The Truth about Cats & Fire

I recently discovered that cats are not flammable. Now, before you call PETA and leave nasty comments, let me point out that this knowledge was gathered through an unfortunate incident involving a fluffy tail and an otherwise innocent candle.

My cat, Biscuit made the mistake of swishing her tail over the triple wick flames of a Hazelnut cream candle, and POOF! her tail was ablaze, and as i reached for her, as she jumped atop a shelf by my computer, i realized the flame had already gone out. I had to chase her though the house, trying to find out if she was okay and if a trip to the vet was in our immediate future. It took me a long time to find her. Not an encouraging bit of knowledge, as i imagined what it would have been like if her tail DIDN'T extinguish itself, and I had to chase her--fully ablaze (the cat, not me), helpless to save her from a horrible fate. But, as it turns out, there was no cause for concern. when i finally coaxed her out from under a dresser, she was none the worse for wear except for the singed parts, which seemed entirely superficial.

I'm not sure if there's a sort of breed restriction on this fact. Like, are Angora cats flammable, while Calicos are not? Are Tabbies flammable, while Siamese are not? I would guess that Sphinx cats are nonflammable, by virtue of the fact that they don't have hair at all. What they would get is a burn. And there are creams for that. So as to the question of flammability where it concerns felines, I may never know. And that's a good thing, I suppose, since this isn't the type of field research I like doing. Some questions just don't need answers.

The Truth about Cats & Fire

Acrocat Monkey

Monkey did the funniest thing. She was living up to her name again. It might be a little hard to explain, since i didn't have my iPhone in my pocket and didn't get a picture of it...by the time it happened, i didn't even know it was going to be picture-worthy.

So, here's the scene: my washer and dryer is in a closet space with folding doors. I opened the left one to check the clothes in the dryer, and she slithered into the space between the washer and the door, and on to the side, another tiny space between the washer and the wall. Once there, she discovered there was nowhere to go, and started to back out, but her rump hit the door. Now, I've seen her do some pretty acrobatic things (she's an acrocat), but this time, I thought i was going to have to dig her out of there. Au Contraire. 

As I watched, she used her hind legs to WALK UP the door (still backward, mind you), then when she was balanced vertically on her front feet, flipped herself over, twisting like a gymnast, so that her back legs landed where her head used to be. Then she was facing out, and slithered back along the space and out of the closet.

I could swear i heard her say "Tah dah!"

Acrocat Monkey

Trauma Biscuit

from Ignoring Red Flags

Discovered that the private garage at my new place is very small. I felt I should maybe fold my side mirrors in, or rub Vaseline on the side of the Cherryot. I did get it pulled in without losing any paint, but hoped I would learn the skill that sardines know.

Got everything inside, and discovered that Biscuit was nowhere to be found. I had been so careful. I even closed the garage door after I pulled in, carried her inside, and watched her dart into the apartment to hide, as usual. She has been so traumatized by this.

But then after I got everything in, couldn't find her, looked in every nook and cranny, closet, even checked to see if baseboards were intact in kitchen by dishwasher, because I had lost her when moving into my previous apartment, and that's where she went. Then, as now, I thought she might be some magic cat who could disappear at will. Like the Cheshire Cat, except when Biscuit disappears, she hasn't been smiling. Finally when the laws of logic started to move into considerations of a possible vortex, or a wormhole, or even a parallel universe, I found her. In the corner of the kitchen, atop the cabinet. She's been there now for two hours. Wont' come down.

Then of course, after the hideous 5 days I'd had, I just wanted a shower. But realized I'd left my shower curtain, and also had no towel. I showered anyway, just as I had the at previous apartment when i moved to Colorado--just directed the spray toward the wall and tried not to splash too much. And then I had to just get dressed, and let my clothes absorb the water. Then of course, I found that one towel, but it was too late.

Later on, I had to climb with my sore body up on the counter and lean over the top of fridge to have a discussion with the still-retreated Biscuit.

"Hey Biscuit-head…you know it's okay to come down now. This is our new home. We're staying. No more moving. No more grabbing you and stuffing you in crates and suitcases. It's safe to come down now."

She said  right.

 
"No really. I mean it. I did all that horrible stuff so I could get us here. This is your apartment too. You want the grand tour?"

Turning her head away. Not really.  

I scratched her head,  petted her. "Why don't you just step down onto the top of the fridge, so you can see?"

Not a chance.

"How about if I just help you down?"

Don't you freakin' touch me. You've been trying to kill me all week.

"That's not true, Biscuit. I love you. You're my baby."  Then I added in a collusive whisper, "You know you're my favorite."

Slightly interested now. Really?

