Searching for a new pastime to stimulate your mind and raise your heart rate? Look no further than an exhilarating game I call "Medicating Your Cat."
If you don't own a cat, run out and get one. If you've no time to cat shop, feel free to take one of mine. (Send me your address; I'll be right over.)
Once your cat is procured, choose teams and positions. Simply explained: A cat's role is always king or queen, while you must play pawn. For a more challenging version, include multiple cats, particularly those with anxiety and social disorders. (This encompasses most of the feline population.) Regardless of how many cats you own, all will play for the opposing team.
The rules are as follows: A cat exhibits some inappropriate, unhealthy and likely unhygienic behavior, e.g., peeing in the bathtub or puking wherever your bare foot happens to step. To win, you must discover the cause, treat any underlying conditions and finish the game relatively unscathed.
A typical game transpires much like this, recently played out in my own household:
One of my cats begins by attacking members of his own team (much like politicians in a primary election). This particular player is named "Lennon," in honor of the man who penned "Give Peace a Chance." The irony does not escape the snickering crowd which nicknames him, more suitably, "Demon Cat."
I attempt to stop Demon Cat through a variety of maneuvers, most notably the popular Squirt Bottle Play. But, oh, he's a clever competitor! In one match-winning strategy, he stalks the squirt bottle from across the room and smacks it clean off the table.
As the game progresses, the other players succumb to Demon Cat's bad sportsmanship. When the cat known as NUTS (Neurotic, Unbelievably Timid and Stupid) begins puking blood on the arena's new carpet, I consult the team physician.
Herein lie my most challenging game duties, as pawn.
First, I must capture NUTS and transport him to the doctor. After three days of failed tackles, I finally manage to corner him. As I shove the snarling and lashing creature into the cat carrier, I question my sympathy for this downed player.
Second, after the team physician flips a coin to announce any sort of diagnosis, I must open my wallet and allow it to bleed dry. (Sideline action: As I drive away, the doctor chortles and books a week in the Caribbean.)
Third, I must administer the ordered treatment. NUTS is prescribed twice-daily antibiotics and anti-nausea medicine for ten days. In addition, the physician also recommends a daily pill for Demon Cat--to be administered indefinitely.
This medication is best described as Kitty Prozac.
I spend a week chasing down one neurotic feline and another one clinically diagnosed as "aggressive." Throughout my repeated attempts to capture NUTS and Demon Cat and pry open their jaws, the crowd roars. Ringo, the amiable golden retriever mix, watches my moves from the bleachers with a desperate, salivating hope that I'll drop a pill. If only I were trying to medicate the damn dog--then this game might be as simple as his tiny brain.
By day seven, I manage only three doses in each cat. And in an arena where I once couldn't walk without tripping over three or four lounging players, not one cat can now be found. The entire team has virtually disappeared from the playing field. Well-played, you friggin' felines! Far more impressive than your seven lives is your apparent sixth sense.
Demon Cat gradually begins approaching me again-- preening and purring--but only when I neglect to close the bathroom door. I briefly consider carrying Kitty Prozac with me when I pee. But wrangling a cat while sitting bare-assed on the toilet seems vaguely wrong. (And the crowd mutters a collective "Eww.")
Meanwhile, the team physician calls to say the bloodwork he did on NUTS also indicates a thyroid issue. NUTS will require two more daily pills, FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.
In addition, the hit-or-miss doses of Kitty Prozac will do Demon Cat no good; his medication is reliant upon a cumulative effect. The by-far-second-best medical tactic, the doctor notes, is something called a "Nurture Collar." This is a contraption infused with maternal hormones which theoretically calm aggressive and anxious cats.
I frown. I am merely a not-so-bright pawn, but I know my own middle-age experience with female hormones is not such a favorable one. Regardless, I hand over my credit card to the team physician. I leave with a vial of likely never-to-be-ingested pills and a plastic purple collar.
As expected, NUTS will have nothing to do with the thyroid pills, even when crushed and hidden in canned catfood or tuna. Beaten, I again consult the doctor, whose final suggestion is a liquid compound. It's chicken-flavored! And it is available, by special order, for only $50 per vial! I hyperventilate just for a moment before agreeing. Because this is sure to be the game-winning play!
Apparently NUTS has grown street-smart with his recent excursion into the outside world. He isn't fooled by my mixing the medicine in dry catfood, in wet catfood or even in canned tuna. But just as I'm ready to forfeit, I finally score! I dribble .5 ml of this Liquid Gold into a pile of fresh roasted turkey--which NUTS promptly devours!
I accept my win with mixed enthusiasm. It seems this cat will be eating better than I do, for the rest of his life. (As will the rest of the menagerie, all of whom circle my feet every night when I prepare NUTS this post-game feast.)
As for the Nurture Collar, Demon Cat wriggles out of it within two days. I head to the doctor's office to buy another. I sigh. I hand over my credit card once again.
I figure it's not really a useless investment.
If I can't keep the damn thing around Demon Cat's neck this time, I'll wear the magic soothing collar myself.
Because I'm clearly the one in need of medication.
Who wins the game between Pawn and King in your house? Is it just my vague recollection, or is attempting to medicate your cat much like coercing your husband to go to the doctor? And all you non-cat owners--call me for a special delivery, please?
Showing posts with label Bad Dogs and Cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bad Dogs and Cats. Show all posts
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Lost and Found: A Tale of Bad Kitties
Once upon a time, there was a cat known as Neurotic, Unbelievably Timid and Stupid (NUTS). He was neurotic, unbelievably timid and stupid. This is his story.
Late one night, NUTS follows his brother, Bold And Delinquent (BAD) cat, into the kitchen. The door to the garage is cracked open, and the outside garage door open as well.
