Where you beeeeeeeeeeeeen?!

Busy weekend. Beautiful weather, lots of hiking, installation of an AC unit in the foster room to keep the babies comfy, one shift at the adoption center, gardening, let's not leave plenty of sleeping out of the picture, and, of course, kitten-sittin'.

How about you?

Wait ... he's got WHAT?!?! Part 2

Ah, PonyBoy. The cat of many surprises had yet another one up his sleeve last night.

We went back to the vet for a re-check. Eye? Looks good. Just continue with the sixty-dollars-a-month eyedrops, thankyouverymuch. Ears? Free of infection, if still gunky and in need of once-a-week cleanings, which should be entertaining. Temperature?

Well, the vet tech went to take his temperature and discovered he has ...







a tapeworm.

Oh sweet Mary Mother of God, the cat has a TAPEWORM.

Just KILL ME NOW.

You know what? At this point, I'm half expecting him to sprout rainbows out of his nose, because God knows HE'S GOT EVERYTHING ELSE.

F*ck.

How to beg

One of the things I do for the animal rescue group for which I volunteer is go around to local businesses and ask them to let us hold fundraising or adoption events at their stores.

While I am fairly outgoing, I am not really fond of sales, so it took me a little trial-and-error to find the best approach. Here is what I've learned about how to ask someone to help you:

1. Be brief. I go into a store, go to a register (standing in line if necessary) if there is no customer-service area, and ask to speak with a manager. Once I meet the manager, I can tell him/her who I am, who I represent, and what we would like from their store, all in under 20 seconds. I do not call or email first, because that just enables the manager to stall. Face-to-face, BAM, is the best way to go. And shake hands first.

2. Take materials. As I am doing my initial who-we-are, I hand the manager a rescue group flyer. This gives him something to look at while I am talking and prevents an immediate brush-off. Once I finish up that initial 20-second intro, I give him a picture of one of our previous events, explaining our space requirements. While he's looking at the photo, it buys me a little more time to explain further who we are and what we're asking for. But I don't go on all day. Managers are busy dudes.

3. Be friendly and casual. THIS IS CRUCIAL. If you are nervous and jerky, it stiffs the whole thing. I walk into a store like I don't give a shit if they help us or not (which is true; if they don't, someone else will), and it helps.

4. Explain how helping you will help the store. In my case, I talk about how we bring extra customers into the store, how it's good public relations to help out a charity, and how people always fondly remember the store where they first saw their new pet.

5. Know your shit. If the manager wants some details (How long has your group been around? Who's in charge? How many animals do you adopt out each year? What's your non-profit status?), you'd damn well better have the answers or you're gonna look like a clown.

6. Be polite and follow up. If after the initial pitch I get a brush-off (I'd have to check with my supervisor; we're too busy this time of year to do anything like that; I'd have to clear it through corporate), I ask when I may check back. "If I stop back in a few days/a week/a month, would that be all right?" Because you almost never get an immediate "yes", as it seems NO ONE WANTS TO MAKE A DAMN DECISION, it's important to follow up. That said, if you get an immediate "no way", you need to respect that and not keep pestering. I keep going until I get the "no." Until I get the "no", I'll keep following up. And not by email or phone. IN PERSON. And SMILING.

7. Oh, and for the love of Pete, DRESS NICELY. I always wear either a skirt or a dress, and if I was a guy, I'd damn sure wear a dress shirt and a tie. Show some respect. It matters.

Okay, I think I've about covered it. Dress nicely, be casual, be brief, and follow up. The follow-up part is really important. Last night, I had a store tell me "yes" right off the bat, and that's the FIRST TIME that has ever happened, so remember to follow up!

There ya go. How to beg.

*gulp*

Okay, first of all, scroll down, because I put a post up this morning before BIG! NEWS! came my way.

Now. Are you ready for my BIG! NEWS!?

As some of you may know, I let my cats outside. *ducks* And that is why I had to adopt Pony and Soda from a rescue group quite a ways away - all of the local rescue groups insist that you keep adopted pets inside. Pony and Soda were already indoor/outdoor cats when they came into the care of the far-away rescue, and so that rescue group was willing to allow me to adopt them.

Actually, I HAVE been keeping Soda and Pony inside - I wanted to get the situation with Pony's eye cleared up before letting them out. But tomorrow is (hopefully) his last vet checkup, and if all is well, this weekend I will start letting them out.

But I had a dilemma. I have a foster, Tinks, who, due to belonging to a local rescue group, must remain inside. And I knew that, realistically, there was really no way to keep him in while letting my two out. I mean, Tinks is already scratching at the doors, along with my guys, trying to get out. And Tinks was an outdoor cat before he came into rescue care. It's inevitable that he would slip out while I was letting the other two in or out.

So I emailed the FC, explaining that as far as I could see, there were three options.

1. They could move Tinks to another foster home, so as not to risk him getting outside.

2. I could keep him as a foster, with the understanding that he may get outside.

3. I could adopt him myself, with the understanding that he would be an indoor/outdoor cat (if he so chose).

I explained that I would be perfectly fine with whatever they decided. The FC asked for a few days to think about what would be best for Tinks.

And guess what they decided?



... drum roll please ...



Option 3!

Welcome to the family, Tinks.

Ha. As it turns out, rules (adopted cats must be kept inside at all times) are evidently bendable when they've got a cat who is no longer a kitten, has been up for adoption for months, is extremely shy, and who did not work out at his one attempt at a home placement.



Can you believe nobody wanted this guy? Me neither.

Dedication

A man who lives a few houses up from me walks for over two hours every evening. The only reason I know this is because my living room picture window faces the street, and there are some nights when I happen to see him on his way out of the neighborhood, and then again on his way back. Sometimes when he's on his way out, I'm doing my Jillian workout, which makes me feel like, "Hey, kindred exercisers!", and sometimes when he's on his way back I'm watching crap TV and drinking beer, which makes me feel like crud. And actually, now that I think about it, Jillian has pretty much been put on the back burner lately, what with mowing and gardening and kitten-ing and all, so ... yeah. I fail at Jillian.

I'm not sure if he does a set route or if he mixes it up. I know that at least some of the time he walks West Hill, because sometimes I see him there if I happen to be out walking.

