Communing with wildlife.

So, I have been having issues with rodents in my home. Last week one of my usually useless cats had a rat cornered in the storage room. After the initial blood curdling screaming from what I assumed was the rat, all was silent for an hour or so. I figured I would go check to see how much of the carcass I would have to dispose of so I drew back the curtain, the cat looked at me and walked away. The rat proceeds to leisurely stroll out from under the dryer and he was on his way.

Did I mention the cats are useless?

In another area of the house I periodically see a small mouse scurrying under the fridge. If I forget to put the top on the butter he usually has time to eat half of it before I catch him. I know what you are thinking...and I have traps, the mouse ignores them like that cats ignore the mouse.

So, this night I made a fruit salad with yogurt and there was one strawberry that was bad so I just tossed it in the sink, I will get to that later. Later came and I was clearing a plate with a fork from the desk and as I approached the sink there he was. The mouse? Rat? Hard to say if it was a small rat or a big fat mouse. Probably from all the butter he was consuming. Anyway...he was fat.

So, as I stand there with a fork in my hand he looks up from the strawberry he was eating and I have clearly startled him. However, startled skinny mouse moves differently than startled fat ass mouse. He looks at me as if to say, "That's just great" drops the strawberry and proceeds to do his version of scurry. 

A couple of jump attempts to get out of the sink behind the taps, then a leisurely waddle past the canisters. I know where he is going, I have seen him jump behind the fridge a few times so I have placed a mouse trap behind the toaster oven for just such an occasion. (It does not dawn on me that he had to have come up the same way and he was clearly able to avoid the trap) As he makes his way, the magic bullet is his last obstacle before he is home free.

He leaps once....falls back, jumps again....falls again on his fat ass. Meanwhile, I am standing there with fork in hand thinking....."Go!, get your fat ass over that thing and jump down onto the trap...fucker!"  As he jumps for the forth time he looks back at me as if to say "A little help here?" And what do I do? I take the fork and boost him up and over the magic bullet. I quickly move to the other side of the toaster oven expecting to hear the SNAP of the trap and the screams of agony. 

Not happening, a second later he is scurrying out from behind the toaster oven and gives me a glance before disappearing behind the fridge. "Thanks, mate!"

So now we have bonded.

This was not a few seconds of action. This mouse was fat, really fat. He was moving so slow I probably could have picked him up. This whole thing took more than a minute to play out. Now I am standing here like an idiot wondering why I didn't just stab the fucker with the fork.

He went out one night for smokes and never came back.

Okay, so not for smokes, but Norman went out one night and never came back. Its been about a month now so I am pretty sure he is not coming back. He might...but there has been two blizzards since he left so I really don't hold out much hope.

That being said, I guess I miss him. Maybe not him personally but I have decided that I need something else in the house with a heart beat.

Something else 'alive' in the house.

I thought about an iguana but someone said they get five feet long or something crazy. This is a trailer, not gonna play. 

Then I thought of a chameleon. Interesting, found this pic even and was making plans to get it. I was convinced and I planned to call him Fluffy. Then I investigated the care and feeding of the chameleon...gross and gross. Basically said I would be living with live bugs........on purpose. Not happening.

So, cat it is. Put out feelers, and on of my FB friends said she had kittens. So I said, 'Ya, whatever, bring it.'

Then she says she has two left, one boy, one girl. Then she ends it with "they are brother and sister".

WELL FUCK! Brother and sister? Really? "Just bring them both."

Really? You can't just show up at an orphanage and take the brother and leave the sister behind. I guess they can be company for each other when I am not around which is a lot of the time.

Decisions, decisions.

So, I got Norman fixed. Was it revenge or did I just want to prepare him for his inevitable existence as an outside cat without the wrath of the Landlady who has female cats? Revenge. Totally.

I wake up at 3am and Norman is on my shoulder staring down at me with his eyes wide and his ears back. I know he wants me dead. He just hasn't figured out how to accomplish that and still get fed.

