prefers to enjoy the Hannibal Lector basement for the most part.  Pleased to say though, that last night she came up on her own steam to interact with humanity.  It's only taken three weeks.

Hadn't counted on the wet season.

It didn't really come as a surprise that it's dirty.   The basement, I mean.  Seeing as its floor is comprised of dirt and gravel.  And seeing as the foundation leaks a titch, it should also have come as no suprise that the dirt part of the basement has a tendency towards muddy after a good spring rain storm.

If there were only humans living in our home, it wouldn't be an issue.  You know why?  Because all three humans residing here are not going to cavort around in the dirty, gravelly, wet basement.  Our feline housemates, on the other hand, live for that shit.

Paw prints. Frickin' cat paw prints, all over everything!  Seems as if Steve and Lola have discovered the creek that runs through the stone foundation when it rains heavily.  (Not Minuit, because she's still mostly just lying on the heated blanket that David put down 'cause he was worried that she might die while lying on the cold tarp we have down there because she still refuses to come upstairs.)  Where the creek hits the dirt sides and floor, Steve and Lola had their own Grauman's Chinese Theatre moment and imprinted their way into immortality.  Then, with those same wet paws, they danced their way up the basement stairs, all over the new sofa bed, across the living room floor, through the foyer - circling back through the living room, then again through the foyer to eventually end up in the kitchen where they planted themselves on the off-white (now beigey-brown, kinda looked they've wiped their asses on them) stools in the kitchen.  I'm so glad that I had washed the slipcovers of the stools two days prior.

It's like they deliberately explore the dirtiest, dustiest, cob-webbiest corners of our  cellar and then share their journey with us, usually on the cleanest, close-to-white thing they can find.  We basically have dirty dogs - without the unconditional affection and obedience.  So we either a) have to find a way to miraculously coat our entire basement in concrete or a near facsimile thereof to eliminate the dirt, or b) we have to move the kitty litter upstairs, so that they won't get dirty in the first place.  Option a) will probably run us into the tens of thousands of dollars.  Option b) it is!!   We just have to find a place where we can carve out some room for three litter boxes.  Although if Minuit does kick the bucket, we would be down to two...

I'm going to lose my under-the-stairs closet - I just know it.  I'd been so jazzed about having a place for the vacuum and recycling to live...  and the shopping bags and shoe racks and extra folding chairs... and cleaning supplies.  I just wish that cat shit didn't smell so much like, well, cat shit.  If it smelled like lavendar and ylang-ylang it could just go in the 1/2 bath, but with 3 cats doing their business daily?  I don't particular relish the idea of sharing that particular olfactory experience in a somewhat public space.  I could say that I'd keep the litter pristine so the stink would be manageable - but I'd totally be lying.  Cleaning the litter is not at the top of my daily chores list.  I hate that job and I hate how the cloud of kitty litter dust coats my very soul after I've done it.

Wait!!  WAIT!  We build a false floor for under the stairs!  The cats go in underneath the false floor and on top of that could still be used for storing other stuff!!!  We'll rig up an elaborate trolley system with remote control to get the litter boxes out of the closet for cleaning ease...  With a motion-sensor light so that they don't have to crap in the dark... and automagic odor neutralizers!  David's a genius at problem solving those kinds of things. Maybe he can somehow Tardis the under-the-stair cupboard and find us that extra space!  'Cause I'm telling you right now that if the muddy footprints aren't dealt with - my tenuous hold on sanity may well leave me. I can't guarantee the cats' safety if that happens.

Does this look infected to you?

It's spring.  Honest-to-God, grass-greening-up spring.  Warmer air, buds on the trees and... cats.  The cats are outside once more.  Lazing on sidewalks in sunbeams, trotting up to you when you "puss-puss-pussssss...", rolling around on their backs, begging for a tummy rub.

There I am, walking back from the bank - I'd already had my cat fix twice on the way there.  Stooping to pet a tabby and some sort of Maine Coon mix.  I am a pretty happy kitten myself as I walk home.  Whisting off-tune, I spy the same Maine Coon cat on the other side of the street.  Maybe I can get a double dose of kitty love. 