I just ... I can't really imagine doing two hours of walking every. single. night. There are lots of weekends when I do lots and lots of walking, but there are lots of days when I don't walk at all.

And, well, it's not like he needs the exercise. He's a slim guy. But you know what? For all I know, he started out at, like, four hundred pounds and lost the weight by walking.

Walk on, walking dude. You put me to shame.

Further proof that I'm an idiot

Friday night, I stopped at the grocery store after work, and there was this old dude lying on the ground outside of the store. And he was trying to get to his feet, but he couldn't get up. And his cane was beside him on the ground. And people coming out of the store were walking around him to get to their cars.

There was a cart boy just kind of, like, standing there, so I asked him what was going on. "I don't know," the kid said. "I just got back from a customer's car and he was just lying here. And he can't get up."

I called 911. I explained the situation. The dispatcher had me ask the dude some questions, which the guy was able to answer (No, he hadn't fallen, he wasn't sure what had happened; no, he had no history of seizures; no, he wasn't on any medications; etc.), and said he'd send some paramedics.

Once the old dude had been able to get himself into a sitting position and it was clear that he wasn't, like, about to DIE or something, I started chatting with him. Just to, I don't know, pass the time, as the dispatcher had asked me to wait with the old guy until the ambulance came. He said he'd lived in Chicago and California and came back to the area to care for his parents, who had since passed away. He was a retired social worker and he didn't much care for the local weather and blah blah blah and the ambulance got there.

"Sir," one of the paramedics said, "What happened? Did you fall? Are you dizzy? Have you ever had seizures?"

"Hell, son," the old dude said. "I'm DRUNK!"





Yeah, I'm not too smart. I called 911 for a wino.

Look who came to dinner

Five, six-week-old kittens, (and no, these are not the ones I bottle-fed last weekend, in case you're wondering - these guys are a month older) who are, thankfully, eating semi-solid food and are no longer on the bottle.

Jeez, they're cute. Welcome, guys!

Try not to kill each other while you're here.

(And if you're keeping track, that brings the current cat population in my household up to eight. My two, foster Tinks, and this latest foster litter. I'm afraid I may now officially be a Crazy Cat Lady.)

The Difference

Pony and Tinks with a new toy:

Soda with the same new toy:

It's like having a junior Godzilla as a cat.

and he's like this for everything. When Pony makes biscuits? He's all, *knead* *knead* *knead*. When Soda makes biscuits? He starts out with *knead* *knead* *knead*, and then he's digging to China, and pretty soon he's got his back legs churning, and it's just about then that he explodes and goes tearing off into another room as fast as he can run. It's like total-body-workout-biscuit-making.

He's just ... exuberant. Or crazy. Either one.

Recently Read

As usual, skip it if you wanna.

1. Long Past Stopping by Oran Canfield – Memoir of a ex-junkie, detailing his efforts to get clean. He found himself fascinating, but I didn’t. He was also kind of hung up on the misdeeds of his dad, the creator of those abominable “Chicken Soup for the Soul” books. News flash, kiddo: Lots of people had sucky dads. Get over it.

2. Saving Cicadas by Nicole Seitz – Novel about a family road trip told from the point of view of a young girl. Simplistic and childishly written. I mean, granted, if you’re writing from a kid’s viewpoint, you’ve gotta dumb it down some, but other writers have handled this angle a lot better. I didn’t finish it.

3. It Takes A Village Idiot by Jim Mullen – About a guy who moves from NYC to the Catskills. It was just too … snarky. Normally I’m a fan of snark, but this dude’s humor was just grating. He had the attitude of, “I can portray these innocent, hard-working people as total dipshits as long as I portray myself as a dipshit, too,” which … no. I wonder how many of his neighbors are still speaking to him.

4. Movie review time! “Pressure Cooker” is a doc about inner-city high school students preparing for a culinary scholarship contest. Interesting.

5. The Land of Decoration by Grace McCleen – Novel about a girl who thinks she can perform miracles – Interesting.

6. Dewey, the Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World and Apparently Went For The Guinness World’s Record for Longest Book Title by Vicki Myron. You DO know how any book about a cat ends, right? Yeah. Oh, and in an effort to pad out the life story of a CAT into a full length book, the author also included her own life story, which, well, if you can’t say anything nice and all that so I’ll stop now.

7. A Recipe for Bees by Gail Anderson-Dargatz – Novel about … hell, I don’t know. I got about thirty pages in when I realized I still had no idea who any of these characters were, and when one of them supposedly fed day-old kittens “canned cat food by spoon” I gave up. Christ.

So! Anybody read anything good lately? 'Cause it's been pretty slim pickins for me lately.

Spot the snapper

See him?

I don't know why this is still bothering me, but it is ...

Hmmm, so nobody wants to hear about kitten poop, huh? Go figure! You know, when the FC dropped them off, she neglected to mention that they were right at the age when they start pooping withOUT the help of a person, meaning it was quite the surprise Sunday night when I checked on them only to find that ALL FIVE looked like they had been in a mud-wrestling match, and ...

shutting up now. Changing the subject. Just one more pic:

HA! No poop! Fooled ya!

Okay, so back a little bit ago, we had the yard-sale fundraiser for the rescue group, and it was a big! success!

And of course, lots of our customers wanted to bargain, as is the way of yard sales. "Will you take two bucks for this?" "How about fifty cents for this?" And you know how it goes - as it got closer to the end of the sale, I was more willing to accept a lower price, because it meant less crap to pack back up. And I was more willing to bargain with fund-impaired little kids than their dipwad parents, especially if the kids were polite.

And then this one old guy came up, like, really old, like, walking with a cane old. (And I cannot for the life of me figure out which of those commas should be semi-colons, and I don't have time to look it up right now, so Grammar Police, please forgive me.) (Also please forgive the "likes".) (Please.)

ANYway. Old dude comes up, and he wants to know if I will take five bucks for a large hand-crocheted blanket that we had tagged with a ten-dollar price. It was still early in the sale, and that afghan obviously took someone a loooooong time to make, even if it was of cheesy seventies-grandma-style, so I explained that the sale was for charity and told him no, the afghan was ten bucks.