"Holy shit!" cries BAD cat. "We hit the motherlode! Let's run for it! Think of the adventures that await us!"
NUTS cowers. "But who knows what's out there? We could get in big trouble!"
"What are you, a scaredy cat?" growls BAD. "A fraidy cat? A pussy?"
NUTS cat tucks his tail between his legs and follows BAD cat out the door.
Several minutes later, Sucker Animal Person (SAP), snoring in bed, hears a shout. "The cats got outside!"
SAP, who has tossed off her nightshirt after her last hot flash, throws it back on and runs out. She reaches the yard just as BAD cat is caught in the beam of the flashlight. He scurries back to the garage and disappears inside the house.
NUTS cat is nowhere to be found.
SAP roams the neighborhood for days."Here, NUTS cat! Here kitty, kitty, kitty," she yells. She crawls on her belly, peering under trees and neighbors' decks. She plasters flyers on lampposts. She walks the dog through yards and fields, hoping he might catch NUTS' scent. She shakes a can of cat treats as she wanders, chanting, "Treaties, NUTS cat, treaties! Come get some treaties!"
The neighbors sigh and shut their windows. SAP envisions the terrified, starving cat--lost and lonely--and sadly sniffs.
Finally, SAP spies eyes glowing in the darkness under a neighbor's deck. "Oh, NUTS cat, it's me, Momma! Come here, baby!" she cries.
Apparently paralyzed with fear, NUTS cat doesn't budge.
SAP convinces Friendly Neighbor Lady to help scare NUTS out with a garden hose. They corner him into a spot where SAP can just barely reach him. She yanks him out by his paws. NUTS cat thrashes in her arms. He chomps down on her hand. Repeatedly. SAP loses her grip and drops him. NUTS cat escapes into the night.
SAP bandages her bloodied hand. Cursing but persistent, she sets a live trap baited with catfood. She keeps station outside, watching across the yard and awaiting the prodigal cat.
Soon after, the trap snaps shut! SAP rushes to claim her prize but discovers she has caught--the neighborhood stray. She is greatly displeased. Stray Kitty, who hisses as she opens the trap, is equally pissed-off.
An hour later, SAP finds the same friggin' stray inside the trap. She admonishes him as he sulks away. Clearly, more than one stupid cat roams the neighborhood tonight. She resets the trap.
But stupid cats aren't the only animals drawn to catfood, SAP quickly discovers. Big, frightfully mean raccoons are, too.
The trap is carefully released and relocated to SAP's front porch. NUTS must still be nearby. SAP hopes his brain is larger than it appears.
At four a.m., the dog--a failure as a bloodhound but still a loyal watchdog--barks once.
The AWOL cat is captured.
NUTS goes nuts in the trap. He flails and foams at the mouth. Once the cage is carried inside and opened, he flees up the stairs.
Relieved but exhausted by the eight-day ordeal, SAP collapses in bed. Minutes later, NUTS peers through the doorway.
"NUTS," she calls lovingly to him. "Come here, little NUTS."
He saunters across the room, hops on the bed and plops beside her. He purrs.
"You neurotic, unbelievably timid and stupid cat," she mutters. "Sure. Now you come when I call you."
Any bad dog or bad cat stories to share? Anyone want a neurotic and wayward kitty? Do your neighbors think you're nuts, too?
Late one night, NUTS follows his brother, Bold And Delinquent (BAD) cat, into the kitchen. The door to the garage is cracked open, and the outside garage door open as well.
"Holy shit!" cries BAD cat. "We hit the motherlode! Let's run for it! Think of the adventures that await us!"
NUTS cowers. "But who knows what's out there? We could get in big trouble!"
"What are you, a scaredy cat?" growls BAD. "A fraidy cat? A pussy?"
NUTS cat tucks his tail between his legs and follows BAD cat out the door.
Several minutes later, Sucker Animal Person (SAP), snoring in bed, hears a shout. "The cats got outside!"
SAP, who has tossed off her nightshirt after her last hot flash, throws it back on and runs out. She reaches the yard just as BAD cat is caught in the beam of the flashlight. He scurries back to the garage and disappears inside the house.
NUTS cat is nowhere to be found.
SAP roams the neighborhood for days."Here, NUTS cat! Here kitty, kitty, kitty," she yells. She crawls on her belly, peering under trees and neighbors' decks. She plasters flyers on lampposts. She walks the dog through yards and fields, hoping he might catch NUTS' scent. She shakes a can of cat treats as she wanders, chanting, "Treaties, NUTS cat, treaties! Come get some treaties!"
The neighbors sigh and shut their windows. SAP envisions the terrified, starving cat--lost and lonely--and sadly sniffs.
Finally, SAP spies eyes glowing in the darkness under a neighbor's deck. "Oh, NUTS cat, it's me, Momma! Come here, baby!" she cries.
Apparently paralyzed with fear, NUTS cat doesn't budge.
SAP convinces Friendly Neighbor Lady to help scare NUTS out with a garden hose. They corner him into a spot where SAP can just barely reach him. She yanks him out by his paws. NUTS cat thrashes in her arms. He chomps down on her hand. Repeatedly. SAP loses her grip and drops him. NUTS cat escapes into the night.
SAP bandages her bloodied hand. Cursing but persistent, she sets a live trap baited with catfood. She keeps station outside, watching across the yard and awaiting the prodigal cat.
Soon after, the trap snaps shut! SAP rushes to claim her prize but discovers she has caught--the neighborhood stray. She is greatly displeased. Stray Kitty, who hisses as she opens the trap, is equally pissed-off.
