My head hurts...ask me why...

Oh forget it, I'll just tell you.

This morning I was lying in my bed with my laptop resting against my bent knees. My small troublemaking black cat (as opposed to my large troublemaking orange cat) started to slip off the side of the bed and dug her claws into my quilt to gain purchase.

I didn't want her to tear a hole in the quilt, so I reached over to grab her and in the process, my PC tipped toward me and the lid hit me right on the bridge of my nose.

It wouldn't be quite so bad if it actually looked like a black eye. Kiiiinda just looks like dirt. If it's turned colors tomorrow, I'll take a pic for you--might as well laugh, I do. Less cool than the time my sister broke my nose while we were wrestling (at age 20), more cool than the time I actually did step on an upturned rake and smacked myself in the head (at age 25).

I've made it my personal responsibility to keep the McHenry County cool quotient at a median level. I contribute where I can.

I'm on vacation tomorrow...

...which explains why I fairly recently arrived home from work.
It does not explain:
--why it rains every time I decide to get the driveway sealcoated
--why I have to keep adjusting my office chair
--why Amy from Kennesaw doesn't want to go dancing with me
--why there's a missing knot on hw's ceiling
--or why Lincoln needs to sit next to me with one paw resting on my arm. Although it *is* pretty cute. For a psycho cat.

Anyway--before I left work, I made sure to fill up my candy dishes enough so that the slackers would stop by, but left them low enough so that they'd feel the need to get more candy. Then I locked the candy drawer.

Muhuhahahahaha

At least it's not cats...

Everybody's having an affair with some tangible object, right?*.

After all, just check Dave's plastic cup on top of the clothes dryer (or the wicker basket next to my sister's front door).

Mine?

Socks: I have an entire 24 x 12 x 8 drawer full of them--not counting tights and stuff.

Underwear: Let's just say I could not-do laundry for about as long as it takes to make a brand new puppy.**

Umbrellas: I would hazard a guess at 8? Blue/yellow, red flowered, green duckhead, black reservoir-tip, brown, and 3 black London Fog ones. Four of them are in my car.

I would have another one if Dave hadn't yelled "Free Umbrella!" the last time he took my solid red one on the Metra. ***

Cheap Sunglasses: You only need one pair of sunglasses. Your head can really only accomodate one pair at a time. Maybe one black and one brown, but two pairs max.

I've got 5 pairs that live in my car. 3 of which are staring at me from my desk right now.

I have a problem.


So what's yours? I promise I won't tell anyone. It'll just be between you, me, and the 25558621325 people around the world who have internet access...

*Try pronouncing it obzh-ay. Like object d'art. It sounds less like an obsession that way.

*How long does it take to make a brand new puppy? 8 imaginary points to the winner. 1 imaginary consolation point to the first runner up.

**Not in a "Free Zimbabwe!" sort of way, though. More like, maybe, "Free Snowcones!".

Long time readers and those who know him...

....may find this somewhat amusing. Good thing I bought new gloves.

So, as my cats sat on the bathroom sink this morning, waiting for the wildebeast to show up...

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Every morning, while I'm brushing my teeth and such, I fill the other sink in our bathroom with water, so Lincoln and Piper can get a drink. Usually, the littleun will perch on the edge of the sink, take a drink, and leave.

The biggun, needing to be different at all costs, will duck walk his feet down the inside of the sink until his paws are just above the edge of the water. He'll then lean over (like you may have seen giraffes on Nova doing at African watering holes), take a ridiculously extended drink of water, stick his paw in--only to then flick the water all over the mirror--and then leave.

This morning, after taking their drinks, the smittens sat there at the sink for about 25 minutes, looking at the water.

I told Dave--and Lincoln and Piper, although they just nodded their heads and went back to staring at the water--it's not like a wildebeast or a gazelle or a zebra is going to show up in the bathroom. Unless you come across some errant boxelder zebra, there's not going to be any dramatic prey thing you're going to be able relate to your cat friends over the suburban catdrum network.

And this got me thinking...

Wouldn't it be great--and it wouldn't really have to made of actual zebra--if they sold cat food that was labeled as Zebra Grill or Gazelle in Sauce? I'd get so much more enjoyment out of feeding my cats if I could dish out some Wildebeast Stew.