He wants me dead.

Was suckered into taking yet another cat into my home. I just got rid of a dog, but this cat had a sad story and it was living in someones basement. I had just moved to the country so I figured I would take it, turn it into and outside cat (I don't believe any animal should be allowed to shit IN your home) and if it ran away? It was God's will.

So I get this cat. Its a Russian Blue...pretty and it appeared to be quite lovable. His name was Mandu. (Get it?)

I get it home and it is one of those 'never leave you alone' cats. Rubbing up against your leg, mewing sweetly and generally making a nuisance of himself. I am sitting at the desk, surfing the net and Mandu is exploring. He finds his way under the desk and is rubbing against my leg which is my queue to reach down and pet him, right?

So I reach down and am petting him when all of a sudden he chomps down on my hand. I scream but he does not let go, he has a death grip on my hand. I look down and he is looking at me with crazy eyes, his ears flattened to his head. 

WTF, DUDE?

I have to literally kick him (which is not an easy task for a fat chick) to get him to let go. He finally does and as I tend to my wounds, he is sitting in the corner, growling at me.

This is when I rename him Norman. (fucking psycho)

Quite an eventful day.

My new fridge shows up just as I am about to start work, so I had to call in and say I would be late.

Out with the old.


And in with the new.


Then with an hour left in the shift I get a call from the principle at The Boy's school. There had been an 'altercation', can I come pick him up?

One of the 'friends' of the kid that hit The Boy with the pipe decided to pick a fight with The Boy. The Boy told him he didn't want to fight him in school but the kid insisted. So The Boy had to KICK HIS ASS!

That is what the principal told me. Well, he actually used different words. "He didn't throw the first punch but he got most of the licks in." (Edumacation makes it sound so purdy, donit?)

Anyway, I go get the boy and I am off to take Sammy to the vet. He is not happy with me at all. I get him into the carrier and he pretty much flips out. It was like I was carrying the Tazmanian Devil in a burlap sack. The vet just looked at me and asked if it was domesticated. I stick my finger in the cage and he calms down. That is enough for her.

Then she brings out the forms and runs down the 'extras' for me to decide on.

- Advantage treatment? "Uh its February, he doesn't have fleas." NO
- Post surgery take home treatment? "He routinely comes home looking like he has been through the Bore War, he has proven he has no problem with pain." NO
- They will cut his nails while he is sleeping. "Dude, he comes back looking like he was in that war and lost, are you kidding me?" NO
- Shots and vaccinations? NO
- Pre-surgery blood work? What? "Is that optional? Really?" Then NO

We do agree that he needs to be cleaned up. She tells me that they will bath him if he doesn't wake up too soon after the surgery. "Huh?"

"Well we only bath them while they are asleep." She explains that they throw him in a bucket of soapy water. I kid you not, those were her exact words. So, I agree to that.

So now I have some time. I decide to take the video card that I bought yesterday back to Staples. Couldn't find any drivers on the planet that would make it work and on my way back I decide to buy a kitchen table that I saw the other day at Canadian Tire. (We have already established my Canadian Red-neck'ed'ness.)

I purchase the thing before I ever wonder how I will transport it. So in the store it stays for now. I go home and regroup. While doing that I toss my old table and rickety chairs out for the landlord to take to the dump.

(Wow, I have had a long day.)

So I remember that Sister has a truck, sort of. An SUV. I call her up and off we go to pick up the table. She brings her friend with her. I don't know yet how I worked this out, but I managed to be the only person in this little trio to not handle the table as it is schlepped through the snow and up the stairs.

But there she is...a Debbie Travis Walnut Parsons table.


Let's just take a moment, shall we?

Now that it is together, I realize it is too big and I have no chairs. But I am too tired, it is just going to have to stay.

And how was your day?

I never felt more like an orphan.