"Really. Now let me just help you down."

I picked her up and held her firmly to my chest, still petting her and cooing nice things, and then struggled down off the counter. I set her wriggling onto the carpet in the livingroom. "Look, Biscuit, look how big it is! And over here on the fireplace hearth, I have the litterbox and your food and water, come look."

She obliged, but without much enthusiasm. "Now, in here is the room where my office will be. It's twice the size of all my other office rooms. Look." 

MM-hm.

Walking to the bathroom doorway, like some erstwhile tour guide, I said. "And in here is the bathroom, see? No shower curtain, careful of the puddle on the floor."

She peeked in and nodded, and then swirled with her feather duster tail toward the bedroom door.

"And this is the bedroom. See? There's Monkey on the foamy bed."

She rubbed it along the side, and gave a nod to Monkey who extended a paw, but it was rejected.

Wandering back in the living room, she plopped down in the middle on the carpet. Calmer now. Monkey ambled in with her simian stride, and simian feet and sat down in front of her, gave her a few kisses on the head. Biscuit purred.

Trauma Biscuit

EXTENDED STRESS Hotel.

My Cherryot was loaded to capacity, with the things i thought I'd need for two months, until an apartment became available.

At Extended Stay, I checked in with desk clerk--started to unload, and had to take several things up first (5 trips in elevator) before I noticed that there was a luggage cart in front with a tattooed guy leaning on it talking to another guy. "Oh a luggage cart!" I said. "I need that." He said he only had a couple of things and rushed off to get his task done so I could have it.

Meantime, I wanted to get the cats out of the Cherryot so they'd be safe and I'm sure they needed some freedom. That cardboard box in back of crate with litter was bound to be hard to lay next to.

I was trying to figure out what to do to get the cats up there safely. I also knew there was a limit of one animal, and so I had to be careful they didn't see two.

I emptied a small gym bag and tried to put Monkey in it, but she doesn't like being trapped, and I felt awful that I'd have to zip it up and scare her, and it was a small bag; I was stressing her more. So I dragged out the big red rolling suitcase, emptied it, and put her in it fairly easily, and then rolled her down the walk, through the breezeway, onto the elevator, all the while reassuring her in a sweet voice that it was okay and I was right here and we'd be in the room soon, etc. I always talk to my cats, explain things to them, as if they completely understand the English language. 


I put Monkey in the bathroom and closed door, went to get Biscuit. She's always harder to manage because these travel scenarios wear her out. Again, I discovered she was lying in the litterbox and wouldn't come out. She did that on my move here in 09. I had to move a bunch more things, just to get that huge crate turned so I could get the door open wide enough, because I had to reach all the way to the back to get her. Monkey just came out when I asked her to, and then I just picked her up. With Biscuit, it was another story. I would have to be aggressive and just grab her and poke her in the case, because no amount of quiet explanation would get her to do what I needed her to do. And I had to be careful she didn't slip out the door of Cherryot and run away. Horrifying thought for me.

SO she was in there and I asked her not to cry too loud so anyone would hear. Just as we reached the elevators, and passed a maintenance guy, she cried once, and I hurriedly coughed rudely continually, punching the elevator button. Finally the car came down and I rolled her in, and had another soothing conversation with her, for what it was worth. Even told her she was a pretty kitty and mommy loved her very much.

Got Biscuit in the bathroom with Monkey, and knew Monkey would console her, while I went to get the rolling cart and unload the rest. It still wasn't there.

Mind you, there was a memory foam mattress rolled up and attached to the luggage rack of the Cherryot, along with the litter box with that 35 pound container of litter, and couple other things. I didn't want someone to steal it. The bed, not the litter. My friends know that my foamy bed is as crucial to me as breathing, because I can't sleep on anything else without my back going out.

Finally I procured the luggage cart from Tattoo Guy and began loading it up. Hard to do, since most things were not neatly arranged in one size liquor boxes or crates. Had to be creative with stacking since a couple of the plastic tubs had no lids. I had to pull them out of the garden shed thing off the back porch of house and clean them out. Anyway, it took about 4 trips to get it all up there.

The entire time, I am limping because of my injured knee (thanks to my Awful X-- as in previous, X--as in crossed out, gone, no longer applicable), and my hands were so sore, and my spine felt like it had hot bricks for discs, my feet were throbbing, and my neck was making threats to rupture a disc again. If that happened, I was down for the count, and I would be completely immobilized. I hoped for good fortune and carried on.

Once in the room, I had intended to go straight to bed, too tired to shower. But then I had to find things and then I started unpacking in increments, and then before I knew it, I had unpacked everything, maybe it was just leftover nervous energy.