An hour later, SAP finds the same friggin' stray inside the trap. She admonishes him as he sulks away. Clearly, more than one stupid cat roams the neighborhood tonight. She resets the trap.
But stupid cats aren't the only animals drawn to catfood, SAP quickly discovers. Big, frightfully mean raccoons are, too.
The trap is carefully released and relocated to SAP's front porch. NUTS must still be nearby. SAP hopes his brain is larger than it appears.
At four a.m., the dog--a failure as a bloodhound but still a loyal watchdog--barks once.
The AWOL cat is captured.
NUTS goes nuts in the trap. He flails and foams at the mouth. Once the cage is carried inside and opened, he flees up the stairs.
Relieved but exhausted by the eight-day ordeal, SAP collapses in bed. Minutes later, NUTS peers through the doorway.
"NUTS," she calls lovingly to him. "Come here, little NUTS."
He saunters across the room, hops on the bed and plops beside her. He purrs.
"You neurotic, unbelievably timid and stupid cat," she mutters. "Sure. Now you come when I call you."
Any bad dog or bad cat stories to share? Anyone want a neurotic and wayward kitty? Do your neighbors think you're nuts, too?
Monday, March 21, 2011
Pet Peeves: Grading the New Kid in the Class
FINAL REPORT CARD FOR LENNON 'DEMON KITTEN' STANLEY
Grading Period: What Felt Like Freaking Forever
Geography: B+
Improvement shown. Has finally grasped knowledge that the entire indoor world is not a litter box.
Foreign Language: C-
Able to speak fluent Squeakish but still fails to translate into standard Meowese.
Science: A+
Has mastered the biology and chemistry of hairball production.
English Literature: D
Seems to believe the newspaper is intended solely for chewing into pieces to be spit upon the carpet. Extra credit given since our paper is The Toledo Blade.
Math: F
Has difficulty solving basic story problems such as this: Sherry has three cats. In a moment of weakness, she adopts one more. If "Y" equals the amount of work each original cat required, what is the algebraic equation for her total amount of work adding the new cat? (a) 3Y+1 (b) 3Y+Y (c) Who the hell knows, since Sherry flunked high school algebra (d) an infinite amount of work, multiplied by many sleepless nights (e) both c and d.
Art: A-
Demonstrates creativity with use of materials, particularly shredded rolls of toilet paper.
Home Economics: D
Fails to understand basic meal planning, such as cat chow is provided for cats and dog kibble for dogs.
Health Education: D
Doesn't grasp standard grooming techniques. Efforts at hygienic success are hindered by shedding copious amounts of hair and by delighting in chomping chunks of fur out of others.
Gym: A+
Climbs exceedingly well on counter tops. Excels at the 100-yard dash, especially when chased with a spray bottle.
Final Comments: Doesn't respect personal property or play well with others. Deficiencies are somewhat overcome by ability to appear sweet, through innocent wide eyes. Purrs adorably when treading one's chest at 4 a.m.
Student is graduating against teacher's better judgment.
Your turn to grade Sherry: "B" for Benevolent or for Brainless? Any stories about your own Pets from Hell? Anyone wish to adopt an adorable renegade cat?
Monday, September 13, 2010
Reigning Cats and Dogs
Each morning, I rise and survey my kingdom. "All hail Sherry," I proclaim, "Queen of the Castle!"
And then my cats convulse in laughter.
Who am I kidding? Surely not my household menagerie. I haven't ruled in this house since I brought home my first set of feline furballs thirteen years ago. Just a year later, in yet another characteristically weak moment, I welcomed two more.
Early on, it became clear the crown of royalty belonged to Tiger. Sure, Cubby fought a helluva political race. But hers was a dirty campaign--filled with threats, intimidation tactics, and empty promises.
Tiger showed us he'd rule with a combination of strength and kindness. He kissed the babies, learned to make peace with potential enemies (AKA the new puppy Ringo), and remained stoic and calm amidst the most turbulent and combative conditions. As a result, he was loved and respected by all.
World leaders could learn much from Tiger.
When Tiger passed on to the Great Litterbox Beyond, the kingdom fell into chaos. Who would lead this nation of pets, along with their subservient vendor of food, treats and soft beds?
Neither in the second set of cat twins (AKA the Scaredy Cats) were contenders for the throne. So would it be Ringo, the affable Golden Retriever-Mix? Certainly he had the edge in size and physical power. But he had learned the pecking order in the cat colony from early on in his puppyhood. Besides, it's difficult to muster respect for someone whose idea of a dinnertime delicacy is frozen poopsicles from the back yard.
Cubby's green eyes glinted with anticipation of her impending power. Surely the crown would finally be hers.
And then the new furball arrived.
The newcomer evoked sympathy from those who knew his sad background: an undersized orphan, living on the streets, surviving on hand-outs. A timid outsider who could voice his needs only through a passive squeak. He simply needed to be understood and accepted in order to be a participating, though clearly subordinate, member of this society.
Some leaders, like Tiger (God bless his feline soul), are elected. Others are self-appointed.
It took us only months to realize that the crown in our kingdom had passed--unwittingly--to little Lennon.
Ironic, of course, that we named the kitten for a songwriter who embraced world peace. Lennon the Cat's view on peace was distinctly different from his namesake's. And his leadership style proved to be distinctly different from his predecessor.
Oh, how the other cats now cower and run in his very presence! He delights in their fear. He revels in their vulnerability. He basks in his hostile dominance--especially of Cubby.
If I could only rename this tiny kitten. "Napoleon" comes to mind.
