Which One of My Cats Are You?

Hey, Buzzfeed is all over this kind of thing.  So, I figured I'd give it a go.

1. Your significant other has returned home from a long day.  What is the first thing you do? 
     (a) Check his or her bag.  Any presents for you?
     (b) Fall over yourself with excitement.
     (c) Warmly greet him or her, then push for some snuggle time.

2. How do you react to something unexpected and new?
    (a) I check it out, but I'm likely to reject it.
    (b) I'm curious.  I am willing to learn more, but I'm nervous, too.
    (c) New things are great!  Things will work out fine, I'm sure.

3. What are you most likely to watch?
    (a) Something dark and brooding, like Criminal Minds.
    (b) Something bright and happy, like My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
    (c) Something charming and romantic, like Pride and Prejudice.

4. Someone invades your personal space.  What do you do?
    (a) I make it VERY clear that intimacy is on MY terms.  Period.    
    (b) Depends.  Sometimes it's ok and other times I'm like OMG LEAVE ME ALONE.
    (c) I welcome it.  I love feeling close to others.

5. What kinds of foods do you like?
    (a) Anything.  Especially if it's bad for me.  Doritos, pizza, wings - yeah!
    (b) I'm crazy picky.  It's almost embarrassing how picky I am.
    (c) I'm up for most things.  I'm also good at putting meals together for myself.  

6. Naptime!  What's your deal?
    (a) Somewhere private, cozy, and comfy.  You're not likely to find me for hours.
    (b) I can fall asleep anywhere.  You'll find me somewhere unusual.  
    (c) I'm always in the same spot, out in the open.  I'm not ashamed.  Nappers unite! 

7. Who's your bestie?
    (a) Someone I can connect with.  Someone who understands my needs completely.
    (b) Someone who is fun and playful and not afraid to be silly!
    (c) Someone I can nurture and protect.  I'm kind of parental that way.

8. Which is closest to the childhood you experienced?
    (a) I felt abandoned.
    (b) Nothing but love!
    (c) I was a loner.

9.  Let's talk hygiene.  What's your deal?
    (a) I am FASTIDIOUSLY clean.  To a fault.  Borderline OCD, even.
    (b) I like things the way I like them.  That's about it.
    (c)  I'm kind of a slob.

10. Be honest.  How do you get along with others?
    (a) I don't like people.
    (b) I guess I'm kind of an ambivert.  Mostly people are okay but I need my space.
    (c) No matter what race, age, sex, religion or ethnicity you are, I LOVE YOU.

Tally up your score!  

If you got mostly A's, you're Thor.  Basically, you're pretty much a jerk. You're that stereotypical cat that makes people dislike cats.  You're alternately needy and dismissive, and you're not particularly social. You're extremely picky about who you like. You're kind of like the introvert of people's nightmares.  If you have to spend too much time with people, you turn into a bit of a bully.  Seriously - only a mother could love you.

If you got mostly B's, you're Loki.  You are one heck of an odd bird.  You have pretty terrifying mood swings, and they definitely keep people on their toes - even though, most of the time, you're just friendly and curious.  You're a typical middle child, sometimes bullied, while other times you're the bully. You're playful and creative, though, and because of this, you're likely to turn anything into a game.  You have a persistent personality and never take "no" for an answer.  You also like to hang out in the bathroom.  While someone uses it.  Creep.

If you got mostly C's, you're Freyja.  You're unusually nurturing and patient - for a cat.  Seriously.  You are, like, a saint.  You're extremely friendly, gentle, generous, and loving.  You're more of a loyal German Shepherd than you are a cat, actually.  You're not judgmental in the least and you love spending time with others.  You don't always stand up for yourself, though, which might be your ONLY flaw.  Other than your tendency to vomit on the buffet table, that is.

Pretty Kitty Roller Derby

So, no, I haven't thrown up during my pregnancy.  Awesome!  I'm very fortunate! 

But our newest kitty-cat has more than compensated for it.  In every possible way.