"Oh, COME ON," he said. "I'll give you five."

"Can you do seven?" I asked. "It's for homeless cats!"

"I only have five," he said. "I can pay five bucks."

Did I mention he was old? And walking with a cane? Yeah.

"Okay," I said. "Five bucks it is."

You know where this is going, right? At this point he pulls out a wad of cash that would choke a flipping DINOSAUR and peels off five bucks, then stuffs the giant wad o'cash back in his pocket. And I ALMOST told the old f*ckwad where he could cram his five bucks, except, well ... yard sale FOR CHARITY and all that.

And you know what? All this time later, the thought of that old bastard with that giant wad of cash still pisses me off.

Asshole.

So. I did that.

Bottle-fed a litter of kittens, that is.

It's exhausting.

It seems like you are ALWAYS feeding them, or cleaning them up, or mixing up formula, or washing their blankies and cleaning rags, or getting ready to gear up and do the whole thing over again. And while it was kind of fun to do it for a weekend, and get to see their adorable little faces screw up in concentration when they latch on to the bottle, and watch them lurch out of their carrier zombie-style toward me when it's feeding time, I have no idea how people do this for an extended period of time.

Moms everywhere, I salute you.

The FC had asked if I wanted to keep them longer, and I had to tell her no. If I didn't have to work (and therefore need a certain amount of SLEEP every night); if the kittens were a little older and didn't need to be fed every four hours; if there was only, say, one or two instead of FIVE of them; if I didn't already have one cat (Pony) on several different kinds of meds that need to be administered twice a day; if they had a mama nursing them so I didn't have to bottle feed; well, you get the picture.

Hopefully I'll have more kittens to foster soon; maybe I'll even have these guys back for a bit once they're a little older. And am I glad I said yes? Absolutely. Now I know the most efficient way to get poop out of white fur!

Kitten Sh*ttin'

*Warning: This post contains lots of kitten poop.*

So, I was feeding the herd this morning, when Leah, or maybe it was Bilpah, did a little poop. "Awww!" I thought. "Baby's first poop!" So I cleaned her up, and she pooped a little more, and I cleaned THAT up, and then plopped her in the laundry basket. (Kittens come out of the crate, are fed, burped, and pee-ed, and then placed in the laundry basket, so I can keep track of who's been fed and who hasn't. It's a SYSTEM, dammit!)

So I took another kitten out of the crate and started feeding her, and I had one on my lap waiting to be burped, when I looked over to the laundry basket and ... POOPAPALOOZA!

Leah, or maybe it was Bilpah, had laid down a HEROIC poop in the laundry basket (first time at bat, and she hit it out of the park - you GO, girl!) and then somehow managed to CRAWL in it. And she had managed to inflict some collateral damage on Jacob, who was ALSO in the basket, and all I could think of was, "White fur ... why did they have to have WHITE FUR ..." and

all you moms out there are laughing your asses off at me right now, right? You're all, HAHAHAHA, how does it FEEL, Rocky? How do YOU like it?

And you know what? I have NO IDEA how you do it. NONE. I hope all your kids did right by you today, because goodness knows you deserve it, and from the bottom of my heart,

Happy Mother's Day!





p.s. Sorry about the post title. If you think I could pass up THAT chance, you're out of your mind.

Meet Leah

Or maybe it's Jacob, or Rachael, or Zilpah, or Bilpah. They're kind of hard to tell apart.

(And NO, I did NOT name these cats. Sheesh.)

So far so good. The first feeding was pretty much a messy fail on my part, but the FC was here to see me through it, and everybody got full bellies. The second, all-by-myself feeding went fine, although I've gotta tell ya, even a two-week-old can travel when she wants to. Those teeny things can wriggle! And I've got a feeling that the middle-of-the-night feedings may be a little less sanguine, but we'll muddle through.

Happy People Say Yes! Ha.

Bottle Babies

I got an email from the FC the other day. Would I be available to kitten-sit this weekend?

Oh boy, kittens! Sure! They can stay in the spare room!

Reading the email, I learned that there are five of them.

ummmmm ....

Five, two-week-old, orphaned kittens.

errrrrrrrr....

Who need to be bottle-fed every three hours. Around the clock.

Hoo boy.

Yeah ... I thought about it for a minute. Mainly, I wondered if this lady was out of her mind, entrusting five teeny-weeny kittens to ME. Me, who has never bottle-fed or burped or pooped a kitten before. (When they're that small, you have to MAKE them poop and pee. Did you know that? It's GROSS.)

So I closed my mail, and I was thinking about her request, and I was stalling for time, and I started browsing around my bookmarked sites, still mulling over the invitation, and I came upon Britt. And she had a post up about the 7 habits of happy people. Now, I consider myself a pretty happy person, bitch-fests posted here notwithstanding, but I thought I'd read the post anyway. And the first habit of happy people?

Happy People Say Yes.

When an invitation to try something new comes their way, they say yes.

And I thought, absolutely. You never know unless you try, right? And maybe it'll lead to something great, or maybe it'll just be a happy one-off, or maybe you might not like it at all and never ever want to do it again, but you've got one more new thing that you've tried. One more new thing you can say to yourself that you did.

And so I emailed the FC back, and I said yes. Yes!

This weekend, I will have five bottle babies staying with me.

The FC sent a picture:

Wish me luck!

Invasion of the giant woodpeckers

Seen in my neighborhood:

Well, at least it isn't one of those lady-in-bloomers-bending-over atrocities.

Hahahahahaha I love it

So! Barack Obama voiced his support of gay marriage today. And it cracked me up, because it's like he just flung a giant F*CK YOU at all the right-wing, tea-party, intolerant assholes out here.

It's, like, he held it in as long as he could, until he couldn't anymore, and then it was all YES I support gay marriage, you ignorant douchebags.