Somehow, despite his frightful dictatorship, he's managed to acquire a single comrade. Ringo the Dog adores him. And the adoration appears to be mutual. They're cuddled together, on the couch, at this very moment.
Strange, this alliance that's been established in our little kingdom.
Yet maybe not so surprising, Ringo's taste in best friends.
After all, his taste in backyard dining isn't so impeccable either.
And then my cats convulse in laughter.
Who am I kidding? Surely not my household menagerie. I haven't ruled in this house since I brought home my first set of feline furballs thirteen years ago. Just a year later, in yet another characteristically weak moment, I welcomed two more.
Early on, it became clear the crown of royalty belonged to Tiger. Sure, Cubby fought a helluva political race. But hers was a dirty campaign--filled with threats, intimidation tactics, and empty promises.
Tiger showed us he'd rule with a combination of strength and kindness. He kissed the babies, learned to make peace with potential enemies (AKA the new puppy Ringo), and remained stoic and calm amidst the most turbulent and combative conditions. As a result, he was loved and respected by all.
World leaders could learn much from Tiger.
When Tiger passed on to the Great Litterbox Beyond, the kingdom fell into chaos. Who would lead this nation of pets, along with their subservient vendor of food, treats and soft beds?
Neither in the second set of cat twins (AKA the Scaredy Cats) were contenders for the throne. So would it be Ringo, the affable Golden Retriever-Mix? Certainly he had the edge in size and physical power. But he had learned the pecking order in the cat colony from early on in his puppyhood. Besides, it's difficult to muster respect for someone whose idea of a dinnertime delicacy is frozen poopsicles from the back yard.
Cubby's green eyes glinted with anticipation of her impending power. Surely the crown would finally be hers.
And then the new furball arrived.
The newcomer evoked sympathy from those who knew his sad background: an undersized orphan, living on the streets, surviving on hand-outs. A timid outsider who could voice his needs only through a passive squeak. He simply needed to be understood and accepted in order to be a participating, though clearly subordinate, member of this society.
Some leaders, like Tiger (God bless his feline soul), are elected. Others are self-appointed.
It took us only months to realize that the crown in our kingdom had passed--unwittingly--to little Lennon.
Ironic, of course, that we named the kitten for a songwriter who embraced world peace. Lennon the Cat's view on peace was distinctly different from his namesake's. And his leadership style proved to be distinctly different from his predecessor.
Oh, how the other cats now cower and run in his very presence! He delights in their fear. He revels in their vulnerability. He basks in his hostile dominance--especially of Cubby.
If I could only rename this tiny kitten. "Napoleon" comes to mind.
Somehow, despite his frightful dictatorship, he's managed to acquire a single comrade. Ringo the Dog adores him. And the adoration appears to be mutual. They're cuddled together, on the couch, at this very moment.
Strange, this alliance that's been established in our little kingdom.
Yet maybe not so surprising, Ringo's taste in best friends.
After all, his taste in backyard dining isn't so impeccable either.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
In Which She Redecorates the House
The house was beautiful when it was built back in 1992. But after eighteen years as the backdrop for the escapades of two boys, two dogs, five cats and two free-ranging guinea pigs? It resembled a biker bar after a particularly ugly night of spilled drinks, bar room brawls and piss-poor bathroom aim.
She'd like to fully blame the menagerie of pets and human boy animals for the home's slow demise. Yet she is forced to admit her own bad judgment might, just possibly, have played some small part.
Like that time when she was overserved on a night out with the girls. The next morning, she stayed curled semi-comatose in a fetal position, pillow over her head, even as she heard the then two-year-old leave his bedroom and descend the stairs. When she finally climbed out of bed, she was greeted not only with the hangover from hell but with a trio of other treats: Silk flower arrangements plucked, their petals strewn from the back deck into the breeze. Eggs cracked and dropped into translucent goop on the hardwood kitchen floor. And every one of the carpeted stairs marked painstakingly, with a black Sharpie.
All that red Kool-Aid her children loved, but which never seemed to find a straight path from cup to mouth? Clearly bad judgment. Banishing it from the house was such a wise choice! She learned her lesson indeed after, say, the seventeenth spill on the light gray carpet. The decision to switch to orange Kool-Aid, however, might only qualify her for the short bus.
And maybe it wasn't the best judgment, a couple years back, to leave her college age son home to "house-sit" for a weekend. In retrospect, perhaps she should have realized her mahogany dining room table was the perfect size for 48 straight hours of beer pong.
But eighteen years after moving in, she deduced it was finally time to repair and redecorate. The kids were grown and gone, and the newest dog house-trained. And her own judgment at this mature age?
Sadly, still questionable.
Why else would she believe the painter who told her the entire job (painting every interior wall and piece of trim) would take only two weeks? Why would she plan a week-long vacation--eight hours and two states away--for the very next week?
Why would she assume the aforementioned painter would be sure to close all the windows before he left each day? Why would she not surmise a curious, badly behaved cat (yes, badly behaved cat=oxymoron) would end up on the roof?
Why would she trust this same painter to move the two fishbowls, from a to-be-painted high shelf, into another safe location? Why was she shocked when one of her college age sons, stopping home during the day for a free lunch, called her as she vacationed, screaming, "The cats knocked over the fishbowls! They're spilled all over the carpet! The fish are dead!" *
Why was she dumbfounded to come home, expecting to admire a brick red foyer, only to shield her eyes from the glare of bright fuschia walls?
And why would she choose now to adopt a stray cat who's never used a litterbox in his life and expect him to comprehend that her new $7,500-khaki colored carpet is not one great, glorious toilet?
Perhaps--just a guess here--it was due to bad judgment.
Her new counter tops went in this week. They tell her quartz is quite durable, although not exactly stain-proof.