Apparently, Lady Freyja the Gray is not adjusting particularly well to being a housecat.  In the beginning, she was kept in her own room, with her own food and litter box.  She went in the box and ate all her food, trying to escape the room each time the door was opened.  We played with her each day, brought her toys (which she rejected) and pet her soft fur.   Sometimes the other two cats would pay her a quick visit, under our supervision.  We called her the "Princess in the Tower".   Once we got her to the vet, who put her age around Thor's (2 1/2 to 3 years) and seemed surprised that she was in good health for a stray, we began the process of giving her run of the house.

It has not gone well. 

Loki seems to resent being the "middle child" and has made that very clear to Freyja.  Although Freyja is a larger, older cat, she lets Loki boss her around.   Loki has determined that Freyja is "allowed" to live on top of the chest of drawers in our front entryway.  She's sometimes "allowed" to sleep on top of the kitchen counters (these are Loki's rules and they do not jive with mine.)  She's also "allowed" to sleep on the couch, provided that Ross or I am on the couch, too.  If she ventures too far away from the living room or the hallway, Loki tears after her like she's got wheels, fur flying.  Per Loki, Freyja is not "allowed" into the basement...which has created some pretty putrid potty problems upstairs.  After the fourth pile of fresh poo that was waiting for us after work, we called in the big guns.

I texted my baby sister Jules, who is in grad school to be a vet.

I shared my concern that Freyja was regressing due to anxiety and territorial problems, and both she and her "cat expert" colleague agreed.  They suggested temporarily putting a litter box near where she likes to poop.  In the kitchen.  UGH!  That worked for a week or so, until it wasn't cleaned to Freyja's liking.  That day, she punished Ross by taking a potty break right in front of the front door.

At our wits' end, we finally tried moving the covered box to right next to the front door, underneath the (unused) writing desk in the entryway.  She is definitely using it now, and, at least since it's winter, we're not noticing any particularly unpleasant aromas from it. 

But she's also been having other tummy troubles.

She horked in Ross's shoes last week. 

It wasn't entirely her fault.  Since, according to Loki's Law, she is not allowed on the floor, she had to vomit from on top of the drawers.  Ross's work shoes happened to be directly underneath.

She's thrown up a few times since then, and I don't think it's what she is eating so much as how fast she is eating.  Terrified that Loki will attack her, I've seen her gulp her Friskies faster than Garfield downs a tray of lasagna.  Of course, cat physiology isn't entirely different from that of humans, and if they eat too quickly, guess what happens?

I actually caught her puking the other day.  It was a pretty gruesome sight.  She seems fine otherwise, and she's been cleared of worms by the vet, so the only thing that seems to make sense is that she's been agitated.  And I know that it's not Thor doing the terrorizing.  Oh, Loki.  Sometimes you are so very like your namesake...

I guess all the cats are cooperating in order to prepare me for motherhood.

How sweet of them.

Embracing Introversion

I posted earlier this month on Facebook about the liberating realization that I am, in fact, an introvert.  I wanted to expound on that a little, because it has really, really made a difference in the way I see myself.

As a child and teenager, I was a great student, had a few good friends, and generally kept to myself.  I liked writing and reading.  I liked drawing.  I found that I liked singing and acting as well, and I did these things as often as I could, participating in school musicals and choosing chorus as my elective.  I was definitely counted among the “geeks”, as my best friends and I were far more likely to have a Star wars role-playing session than ever get invited to – or accept an invitation to – any party.  I never drank.  Ever.  Never wanted to.  Was never asked out on a date, which wasn’t surprising.  I was not particularly self-confident, nor was I considered popular or particularly pretty at the time (now, apparently geek girls are often treasured and coveted; I guess I was born a decade too early).  College wasn’t that different.  I still didn’t drink, but I did go to some parties with fellow music and theatre majors (frankly, it took quite a lot for me to build up to that point).  I slowly gained a little more confidence as I made my way through college, mostly via successful theatrical performances.