During this time, I was on the phone with my best friend Justi, and my spirits were considerably higher because I was allowing myself to feel relieved that I was somewhere I could rest. Make camp. I told her about the fine art of controlling a loaded luggage cart; it likes to spin around at will like a go cart with one bad brake.

Then I can't avoid the need for food any longer and about 12:30, I hoped there was a drive thru open. Problem was, I seemed to be in a section of the city that was a fast food dead zone. I drove North on Wadsworth, and saw nothing. I was going to use my Mango fast food app on my iPhone to find it but realized that app was lost in the last screwy update I did where I forgot to select to save apps. I searched it and got it again, while still talking to her, and she was on her computer trying to find me a place to get food too. Then I said I just wanted a cheeseburger and fries. Small. My stomach was shrunk. I had already lost five pounds from stress and exertion in the last 6 days. 

"There's an Arby's on Jewel," she offered.

"I don't want Arby's, I want a cheeseburger. I'm looking for McDonalds and Burger King, because I knew they were open late, too."

"There's also a Wendy's on Jewel," she added.

"I don't want Wendy's because I want fries and I don't like their fries. Too fat."

I finally located the Wendy's though, and drove past it looking for ARBY's because she began extolling the virtues of sliced roast beef and cheese sauce and seasoned curly fries. I didn't see it, and my stomach was growling and I was a little dizzy from hypoglycemia. I turned around and went back toward Wendy's. "Fuck it, I'll got to Wendy's. At least they have cheeseburgers." And then I discovered they had something called a Baconator, with natural cut fries with sea salt. Enjoyed a playful conversation with the order taker and got my goodies. The fries were delish, and when I got back to the hotel and tried the Baconator, it became automatically my new favorite burger, so it all worked out.

There was much I needed to do--I didn't have time to actually let the emotional aspects kick in. I was afraid I wouldn't get things done if I was blubbering like a two year old. I had paperwork from the court and advocacy group people to go through, information to fill out, notes to take in Daytimer, figuring out my next steps and priorities. I still had bills I needed to take care of, (that my Awful X had failed to pay, though she had used my money to pay HERS for about 4 months while she stayed unemployed). I had to update my bank account info before the bills came due, etc. I started my water distiller and drank what was left in previous jug, so dehydrated. My eyes were bloodshot, and I looked terrible in the bright light of that hotel bathroom mirror. So I graced my best friend with a photo of that and MMS'd it to her.  
The fact that I would post this is perhaps an indication that vanity is not one of my shortcomings.
 
I looked like I'd been dragged behind a horse. Or at least my EYES had been dragged behind a horse. Or maybe a goat. A large, feral goat.

On the TV the size of a breadbox, I'm sort of watching some movie called Teen Witch about a coven of high school witches. Ironically it was partly about them discovering their powers to take vengeance on those who had wronged them, and I wished fervently for a little of that craft. Then I started watching another movie and eventually fell asleep.

Next morning, fire alarms go off, pulling me out the door onto the balcony muttering what the fuck? It stopped and I went back to bed, then the alarms went off again, just as I was dozing. I went back outside to look around to see if there was any smoke or firetrucks and heard a guest below me mutter What the fuck? which made me think that was quite the appropriate response. My nerves were raw by now, this 6th day of the debacle, with 3 hours sleep, on top of 2 on top of 2 on top of 3, on top of 5 on top of NONE and none. I was certainly not going back to sleep now. I checked to see if my direct deposit had been transferred to the new account from the old one, and it hadn't. I'm getting more and more stressed. I called the bank and they said it would happen within an hour. So I got dressed and went to the front desk to arrange to pay for another day.

Enter, stage right, the archetype of Rude Managers. Anne, I think her name was. I had missed checkout time at 11. And because my money didn't transfer to my new account yet, I explained and said the bank was correcting, would be ok within an hour, but she said I had to be out by 3p. She wouldn't let me pay for another day, even with a credit card, she said I had to pay for the week. I said the agreement I had made with them on the phone was to pay for two nights and then pay for a whole month, for this month and then May, until my apartment was available. She said I had to pay for the week. I said I could pay her cash or use a credit card for one more night and then she'd have over a thousand dollars for me to stay the month, and she wouldn't budge, she said get out by 3p. Now, this was particularly hurtful and aggravating, because I had explained my predicament to her on the phone, and she knew I was escaping a bad situation. Before walking out the door I said "Just remember, lady, Karma is a castrating bitch."

SO then I'm freaking out, because now, not only am I dealing with the bank glitch, but having to load the Cherryot AGAIN, with no place to go afterward. I'm not good at feeling helpless or trapped, and this was exactly that situation, in spades.