The only thing that could have made it better would have been if he had gone on to say, "Oh, and by the way, I also support jacking taxes on all you rich Republican f*cktards who scream about how hard you worked for the money, when you know damn well that you inherited that money from Daddy, who got it from Grandpa, who was the last person in your family to actually do any f*cking work. And you know what I'm gonna do with that money? Health care for everybody! Whoopee!"

and then he'd go on, "And then I'm gonna fund the f*cking SHIT out of Planned Parenthood. I'm gonna find a way to over-ride all those ignorant laws you jackoffs keep putting on the books limiting a woman's right to reproductive health care, and you know what? YOU KNOW WHAT? Every. single. f*cking one of you dipshits who helped push those laws through their state governments are going to get an ultrasound of the sort you want these poor women to have to go through before they can get their abortions. Don't have a vagina? No problem! We'll go up your ass!"

and then he'll say, "And all those banking giants that were "too big to fail"? The ones that we bailed out and then allowed to keep on with their corrupt, evil, money-grubbing ways? Yeah, that shit's over. Bye-bye, asshole bankers! Have fun in prison when we prosecute your asses for f*cking over mortgage holders for the last ten years! And we WILL prosecute. I'm gonna put new teeth in the regulatory laws and hire some real ball-breaking lawyers, and you mother-f*ckers are done done DONE. And the Feds are gonna take your yachts and your mansions and your Porsches that you kept buying as the shit swirled around the drain, and we're gonna sell that shit, and you know what we're gonna do with the money? Yeah, you guessed it - we're gonna throw some HUGE mother-f*cking weddings for a bunch of gay people!"

I mean, it'll never happen, but a gal can dream, right?

Basement cat v. ceiling cat

Ah yes ... the elemental struggle ... basement cat v. ceiling cat ...

Who will win?

Basement cat? Or ceiling cat?

Today, it's a draw.

... and after I got the pallets I had to clean out the shed ...

... So I started to haul stuff out. Lawn furniture. Garden hoses. Rakes and shovels and tarps and all the other crap a shed holds.

And then I got to an old, lined grill cover, wadded up in the back corner where I had tossed it some time before. As I started to pick it up, I noticed holes. Holes that had been chewed through the cover.

Oh boy, I thought. Either something IS in there, or something WAS in there, and either way I'm about to find out.

I gingerly lifted up the first fold of the cover to find ...





... mice. An entire neighborhood of little gray mice, their eyes shining up at me.

Awwwwww. Cute little mices!

Thankfully, there were no newborns in there. That grill cover would STILL be in that back corner, probably with bowls of food and water for the mama next to it, if there had been babies in there. But thankfully, judging by their size, these were all AT LEAST teenager mice, and thus they were about to be re-introduced to the great outdoors.

I carefully folded the cover back up, picked it up, and carried it out to the brush line., mice and all. I hope they enjoyed their little ride! I opened to cover up, to be again faced with a bunch of little mice looking up at me with their bright little eyes. Little mice who were not inclined to leave their cozy fleece-lined grill-cover home.

*sigh*

I folded the cover up, AGAIN, and left it at the brush line. I backed off and watched as a few of the mice gingerly made their way out of the cover and bounced off into the brush. When I went back the next day, all of the mice had gone.

Bye-bye, mice! Enjoy your new woodland home! I'm glad you weren't, like, bats or something. Because that might have freaked me right out.*






*I used to be pro-bat. I actually still am, sort of. I mean, they eat lots of insects blahblahblah. But have you ever seen a bat up close? Like, looked one in the face? I did, a few years ago, and I will tell you right now, they are some scary-looking creatures. So, bats? From a distance, fine. Up close, not so much.

Oh, and that goes for the giant wolf spider who was also residing in the shed. Jeezus Christ, spiders are not supposed to get that damn big.

And don't worry, no spiders were harmed in the cleaning of the shed. Mr. Wolf Spider hung out for awhile watching me work, until I got a little too close for comfort, at which point he stomped off to parts unknown. Which means that, technically, he's probably still IN the shed, but as long as I don't have to actually SEE him, I'm fine with that.

... and then I had to go find some pallets ...

So, after my swallow-strafing adventure on Saturday, I went in search of wooden pallets.

Back in September, when the flood came, my shed got hit. I'm estimating it got about three inches of water, although I don't know for sure, because I evacuated and did not come back until the waters had receded.

I really didn't keep anything important in there, anyway, just a bunch of your typical shed crap, and nothing got ruined. Still, I thought it might be a good idea to put a couple of pallets in there, so I could at least get the crap up off the floor.

So after my swallow-strafing on Saturday, I went off in search of pallets. A local business had advertised on Craigslist that they had free pallets, but when I went there, they were out. I remembered seeing pallets in front of another local store, but they didn't have any on Saturday. But on my way back home, I saw a bunch of pallets to the side of a random store. Hmmm ... I pulled over, jumped out of the car and scoped out the pallets. Yep, they were pallets. Then I went into the store to ask if I could take a couple of them. And I immediately felt a little out of place, as the store was ...



... a paintball store. I found myself surrounded by thirteen-year-old boys, all of whom were taller than me, and most of whom were desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with this ... this ... mom-looking creature in their midst.

"Sure!" the guy behind the counter, who appeared to be about sixteen, said. "You can take a couple of pallets!" Gallantly, he even helped me load them into the back of the car. Maybe he gets a merit badge for helping an old lady load up her car - I hope so.

So! I had my pallets. I took 'em home, hauled 'em out back to the shed, and started clearing all of the crap out of the shed. Which is when I discovered what was living in there ...

I got strafed by a swallow on the Bunny Trail

So, I'm out hiking this afternoon, minding my own business, and I'm walking through this little meadow on the Bunny Trail, and all of a sudden I hear this "fffFFFFFFT" right next to my ear. And I jerked my head up, and it was a swallow! Dive-bombing me!

"Shit!" I thought. "She's probably got a nest around here."

By then she was circling around for another shot at me, so I did what any big wuss would do. I dropped to my knees and covered my head with my arms. HEY! I don't know what talons hitting the side of my head at sixty miles an hour would feel like, but I'm betting not so good.

The swallow backed off after one more attempt at my life, and I made it out of the meadow. Who knew a simple walk in the woods could hold such peril? Christ.

Dutchman's Breeches. My mom used to say that these were her favorite flowers when she was a kid:



Mr. Frogger:

Some kind of snow-flake powder-puff little flower:

The woods are greening up:

Tons of Mayapples:

Sadly, I did not get a picture of the killer swallow.

