An Unlikely Archangel

The cat is convinced that Satan himself lives in our home. And his name is Hewlett Packard.

What else could possibly make the noise that draws her from whatever corner of the house she is currently destroying? What else could inspire such fury and hatred that she actually climbed over my HEAD one night in an attempt to do battle with the evil lodged within.

Sleep well my children and know that no evil can harm you while the Kitten of Doom is on duty.





Yes, I know that composite sucks. I don't speak "Photoshop."

Next Time I'll Just Flush Her Clean

When you've already given the cat a bath by 8:30 a.m. it doesn't bode well for the day.

Especially when said bath is occurring at the same time you are trying to get your 7 year old, who likes to miss the bus, on the school bus.

Most especially when aforementioned bath is absolutely necessary because the brainless cat has fallen in the toilet full of pee and poop because no matter how you beg and plead, your housebroken children cannot seem to remember to flush.

As a side note, cats don't like baths.

I look like an attempted suicide with Parkinson's.

Because I Like To Share Exciting News

Taffy doesn't really seem to know she's a dog. Playing with Frisbees, or "fetch" is completely beneath her. She thinks sleeping all day is an admirable career choice. She's not eating food off the floor unless maybe it's hot dog. And licking humans to show affection? You can almost see her shudder delicately at the thought. In fact I've always said she's really more cat than dog. Considering her questionable lineage it's not completely out of the question that somewhere one of her ancestors did do the Wild Thing with a cat.
But she has one very annoying, very expensive, very dog-like behavior.

She suffers from something called Pica. This is just a fancy way to say Taffy likes to eat clothing. Specifically my clothing. Even more specifically, my underwear.

She's very discriminating when it comes to this behavior. The granny panties I buy from Wal-Mart in a package of 6 for $5.00? No, no, no, she would far prefer to eat the expensive ones that come from Victoria's Secret or Macy's if given a choice. Don't get me wrong, she will eat the El-Cheapos, but it's sort of like if you or I were given a choice of eating at McDonald's or The Four Seasons. She will eat the Hanes, but she will actually go digging through a closed laundry hamper for $15 panties.

Of which I no longer own any because I got tired of feeding them to the dog. And we like to pay the bills and buy groceries at least some of the time around here.

Every vet I've asked tells me this behavior is in response to some sort of anxiety or boredom. While it is true she only does it when she's alone - I've never once caught her in the act - I can't understand where boredom or anxiety would come into the picture. When you are waited on hand and foot, given everything you could possibly want, and rarely left alone, where exactly does boredom and/or anxiety occur? She sneaks into the basement to do it when nobody's watching.

It might be cheaper to buy her some Prozac.

Unfortunately for her, since she is not in fact a goat, this behavior is actually dangerous to her health. Most of the time she simply passes the cloth, as evidenced by the cheerful multi-colored piles in the yard (Yay! Decorative poop. Martha Stewart eat your heart out.). But on Thursday, since I've been more conscientious about keeping underwear out of her reach, she accepted a substitute and instead ate a dish towel.

Since we can neither afford to feed her underwear, nor pay $2,000 to have cloth removed from her intestinal tract, we have been worriedly watching her try to make something come out of her rear since then, to no avail.

This morning Dave called me to tell me he found a pile of poo on the living room carpet. Did you ever imagine this could be good news?

Me either.

Monsters - They're Not Just Eating Cookies Anymore

The other day when Meredith and I got up in the morning she accompanied me to the bathroom. This is a regular occurrence. In fact, I'm not certain my bladder can perform its duty without one or more pairs of eyes watching. You've heard of "shy bladder"? My bladder is an attention whore.

As I moved to wash my hands in the sink I said to Meredith in my usual happy sing-song-y voice that I use to narrate our day, "Did you see that little monster come up here to see us?"

I was referring of course to Hermione, AKA Kitten of Doom.

But Meredith responded by opening her eyes wide with fear and sidling up to my leg and latching on with a death grip, and quietly, but clearly said for the first time that I know of, "Scared."

I wasn't certain if it was the word "monster" that had caused this reaction or if it was possibly the actual kitten. God knows she scares me when my bare feet are exposed to her guerrilla warfare tactics.

Since my mind is like a steel sieve, by that evening I had opportunity to use the word monster with her again and find out. This time I was changing her diaper and she was happily chattering away and playing with a wipey. Again it was the cat that inspired me to say, "Here comes the little monster to see you!"

I didn't know a toddler could levitate off a changing table.

I did my best to point out the kitten, and she saw her, and acknowledged her, but frantically looked in all directions to see when and where this OTHER monster might be coming from.