Ha! This one, she has covered. Not a single ounce of red or orange-colored drink remains in the house. Oh no.
After everything she's experienced, she's existing solely on margaritas.
* Happy aside here: Her next-door neighbor Annette proved to be the Fish Whisperer.
She'd like to fully blame the menagerie of pets and human boy animals for the home's slow demise. Yet she is forced to admit her own bad judgment might, just possibly, have played some small part.
Like that time when she was overserved on a night out with the girls. The next morning, she stayed curled semi-comatose in a fetal position, pillow over her head, even as she heard the then two-year-old leave his bedroom and descend the stairs. When she finally climbed out of bed, she was greeted not only with the hangover from hell but with a trio of other treats: Silk flower arrangements plucked, their petals strewn from the back deck into the breeze. Eggs cracked and dropped into translucent goop on the hardwood kitchen floor. And every one of the carpeted stairs marked painstakingly, with a black Sharpie.
All that red Kool-Aid her children loved, but which never seemed to find a straight path from cup to mouth? Clearly bad judgment. Banishing it from the house was such a wise choice! She learned her lesson indeed after, say, the seventeenth spill on the light gray carpet. The decision to switch to orange Kool-Aid, however, might only qualify her for the short bus.
And maybe it wasn't the best judgment, a couple years back, to leave her college age son home to "house-sit" for a weekend. In retrospect, perhaps she should have realized her mahogany dining room table was the perfect size for 48 straight hours of beer pong.
But eighteen years after moving in, she deduced it was finally time to repair and redecorate. The kids were grown and gone, and the newest dog house-trained. And her own judgment at this mature age?
Sadly, still questionable.
Why else would she believe the painter who told her the entire job (painting every interior wall and piece of trim) would take only two weeks? Why would she plan a week-long vacation--eight hours and two states away--for the very next week?
Why would she assume the aforementioned painter would be sure to close all the windows before he left each day? Why would she not surmise a curious, badly behaved cat (yes, badly behaved cat=oxymoron) would end up on the roof?
Why would she trust this same painter to move the two fishbowls, from a to-be-painted high shelf, into another safe location? Why was she shocked when one of her college age sons, stopping home during the day for a free lunch, called her as she vacationed, screaming, "The cats knocked over the fishbowls! They're spilled all over the carpet! The fish are dead!" *
Why was she dumbfounded to come home, expecting to admire a brick red foyer, only to shield her eyes from the glare of bright fuschia walls?
And why would she choose now to adopt a stray cat who's never used a litterbox in his life and expect him to comprehend that her new $7,500-khaki colored carpet is not one great, glorious toilet?
Perhaps--just a guess here--it was due to bad judgment.
Her new counter tops went in this week. They tell her quartz is quite durable, although not exactly stain-proof.
Ha! This one, she has covered. Not a single ounce of red or orange-colored drink remains in the house. Oh no.
After everything she's experienced, she's existing solely on margaritas.
* Happy aside here: Her next-door neighbor Annette proved to be the Fish Whisperer.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Top Ten Reasons Pets Are Easier Than Children
10) A dog hangs its head out the car window and grins, never asking, "Are we there yet?"
9) Cats may believe you're lame, but they never say it to your face.
8) You're allowed to mess up royally with raising guinea pigs, hence the term "guinea pig."
7) Dogs never, ever complain about leftovers.
6) Pets won't stare at you in disbelief when you can't help with their junior high algebra.
5) A dog doesn't leave the toilet seat up (though it may be pleased when you do).
4) If you call him a Bad Dog and send him outside, he won't write a scathing memoir 20 years later.
3) With three-second memories, goldfish can't remind you of promises you didn't keep.
2) Cats are happy to cuddle, even when they're 12.
1) Dogs beg for biscuits, not for a new car.
Not that I ever truly considered trading in my two sons for a couple goldfish...
9) Cats may believe you're lame, but they never say it to your face.
8) You're allowed to mess up royally with raising guinea pigs, hence the term "guinea pig."
7) Dogs never, ever complain about leftovers.
6) Pets won't stare at you in disbelief when you can't help with their junior high algebra.
5) A dog doesn't leave the toilet seat up (though it may be pleased when you do).
4) If you call him a Bad Dog and send him outside, he won't write a scathing memoir 20 years later.
3) With three-second memories, goldfish can't remind you of promises you didn't keep.
2) Cats are happy to cuddle, even when they're 12.
1) Dogs beg for biscuits, not for a new car.
Not that I ever truly considered trading in my two sons for a couple goldfish...
Monday, October 12, 2009
Piecefully Sleeping
10:30 p.m.
Sheets freshly laundered. A couple slumbering cats on the end of bed. Fabulous book to be finished. Sigh of contentment uttered. Sleep mode finally achieved. Tonight, I am Rumpelstiltskin.
1:36 a.m.
Hot, hot, hot! So freaking hot! Blanket and sheets banished. Sweaty nightclothes stripped. Thermostat adjusted. Paris Hilton denounced as knowing nothing--yet--about the meaning of hot. Give her 20 years.
1:58 a.m.
Horrific realization of tomorrow's work deadline. Little's been accomplished. Thoughts of potential unemployment arise. Notes feverishly taken to finish project. More thoughts of Paris Hilton. She is being paid $250,000 just to be awake--albeit drunk--and at a party right now.
2:41 a.m.
Fetal position proves unsuccessful. Pillows are rearranged. Irritated cats rearranged. Everyone finally comfortable. Suddenly, R.E.M. (Rapid Eye Movement) replaced by R.B.M. (Rapid Bladder Movement).
3:54 a.m.