Homeless

Okay. so in that last post and in the comments, we got a little bit into the "feeding frenzy" for kittens that happens this time of year, and how when kittens are available, the cats who are older, even marginally older, tend to get passed over.

I call it being "lapped" - once young kittens are on the scene, any cat not ten weeks or younger goes straight to the back burner.


Meet one lapped cat:







This is Tinks. He is gorgeous. He is friendly, after a lot of work by the FC (Foster Coordinator)that was needed because his start in life was less than ostentatious and he had no reason whatsoever to trust people. He is, as best as the FC can figure, part Maine Coon and part Siamese. He has brilliant blue eyes. When you pet him, it's like petting a damn cloud. And he purrs and purrs and purrs, and he gets along with other cats, and he does not freak out in thunderstorms, because we had a rip-snorter last night and he just ignored it, and ...

and he's too old. He's eight months now, and he's just gotten lapped by Cute Adorable Kitten Season. Please rest assured, that until we find him a home, he will always have a place to stay with me, and I wish I could say that for every cat out there.

This time of year will lift your spirits and dash them. Lift them with the gift of litters, hell, of snowdrifts, of teeny adorable kittens to care for until homes are found for them; and dash them with cats like Tinks; like Bella, who is now two; like Wanders and Stickers, who are now eleven; all of whom are in the foster system, just waiting for homes, and all of whom just got lapped by Cute Adorable Kitten Season.

Oh, they all find a home, eventually. Well, most of them do. And they're in foster homes while they wait, not in cages at a shelter, which is a huge plus for their well-being. But it's tough to see these cats, these ones cast aside by their former owners, waiting and waiting for home.

If you really want a kitten? Hell, get a kitten. Get two, actually, so they can keep each other company. Enjoy the SH*T out of them. But keep in mind that kittenhood is fleeting, and cats live a long time, and just because a cat isn't eight weeks old doesn't mean it's useless.

- stepping down from soapbox -

Hahaha, here we go with Craigslist again.

Okay, first off, scroll down to see an earlier post about a woman trying to unload kittens on Craigslist. At least, I think that's what she's trying to do. The listing is so poorly spelled, it's hard to say for sure.


Now, from an ad posted today on the local Craigslist:

"Hi there! I'm looking to have the total of twelve kitties my two cars had adopted to good homes."

Okay, she starts off pretty well, although I'm kind of surprised that her cars had kittens. But later in the ad, she describes them as "pretty stick kittens". At first I thought, oh no, she's trying to give away sick kittens, but in the photos they all look healthy, so maybe she meant "slick"? I really have no idea. And there is no email, phone no., or other way to contact her in the listing, which several people pointed out to her in subsequent postings.

And then someone asked,

"Where exactly did you get these kittens?"

at which point another helpful Craigslist viewer chimed in,

"Didn't you read the ad? Her cars had them."

Thank you, Craigslist, for my laugh of the day.

Okay, shit like this just drives me crazy

Ad on the local Craigslist, copied verbatim:

"free kittens the mother is a american short hair don't know who the father is there redy to go. there are 2 males that are black and white and one tiger striped femle the eat hard foor and drink water and they are manley litter traind they have to be showen the litter box some times but they are verry qute. thay are 8 weeks old if instren call (***)***-**** ake for hannah"

Look, I would never pretend to be some Grammar Authority, and I'm sure I make my share of typos, but ... really? Really?

"there redy to go"

"the eat hard foor" - whaaaaaaa?

"they are verry qute"

Oh, I could go on, but WHAT'S THE DAMN POINT? Ads like this are a dime a dozen. I swear, I don't know what the hell is happening, but it ain't good.

*shakes head*

"ake for hannah"

Well, I guess we'll just have to assume her name is hannah. Hell, it could be Sheryl, and she just doesn't know how to spell it.

The Three Musketeers

Saggy butt

Yesterday our rescue group had our first-ever yard sale, held at the home of a volunteer.

It was twenty-three degrees out when I woke up at six. The sale was advertised as being from 10 am to 2 pm, but at 8 I got a call from the homeowner, saying that shoppers were already showing up and could I please hurry over?





I think it was 40 degrees out by 10. That girl scout sash I bought and wore all day? Strictly for warmth. Ah yeah. I also came home with a boy scout uniform shirt, complete with merit badges (it even FITS, should I ever decide to wear it) (and I probably will); a funky necklace; and some cat stuff. Because God knows I don't have enough cat stuff. *cough*

A lot of people donated items to our sale, which means that sometimes we were trying to sell things when we had no idea what they were. The puzzler that took the longest to solve? What finally proved to be an old-style bonnet-type hair dryer, sans bonnet or air hose. All we had was the base. Surprisingly, no one bought it.



We had nothing priced at over twenty bucks, and we still managed to raise almost four! hundred! bucks! One fifty-cent vase and another ten-cent bag of Legos at a time.

One of these things is not like the other:






That dude on the right was about fourteen. At one point he had those jeans so low I have NO IDEA what was holding them up, other than good intentions.

Oh, and there was a young woman there who was quite extensively arrayed with graphic vampire tattoos. I ... really don't know what to say about that, except I hope vampires are still in vogue fifty years from now, for the sake of her grandkids. Then again, I know some ancient dudes with old, old battleship tattoos from WWII, so there ya go.

So! Garage sale. Big hit! I'm exhausted.

Random

Who is that chick on NPR who reports from Dakar, or, as she pronounces it, “DAKAR!!”? It drives me crazy every time she does that. It’s like, ease up, there. Don’t give yourself a stroke.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I really don’t care to be called “Hon” more than once in a conversation. Diner waitresses have ruined it for me.

Oh, and I actually like being called “Ma’am”. “Ma’am” conveys acknowledgment that I’m a semi-competent human being. “Hon” conveys that the person using it thinks I’m a blithering idiot.

Tinks has a new trick: He burrows under the bedcovers and tunnels around like a mole, so that Pony and Soda can pounce on him. It’s hysterical. A little less so at 4 a.m., which seems to be when all cats’ inner alarm clocks go off for the day.

There is not much that pleases me more than getting a call from the library telling me that a book I’ve put on hold has come in. I’m a giant dork.