I couldn't figure out exactly how she would have learned to associate the word monster with anything other than a friendly blue Muppet that devours cookies and the occasional letter of the day. And then I hearkened back to the days of Jamie's toddlerdom. When his big sister would regale him with tales at night of the monsters that lived under his bed and in his closet, ensuring chaos at bedtime and effectively procrastinating actual bedtime.

I must remember to thank Jamie for passing on the tradition of education in the art of nightmare induction.

Sidekick To The Dog Of Dormancy

"Sabrina why are you wearing two different shoes?"

"I didn't have time to match. I was defending my feet against the Kitten of Doom."

This could be her new moniker if the whole sweet and feminine "Hermione" thing doesn't work out.

Don't Let The Cute Fool You

What you're not seeing in this video is when she decides to climb the water jug. The very smooth sided water jug that has a surface incompatible with sharp gripping claws. What results is an unintentional swim.

Followed immediately by the next logical step of rolling in her litter box. I'll leave the picture of clumping litter coated wet cat up to your imagination. Lets' just say she did not appreciate the ensuing bath that followed.

I've always liked cats. I still like cats. I've always maintained that cats hold a superior intelligence to dogs and most other domesticated pets. And some humans.

And then I acquire the exception to that belief.

As Dave pointed out, he "got the kitten too stupid to stay in the nest when Mama was out hunting food."

And like all kittens she's very playful and energetic.

And by "playful and energetic" I mean she attacks everyone's feet and hands by launching herself across the room like a flying puffball with cleverly concealed razor blades with which to slash any exposed skin.

And the poor dog just looks at me with a look that clearly says "It was bad enough when you started bringing all those squalling humans home. I'm way too old for this shit."

And yet, in spite of all that, I'm still charmed on the rare occasion she curls up on me with her little motor running and falls asleep.

Maybe she's not so dumb after all.

Wrong Species

As you have already seen, my softhearted (and softheaded) husband brought home a 3-4 week old kitten he found yesterday. The dust has settled and I am no longer trying to decide if I want to cuddle a kitten more than I want to wring Dave's neck.

The kitten won but only barely.

I am a new nursing mother again. I am well equipped to cope with this job having done it three times before. And pretty much like a human baby, Hermione is a moving, breathing, (loudly) mewing appetite. However I have found there are some crucial differences between species.

I find those films where they show a dog nursing a kitten, or a cat nursing a squirrel absolutely adorable. I'm all for inter-species fostering, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Kittens teeth are like little needles. Ain't coming anywhere near me with those things!

Furthermore, I will never ever complain about changing a diaper again. Did you know that you have to rub their little bums to make them go? I was growing concerned by Hermione's lack of, er, solid waste so I called the kitty pediatrician (A.K.A. our vet). I was told to vigorously stimulate her bottom with a warm wet towel.

Apparently cats lick their kitten's booty until it makes them do their thing.

I'm sorry but THERE I draw the line.

Apparently I DO Need A Hole In The Head

Meet Miss Hermione Cheezball

Visiting hours at the asylum are from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m., but Doctors feel it best that I delay visitation until my meds kick in.

At Least He Won't Put It On The Walls

Jamie's pre-school offers a scholarship program. It's not a tough scholarship to obtain. He doesn't have to maintain a perfect grade point average. He doesn't even have to display exceptional mastery of bathroom skills. We just have to demonstrate that we are relatively poor. Finally something we can achieve!

In exchange for this scholarship, our family is required to perform 10 hours of volunteer service.

Yeah, I'm chuckling at the "our family" thing too.

Most of the time I've performed these volunteer hours at Jamie's pre-school by cutting out art projects, helping to assemble the newsletter, stuffing envelopes, and selling hoagies. But at the end of last year they asked if a parent of a child returning in the Fall would be willing to take home Rainbow, the class fish, for the summer.

Rainbow is a five year old Veil Tail Betta with red fins and a blue/green iridescent body. Five is considered a senior citizen as far as most fish of my experience are concerned, so I was a bit nervous that I might be the class parent to deliver the bad news that Rainbow had gone to the big toilet in the sky to meet his maker. But on the contrary, Rainbow thrived while he was here. I was told he barely ate, and really preferred to eat only every other day. He developed a voracious appetite living here, because every evening like clockwork he would rise to the top of his bowl and demand food.

But on Monday Jamie started school so we packed Rainbow up in his best Tupperware traveling case and delivered him back to his home. Now I've had fish before, and while they're not exactly affectionate, they generally display personality traits and quirks just like any other creature. And you get accustomed to those quirks.

Strangely enough I found myself........missing....a....fish.

Jamie has christened our new addition to the family "Hot Tamale."

Am I completely out of my mind for signing on for cleaning up yet ANOTHER creature's poop?