Frightening sensation of being suffocated. Bedroom intruder is feared!!! Scream stifled by apparent hand covering mouth!!! Relief ensues. Sleeping cat is removed off of head.
3:57 a.m.
Nagging concern that front door may be unlocked. Extra security measures taken. Confused dog demands to be let out and fed. Door is relocked, again. Note to self: four cats and a dog? Worst. Idea. Ever. Pet conspiracy suspected.
4:14 a.m.
Damn is it cold! Socks donned. Blanket added. Thermostat readjusted. Much swearing involved.
4:39 a.m.
Toes now appear frost-bitten. Thoughts of menopause contemplated and quickly dismissed. Scorching bath poured. Slip and fall getting out of tub. Thigh already a charming shade of purple.
5:43 a.m.
So I am in an airport, and the entire Kennedy family is there, all lined up along the steps of a high staircase. But no, it isn't the Kennedys after all. It is the Von Trapp family from the Sound of Music. A half hour spent awake, pondering the meaning of bizarre dreams. Fifteen more minutes spent trying to rid head of the song "My Favorite Things."
6:30 a.m.
Hot! Did I mention it was hot?
7 a.m.
Up and at 'em, Sunshine! Sleep well? Alarm clock assaulted. Caffeine consumed. Paris Hilton? Probably just going to bed. Hope she sleeps piecefully.
Sheets freshly laundered. A couple slumbering cats on the end of bed. Fabulous book to be finished. Sigh of contentment uttered. Sleep mode finally achieved. Tonight, I am Rumpelstiltskin.
1:36 a.m.
Hot, hot, hot! So freaking hot! Blanket and sheets banished. Sweaty nightclothes stripped. Thermostat adjusted. Paris Hilton denounced as knowing nothing--yet--about the meaning of hot. Give her 20 years.
1:58 a.m.
Horrific realization of tomorrow's work deadline. Little's been accomplished. Thoughts of potential unemployment arise. Notes feverishly taken to finish project. More thoughts of Paris Hilton. She is being paid $250,000 just to be awake--albeit drunk--and at a party right now.
2:41 a.m.
Fetal position proves unsuccessful. Pillows are rearranged. Irritated cats rearranged. Everyone finally comfortable. Suddenly, R.E.M. (Rapid Eye Movement) replaced by R.B.M. (Rapid Bladder Movement).
3:54 a.m.
Frightening sensation of being suffocated. Bedroom intruder is feared!!! Scream stifled by apparent hand covering mouth!!! Relief ensues. Sleeping cat is removed off of head.
3:57 a.m.
Nagging concern that front door may be unlocked. Extra security measures taken. Confused dog demands to be let out and fed. Door is relocked, again. Note to self: four cats and a dog? Worst. Idea. Ever. Pet conspiracy suspected.
4:14 a.m.
Damn is it cold! Socks donned. Blanket added. Thermostat readjusted. Much swearing involved.
4:39 a.m.
Toes now appear frost-bitten. Thoughts of menopause contemplated and quickly dismissed. Scorching bath poured. Slip and fall getting out of tub. Thigh already a charming shade of purple.
5:43 a.m.
So I am in an airport, and the entire Kennedy family is there, all lined up along the steps of a high staircase. But no, it isn't the Kennedys after all. It is the Von Trapp family from the Sound of Music. A half hour spent awake, pondering the meaning of bizarre dreams. Fifteen more minutes spent trying to rid head of the song "My Favorite Things."
6:30 a.m.
Hot! Did I mention it was hot?
7 a.m.
Up and at 'em, Sunshine! Sleep well? Alarm clock assaulted. Caffeine consumed. Paris Hilton? Probably just going to bed. Hope she sleeps piecefully.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
My Bloodthirsty Puppy
Though several friends emailed me in appreciation of my last blogpost, which extolled the wonders of friendship, just as many people were more intrigued by a blog topic I recently proposed, tentatively titled "My Bloodthirsty Puppy." It appears, among the readers of this forum at least, that sentiment is out-trumped by sadism.
So, here's the story. It's a very long, tragic tale, so read on only if you must:
Once upon a time, there was a woman who was a Lover of All Creatures Great and Small. Sucker that she was, stray animals flocked to her doorstep, seeming to have her number. Pet rescue agency folks grinned as they crafted "Home Needed" ads, with subliminal messages targeted specifically for her.
Her menagerie grew to four cats, two fish and--not to be excluded from her collection, for they were the most animalistic of all--two teenage sons. Then, she drew the imaginary line. She began pawning off homeless creatures on her family, friends and co-workers. Acquaintances began scurrying to hide when they saw her coming.
Yet still, something was missing in the woman's Wide World of Animals. In her infinite lack of wisdom, she decided the void could only be filled by a dog. Consequently, a tiny ball of fluff came to live with the family. For the sake of story-telling, we'll call him "Ringo."
Gradually, Ringo grew from an indistinguishable breed of chubby pup to a 75-pound dog whose parentage clearly included golden retriever.
And golden retrievers, by nature, are hunting dogs.
The woman was NOT a hunting enthusiast. Not only did she eschew shooting down innocent pheasants and deer, she went out of her way to secure the safety of all wild creatures.
The mice breeding in her garage sensed this, of course. They knew that, once discovered, they wouldn't be condemned to neck-snapping mousetraps. No, the woman would spend several consecutive nights live-trapping them, dozens of them, and whisking them all safely away to a field where she released them.
And once, the woman ordered an iced tea at a restaurant, only to discover a large black spider swimming lazily in the glass (apparently the caffeine-buzz hadn't yet kicked in). To the horror of the wide-eyed waitress, the woman actually TOOK IT OUTSIDE, to carry on its merry, though sloshy, eight-legged way.