At Justi's counsel, I called the Apartments office to see if they had a different apartment that would be available NOW, and if not, a month to month one until the other one was ready. If not, where would they suggest I stay? I was trying to go to the bank while talking to Justi and got so disoriented, I didn't know where I was. Took me 10 minutes to get the map to make sense on my phone. All the while I'm chanting, I am stronger that her (D), I will get through this. I will be okay. And then i  was angry that I was dealing with all this because of her, and for the first time in my life, I used that word I hate so much. I shouted, "She is such a cunt!" 

Then I had to pull over and take a deep breath, because I was losing it and I had to keep control in order to get myself out of this situation. I continued to chant I'm okay...I'm strong enough to deal with this, it's just temporary, I'm okay...

I went to the bank, and they were so nice. They did a credit memo, based on my direct deposit, and made $2000 available to me, in cash. I'm standing there at the counter at the bank, tears streaming down my face, my body throbbing, my knee killing me, desperately needing a drink of water, food and some sleep. I redeposited enough cash to cover the 200 dollar security fee, and $20 application fee I wrote temporary checks for at the Apartments, plus some fees for the cashier's check. Traded out the other cash for that. I kept hearing that song in my head by Billy Pilgrim: Got my own falling-apart-ment....

SO I left with a sealed envelope of $2000 and felt slightly better. Except for the possibility of being mugged. That would have been the first horseman of the Apocalypse. I tried not to think about it. At least I had money. I'd be very careful. I also had the $300 from pawning my guitar--which i was loath to do, as it is beloved, and a symbol of happier days when i was playing and singing with my band in front of a receptive audience... But strangely, having cash is not always helpful these days. Most people won't take it. And temporary checks are shunned. And I didn't have a debit card yet to get to my funds that way.

As it turned out, with the apartments, I didn't even have to go to the second choice of a month to month or third choice of asking them to refer me elsewhere, because they had an apartment. It was a 2br,  with a private garage…it cost more of course, but just as Justi said, I make more now and can afford it. Plus when I get my storage, I'll have an extra $135 from not paying that; and my Cherryot pays off in May, so starting in June, that will be an additional $330 per month I'll have. I was relieved, though still shaky and skeptical...

I spoke with Shelia (had spoken to Kayla earlier too) they all knew the story of what had happened. When I got to the Apartment office, Kayla came out of the far office with her arms wide, saying "You poor thing! Come here, you need a hug~!" and she gave me a big hug. It almost made me cry. She said not to worry, I was home now, and everything would be okay. That also nearly made me cry, because it did feel like home. All the things home is supposed to feel--safe, pleasant, convenient, with supportive people around you.

Before any business was done, Shelia came over to sit with us and the two asked me details of what happened. I talked about more of what I'd been through and details about D's arrest and that night when she threw the gun in koi pond. They were both rapt. It was like sitting with two old friends. They know I'm gay and they don't care. They were supportive and encouraging. It felt so good and went a long way to relieve my stress. I said I would be writing all about it.  Kayla said I ought to do a memoir about it. I said I already have a memoir about events 10-14 years ago; I had hoped never to have this kind of thing to write about again, at least not if it was nonfiction, and happening to me; but this is another kind of drama that would work as a memoir, yes. Or I could just make it fiction. They both said they would LOVE to read it.


Kayla rushed through the application process. When I went out to get my banking information, I grabbed the new final proof for Achilles Forjan and gave it to Kayla. She was genuinely thrilled and said she couldn't wait to read it.

So then, I went back to the bank to get a cashier's check, and re-deposit the 200 and 20 to cover the temp checks I wrote for security deposit and app fee, and trade off cash for cashier's check. Always nice to be recognized and waved over to a clerk at your bank--but I wish it wasn't because I had been in there earlier in crisis mode.

All this, I did without a single Xanax.


I headed over to my new place, feeling relieved, stunned, exhausted and a little happy, all at the same time. I kept thinking, and miles to go before i sleep...

EXTENDED STRESS Hotel.

Shoes

It all happened so fast.

Since moving in with my girlfriend 6 weeks ago, my cat Shoes had a hard time adjusting. I figured she was used to being the matriarch. She had always been sweet and even- tempered. I couldn't figure out why she seemed so unhappy. She even began to growl and hiss at me and the other two cats of mine, who were like siblings to her. She had been the mommy cat to them since i got them both when they were kittens. 

Then four days ago, she began to howl when i picked her up and she just wasn't acting normally, even for a stressed cat in a new situation.


After two days she was vomiting several times a day, and I could tell she had not been eating or drinking, and she still behaved as though she was in pain. D and I took her to the vet on the 18th, and they took X-rays which showed some inflammation on one side and a small calcification, but nothing else. We took her back home with antibiotics and pain meds and hoped she'd get better.