I had always assumed that, because I am comfortable directing, speaking, and performing before a crowd, that I was an introvert.  I’m fairly personable and have always been told by friends and employers that I’m “cheerful”, “energetic”, and “bubbly”.  I assumed that only extroverts possessed those traits and therefore, I certainly was one.  After college, several things changed in my life.  I got serious about my faith – and I lost a lot of weight.  The two together, I think, were a big boost to my self-esteem.  I began to understand that God loved me – really loved me – no matter what.  I also began to like the way I looked because I was taking care of my body.  Although I still dealt, sometimes, with body image issues (and, to be honest, they still creep up every now and then, years later), I was generally a happy person.  I led a Bible study.  I sang on the worship team.  I attended a young adults group at a local church.  I spent time with friends.  I began working with the children and youth in our church.  I liked it.

From thomerama.tumblr.com.

This past month, like probably thousands of others, I posted daily about things for which I was thankful.  Most days, I had no trouble at all.  I was thankful for a wonderful, loving husband; a great family; a supportive church; a good job; a working vehicle.  Some days, I became more introspective and thoughtful. At one point, I saw something on Pinterest that caught my eye, and decided that I would retake the Briggs-Meyer personality test I’d taken quite some time ago.  My result was INFP – The Dreamer.  (You sci-fi geeks may recognize INFP traits in characters like Luke Skywalker and Frodo Baggins.  The reluctant hero.  The moral one.  The goodie-goodie. The one plucked from a simple, secluded life and dragged into a world much bigger than himself.)  At once, I felt a rush of relief.

I’m an introvert. 

It turned my world upside-down, in the best possible way.

I used to beat myself up because I never really liked parties.  I thought there was something wrong with me because I generally tried to avoid social situations involving more than maybe four or five other people.  I preferred quiet evenings alone or with my husband to any kind of meet’n’greets or mixer events.  I get tongue-tied around people I greatly admire.  I express myself best through writing.  I generally prefer spending time with friends and family over meeting new people.  I thought I had a social anxiety disorder.  Or maybe a self-esteem problem.  But I don’t. 

I’m this way because I’m an introvert.

My “outgoing” hobbies of performance and public speaking are not limited to extroverts alone.  That would be like saying that extroverts are never good writers or never think philosophically.  I didn’t realize that at first.   I used to wonder what was wrong with me because I was great in front of a crowd, but hating being in a crowd.  I wondered if I was somehow less of a person because I needed more “recharge” time than others.

Nothing is wrong with me.  I’m an introvert.

It doesn’t mean I’m not sassy.  It doesn’t mean I’m not passionate and vocal about a lot of things.  It doesn’t mean I’m a pushover.  It doesn’t mean that I’m afraid of people, or that I hate them.  It also doesn’t mean that I hate myself.  I had a fairly high extrovert quotient, too, which I cannot deny.  But it was such a relief to realize that I’m not a failure as a human being.  Granted, having the “diagnosis” of introversion doesn’t allow me to shun social responsibilities.  I still have to do things I’m not terribly fond of.  I have to leave my house, when I’d rather finish reading a novel, curled up with my cats.  I have to talk to people sometimes, instead of, well…talking to my cats.

I don’t want it to sound as though I’m agoraphobic, or that I’m petrified to show my face in public, or that I hold other  people in disdain.  That’s not the case at all.  I love spending time with friends, and I do like people.  I just handle them best – and I’m at my best – in small doses. 

That revelation – and the acceptance of it - has made such a difference in the way I see myself.  Now, I’m not all about personality tests defining who we are.  We can make the mistake of applying the results to ourselves like labels with permanent adhesive, never allowing ourselves to move beyond a certain type or identity.  That’s not a good thing.  Personality-type tests should be a starting point, or for entertainment  – not a final verdict.  For me, it was a refreshing realization that there isn’t anything wrong with me. 

Although maybe I should hold off on collecting any more cats for the time being.

Or maybe just ask Santa for a self-cleaning litter box.  So I can get more cats.