She was a hapless, pathetic individual. So, wasn't she just a bit dismayed when Ringo, her affable golden-retriever mix, acquired the urge to kill?
Mid-walk, leash and all, he suddenly took to lunging and scooping up unsuspecting birds in his jaws. The playful bunnies in the woman's yard, lured there by her bowls of wildlife feed that became inadvertent traps, had no chance. When Ringo returned from a midnight potty break, rushing inside from the dark with a half-frozen rabbit carcass in his mouth that BRUSHED AGAINST HER LEG as the dog ran into the living room... Well. It was a moment of lost innocence for her.
Weeks went by, however, and the bloodbath appeared to be over. The woman witnessed no more of Ringo's gaily-tossing-in-the-air-of-small-creatures in the back yard. The birds and rabbits had seemingly passed along the word that the Last House on the Right on Hickory Lane was the headquarters of Wildlife Public Enemy Number One.
Believing she'd finally reformed the mutant killer dog, the woman began sleeping better at night.
Until one fall night, when Ringo came in from finishing his nightly duties. The woman washed her face, put on her nightshirt, and finally climbed in bed, where Ringo lay serenely waiting for her.
She reached over to pet him. And suddenly, she stopped. Her hand hovered above a small, dark object. It took her a moment to realize that the object, placed there so thoughtfully by Ringo, inches from her shoulder, upon her newly laundered sheets, was a dead mole.
Much as she was impelled to scream, the woman did not. For if she did so, she knew that the dog would quickly seize the poor thing within its jaws once again, and she'd be forced into a late-night game of tug-of-war. So, she casually reached for a tissue from her nightstand, and grabbed the dead creature. The flimsy tissue did little to disguise the sensation of slobber-coated dead rodent in her hand.
Ringo howled in protest as she carried it to a garbage can in the garage (only after being certain, the sad and sick woman that she was, that it was truly beyond reviving).
So, the woman rewashed her sheets, placed Ringo on permanent parole, and prayed to the gods of Lost Causes for Canines that he might somehow be rehabilitated.
Alas, they did NOT all live happily ever after. At least not the wild creatures still stupid enough to wander forth into the depths of 444 Hickory Lane.
The moral of the story is: If one has a mountain of a molehill, the solution is only a dog pound away. (Though Ringo can't be rented, because the woman doesn't want mole blood on her conscience.)
THE END
So, here's the story. It's a very long, tragic tale, so read on only if you must:
Once upon a time, there was a woman who was a Lover of All Creatures Great and Small. Sucker that she was, stray animals flocked to her doorstep, seeming to have her number. Pet rescue agency folks grinned as they crafted "Home Needed" ads, with subliminal messages targeted specifically for her.
Her menagerie grew to four cats, two fish and--not to be excluded from her collection, for they were the most animalistic of all--two teenage sons. Then, she drew the imaginary line. She began pawning off homeless creatures on her family, friends and co-workers. Acquaintances began scurrying to hide when they saw her coming.
Yet still, something was missing in the woman's Wide World of Animals. In her infinite lack of wisdom, she decided the void could only be filled by a dog. Consequently, a tiny ball of fluff came to live with the family. For the sake of story-telling, we'll call him "Ringo."
Gradually, Ringo grew from an indistinguishable breed of chubby pup to a 75-pound dog whose parentage clearly included golden retriever.
And golden retrievers, by nature, are hunting dogs.
The woman was NOT a hunting enthusiast. Not only did she eschew shooting down innocent pheasants and deer, she went out of her way to secure the safety of all wild creatures.
The mice breeding in her garage sensed this, of course. They knew that, once discovered, they wouldn't be condemned to neck-snapping mousetraps. No, the woman would spend several consecutive nights live-trapping them, dozens of them, and whisking them all safely away to a field where she released them.
And once, the woman ordered an iced tea at a restaurant, only to discover a large black spider swimming lazily in the glass (apparently the caffeine-buzz hadn't yet kicked in). To the horror of the wide-eyed waitress, the woman actually TOOK IT OUTSIDE, to carry on its merry, though sloshy, eight-legged way.
She was a hapless, pathetic individual. So, wasn't she just a bit dismayed when Ringo, her affable golden-retriever mix, acquired the urge to kill?
Mid-walk, leash and all, he suddenly took to lunging and scooping up unsuspecting birds in his jaws. The playful bunnies in the woman's yard, lured there by her bowls of wildlife feed that became inadvertent traps, had no chance. When Ringo returned from a midnight potty break, rushing inside from the dark with a half-frozen rabbit carcass in his mouth that BRUSHED AGAINST HER LEG as the dog ran into the living room... Well. It was a moment of lost innocence for her.
Weeks went by, however, and the bloodbath appeared to be over. The woman witnessed no more of Ringo's gaily-tossing-in-the-air-of-small-creatures in the back yard. The birds and rabbits had seemingly passed along the word that the Last House on the Right on Hickory Lane was the headquarters of Wildlife Public Enemy Number One.
Believing she'd finally reformed the mutant killer dog, the woman began sleeping better at night.
Until one fall night, when Ringo came in from finishing his nightly duties. The woman washed her face, put on her nightshirt, and finally climbed in bed, where Ringo lay serenely waiting for her.
She reached over to pet him. And suddenly, she stopped. Her hand hovered above a small, dark object. It took her a moment to realize that the object, placed there so thoughtfully by Ringo, inches from her shoulder, upon her newly laundered sheets, was a dead mole.