We had some snow last week. Not much but a foot or so, wet and heavy. The kind that forms ice underneath. Well I was looking to order a pizza and knew that the delivery man would not come up the stairs unless they were cleared.

A dilemma, since I could not find my shovel. So out I go to clear the snow with just my feet and a hammer (for the inch of ice that is under it).

The pizza was not worth it. The next morning (around 4:30am) I am awakened by the call of nature. I roll over to get out of bed and the searing pain shoots up my spine.

I can't move, it is excruciating. I start to panic. I can't get out of bed and I don't have a phone nearby. What do I do? How long can I stay here before someone even notices that they haven't heard from me in a while? Work will call if I don't show up, but I still won't be able to get to the phone.

"I have to get out of this bed!"

After about half an hour I am finally in the bathroom. I do my business and am about to inch my way back to my bed, when it hits me. "What if I can't get out of bed the next time? What if I have to call an ambulance or something? I better take a shower while I am here." The whole 'clean underwear' thing your mamma warned you about.

An hour later I am fluffed and folded and back in bed with the cordless, the cell phone and my little laptop beside me. I have no real sense that I can recover from this injury since i have no drugs and I don't even have a hot water bottle to help ease the pain.

I look over and in the doorway are my two cats, Milo and Sammy.

They are just sitting there, side-by-side in the doorway, staring at me and I imagine the conversation between them.

MILO: "How long before you think we can start eating her face?"
SAMMY: "Dunno, lets just keep an eye on her."

At that point I start to really panic, I tried to call Nurse Darling, no answer. Bunnie has no car (it bought the farm the week before) The Boy is in school and my sister is 5 hours away in New Brunswick. I am completely alone in the world.

I am about to descend into complete despair when I think of something. I drag my laptop over and frantically email the only person I could think of, Tracey.

I cried like a baby when I saw her. She came to my rescue with a hot water bottle, some drugs and a hamburger. Because, well, everyone knows a Big Mac can cure cancer.

You really do find out who your friends are.

Decisions, decisions.

My cat Milo is the kind of cat that will annoy the shit out of you if you let it. He has a real problem. Every single time the door is opened, he has to go through it. He can never decide if he wants to be in or out.

It doesn't matter that he just came in, if you open the door again, he is compelled to go out. You can stand at the door for an hour opening and closing it, he will go through it every time. There is no rhyme or reason to it. You just learn to not open the door unless you want him in or out. Leaving the decision to him will drive you bat shit.

So today I am heading to the bathroom and of course Milo gets up and as soon as I reach the door, he is standing there ready to go out. I open the door as a reflex. As I get half way through the kitchen I hear this weird sound, like air leaving a tire, only it sounds sort of (I don't know)...harsher? Very strange.

Then it registers that I never actually heard the door close completely. As I turn back towards the door the hissing is louder. I reach for the door handle and there it is, Milo's tail on the inside of the door, minus Milo.

Perhaps this will force him to make better decisions in the future. Like, when the door opens...haul ass.

Milo

The music lover.

Day Three - Sans The Boy.

The Boy has arrived in Florida and is in one piece. I doubt I will hear much from him now till he heads back. I hope he is having a ball, and that he is taking pictures. (men never think of that)

While he is gone I have cleaned the house and it has remained clean. Amazing how that works. It is really easy to keep a place clean when there is no one to go behind you and mess it up.

Sammy, his cat, is driving me bat-shit. He is acting like a real baby. Nothing I do for him works. He sits and howls. I give him food/water, he wasn't hungry/thirsty. I open the door for him, he is not interested in going out. He just looks up at me and howls. There is no consoling him.

If the door to The Boy's room is closed, he howls until I open it. He has to sleep in there. Even Milo sleeps in there with him, albeit just inside the door with one eye opened, so when The Boy returns he can make a fast getaway.

I know, you're all saying 'That's fuckin' adorable!' but he is seriously stomping all over my last nerve.

Why do I have cats?

I am bored.

Bored, bored, bored. Bored.