November Is the Awesomest Month

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, far more than writing.  Obviously.

I had signed up for this year’s NaNoWriMo and finally hatched what I thought was a great idea, but some (good) life circumstances threw me off track in November and I didn’t get more than about 500 words written.  I’m keeping the idea in mind, though, for a future project.  It’s called “101 Ways to Disappoint Your Mother” and it’s borne, in part, of my experience losing my mother earlier this year – and no, it’s not quite as snarky as it sounds.  It in an exploration of (mostly) female relationships: mothers and daughters, sisters, friends – and how they define women. The story starts with an engagement in post-WWII Alabama, and moves on from there.  I have a great deal to flesh out before I even share a lot more about it, so we’ll leave things at that for now.  Let’s just say that it’s in no way a man-bashing book, nor is it a pair of rose-colored glasses strapped onto a vaguely sappy  memoir.  I’m not all about that!

My birthday was on November 15^th.  Early this year, my step-mom shared with me that she was convinced it would be my best birthday ever.  After my mom passed away in February, and Ross struggled to find a better job (while I was still unemployed), that seemed hard to believe.  When Ross’s grandmother died in the summer, it seemed even harder to believe. 

But things started to change.  Actually – things really began to change once we completed the Great Race in September.  It was almost as though we’d accomplished both this huge physical and spiritual event.  Our bodies were aching but we were so incredibly proud that we’d done something that we never thought we could do.  I thought a lot about running as it’s mentioned in the Bible, too.  Paul frequently refers to the Christian life as a race.  It’s all about discipline and endurance.  (If you’re doing it right, anyway!)  Although I didn’t train properly for the Great Race, I had a wonderful first-time experience as a runner and want to continue (once my doctor gives me the okay).  Once we hit that milestone, life started looking up. 

Our Disney vacation soon followed, and I can hardly begin to explain how wonderful it was!  The experience definitely deserves its own post, which I’ll work on soon.  After that, my husband sent me to the Pat Benatar concert on my birthday with one of my best friends, Jaime.  We were pretty much the youngest people there, which I can only guess was quite soothing to Jaime’s “recently thirty” mentality.  Can I just tell you why I have so much respect for Pat Benatar?  First of all, even though her life hasn’t been ideal (she married and divorced quite young), she’s been married to the same man for nearly 30 years.  She has two adult daughters and a healthy relationship with them both.  She’s talented.  She never got into the drugs and alcohol pop star scene.   She’s more than a pair of legs and a voice.  I love that she’s always had a heavy hand in writing her own material.  Her songs are more about female empowerment than about female superiority, which I personally think is awesome.  And she still sounds incredible.  Unlike a lot of pop stars today, Pat Benatar was never really gimmicky.

She sounds great without auto-tuning. 

Ross would have gone with me, but he’d already committed to a men’s weekend (with my blessing) before starting his new job within the company.  He’s still dreaming of his ideal job, and I hardly blame him, but we’re both pleased that he’s now working in Career Services, helping graduates find jobs, rather than trying to remind former and current students that they do, in fact, owe the school money…even if they didn’t complete their schooling.  My poor hubby probably heard the phrase, “What?  I didn’t sign nothing!  I never signed anything!” a dozen times a week a t least.  That can be an incredibly frustrating job, even for a perpetually sunny guy like Ross.  So things are looking up there, too.

We’ve gotten some other pleasant news lately but we’re not ready to share those little details just yet. 

I’m thinking of getting together via the interwebs with my old roomie Megs, who is one of the funniest human being on the planet.  She has three kids, I have three cats.  We both believe in God, but practice our faith differently. Megan is a vegetarian.  I’m an everthing-I’m-not-allergic-to-a-tarian (which means I am, in fact, open-minded in regards to vegetarian cuisine.  To a degree.)  We went to college at Clarion.  We’re both pretty cheesed off at the school right now for the retrenchment debacle, which has decimated all three of our fields of study and basically made us look like fools for choosing such “useless” majors. (psychology, theatre and English).  Together, we’re kind of like generally-not-angry superhero comediennes.  Maybe we’ll start a blog: The Bec and Megs Comedy Minute.  It’ll just be flashes of our status updates.    Kids and cats are funny on their own.  Put them together and you get comedy gold.