Much as she was impelled to scream, the woman did not. For if she did so, she knew that the dog would quickly seize the poor thing within its jaws once again, and she'd be forced into a late-night game of tug-of-war. So, she casually reached for a tissue from her nightstand, and grabbed the dead creature. The flimsy tissue did little to disguise the sensation of slobber-coated dead rodent in her hand.
Ringo howled in protest as she carried it to a garbage can in the garage (only after being certain, the sad and sick woman that she was, that it was truly beyond reviving).
So, the woman rewashed her sheets, placed Ringo on permanent parole, and prayed to the gods of Lost Causes for Canines that he might somehow be rehabilitated.
Alas, they did NOT all live happily ever after. At least not the wild creatures still stupid enough to wander forth into the depths of 444 Hickory Lane.
The moral of the story is: If one has a mountain of a molehill, the solution is only a dog pound away. (Though Ringo can't be rented, because the woman doesn't want mole blood on her conscience.)
THE END
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Of Love Amidst Allergies
I rolled over in bed this morning, in that state-of-mind somewhere between so blissful slumber and alarm clock annoyance. I was greeted with a light kiss. I nuzzled closer, reaching instinctively to stroke his soft hair.
"Good morning, baby," I whispered groggily. Ringo thumped his tail in return.
(Yes, Ringo, my golden retriever-mix. Wait, where exactly did you think this story was headed?)
Ringo jumped off the bed, in anticipation of his morning ritual. The disruption sent two of the three cats piled at the end of my bed scattering.
I sighed. What part of "pet allergies" did this menagerie not understand?
I wasn't always allergic to cats and dogs. My lifelong allergies encompassed nearly every kind of weed, grass and tree in God's good kingdom, along with the dust found in amazing abundance throughout my house. But cats and dogs? Those are a recent addition to my repertoire of allergens.
"Remind me," the allergist said, as he analyzed the results of my last skin scratch test. "Do you have any pets?"
"Don't even say it," I warned him, anticipating his next words.
"Well, you're allergic to cats and dogs." He paused. "And cows."
I was momentarily disappointed about the cows. I've always thought they were rather adorable creatures, with those somber, big brown eyes. (My carnivore tastes aside, thank you, because I care not to dwell on my hypocritical nature.)
So, I'd never adopt a cow as a pet, I thought. OK, fine.
But cats and dogs? That was a bit of a problem, because currently a total of five of them live in my house. And not just live here. No, they own the place. They roam at their leisure through every room, and sleep in my bedroom. When I run errands, the dog is my co-pilot. (Dog is God spelled backward. A coincidence? I think not.)
Consequently, their dander and fur is everywhere I sit and breathe, even with impeccable housecleaning habits (of which, sadly, I will never be accused).
Despite the doctor's advice to: a) get rid of them, or b) keep them outdoors, or c) keep them out of my bedroom and living areas, my allergies have had no impact whatsoever on my pets.
I, on the other hand, am now getting allergy shots. In both arms, twice a week, for four to five months, tapering off to bi-weekly, for another four to five years.
But natural aversion to needles aside, I'll do that. Because besides the great joy my pets have given me, I've given them something too: a commitment to love them and to care for them. It's a commitment all responsible pet owners make. I'll do it until the day they each pass into the Great Backyard in the Sky. Even if I do so with a recurring sinus infection.
A little allergy issue? Meh. I can cope with that.
After all, there were days I swore I was allergic to my teenage sons. And as much as I was tempted, I didn't send them packing either.
"Good morning, baby," I whispered groggily. Ringo thumped his tail in return.
(Yes, Ringo, my golden retriever-mix. Wait, where exactly did you think this story was headed?)
Ringo jumped off the bed, in anticipation of his morning ritual. The disruption sent two of the three cats piled at the end of my bed scattering.
I sighed. What part of "pet allergies" did this menagerie not understand?
I wasn't always allergic to cats and dogs. My lifelong allergies encompassed nearly every kind of weed, grass and tree in God's good kingdom, along with the dust found in amazing abundance throughout my house. But cats and dogs? Those are a recent addition to my repertoire of allergens.
"Remind me," the allergist said, as he analyzed the results of my last skin scratch test. "Do you have any pets?"
"Don't even say it," I warned him, anticipating his next words.
"Well, you're allergic to cats and dogs." He paused. "And cows."
I was momentarily disappointed about the cows. I've always thought they were rather adorable creatures, with those somber, big brown eyes. (My carnivore tastes aside, thank you, because I care not to dwell on my hypocritical nature.)
So, I'd never adopt a cow as a pet, I thought. OK, fine.
But cats and dogs? That was a bit of a problem, because currently a total of five of them live in my house. And not just live here. No, they own the place. They roam at their leisure through every room, and sleep in my bedroom. When I run errands, the dog is my co-pilot. (Dog is God spelled backward. A coincidence? I think not.)
Consequently, their dander and fur is everywhere I sit and breathe, even with impeccable housecleaning habits (of which, sadly, I will never be accused).
Despite the doctor's advice to: a) get rid of them, or b) keep them outdoors, or c) keep them out of my bedroom and living areas, my allergies have had no impact whatsoever on my pets.
I, on the other hand, am now getting allergy shots. In both arms, twice a week, for four to five months, tapering off to bi-weekly, for another four to five years.
But natural aversion to needles aside, I'll do that. Because besides the great joy my pets have given me, I've given them something too: a commitment to love them and to care for them. It's a commitment all responsible pet owners make. I'll do it until the day they each pass into the Great Backyard in the Sky. Even if I do so with a recurring sinus infection.
A little allergy issue? Meh. I can cope with that.
After all, there were days I swore I was allergic to my teenage sons. And as much as I was tempted, I didn't send them packing either.
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