There was no change this morning, so we took her back to the vet. They ran blood tests and the results showed that she was in kidney failure. The vet said that they could act on a treatment plan, but she would have a 50/50 chance of survival. The bill for that would have been around $1100, with little hope she would recover fully or at all. (We had already spent $600). If she did survive, she would need special care from then on, and would be in pain, and might die of malnutrition since she'd probably not eat or drink anything.


I knew I could not come up with another $1100. But the deciding factor was that she would not have any quality of life and would be miserable. To allow that would just make me selfish, because I was the one who couldn't let go. I discussed this with D. and she agreed with my decision.

So they gave her the sedative and I stroked her and whispered to her that I loved her, until she fell asleep, and then we walked away, before they gave her the shots that would end her life. I could not be there for that. I did not want that to be my last memory of her. I just wanted her to know I was there until she drifted into sleep. I know she was not aware of what was happening. But I was. It was one of the most difficult decisions I've ever had to make, and I will miss her so much.


I love you, Shoes.

Shoes

Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

So i sat down in my desk chair, and biscuit comes up, with her feather-duster tail conducting some silent orchestra, and i pet her. She lets me do that now, more than she did before. But then she eventually pulls away.

"See?' I say to her. "You realize it's not so bad to have that affection, but you still can't help it. I don't know where that comes from because I've had you since you were an itty bitty kitty, and you've always been safe and nothing bad has ever happened to you. So i guess it's about that nature versus nurture thing, huh, Biscuit? Your genetics make you just a little fucked up. And that's okay, because you're not my biological child."

She made a sound that was like "yeah" and strolled away.

Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

So i sat down in my desk chair, and biscuit comes up, with her feather-duster tail conducting some silent orchestra, and i pet her. She lets me do that now, more than she did before. But then she eventually pulls away. "See?' I say to her. "You realize it's not so bad to have that affection, but you still can't help it. I don't know where that comes from because i've had you since you were an itty bitty kitty, and you've always been safe and nothing bad has ever happened to you. So i guess it's about that nature versus nurture thing, huh, Biscuit? Your genetics make you just a little fucked up. And that's okay, because you're not my biological child."

She made a sound that was like "yeah" and strolled away.

Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

How Cats Wake you up

All cat owners will appreciate this.

How Cats Wake you up

I Love My Shoes

Yesterday, I wrote a blog about Biscuit, my cat who has S.A.D, O.C.D, and B.P.D. and EIEIO...

My other cat, Shoes, found out, and was really pissed. I promised her I'd write a blog about her too, so here it goes.

Shoes named herself. I saw her little white markings on her feet and thought of “Socks” and Boots” but those were too trite. Then she climbed halfway in one of my shoes and mewed at me and I went. “Oh…Shoes, is it?” So she named herself, and had a way of acting like I was pretty stupid not to think of it before she had to show me.

She quickly developed a tendency to fall down on the floor and turn over to show me her belly. In this photo, she is saying, "Mommy! Look at my panniculus!" *

When I first brought her home, she wasn’t quite old enough to be declawed yet, and that’s usually not a big deal. But Shoes was another story. My best friend stayed over one night and whenever we’d close our eyes to go to sleep, she would see our eyes moving under our eyelids, and she’d rear up and then pounce on our eyes with both feet. It was so charming and comical, but not worth losing any eyeballs over. We had to buy swim goggles to sleep in, for our own safety. She pounced on them just to teach us a lesson. We didn’t get much sleep. But I can’t help but laugh. Cats are just so much fun. I like that they’re so independent. You can’t boss a cat around.Thus, I respect them.

Other personality traits in Shoes include an unhealthy appetite for tape and other things that have glue on them. I bet she’d eat some paste if I bought her some. Glue-eating isn't all that unusual. Kindergarten kids do it all the time. (though i never developed a taste for it, myself). Shoes also says "mama" to me…I actually made an effort to teach her to do this, so the first time she "said" it, I was a proud parent. Although it sounds more like "Meh-Meh” than "mama", but I'm sure it's some evolutionary constraint that she can't help.

She will aggravate me when she needs something and is relentless until I give in and follow her to wherever the issue is. It’s usually either the litterbox, the food bowl or the water. (ah, the simple life.) If it’s not one of those, it's that she wants me to pay attention ("Look what I can do!") Sometimes it's that she wants me to sing to her. I did a lot of music when she was a kitten, and she is definitely a music lover. I’d catch her perched next to my studio mic, chirping into it, “MehMeh!” Pretty smart. One time she actually came and told me when Biscuit got her neck caught in the handle of a plastic sack (no doubt, due to her sack-licking obsession...a testimony to the dangers of addiction). Shoes came and screamed at me and led me upstairs, sitting down and waiting, until i understood, when Biscuit came flying through the living room, with a sack billowing out behind her like a parachute. (Now i cut the handles to all sacks).