Right?

We’ve also brought our outdoor stray into our home, too, which is what officially brought the above housecat total to three.  Freyja goes to the vet tomorrow.  We’ve kept her in her own room for the past week, to get the other cats acclimated to her and also to protect them in the event she’s got fleas or worms (we suspect neither, but you can’t be too careful.  This kitty has been a stray for at least a year, according to our neighbor, and cats, you know…just pick things up.)  She is a gorgeous girl, very gentle and sweet-natured, and she’s never once scratched or bit either of us since she started visiting us in August.  Slowly we worked up to picking her up and cuddling with her, which isn’t her favorite.  But she tolerates it without a lot of fuss.  She has a conversational and very insistent meow, and she is affectionate and likes the infrequent belly rub.  She learned how to sit on command (yes, really.  Loki does it, too.)  She takes treats directly out of my hand.  She has the most beautiful green eyes lined with white fur  and a gray pretty face; she looks kind of glamorous.  She used the litter box immediately, leading me to believe that maybe she’d once been a house cat.  Who would ever want to get rid of such a wonderful little girl?

Problem is, we think she might be preggers.

Leave it to us to have pity on the unexpectedly expectant cat in the neighborhood, right?  I guess we’ll learn tomorrow if Tubbs, the fully-equipped, ugly-faced stray male who sometimes lurks by our house, is gonna be a daddy.  If it’s not him, I’m utterly stumped, since I haven’t seen a single un-neutered male cat in our area other than him.  Not since we found little Thor shivering in the rain two springs ago.

It’s the Christmas season, but I don’t think the acknowledgement of the Virgin Birth extends to local felinity. 

Crazy Cat Lady

I do not believe in ghosts.  Or that the spirits of the dead can inhabit the bodies of the living.  I do, however, believe that spiritual gifts can be passed from one generation to another.

Freyja's new toy.  :-/

Now, granted, I don't recall that "talking to animals" is listed among any spiritual gifts in the New Testament.  Nevertheless, I'm thinking that, just maybe, upon her passing, my mom's uncanny and often freakish ability to connect with animals may have fallen upon my shoulders.

I mean, I held a chipmunk the other day.  That's, like, Disney Princess level animal communication, right?!

I guess maybe it's more of a mutant power than a spiritual gift.

My mom, to my recollection, was never a social butterfly.  She was certainly good with people, especially when she worked in the service industry.  But she was never, ever a "let's chat over a cappuccino" kind of girl.  Especially in her later years, I think she preferred the company of animals to people.  I mean, can you blame her?  Scroll through your Facebook feed for thirty seconds if you still wonder a person might like dogs better than humans.

My mom rescued a groundhog who had gotten his head stuck in a jelly jar.  My mom taught our adopted mutt to obey commands that she spelled.  My mom caught and freed panicked hummingbirds that had gotten trapped in our garage.  My mom had four neighborhood pups trained to line up on her porch for treats twice a day.  My mom nursed a mostly-dead tomcat back to full-fluffed, glossy and shiny health, despite repeated suggestions that she let the local vet "put that thing out of its misery".  I am fairly certain that my mom could have taught a fish to sing or a rabbit to brew her tea.  My mom had a gift.

Granted, I fell head-over-heels in love with my sweet Thor long before we lost my mom, and we adopted our snuggly Loki months before she passed away.  Yes, I cuddle them, even when I am wearing black (Thor in particular enjoys leaving his soft gray brand of fluff all over the house).  Yes, I have long, detailed conversations with them.  I also baby-talk to them.  I sometimes even let them sleep with me.  But. . .