One thing that DOES please me more than a call from the library? When the mower starts on the first try. Nothing like lowered expectations.

I cooked up some burgers last week and my house stank like grease for DAYS. How is it that some food smells (burgers, bacon, POPCORN) have the ability to linger on for so long, while other food smells (chicken, spaghetti) vacate the premises in a timely manner?

Seen in the sticks

Hmmn ... what's that on that rock?

"Kari S will you go to prom with me?"

I wonder if she said yes.

Administrative Professionals' Day

Yeah, I left work early. Slacker.

Hey, I had a good reason - Tinks' adoption didn't take, and I had to drive to Smalltown to pick him up.

*sigh*

Welcome back, Tink-a-dink. And don't worry - We'll find you a home.





Ha - Did anybody catch that I originally spelled "Administrative" wrong? Secretary of the Year, right here. folks.

Probably gonna get in a shit ton of trouble for this, but ...

… As some of you may know, I loathe lawn-mowing. It is easily my least-favorite activity. Between the christless lawn mower that refuses to start half the time, and that time last summer when I ran over a nest of yellowjackets while mowing … well, mowing and I are not friends.

And my neighbors are all, like, “Why don’t you use Andy? Andy mows everybody’s lawn! He’s great! And he only charges ten bucks a yard!”

Here is my problem with Andy. And here’s where I’m gonna get into trouble.

Andy is developmentally disabled. Now, that’s NOT my problem with him. My problem lies with letting a developmentally disabled man operate power equipment on my property. It just … doesn’t seem like a good idea, from a liability standpoint.

And also? I am old enough to remember when Andy was a kid. A kid with a predilection for matches and an ugly little arson habit. He actually burned down two houses as a child.

So giving him access to my garage and a can of gas doesn’t seem like such a hot idea.

I guess I’m gonna have to keep mowing my own lawn, dammit. Because it sure beats an injury lawsuit or a house of ashes.

A public service announcement about the new Blogger format

Yeah, I don't like it. At all. I mean, I might like it at some point; it may be super-duper fantastic; but I simply do not have the time right now to figure it out.

So. When you sign in to your blog, the dashboard that pops up should have a cog-shape, somewhere on the upper-right area of the screen.

Click on that cog, and it will drop down several options, one of which is "Use the old Blogger format." (Or something like that - I don't remember the exact wording.)

Click that option, and you're back to the old Blogger.

You're welcome!

Bye-bye, baby

Tinks went to his new home today, a great big house with a young cat to play with and an older cat to ignore him.

Have a good time, sweetie!  We'll miss you!



Ghosts

I was looking through some pictures I took of the cats the other day, when I noticed this one of Ponyboy:

It looked really, really familiar to me, so I started going through my photo archives, and found this one of The Runt, taken in 2008:

Spooky.

The Runt passed away a year ago today.  Seven months after that, Little Girl was gone.

I volunteered at an adoption event today, and tomorrow I will be accompanying Tinks, my current foster cat, to a home visit - he may be finding his new home tomorrow.  And of course, I have my new guys, Pony and Soda. 

But tonight it all comes down to The Runt and Little Girl - this time last year they were both here, and now they're both gone, and oh, that is hard.

Give your pets a hug tonight.  Tell  'em it's from me.

Wait … He’s got WHAT?!

Ponyboy and Sodapop had to go to the vet for their second set of vaccinations a couple of weeks ago. And I’ll tell you what, the first problem was even FINDING a local vet who could see them …


They had their first set of vaccinations when they were still in rescue care in the beginning of March. As in, first EVER, even though neither one of them is a kitten, because crazy trailer hoarder lady could not afford to FEED her many, many cats, much less do anything expensive like get them vaccinated. And because that had been their first-ever set of vaccinations, they needed another, booster set, three to four weeks after the first set.

So! A couple of weeks after the first set, which was given to them by the rescue group’s vet out in East Jesus, and once I had adopted them, I called my own local vet, to set them up for the second set of shots. And the earliest my vet could see them was … the end of April.

And this is one of the many, many reasons I have begun to sour on people in the veterinary profession. Even though I have been going to this vet for several years, I was told that Ponyboy and Sodapop would be new cats there, and would have to have intake exams, and, well, they'd have to find a double vacant opening blahblahblahblah end of April.

So I called around to different vet offices. End of April. Early May. MID-May. Keep in mind, they needed their shots by the FIRST week in April.

I finally found a walk-in clinic who could see them, left work early one day, and took them in. Problem solved. Vaccinations accomplished. But then I asked the vet to take a look at Ponyboy’s right eye, which has been runny since he first entered the rescue system in January. Many different ointments and drops had been tried by his foster mom, and his eye was still runny.

The vet's verdict?

“He’s got herpes.”

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT?

“Feline herpes! It results in conjunctivitis, and also could be causing the occasional wheezing you mentioned.”

I took him tonight to another vet for a second opinion, because ... herpes? Really?

And Vet #2 confirmed the diagnosis. Conjunctivitis due to feline herpes.

I can’t believe it. I’ve got a trailer park herpes cat.

*sigh*

I'm a little perplexed by bleu cheese

So, some lame Friendly's commercial came on the other night, and they were sprinkling what I assume were bleu cheese crumbles on a burger, and I was all, like, ewwwwwww.

Because, really? Mold? You want me to eat mold and like it?

My mold prejudice actually began on the first day of seventh grade. With my stomach full of butterflies for the start of a new school year, I sat down that morning to toast that my mom had made me for breakfast. I took a bite, and ... mold. The toast had been made with moldy bread.

"GOD, MOM!"

I pushed away from the kitchen table.

"What's wrong, honey?," she asked.

And at that point I remember going into a whole angsty seventh-grade screed about IT'S THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL and MOLDY BREAD and THIS IS HARD ENOUGH WITHOUT CRAPPY MOLDY TOAST and WHY DO YOU HAVE TO RUIN MY LIFE and

yeah, I'm not proud of myself. What a little sh*t. I'm surprised my mother didn't kill me as a kid. I would have. And that's EXACTLY why I never had kids; I remember what *I* was like as a kid, and it wasn't always pretty. Who wants to go through that again?