As if reading my mind, my cat (not Sammy this time) decides to help me.

Because I am so bored, I head to the can. Its not even 7am. Too early for anything.

As I get to the entry way, I look down. No real reason, I don't usually watch where I am going, as Sammy can tell you, but for whatever reason I looked down. And that is the reason Milo still lives and breathes.

Barf, from one end of the entryway to the other. I would have taken a picture but at this hour I would have ended up chucking last nights dinner.

He lives today because I didn't step in it. I hate cats.

Make a wish.

I was awakened in the middle of the night. Nature called.

I get out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I don't bother turning on the lights, after all, this is a small apartment and I know where everything is, right? Right?

I walk through the living room, so far so good. Halfway through the kitchen I can see the outline of the bathroom door just past the entry. When I hit the threshold of the entry I realize my miscalculation. When making the decision to not turn the lights on I have failed to take into consideration the bane of my existence, that is, Sammy.

I know I have mentioned Sammy before. Need I remind you that Sammy is black? (Although he prefers African Canadian Feline. Yes, he is a snotty, PC cat.) For whatever retarded reason, Sammy decided that the best place to sleep tonight was in the middle of the direct route to the bathroom. I don't think he will make that mistake again, assuming he lives.

I digress. So, I can see the outline of the door and make a B-line. As I step through the last doorway I feel the softness under my foot. Then this mind splitting, earth shattering screech. It was low, guttural and then built up like one of those assholes with the cars blaring some asinine hip hop song that they just have to know that no one wants to hear besides them, but they still insist on playing full blast, knowing full well that all we will hear is the base until they are right beside us. Assholes! What was I talking about? Oh right, the cat.

So I feel the softness, then the softness gets hard and moves. Slow this down in your mind. Pitch blackness and the Fat Chick is about to go airborne. Sammy feels the weight and understandably tries to flee, sideways. My left foot is on the carpet my right foot is resting squarely on Sammy's midsection about to crush the life out of him. He zigs, and I zag. Seconds later, I am dangerously close to completing the splits. And believe me, limber is not a word you would ever use to describe me.

My mind snaps to attention, "There is no way you will survive the splits. They call it 'the splits' for a reason, fool, you will split." I need to reach for something, desperately I try to imagine what might be close. In my mind I can see the table in the entry, am I close enough to grab it? Of course not, I lurch forward to avoid the splits and I almost caught myself on the table, but the tips of my fingers barely touch it and I feel myself head for the floor. At the very least, the splits have been avoided but my mind snaps back to let me know that if my fingers missed the table then that means my forehead would not.

Thankfully, I am a procrastinator and there was a cardboard box with papers in it on the edge of the table so my forehead stuck that instead of the wood. Otherwise I would most definately be out cold. Please add cursing and swearing to the soundtrack of this little movie (definately not PG13)in your head and bare in mind, I am a fat chick so in no way was this even remotely graceful so you can just forget that Matrix visual.

The moral of the story is: If nature calls, hang up. Cuz pissing the bed is preferable to ending up in a coma after being snapped in half like a wishbone.

Living on borrowed time.

I am not sure what the fuck is going on with this guy. He either has lost his marbles or he has a death wish. The other day I almost granted it.

The Boy and I were watching CSI, Sammy was laying on the couch in The Boy's arms. A Rockwell painting.

Then Sammy, apparently deciding to end it all, got up and walked to the center of the living room floor. He looked at me and proceeded to piss on the bag of clothes I had ready to go to my brothers.

S-N-A-P!

I screamed, grabbed him by the head, ran to the door, opened it and fired him out the door and off the deck. Took about 3 seconds, total.

FYI - he can not fly.

That is nothing compared to the screaming that went on when I turned around. I ran back into the living room, grabbed the bag and headed back for the door. I wanted to get it outside to clean it off. There is nothing worse than cat piss, I stop, The Boy needs instructions. I am standing with the bag, trying not to let it drip on the floor, screaming at The Boy.

