Cat Tails

So I had to take my cat Lucy to the vet.  She had been feeling like absolute crap.  She was listless and had a terrible case of the skitters.  Now getting said cat to the vet is never fun.  She has an evil streak in her most of her waking hours.  I love her anyway despite her efforts of slit my writs with her claws.

Anyway I got the thrashing ball of fury loaded into her carrier and off we went to the vet as she wailed the song of her people to me from the backseat.  Once I got there they shuffled me to a back room and told me to wait.  I spoke soothing words and told Lucy how much I loved her.  She just cowered in the back of her carrier and glared at me with her ears flattened on her head.  I reached a hand in to try to ease her anxiety with a few strokes.  Somehow despite owning this cat for 14 years I still think she is a normal feline that enjoys affection.  I was wrong.  As soon as I opened the little barred door to give her some pets she hissed and spat at me then lurched out all serpentine-like to try and bite me.

While this was going on I heard the vet tech in the hall.  “We’ve got a red star cat in room 5.  Do we have anyone ready to help?”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Lucy has been labeled as a bad kid.  She’s a red star.  I am embarrassed.  But honestly as she tries to murder me while I am listening to this I kind of understand.  Yet still, I love my devil-cat anyway.

Eventually the vet entered and after a great deal of hissing and attempted bites, which the vet valiantly avoids, she gave Lucy a bunch of shots and special food to eat.  I warn the vet this cat is annoyed by change and goes on hunger strikes when we change her food.  She assures me this kind of food is magically irresistible to cats.  I have my doubts, but I smiled and said, “Ok, we’ll see.”

Then the vet announced that I should bring the cat back to the office once a month for the rest of her life to get a shot of vitamin. B.  I just laughed.  “You’ve got to be kidding, right?  Have you any idea the risk to life and limb it is for both me and the cat to get her here?” I said.

The vet offered some medicine I am supposed to sprinkle over her food before she needs to come in for a shot.  Evidently it will magically relax her into submission.  I completely believe in better living though chemistry, so anything that can help make these future vet visits easier is good with me.

The tech bravely helped me get Lucy loaded back up to head home.  I walk to reception carrying my flailing and spitting box of cat, smiling at the terrified looks from the other animal owners.  Then the vet handed me the pill bottle containing the promised exilr.  I looked down at the bottle, read the label, and then promptly announced, “Oh I’m on this medicine too.”  The vet just stared at me and gave an awkward smirk before leaving me to pay.

Meanwhile I realized I’ve just announced to the entire veteranary office that I am just as crazy as the sputtering angry ball of fur in the cat carrier I’m holding.   Awesome.  Sounds about right.

Cats: Ancient Beings

Today in an effort to procrastinate from all things productive, I looked up the conversion chart that shows cat ages in human age equivalents.  It explains a lot:

Past age five cats are basically old.  It’s that simple.  Apparently cats spend the majority of their lives elderly.For anyone who has ever owned a cat that certainly would explain their constant sleeping, general grumpiness, attention seeking behaviors, and demanding nature.  Chances are your cat is way older than you, and you damn well better get off your lazy butt and bring me some food, you little whipper-snapper!

My cats Lucy and Ethel are apparently 72 and 60 respectively.  That certainly explains these sort of looks I get from Lucy:

But I assure you despite being a septuagenarian, Lucy still tries to be alluring from time to time:

Good for her!  Now I have to go and get them both some food before they get pissy with me.

Cat’s Out of the Bag

My cat hates me for saving her life.  I give up.  I was just trying to get her out of the plastic bag she had crawled halfway inside.  Like any good parent these days, I did take a picture of her predicament first before stopping to render aid. 

Stupid me figured dying of asphyxiation wasn’t on her kitty-cat to do list for the day.  Instead of a thank you purr or nuzzle I got hissed and swatted at.  You’re welcome cat.  Don’t let her innocent furry face fool you…she’s pure evil.

Cat Pee Didn’t Stop Me

This may be the drugs talking, but I am feeling much happier and more relaxed today.  Despite discovering a cat pee soaked towel in the bathtub I am feeling pretty damn good, which is saying something.

The last few weeks uncertainty and self doubt have had me in a snare.  It’s felt  inescapable.  As soon as I would start to feel better about the rest of the world, I would find something I said or did to perseverate worry on.

I haven’t had a break from my own head at all lately.  Trying to stay busy helps, but then I find myself worrying about having to stay busy.  When I fall down the rabbit hole of anxiety I swear I become the most creative worrier known to man.  I can always find something new to freak out about.  I wish I were that good at ideation in the rest of my life.

With the help of my husband, prescribed pharmaceuticals, getting lost in a few books and movies, and some extra sleep I seem to be doing a bit better.  I know I will shake it off, eventually.  I always do.  Besides, the cat pee didn’t send me into a total panic, so ehhh maybe I am moving towards the bright side.

He’s Just Jealous

A few weeks ago I was reading the hard news from the reputable source, BuzzFeed.  Yeah I know, but what can I say I am half Millennial, we have already covered this.