"Hey sweetie..."  He saunters over to me and "prrrrrrrrowls" his enjoyment as I scritch him behind his ears.  Poor beast is matted beyond belief.  He has a couple of shaved spots where his owner has attempted to rid him of the worst of them.  He rolls on his back and I rub his tummy (just the way Steve likes it). 

When a cat bites you?  Really bites you?  They really give no warning.  One minute I'm rubbing his tummy the next I have two massive teeth marks in the heel of my hand.  Maybe he didn't break the skin...  It was probably just... Nope, there's actually torn skin... and blood.  I'm bleeding.

Oh crap!  Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!  David is going to kill me if I have to get rabies shots again.  Shit.  Oh shit.  The cat doesn't have a tag.  He's wandering the neighbourhood - I have no idea where he lives.  The cat is winding around my legs and 'prrrrrowling' at me.  I absent-mindedly reach down to scratch him... maybe if I don't rub his tummy... will I NEVER learn?   I take a breath.  I look at him.  He's not rabid.  He doesn't look rabid.  Plus, somebody shaved him, he must belong to someone and if he belongs to someone, they probably got him his shots.  Right?

I'm formulating my excuses as I walk home.  I sneak in the house - maybe David's not downstairs.  I go over to the sink and rinse out the punctures.  Still bleeding a bit. 

"Ummmm, Rissa?"

"Yes?"

"Could you go upstairs?"  I lower my voice.  "Up in the white cabinet in one of the cubbies is some hydrogen peroxide..."

"WHAT DID YOU DO!?!"

"Shhhhhhh.... nothing.  Nothing's wrong.  I just need some..."

"Daddy!  Mummy's injured herself again!"

David comes into the room.  "What did you do?"

"Nothing!"  I hide my hand behind me. 

He raised his eyebrows and gives me the look.

I roll my eyes and present my hand.  "I'm sure he wasn't rabid.  He was shaved in spots - that means he has someone who shaves him!"

David takes a breath to berate me and then closes his mouth.  He knows there's no point.  He knows that I will never give up touching stray cats.  It will never happen.

"Rinse with the peroxide."

"Yes David."

"If you start foaming at the mouth, I'm putting you down myself."

Automatic Cat Wash

We have an indoor/outdoor basement in our new home.  Built in the mid-to-late 1800s, the cellar sports a gravel and dirt floor, parts of which are in various states of damp depending on how quickly the snow is melting.

The cats are... ecstatic.  As indoor cats, their new proximity to 'outdoors' has them doing their own version of Parkour through the basement.  We hear them bouncing around and letting out heroic "You can't catch me!" yowls through the kitchen's pine floor boards.  Our diminutive, and usually dainty, Lola frequently comes upstairs looking like a victim of Shelob.

"Dude!  Are you aiming for the cobwebs?!"

"Prrrrrrrowl?" she says, before licking her paw and nearly choking on what's she's stepped in.

Litter boxes are in the basement.  Amidst the gravel and dirt.  We've put a tarp down, but they still manage to come up, paws and fur covered in various forms of detritus. Our house will have cat paw prints and cobwebs forever.

My friend Margo came up with the brilliant and cunning plan.  The cat door to the basement can have little brushes on the sides and top so that when the cats come through, they are automagically cleaned.  BEST PLAN EVER!

Except that we have two different sizes of cats.  We have normal to small sized cats and we have Minuit, whose circumference is a tad more rotund.  I just know that Steve and Lola would find a way to avoid the brushy parts.

"Beaded curtains!" yells David.  He's been wanting beaded curtains for the longest time.  He says it to see the whites of my eyes.  "We add  beaded curtains to the cat door so that they are cleaned WHILE entering or exiting!"

I had to agree that it might work.  "Or... or.... you have those things... those cleany-skinny things..."
Everyone is now looking at me like I'm mad.  Damn my post-partum aphasia - 13 years on and I still can't find words.   "You know - they have wires in them?  They can be chenille...?"

"PIPE CLEANERS!"

"YES!  Wait!  Wait!  We get the metallic ones!  Drill holes in the frame of the cat door and then insert them.  THEN we can change their colour according to seasons or special events..."

"Like black and orange for Halloween!" Margo chimes in.  We're so sympatico.

 We shall patent this.   This is how we will make our millions.