"Boy! Get something to clean that up before it soaks into the carpet!" Notice I said 'BEFORE' it soaks into the carpet?

He is a typical man, he is staring at me like he has no idea what language I am speaking. Sitting there like Johnny Bench, waiting for something to happen.

"BOY! DOOOOOOO SOMETHING!"

He stands up and picks up a sock off the floor, "NOT THE SOCK! What the fuck is wrong with you? Get a rag."

"Where?" Are you kidding me? I swear to God, Men do this shit so you will never ask them to do anything. He saunters into the kitchen to retrieve the rag from under the sink.

"Can you move your ass, before it soaks through to the basement for Christ's sake!" I have to get this bag outside, I leave him to it. A couple seconds later I am outside on the deck and the boy passes me and throws something off the deck into the woods. WTF? I already threw the cat, so it can't be that. I am almost afraid to ask.

"What was that?" Praying he was going to say the rag.

No such luck. He looks at me and matter-of-factly says, "The cordless phone."

I am speechless and have moved from hysterical to deathly calm in a split second. Calmly, "What?"

"There was piss on it."

I ask you, where do you even begin? At that point I had to go to my happy place or risk rupturing the vein that was pulsing at my temple.

Long story short. The living room still smells like cat piss.

I wonder if The Boy can fly?

Cat Flu.

My cat has the flu. I was not aware that cats could get the flu, but Sammy is sneezing and snotting all over everything. He looked at me the other day, his nose running, eye snot all gross and pitiful like. I just looked down at him and said, "Walk it off."

If it wasn't for the fact that vets cost more than real doctors, he might have a better time of it. But I already put a couple of their kids through college.

A couple of years ago my cat, Luci, got hit by a car. On Christmas day, cha ching! She walked in the house on three legs, one was hanging by a thread. Whadda ya do?

So, off to the vet we go. Like an episode of ER, she is bundled and rushed out back. They will examine her and observe her. Once she is out of shock they will evaluate her again and weigh their options. From the number of multiple syllable words this woman was tossing out, I could only imagine what this little episode was going to cost me.

I give the 'nurse' a blank stare. "Just keep in mind, its a cat." She looked at me like I had threatened to gutt her grandmother.

Three days later I get a call.
This is our conversation, please, no hate mail.

"Looks like we are going to have to amputate the leg."

"She couldn't get out of the way of a car on four good legs, and you want to cut one off? Jesus, how much is that going to cost me?"

"The cat will have have to stay an additional day for recovery after surgery. With post-op charges, it will be about two hundred and sixty dollars." She said this like it was totally reasonable.

I choked. I couldn't believe she said 'cat' and 265 bucks in the same sentence. I was still pissed that I had to pay 17 bucks for the cat when I got her. "How much to put her down?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry, did I stutter? How much to put her down."

"Forty dollars."

"Sold."

Don't look at me like that! If she had said anything up to a hundred dollars, I may have considered it. But this is a cat we are talking about and I am sorry, my son eats first. Fluffy might be cute, and you might love Fluffy. But Fluffy is not getting a liver transplant.

Fast forward to yesterday. The Boy says to me, "You should take Sammy to the vet, his eyes are running."

"Me and Sam had a little talk today. I told him it was totally up to him if he wanted to go to the vet. He decided against it."

"What are you talking about, Lunatic."

"I told him it costs 40 bucks to have him put down, if he thought his treatment would be less than that, then by all means I would rush him over ASAP."

"Mom."

"What? I think he made a wise choice."

I do feel bad for the cat, but I think vets should feel worse, for charging retarded fees for treatment. They get you in there and gouge the shit out of you and make you feel like a sub-human if you don't sign your gerbil up for chemotherapy.

He has got a cold. Period. If it turns out it is worse than that? Well, its in God's hands.

I tell you what, someone is going to pay for the fact that I am blowing a cats nose like it was a toddler. At least a toddler doesn't have claws.