But if on occasion, calling to me doesn’t work, Shoes will start knocking things in the floor. Usually it’s not breakables. She seems fond of paper. She’ll paddle at a piece of paper until she swipes it to the floor. And then when i reprimand her, she does what no other cat I've ever had does: she runs TOWARD me. Now, most cats, when you yell at them, run AWAY. Not Shoes. She trots over to me and asks me why I'm mad. She's also not afraid of other people, nor thunderstorms. Sniff sniff. Mommy's so proud.

I just told her i wrote a blog about her too, and she said, "It's about time." and knocked my stapler in the floor.
----------------------------
*Panniculus-- a layer of tissue, esp. a subcutaneous layer of fat.

I Love My Shoes

Mental Biscuit

After spending a good 16 hours in my basement office, my feet were stinging cold. When I climbed into bed to continue reading my John Varley novel, I kept being distracted by two things—my feet, of course, and my cat, Biscuit.

I solved the feet problem by nuking one of those gel packs. My feet were then warming up under the covers, but Biscuit was still doing her best to let me know she knew it was bedtime, and that’s when she begins her rituals.

First, it’s blocking my path and mewing, and slithering in and out of my ankles. Then it’s jumping on the bed to await me, still talking in her little kitty voice. She never ceases to be excited when I announce it’s bedtime. Maybe she has a short term memory and forgot that she did the same thing last night and the night before, and on into every previous night since her adoption. I wish i could remain that enthused by something i do every single day of my life.

Regardless, this feline has a screw loose, but that’s usually why I find her so charming. I named her for the incessant biscuit-making she does on any available soft surface. If that’s my chest or my stomach, she’s fine with that. Problem is, she does it for a long long time, and even a tactile person like myself can get a little annoyed by her fervor. I know she can’t help it—I didn’t know that at the time of her adoption, she wasn't yet weaned, but it explains a lot now. Her biscuit-making is an instinctual response—she’s essentially nursing while doing that. I’m afraid this led to her being OCD, though. She has other behaviors that echo this unfulfilled need, though I’ve yet to figure out exactly what they do for her. For instance, she likes to lick plastic sacks. I thought at first it was because there was something delicious spilled on them, but when she did it to all sacks, spilled food or not, I realized she had a plastic sack addiction. I don’t think there are any support groups for that. At least not for cats. I wouldn't be surprised if there were some for people who like to lick sacks. Stranger groups have formed.

Biscuit also likes to lay on the top of the recliner, her legs dangling on either side (see photographic illustration). I think she might also have Borderline Personality Disorder…(I’ve always thought that label was misleading…it’s like “I almost have a personalty, but not quite…I’m right on the border…”) anyway, I think she might be BPD, because she gets all up in my fruit loops all the time, but when I try to pet her, she pulls away. She’s better about that than she used to be, but really—when I’m trying to type, she does a little waltz across the desk in front of me, careful to use her tail as a feather duster, under my nose, and also as a thing-knocker-over, and once when I had a candle on the desk--to my momentary horror, she almost allowed her tail to be Keeper of the Flame.

This frequent attention seeking always ends in her escaping too much affection. She wants it but doesn’t want it, at the same time. She also disappears when I have company and doesn’t trust anyone--except me, but only a little. That’s Social Anxiety Disorder. So she has SAD, BPD and OCD. She reminds me of most of my ex-girlfriends.

Mental Biscuit

The Truth About Cats & Dogs. And Horses. And Mooses.

I was talking to my friend who is dating a woman who has lots of horses, and we began discussing all things horse-related. She wanted to know, after hearing a story about her date's near-trampling, how a horse can just run over you...like they don't know you're there...

I told her it was like my dog, Giz, when i go to open the door to let him out--if the cats are in his line of trajectory, he just runs right over them...cats know how to tuck and roll, so they never get hurt by it, and he doesn't do it on purpose, he's just oblivious....he has his eye on that door, and nothing else exists for him in that moment...

But imagine if it was a HORSE and a human...quite different.... kind of a "horse of a different color" you might say....you might say that, but i doubt it...that was some kind of metaphor mixing i don't think they've named yet....

anyway, my friend wanted to know if horses rear up and try to pound you with their hooves...i told her not usually, unless the horse was just crazy. That was more like what Moose do. (I was tempted to use Mooses, or Meeses...you know, plural for Moose. But it really is "Moose" in both forms, plural or singular... grammar lesson, over...).