. . .Twoper - now Freyja - didn't stroll back into my life until after my mom was gone.  I wouldn't be surprised if she'd asked God to send us just one more kitty to love - one cat to temporarily fill the void left after each of our lost pregnancies.  Three fur-babies to love.  Freyja will be getting a visit to the vet in the next few weeks, if we can set aside the money, and she'll be moving from Porch Cat to her rightful place as a Cat of Asgard.  She is certainly the gentlest cat I've ever met.  In the more than six weeks that she has been hanging around my house, not once has she scratched, swatted, or bit at Ross or me - or anyone else.  In fact, during our Geek Gala, she positioned herself like a tiny, loaf-shaped sentry in the middle of the porch and saw our guests out with a rumbly meow.  I love to cuddle with her and scratch her back.

Last week, when Ross and I were leaving Target, we encountered a man about our age holding an absolutely gorgeous gray and black kitten.  "You guys want a cat?" he asked.  I must have looked shocked, because he hurriedly continued, "I found her by Chick-Fil-A and I gave her some food and now she won't leave me alone."  Sure enough, when he placed her on the ground, she sniffed at Ross, then our truck, and rubbed up against me, but lingered nearby.  Of course I wanted her!  Ross even had the same look on his face that he did when we impulsivelyadopted Loki.  But four cats?  With one not even house-trained yet?  "I'm sorry," I said sadly, "We just adopted out local stray, or else we'd take her."  "That's what happened to us!  That's how we got our cat," the guy replied enthusiastically.  At least we could tell he was a cat-friendly person.  As we reluctantly left, I prayed that the little girl would end up in a home that really needed the unconditional love of a pet.

Loki is a Jedi.

That's the thing about cats, people.  Yes, they do have a reputation for being aloof, solitary, and, thanks to internet-sensation Tardar Sauce (AKA Grumpy Cat), even arrogant.  Some are, I guess.  Unlike those cats of world wide web fame, Loki is flat-out sociable.  She jumps into the laps of people who are trying to eat at my dinner table.  She spent all of last month's party in the middle of the living room, politely perched on a pillow or examining vacant chairs.  She plays fetch with her woefully ragged cloth mice (the last gift my mom had picked out for them before she died).  She is curious and desperately cuddly (some of the time).  Thor, I guess, is more your typical housecat.  He is irritated by changes in routine; he's possessive; he's often dismissive.  He thinks he's the alpha male, but he doesn't really act like it.  But with me, he's a bundle of loving fluff.  He curls up on my chest at night, before I go to bed, and demands that I put my phone down to nuzzle his nose.  He'll flop on the couch and watch television with me.  He lets me flip him on his back and stick my face in his bunny-soft belly fur.  He lets me clip his claws with absolutely no protest.  He even lets us bathe him

Thor is a superhero.

with minimal fuss.  And it was Thor who came to me when I learned of my friend Linda's passing, and he sat with me on the bathroom floor until I was done crying.

Freyja will  likely have her own set of quirks when she moves in.  I can't wait to see how she lets us love her, and how she shows her love in return.

Yes, this formerly skeptical girl has become a full-blown crazy cat lady.  Apparently, contrary to popular opinion, being happily married does not prevent this condition.  Even my baby sis, dog-mom to the Unreasonably Huge Mutt, Tex, admits that her recently-adopted kitten, Ranger, has wormed his way into her heart and become a part of her family much faster than she expected.

All I can say is "told you so!"

Notes from the Litterbox

Dear Diary,

Today is gonna be AWESOME!!!

It's been great so far.  First, when I woke up - before the big bright ball lights up the sky - I went to perform my most important duty of the day.  I have to wake up my People!

They don't let me sleep with them in their Big Kitty Bed, even though there is room for me.  (But that's okay.  Sometimes, when they leave for the day, I test it, just to make sure it is still a good bed for them.)  So I wait outside the door every morning and I meow to make sure they don't sleep in.  Sometimes, they don't hear me and I worry that they won't wake up in time to feed me, so I meow louder, and I keep meowing.  Usually it's the Short Curvy One who gets up first, and I follow her into the White Room.  She uses her litter box (which transforms into a water bowl, OMG!) and pets me.  If I purr, she hugs me.  Which is great, but she squeezes kind of hard.  Then the Furless One wakes up and goes downstairs.  He looks at my bowls and ignores them.  Sometimes he goes into my toilet and scoops out my poo.  What could the People possibly want with that stuff?  He puts it into little bags, like he is going to save it for later.  People are so gross sometimes.  After he looks at my bowls, I lick myself several times.  