Of course, I'd have to tell the cats it was zebra or gazelle or wildebeast, since they can't read, but I think they'd appreciate it.

Maybe the cat food companies could come up with some artificial zebra flavoring?

You know, so the cats aren't like, "Hey--this tastes suspiciously like Mixed Grill!".
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And the Academy Award for misbehavior at the vet goes to...

....


LINCOLN! (Perhaps not surprisingly, to those who know him)

So, yesterday the cats had to go to the vet to get vaccinated (for DCFS--what else?). Lincoln has a long-standing history of raising absolute hell at the vet's (jungle cat screaming, biting, thrashing about, smacking the bars of his cage so hard it once fell off the table).

Now--this monster cat has been mine since he was a baby. I know what's he's like and it's not nice. I wear my leather gloves when I have to take him in. The old vet, now, had a habit of telling me--as I was standing there with my gloves on and Lincoln was screaming in the box--that he knew how to handle animals and that he could get LPC out of the box.

On three separate visits, the old vet stuck his arm in the cage to pry the cat out and three times he had his arm almost bitten off. Then--now that the meow was (even more) pissed off--I would get to take the top off to drag him out (and then practically lie on him to allow the vet to look at him).

No more! This time I made an appt with a new vet and also got some sedatives from some cat friends of ours. They stated that these pink wonder pills knocked their cats OUT! (Liars. Well, okay, partial liars)

So I give the sedatives to the cats about an hour and a half before the appointment. When it came time to put the biggun and littlun in their cages (which, surprisingly, they like), I didn't see any evidence of sedation. *cue music of doom*

The drive to the vet was 10 minutes of alternating jungle cat yeowling (the big one) and plaintive sad cat yeowling (the little one).

Everyone in the waiting room wondered what was wrong with the cat in the green box! Is he sick? hurt? Nope, just pissed. I told the vet staff, and the vet and tech, the whole story when they came in. I warned them thaty I was not exagerrating, at all, the destructive abilities of my Lincoln!

So--they brought in 2 blankets, a leash, and a muzzle. I put my gloves on, we took the top off the cage, and as Dave would say, it was ON! They managed to get the leash on right before he vaulted the top of the cage off and jumped over the edge of the table, strangling himself and snarling/hissing/biting/screaming the whole time. The muzzle? Please...

Him, being my cat, and me, not being afraid of his theatrics, I wrestled him on to the table and the tech and I held him down while the vet did her thing. Which, by the way, included looking at his teeth with a tongue depressor. Lincoln promptly took a swipe at the vet and sent the stick flying across the exam room! Cat strong like bull.

She said if you could just shake him, then, when he screams, I can see all of his teeth. Oh, that's just great, I'll shake a pissed-off cat.

I am totally not surprised that people get eaten by mountain lions in California, when it takes 2 grown women to hold down an 11 pound cat. (They were going to weigh him, but by the end of everything, they just took my word for it.). Sedatives my *ss.

They gave me new meds for the next time I bring him in. The dosage is 4 times stronger than the ones I gave him. They said to call if it seems like he needs more.

Piper, however, was an entriely different story. I dragged her out of her box and she just looooked at meeee with herr wiiiide ooopen eeeeyesss. Apparently 3 pounds and an attitude problem makes the difference between handling a cat with leather gloves and handing your cat to the vet on a spoon. (The vet said that they've never had an owner that was so good at handling her animals, that they don't usually let the owner hold the animals while they're drawing blood, and that maybe I'd want to work there. Yay me, I'm so awesome....)

Other than the tech wanting to keep Piper because she was so irresistably cute, her visit was uneventful. Oh, except for when she stood up to put her hands on my shoulder and bled down the right side of my shirt on to my shorts, down my leg, into my shoe, and on to the floor.

The vet came back in and it looked like a murder scene!

So, they went back in their cages and the counter person said that everyone in the building had been wondering what in the world had been going on in that room. They meowed all the way to Kmart and then all the way home.

They forgave me as soon as we got home and Piper, by the way, is still nearly unconscious. This morning I had to poke her to make sure she was breathing.

She didn't even blink. Just turrrrrnnnnned her head.

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