Anyway, (again) A moose is very mean, and they will jump up and pummel you with their hooves. And they'll try to gore you with their antlers too.

It's a good thing dogs don't have hooves. Or antlers for that matter. (Except at Christmas, when we defile their dogness with reindeer head gear). But if dogs did have hooves and antlers, I'm sure no amount of tucking and rolling by cats in the line of trajectory will keep them from getting hurt. I do like to watch this happen, though. Once my cats have been trampled by the dog, and are upright again, they usually have one ear cocked back and are frowning a little. Then they go to the window to watch him watering the tree outside, and they think bad thoughts about him. Probably why they wait at the door to swat him on the rump when he comes in. He ignores them. Once he even ran over one of them again, on his way in. She spent the rest of the night on top of the television, plotting his demise.

So...back to horses.....
I have had my experiences with horses and know that you have to be mindful. They can be dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. As a kid i was bitten in the neck and between the shoulder blades; i was kicked several times, dragged, bucked off countless other times, trampled, and even had a close call with one falling on me. A bee stung her and she reared up and lost her balance, and then stumbled. I had to kick away, tuck and roll, (just like a cat) and then bear crawl so i wouldn't get squished. Sometimes it's helpful to imitate cats and bears.

My life in the country as a child consisted of things like motorcycles, horses, chickens, ducks, cats, dogs, donkeys, coyotes, snakes....i was one with nature, and sometimes that wasn't such good thing, but i was a kid, so i wasn't aware of it being unusual. That was my reality.

My favorite horse was "Chico" a brown and white pinto gelding. (I also had a Pinto station wagon, but the two were not related). I always told people that Chico was very polite; when we'd come to a fence, he'd stop and let me go over first.

He did like to buck a lot. He was just ornery. Like me. Often i would wind up on his neck, flailing at his ears while he tried to dethrone me. My mother, (or "Maternal Parental Unit" as i call her now--not because she was ever maternal, but because it sounds distant--which is where i like to keep her) she used to tell people that she'd look out the window into the pasture and see me riding Chico like a banshee, standing up on the saddle. Or I'd be doing that trick riding stuff: running alongside, picking up speed, and then flipping myself up into the saddle. I was usually dressed like an Indian. She was surprised i didn't go shirtless and wear a loincloth.

My Dad made the newspapers as a young man, by being the first person in a hundred years to be run over by a stagecoach... he and his brothers were in the music business, and they built this stagecoach with their names painted on the side, and they went cross-country pulled by two big horses, to sell their 45 records...one time, my dad was holding the bridle of one of the horses and he got spooked, (not my dad, the horse--i think his name was Old Baldy...not my dad, the horse) and he wound up being run over by the whole thing. It made the newspaper, a picture of him in the hospital bed with a broken bone in his neck. I wish i had a copy of that. The headline was "Man gets run over by a stagecoach for the first time in 100 years."

He was probably lucky it wasn't Mooses. Moose. Meese. A Moose.

The Truth About Cats & Dogs. And Horses. And Mooses.

Humans, Cats & Crackers

If you have a hungry cat and a hungry human,

and a cracker falls in front of each of them,

the cat wants to know if it tastes good,

the human wants to know where it came from.

So there it is.

Humans, Cats & Crackers

Fur-Family Christmas

The Cast of characters:

Giz
(AKA Gizmo, Gizzard the Lizard, Gizzy-Giz, and of course, his Russian name, Gizimov Runninov). Adopted from shelter in 1998. Half spaniel, half chihuahua, and all the way sweet and nerdy. If he was a human he'd be in therapy and wear pocket protectors.He eats anything i give him and steals the rest.

Nanny
(AKA the Nanster, Snooder, Smacker, Nanner-Bananner). Poodle adopted from the shelter. Stone deaf, incontinent, toothless. Eats only soft food, wears a diaper and makes "hoo hoo" noises.

Stormy
(AKA the Stormster, the Storminator, Stormy-storm). Matriarch of the LS branch of my extended family. Rescued from a thunderstorm on the Gulf Coast outside a casino, and only later in life learning to share her Mommy with other fur-children and humans. Stormy is a vegetarian and prefers fresh water from the tap.

Poe
(AKA Poe Ditty Super Kitty, Poe-Poe Headed Cat-Cat) Purchased by us at a flea market (they were fresh out of fleas) and embraced by stormy only after much resistance a little over a year ago. Poe was once the cute kitty, and now has grown and is more intense, allowing Stormy to return to her kitten-behavior. Poe has fallen in love with her human, LS, since LS and I obtained separate living quarters. Poe gazes at her lovingly, hugs her head. She is carnivorous.