But don't ask me to eat anything freakin' moldy, including blue cheese. It takes me right back to seventh grade, and I'd rather not go there, thankyouverymuch.

I ... I can't seem to help myself ...

Yet another pair of five-dollar thrift store shoes.

I'm not a big fan of a wedge heel or a t-strap, but somehow the two-tone wing-tip makes it all work.

Maaaaan, I shoulda named this damn blog "Cats and Shoes".

Sheesh.

Maybe I should go rob a bank or start a horrifically inappropriate relationship or something, just to liven things up around here. Any ideas?

Breaking News!

The spring peepers are peeping away tonight.

I was actually a little worried that I wouldn't hear them at all this year, as we have been short of rain this spring (which I have a hard time feeling bad about after last fall's flooding). I've been able to mow the back-backyard already, which usually doesn't happen until sometime in May or June when the spring rains stop. And the vernal pools on my property and the adjacent park land have virtually dried up; I don't recall the bog land ever being this dry this time of year.

But! The peepers are peeping. They found a way. Spring is here.

The Great Escape

Because my cats will someday be indoor-outdoor cats (if they so desire), tonight I took Pony outside on a collar and leash for the first time.

And it took him about .02 seconds, chasing after a butterfly, to slip the collar.

SHIT.

He took off, of course, with me behind him. But I have to admit, he acquitted himself admirably. First, he circled the outside of the house, just far enough ahead of me so I couldn't catch him. I was fast-walking behind him, which I am sure was amusing to the neighbors. He paused at the front and back doors, as if to say, "This is how I get back in, right, should I CHOOSE to get back in ..." and kept on going. Directly into the brush on the land adjacent to mine. Not only brush; PRICKER BUSH brush. And there he was, 6 feet away, underneath the pricker bush.

I called to him. I walked away and came back. I went and got a dish of food and showed it to him. And he looked at me as if to say, "Are you INSANE, woman? I'm FREE! FREEEEEEEE! HAHAHAHAHA!!"

Well, since it was his first time outside, I didn't want him to be out too long, so ... I went in after him. Into the pricker bush. And do you know what that cat did as I got close? He hissed at me.

I had never heard that cat hiss before, EVER, but when he sensed his beloved freedom was about to be compromised? Oh, I was the ENEMY. "F*ck you, bitch! Hisssssssssss."

But. I got close enough to scruff him, and got him back in the house, and I'll be ready to take one of the cats outside again in approximately ...

... three years or so. Man.

Orphaned Babies

This is one of two litters who came into the rescue group in the past week. The other litter has a mom; this one doesn't and is being bottle-fed (every two hours!) by the FC. There is good news: Another local rescue group has a lactating cat whose ten-week-old babies have been adopted; she may be brought in as a kind of wet nurse for these guys.

Kitten season has begun.

Geez, I almost forgot

Happy Friday the Thirteenth from Basement Cat.

Quote of the day

"I contend we are both atheists, I just believe in one fewer god than you do. When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why I dismiss yours." (Stephen F. Roberts)

Yeah, I've probably posted this before. It just makes sense to me.

Garbage, garbage everywhere

For two nights in a row, something got into my outside trash can and strewed garbage all over the backyard, so I had to go buy a locking trash can. I'm assuming it was a racoon, because I really don't care to consider the alternatives. (BEAR) (SHUT UP IT'S NOT A BEAR LA LA LA LA)

Then, Sodapop figured out how to get into the cabinet where the kitchen garbage can is stored and scattered kitchen garbage all over. To add insult to injury, he also taught Tinks the same trick.

Soda has also learned the fine art of rolling the toilet paper off the roll, an entire roll at a time, so now I have to store the TP in the cabinet next to the toilet.

Sh*t, if I wanted to have to kid-proof my house, I would have had kids.

Oh! And Soda has fallen in love with my hair dryer. As soon as he hears it in the morning, he comes tearing into the bathroom to watch me dry my hair. I don't have the heart to turn it on him and destroy his fantasy love affair. I'm guessing the attraction is because they're both black. I hope that doesn't make me a racist. Ha. That's supposed to be funny. KIDDING, people, I am KIDDING. If Tinks was suddenly attracted to, I don't know, a pillow, I'd think that was funny, too. OKAY?o\8aa - those characters brought to you courtesy of Soda, who just walked across the keyboard. Thanks, Soda.

And Soda also likes to eat Vaseline. I use it to take off my eye makeup, and if I leave it on the counter, he's all nomnomnom with his face shoved into the vaseline jar.

Okay, I've gotta hear YOUR cats' weird habits now. Please tell me that Soda's not the only freak.

The thing about bullies

There’s been an awful lot in the news lately about bullies. There were bullies back when I was in school, *cough*-odd years ago, and evidently not much has changed since then. Teachers look the other way, kids get beat up on the playground, blah, blah, blah.

And sadly, bullies are not limited to the school years. One of my co-workers is a bully, and he’s in his mid-thirties.

And you know what the thing about bullies is? You’ve gotta nip that sh*t right in the bud.

While my co-worker is notorious for bullying other people, he’s never bullied me. At least, not successfully. Because I don’t play that crap.

As soon as he starts in, I shut him down. He's notorious for bossing co-workers around. So when he says, “Rocky, you have to do xyz -"

- I interrupt him.

“That’s for the boss to decide. I’ll have to check with him first.”

All said politely, in a nice tone of voice, because HIS voice immediately escalates. You can practically SEE his blood pressure rising. Bully powers activated!

“NO, YOU HAVE TO DO THIS. I SAID –“

- I interrupt him again.

“As soon as the boss is available, I’ll ask him if he wants me to do that.” And then I walk away.

It’s unpleasant, and I wish I could just kick the little jerk’s ass and be done with it, but it works. And of course, by the time the boss is available, I’ve “forgotten” to ask him about whatever Mr. Bully wanted me to do, and problem solved. Oooh, another hint: You NEVER want to get the boss involved. Bosses would rather slit their wrists than deal with this kind of petty bullcrap*, so just handle it yourself, or YOU’RE the one who comes out looking bad. And the bully himself will never go to the boss, because the bully KNOWS he's out of line. He's just trying to pull a fast one. On you.