Anyway one of their quizzes was about into which house in Harry Potter your cat would be sorted.  Well, duh!  When presented with a scientific opportunity like this of course I am going to participate.

So I decided to take the quiz for my cat, Lucy. 


Lucy is 13 and ornery as shit, but I love her dearly.  I had to answer hard hitting questions about her napping and eating habits.  There were questions about her choices in play activities and where she would be found hanging out in Hogwarts.  It was intense stuff.

Butterflies fluttered in my tummy as I pressed the last answer and Lucy was sorted into her house… A Gryffindor!!!


Now even though I have been sorted into the clearly superior house of Ravenclaw, I was still incredibly proud of my furry little Gryffindor.  I tugged at Ryan and contentedly waved my phone in front of his face showing him Lucy’s new house.

He was not nearly as impressed as he should have been, but he did ask me where his cat, Ethel, was sorted.  To which I replied, “Take the damn quiz yourself and find out.”  He was having none of that.  Apparently he is above spending his precious time taking on-line quizzes for cats.  I don’t know what is wrong with him.  Being the devoted wife I am, I told him I would take the quiz for Ethel as well.


She’s a Slytherin.


Ryan didn’t believe me.  He couldn’t believe it could possibly be his cat that was tempted by the dark arts.  I promise I was honest though.  I suspect Ethel’s habit of unprompted biting and her inability to tolerate lap sitting had something to do with the results.  Ryan pouted, and I explained I was sorry that his kitty was clearly lacking in moral fiber, but this was a scientifically based test and Ethel had obviously been sorted correctly.

I would never embarrass my husband by telling the world how much he pouted about his cat being a Slytherin.  I am too faithful a wife to say that he was grumpy about it every time I brought it up.  And I promise, I only brought it up like 50 more times or so…that day.

Oh, The Elderly

I have an elderly cat named, Lucy.  She has been with me since she was five weeks old and now she is 13.  She has never been a particularly friendly cat, but I love her anyway.  Her aloofness makes those few moments when she does decide to snuggle even more special.  Usually it is in the winter and she is honestly just sitting in my lap to use me for my body heat, but I still treasure ever second she acts like a lap cat.

In her old age she is developing some annoying little habits though.  Suddenly she had become the litter box monitor.  If there is not enough litter in the box or if she thinks it is too dirty she sends me little messages.  Her little messages appear right outside the box, and they are hard to ignore.  She has me trained pretty well.  As soon as she leaves her note I get her box spick and span for her fluffy little ass.

I can’t blame her really, I mean nobody likes a dirty toilet.  I just wish her communication skills were a little less smelly and hard to clean up.

Why Can’t I Just Hold You

I wish I could hold my cats without them trying to murder me.  I know it is not their fault.  I have a habit of finding my animals in the wild and bringing them home.  Who knows their true parentage.  It could be the local tom-cat or perhaps a daemon spawn from hell.  You just can’t be sure.  I love both my foundling girls dearly, but neither will put up with any of my bullshit when it comes to trying to cradle them.

When Lucy was younger she would claw at me to get sweet release.  Now she has taken to a new strategy in her old age of just letting go her bladder and pissing all over me.  She gets her point across fast.  I suppose it is just a sign of her brilliance that she has learned a way to get free with so much less effort than using her claws.

Ethel on the other hand is not as bright.  She chooses to earn her freedom by crying out like you are killing her until you are convinced you might actually be hurting her and you let her go out of guilt.  This strategy takes much more time and effort on Ethel’s part, but hey, this is coming from the same cat that manages to lock herself in rooms by closing the door and then frantically wails because she is stuck.  Now all of our doors have to have doorstops to help our mentally challenged cat from becoming entrapped.  We accommodate her only because she is kind of cute and cuddly.

Maybe someday I will have one of those cats that you can pick up and pet without fear of piss or claws.  A girl can dream.



Yesterday I was viscously attacked in my own home.  It was horrifying.  You think that home is a safe place until the unthinkable happens to you.  In my struggle to get to safety I did manage to get a photo of the invader:


I know it is a blurry picture, but I was too scared to get close so I had to use the shitty zoom function on my phone.  Don’t let his size fool you.  Those beady little eyes mean trouble.  As I climbed my own walls in disgust this little bastard just made his happy ass at home.  He crawled up onto the sofa like he owned the place.

Home alone, I cried out to the cats for help.  After all they spend many evenings staring at the front door, oblivious to the physical properties of glass, trying to kill creepy crawly things on the other side.  I figured I would finally take my payback for all that kibble I have been buying over the years by having them knock off the intruder for me.

First the old cat Lucy tried:

luck and gecko_Fotor3

Now annoying as her ignorance was I figured she is past her prime and perhaps she just couldn’t see the little bugger.  I reluctantly forgave her and went in search of the younger, more spry cat.

ethel and gecko_Fotor2

Son of a bitch!  That pussy just sat her ass down on the couch with the gecko to Netflix and chill or something.  TRAITOR!!!

Sometimes I don’t know why I keep these cats.  Luckily my husband came home in a few minutes and he was able to rescue me using a pickle jar. 

ryan and gecko

My hero!