Poe and Stormy take shifts getting attention from Mommy. Stormy gets her during the day, and Poe gets her at night. Any deviation from this daytime ownership incites a barrage of hissing and chasing behavior on Stormy's part.

ENTER stage left, Shoes. (AKA: Shoes, Shooooooooees).
The new kitten in the extended family.

It is Christmas day at her Godmommy's house. Shoes has lost patience with the hissing occupants of this condo, and is now alternately chasing them, running up and tagging them and running away. Intermittently, she becomes an Olympic hockey player with a wad of paper, and periodically visits my thick house socks to wrestle with my feet, run up the length of my body and grab my head. She is a space invader of the finest breed, and Stormy and Poe do not appreciate it one little bit.

I even brought Giz over too, and he is a little put off. It's not his house, and when I gave him his bowl of food, he set about guarding it like the family jewels--standing over it, a canine vulture, staring at it like it might move. He looks a little mental when he does that. Shoes also makes pit-stops at his bowl to sniff his kibble and thrust her furry arms into it and run away. He then goes over and counts his kibbles to make sure she has not taken one of them.

The two of them have bonded ever since I left them alone together for 24 hours. When I returned to my apartment, Shoes was brashly leaping from the bed, landing on top of Giz, and riding him, while she bit the fleshy folds of his neck. He would shake her off, and she would wrap her little kitty arms around his neck, bat at his face and ears, and try to chew on his feet. He has been admirably tolerant to this behavior, and even seems to be enjoying it.

Nanny is doing the usual: waddling around in her diaper, smacking her toothless mouth, making hoo-hoo noises, or sleeping in a wad of blankets near the fainting couch.

So, here, on this, her second visit to Godmommy's house to mix and mingle with her pseudo-siblings, she is still not met with a welcome mat. But this visit has none of the cowering under the futon. This visit seems to be without restraint. She continues to chase the two older cats, moving blithely into their space, ignoring the parameters. There is a repetitive hissing followed by the pitter-pat of a running cat. She is actually chasing them, and they are so mad.

Fur-Family Christmas

Climbed Like a Cat

For some time now, I have suffered the quick intake of breath on the heels of sharp pain in my legs right above the knee.

I attribute it to the fact that my new kitten, Shoes, keeps climbing me. It would explain the lacerations as well. Thank God she is now old enough to get declawed, as my airbed is also deflating several times a day, now, too.

Last Saturday, I was in a local pub with LS, and a really attractive blond woman climbed me like a cat. She nuzzled me, purred in my ear and couldn't stay off me.

Now, between being climbed BY a cat, and being climbed LIKE a cat, I think I much prefer the latter.

Climbed Like a Cat

SHOES

A short time back, I offered a blog entry on what could only have been a hallucination. The little black kitty I saw by the side of a dark road. Perhaps it was a waking dream…a precognitive waking dream, at that. This month, I adopted a tiny black kitten from the Humane Society. I was going to get another kitten, but she was too sick to adopt out and all her siblings had already died. On whim, I stopped in days later to check on her and decided I would check and see if there might be another kitten I liked that was healthier. I went in the cat room and immediately saw the minute black furball in the first cage. I went over and spoke to her and she pressed herself to the bars, purring, mewing softly, flipping over on her back and writhing in an impressive display.

I opened the cage and she jumped out onto my shoulder and began snuggling up under my hair and nuzzling my neck. It was not likely at this point, that I would leave without her. And I didn't. I loaded her in the van passenger floorboard next to the heating vent, sequestered in a cardboard box with holes punched in the sides. She didn't like the box much and made continuous efforts to free herself from the hole between the top flaps. My journey home was not conducive to dealing with a frightened cat, since the roads in my area are hilly and curvy and safe drivers never take their eyes from the blacktop. That's why I put her in the box. But she would have none of it, finally struggled free and scampered up to my shoulder, leaving the first of what would be many claw marks and punctures in my skin. But she rode there happily, forgoing the natural inclination to wrap herself around my face like that creature on Alien.

She looked out the window, watched the road, purred in my ear and waited for me to pull into my parking space at home. LS was asleep in my bed when I got home (she has, of late managed to get her insomniac self on the opposite schedule from me) I placed the kitten on her chest and she awoke to the joy only a new kitten can bring--she being a cat-lover herself. Soon, we were discussing names for the new family member. She suggested "Frodo" although I'm not sure she was being anything but a smart ass. The kitten had little white markings on each of her feet, but I refused to name her "Socks" or "Boots." So when she crawled into my shoes and looked up at me mewing, she named herself. Shoes.

SHOES