And here’s another thing about bullies: You can’t let anything slide. Ever. You can’t let one single bullying comment go by without an “Oh no you didn’t!” and a rueful shake of the head, or else things start sliding down the bully slope and pretty soon you’re screwed.

Tiring, yes. But ultimately satisfying. Because once upon a time, back in elementary school, the bullies might have pushed me around, but now we're all grown-ups, and bully game over. Other employees have actually quit rather than deal with this dude, which is a complete and total over-reaction, because all you have to do is stand up and shut him down.

And remember you’re on the side of the angels. Ha.




*and so would teachers. Which is what is driving me CRAZY about this whole bully-as-media-story-of-the-day thing. All of the articles seem to focus on how students need to stand up for other students. You know who needs to stand up for the students? TEACHERS. Teachers IGNORE bullying behavior, which just makes it worse. And granted, a lot of bullying is going on online these days, so you know who needs to ride herd over that? PARENTS. I am sick unto DEATH of people saying that kids need to stand up for other kids. NO. ADULTS need to stand up for kids. CHRIST. That’s why we’re ADULTS, people.

"Boys? Boys! Time to make the bed!"

*sigh* Boys.

Gentlemen, start yer engines!

On Saturday, I mowed for the first time this year.

Oh, I didn't really have to, but the yard was starting to look shaggy, and a couple of the neighbors had already mowed, ending the annual neighborhood Mexican standoff over who's going to mow first, thus kicking off the official mowing season, so ... I mowed. As some of you may recall, mowing is my least-favorite part of home ownership, mainly because of my inability to find a mower that will actually start on a reliable basis. But on Saturday, it was time to mow, so I mowed.

I almost didn't.

A couple of days before, I charged the mower's electric start battery. On Saturday, I checked the oil and the gas and rolled it out of the garage and went to start it up. It turned over, coughed, spat out a cloud of smoke, and died.

"SON OF A BITCH!"

I stood there, looking at the mower in disbelief. "You no-good, c*ck s*cking, m*therf*cking, son of a BITCH! I JUST BOUGHT YOU, less than a year ago! I spent over three hundred bucks on you, you piece of f*cking sh*t! I even sprang for an electric start! Last fall I put Sta-Bil in your tank and filled up the oil and I EVEN STORED YOU IN THE HEATED GARAGE SO YOU WOULDN'T GET COLD, you miserable f*cktard! And now, NOW, you're not going to START?! Oh, f*ck you, motherf*cker. GAME ON."

I gritted my teeth. I turned the key again. The mower turned over, coughed, and then, before it could die again, I juiced it. I hit the damn gas and cranked it until that son of a b*tch was running like a jet engine. I let fly a few more choice words.

And then I mowed the goddam lawn. Son of a b*tch. Welcome to lawn-mowing season.

The Dollar Store really outdid itself this time.

The Dollar Store kicked out the jams for Easter. Wanna guarantee nightmares? Stick some of these in your kid's basket:

What's that, little Tommy? The stickers are scaring you?

Don't be silly, Tommy.

Happy Easter, and enjoy your stickers!

Marie Callendar? Really, guys?

Yeah, I'm as guilty of eating this crap as the next person. But somehow I thought the cats would be more discriminating.

Isn't he lovely

'

'
Tink, that is. He's still a pretty elusive guy. Here's his "no photos, please" pose:

I tried to get a good shot of his tail, which was evidently grafted on from another cat:

And look at the back of his legs! It looks like he sat in black paint.

"I don't always patronize cat condos, but when I do, it's this one":

How blue are his eyes? This blue:

Oh, he's a ladykiller, all right. (And of course, as a foster, he is available for adoption. Just in case, you know, anybody's interested. *cough*)

Three Point Oh

Three years ago today, I quit smoking. I’ve never cheated once; I never wanted to. One day I was a smoker (for almost thirty years) and the next day I wasn’t. I still can't believe I did it. Just. Like. That.

Shall we run the numbers, just for fun?

Number of cigarettes I would have smoked between April 3, 2009 and today, had I not stopped smoking on that date: 32,850.

Amount of money saved: $5,847.30. (As in last year's post, a clarification: I smoked cheap cigs I bought on line. I used a dollar figure of $3.56 a pack, since that's what my smokes cost at the time I quit. If I had been buying Marlboros at the corner Seven-Eleven, at today's price of eight bucks a pack (minimum), that number would have been - wait for it - $13,140.00.)

Am I glad I quit? Oh, you betcha. I’m just sorry I didn't do it sooner.

Four A.M.:

Tink, in the hallway: “Meow? Meow? Meowwwwwww? Chirp chirp chirp chirp meowwwwwww?”

Soda, on the bed: “grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”

Me: “Soda! Be nice!”

*silence*

Two minutes later:

Tink, now up on the bed with Soda, Pony and I: “Meow? Meowwwwwwww? Chirp chirp chirp meowwwwwwww?”

Soda: “grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”

Me: “SODA! Stop it!” *poke*

*silence*

Five minutes after that:

THUMP THUMP

thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud

Soda and Tink are now chasing each other through the house.

Ponyboy, aka Switzerland: “yawwwwwwwwn”

Tink comes flying back onto the bed, followed by Soda.

“Meow? Meow?”

“grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr”

Yeah, I’m a little tired today.

(sing-song voice) Hon-ey! We have COM-pany!

Meet Tink. I took a photo of him still in his carrier, because I was told that he would run and hide as soon as I let him out, and that's exACTly what happened. He is one shy, shy cat.

Tink is a foster cat. He is less than a year old, and is part Maine Coon and part Siamese with brilliant blue eyes and a fluffy tail. He was not doing well in his other foster home, and the FC thought it might be because there were no cats his age to interact with there, so when I was asked if I would give him a try, I said sure!

Sodapop actually GROWLED at him at first, which astonished me, but as Tink immediately went to ground in the spare room closet, I think my two have now forgotten that he's here. I'll be working with him to bring him out of his shell, and we'll see what happens. I've been told that he likes other cats better than he likes people, so hopefully he'll be friends with my two. If he ever comes out of hiding, that is.

Welcome, Tink!