The Furless One doesn't feed me, so I play with his feet.  He LOVES it!  He picks me up and shoves his face in mine.  He keeps making a noise that sounds like "NONOSTOPITNOCUTITOUTNONO!"  Actually, the Short Curvy One does, too.  That must be how they say they love me!  That's so cute!  They also try to give me baths a lot, with water from a little blue bottle, when I sit on the tables.  Silly People.  They don't understand that I clean MYSELF.  Several times a day.  In fact, I'm doing it right now.

I wait for the Short Curvy One to put food into my bowl.  She keeps filling it with this hard crunchy stuff but it is SOOO gross.  If I dance around and sing loudly enough, for a long enough time, when she seems pre-occupied with something that isn't me, she will sometimes reward my talents with some soft gooey food from a can.  OMG I love that stuff!  I could swim in it!  I mean, I would if I liked to swim, of course.

Then they hurry to leave me alone and guard then house until they come home.  I lick myself a few more times, and watch them leave from the back of the chair - my chair, that is.  I heard the Short Curvy One say something about it being my throne.  I don't know exactly what a throne is, but it sounds like something very special and I should probably be proud to have one of my own.

I eat a couple more bites of that nasty crunchy stuff, but then I get really bored.  I wish that they'd leave that bright box on for me.  The one in the food room, that beeps and spins things in circles.  That is the coolest thing I've ever seen!  The best part is that when the things start to turn inside, they also smell really yummy!  I keep hoping it'll pop open and drop a treat for me, but it never does.  Maybe I have to dance better and sing louder for it.

Well, there's plenty more to do today, so I made myself a list so I wouldn't forget anything:

8:30 - 8:45 - Lick myself
8:45 - 10:30 - Nap on rug
10:30 - 11:15 - Watch birds
11:15 - 12:00 - Tease neighbor's idiot beagle
12:00 - 1:30 - Lick myself
1:30 - 2:15 - Nap on couch
2:15 - 3:00 - Explore basement
3:00 - 3:05 - Try to eat dry kibble
3:05 - 3:30 - Sniff in trash can for something better to eat
3:30 - 3:45 - Lick myself
3:45 - 4:30 - Nap on bed (remember: leave thank-you present!)
4:30 - 10:15 - Attempt to secure treats from the Short Curvy One
10:15 - 10:30 - Poop in litter box WHILE Furless One is cleaning it
10:30 - ? - Guard the People's bedroom from intruders and/or insects

Wow, so much to do!  Well, dear diary, I'd better get started.  I'm exhausted just thinking about it!  Maybe I'll switch things up and take my nap first, after all.

Love and licks,
Thor "Thundercat" Godlove

Four-Legged Surprise

Two weeks ago, as I was snuggled up in bed, Ross burst into the room, grabbed a shirt and a flashlight, then ran out the door.

I have been married to him for eighteen months now, so I rarely question his behavior.  I returned to my reading as the thunderstorm raged outside.

Fifteen minutes later, Ross returned to the bedroom.  

Holding a kitten.

"...what's that?" I asked, as what I was seeing was not properly registering in my brain.

"...it's a kitten," he replied with a lop-sided grin.

"I know that," I was able to choke out, "...but why is it in my bedroom?"

"It was crying outside the basement window.  In the rain."

The poor thing was still shrieking like a feline banshee, all grey and white and soggy and shivering.  It clung to Ross's chest for dear life as I approached it.

"We'll take him to the Humane Society first thing tomorrow," I declared as I bunched up my bright pink robe to dry it off.  I grabbed an old shoebox, stuffed in a towel, and we wrapped the screaming little thing up to keep it warm.  With nowhere else to put it, we stuck the box in the bathtub, popped open a can of tuna, added a dish of water, and turned off the light.

"Meoooowowowow!" it sobbed.

The next morning, when we went to gather up the kitten, it had not moved a single inch.  It was still wrapped up exactly as it had been eight hours before.  The tuna and the water remained untouched.  It hadn't even pooped.  I kinda felt bad for it.  It was so tiny and so scared.  Every time we approached it, it panicked and hissed.  It never moved to scratch us, but I attributed that to the fact that it was literally petrified stiff.  Poor thing.  We nicknamed it Thor, since it came to us during a thunderstorm.

 

The Humane Society opened its doors at ten on Sunday morning, so, unfortunately, we had to miss church to take the kitten in.  Once there, we learned two things: that Thor was not, in fact a girl kitty (like we had guessed), but a boy kitty, and that, due to his slight sniffle, young age (about five weeks), and weight (under two pounds), they could not guarantee that they would not euthanize him.  Apparently, if he had a respiratory infection, he would get all the other cats sick, and based on his weight, he was too little to send out for foster care.  The tech we spoke with, Erin, was very friendly but very honest about his chances for survival there as she did a once-over of the mewling kitten.

While Ross asked about a cat's general health care needs, I watched the tiny grey striped kitten panic in Erin's gentle hands.  We couldn't take this kitten home.  No way.  We were allergic.  In fact, as a surprise two weeks before, Ross had conspired with one of my co-workers and brought home an absolutely gorgeous female kitten he had named Simone.  After I got over the shock, I fell in love with her, then proceeded to have a violent asthma attack.  I even got hives on my lips where I had kissed her perfect little furry forehead.  I felt horrible when Ross had to drive all the way back to Washington to return her to her litter-mates.

Plus, we didn't know the first thing about raising a kitten.  When I was a child, we had three cats, but they all came to us as strays, and my mother was the one who took care of them.  I just pulled their tails and cried when they scratched me.  Years ago, Ross had been given a crabby old Maine Coon cat named Oliver and he despised the thing.  The feeling was mutual, as Oliver eventually stowed away in Ross's parents' van and then ran away.  To an Amish farm.  No joke.

Ross had nearly wept with joy.

So, you see, we're not cat people.

Plus, we were about the leave for vacation the following week, and we didn't know who could possibly take care of the kitten.  My dad could, of course, but his idea of "taking care" of cats generally involves shotguns and target practice.

No way would we be taking this guy home.

Ross turned to me with vibrant blue puppy-dog eyes and said, "I don't like the idea of knowing he may not make it, especially when what he has is treatable."

The kitten came home with us.

Just until we could find a "buyer", so to speak.  Another co-worker had expressed an interest in adopting a kitten, as had one of Ryan's friends.  So, regardless, the kitten would not be headed back to the shelter and, possibly, to his death.

Within a day, he was eating wet food and pooping in the litter box.  Within two days, he was very carefully exploring his surroundings, tending to hide awkwardly behind radiators and under chairs.  I kept waiting for the inevitable allergy attack, but it never came.  Ross and I were a bit more sniffly than usual, but that was it.

Within three days we had determined that we weren't getting rid of him.  A family from church, who live close to us, agreed to take care of Thor during our trip.  He was the absolute darling of the veterinary clinic just minutes (mercifully!) from my house.  Plus, the vet determined that there wasn't much wrong with him other than fleas and worms, which we had already expected.  He is due for booster shots next week.

His first bath was a traumatic experience for everyone involved.  No photographic proof exists.  It's better this way.

He has already learned how to climb stairs, perch on top of his scratching post, attack my leopard-print slippers, eat dry food (although he doesn't like it), hide behind everything with at least 1/2 inch of clearance, and chew on my toes.

My personal goal: to train Thor, the mighty Thundercat, how to eradicate the home of centipedes and stink bugs.

This will be good.