You know that your cats are in charge when they kick over their water dish - on purpose, of course - then proceed to sit by the spilled water and stare at you, as if to say: "So, what are you waiting for? Get over here and fill up the dish. What, you think we're gonna drink FLOOR WATER? Human, please."
In other news: I bought my math book today. $130.00 plus tax. For that much money, this sucker better have a built-in calculator that speaks the answers aloud.
I have a stalker - fortunately, she's of the four-legged, furry variety, so there's no need to kick her little butt or call the cops or anything.
Basically, people abandon animals near our home, and we take them in. This is how we got her mother, who very recently had a litter. This little fur ball, who is not yet named, is the runt of her litter. She's a tiny, mostly-black ball of fur who isn't, sadly, getting enough milk from her mama.
Fortunately, God saw fit to inspire us to invent powdered replacement milk for kittens, so the little goober's getting plenty of food.
From me. With a medicine dropper, because she was (until recently) too small to figure out even the kitten bottle deal. Now, though, she's just old enough to lap up the milk.
So, because I've been feeding her, she recently decided, for some reason, that I'm her mother. Even though her real mama is RIGHT THERE ON THE FLOOR, feeding her litter mates, I'M the one who has to feed her, and clean her up, and tell her what a GOOOOOD kitty she is.
Every time I come into the room, she leaps up from wherever she's hiding and makes a beeline for my shoe. She's still tiny enough to fit in my girly little palm, but there she is, clinging to my size-8.5-men's Skechers, shrieking her tiny lungs out.
I really, really don't need another kitty. I already have four feline overlords, and they unanimously voted against me being enslaved by yet another kitty.
However, it doesn't appear that I'm going to get much of a choice.
So we have this kitten, Sonny Boy, who's bright orange and white.
Now, I've learned one or two things about cats over the last twenty-seven years, having spent the overwhelming majority of my life with at least a couple of them around.
Orange cats have The Asshole Gene. This is a scientific fact, proven by any orange cat who's ever existed. Even subdued-orange kitties, who look more like wheat than traffic cones, have this...errant gene. Their condition causes them to constantly be up to something, and it's rarely good.
Cats with The Asshole Gene tend to purr loudly, especially when caught doing something that they shouldn't be doing - like attacking your eyelashes while you're in REM sleep. They also tend to be males, for some reason. We did, once, own a female fur ball named Spidey who was, actually, orange. Fluorescent orange. With occasional white accents. She was a semi-asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. She liked to lock her front legs around your ankle when you walked through the house. And she purred while she did it - preemptive purring to stave off the inevitable scolding.
Sonny Boy is definitely in possession of The Asshole Gene. The little twit is not quite three months old, but already knows good and well what is and is not allowed around here. However, because he possesses this defective gene, he just doesn't care. He does whatever comes to his tiny, pea-sized mind, and usually with a flagrant air of superiority. "So what?" his body language seems to say. "What if I did do it? Whatcha gonna do? Take away my crappy dry food? Ooooh, I'm so scared."
The family and I aren't overly strict. We don't give a crap if the cats sit on the couch, or take a chair. They can even stretch out on the back of the recliner if they so choose. We don't care if they sleep in bed with us (we prefer that, actually), hop up in the window to catch some sunbeams, or claim an empty Dr Pepper box as their own personal hidey hole. Whatever makes them happy.
However, the counter and table are not cat-approved zones. The fur balls might THINK that they're entitled to our people food, but they aren't. We have spray bottles full of tap water for "reminding" the fur balls that they can't hang out on these surfaces. The older cats figured this out rather quickly. Sonny Boy and his friends, though? Not so much. Especially Sonny Boy, who goes out of his way to sneak onto these surfaces when he thinks we aren't watching. The twit.
Yesterday, Mom had a tray of tater tots in the oven. She let them cool off in there, then removed them. (We like ours at room temperature, for some reason.) She put the pan on the counter, then turned her back on it like the silly person that she can be sometimes.
She and I were in the living room, yakking, when we heard a horrific crash. Followed, immediately, by many little thumps of tater tots hitting the floor. Tiny little tater corpses, hitting the linoleum in darned-near-perfect synchronization with each other. It's a weird sound. Trust me.
Sonny Boy was perched on the counter's edge, his head hanging down and his tail twitching excitedly, staring at the mess he'd made. The tots were all over the floor - like a potato frag grenade went off in my kitchen.
While we stood there, just staring at this unholy, salted mess, Sonny Boy sloooooowly lifted his head and stared at Mom. His tail stopped flicking as soon as he realized that she was, really, yes, looking at him.
They stood there, nearly eye to eye, just watching each other for a very long moment.
I stood nearby, staring at the staring contest and wondering who would blink first. I fully expected Sonny to give Mom his, "What? I didn't do it. This is obviously the dog's doing" look and amble away.
Instead, Mom started snickering. The kitten blinked a couple of times, tilted his head to one side in confusion, then realized that he was Getting Away With This. You could see the exclamation point light up over his head as he realized that he just might even get to consume his treasured tots. Obviously, as far as this kitten is concerned, this turn of events proves that Santa Claws really does exist, and really does love him.
That's when the dogs bounded into the kitchen and began scarfing down the food. Sonny Boy hopped down and nosed his way into the pack. He managed to fish out one tot with his paw and drag it out of the circle. He dragged his prize underneath the table and wolfed it down, occasionally growling to make sure we humans understood that he was not willing to share.
"What an asshole," Mom snickered.
This occurred the day after Sonny Boy bravely hopped onto the counter right behind Mom, who was frying bacon at the time, and snagged an entire piece from the plate. She didn't even notice until she went to retrieve the plate and saw that there were not, in fact, three pieces of bacon on it any more.
Eventually, the cat will learn to either a) not get caught, or b) make sure that we're in good moods when he is caught, so that we're too busy snickering to get the spray bottle.
Little twit.
Even though cats are known for being standoffish, aloof and independent...and even though they often seem to appreciate us only when our opposable thumbs open the cat-food cans...my fur balls do care.
Migraine time: one or more of the four-footed beasts curls up near me and purrs. Today, Spot - the itty-bitty kitty of the house - tucked herself into my arms and just curled up there, purring, while I waited for the meds to kick in.
On the other hand: When I'm feeling well, and just lying on the couch because it's a comfy place to hang out, one of the little goobers will stand on my chest and take a swipe at my eye. Apparently, they think that my eyelashes are toys, and my blinking is an invitation to play.
So we got a washing machine to replace the one that's going to cost us more to fix than the old piece of junk is worth. One of my brothers hooked up the new-to-us machine (it's a refurbished Kenmore with a thirty-day guarantee - can't beat that) and started doing laundry.
The cats, sensing something new, showed up to investigate. They didn't get too close to the washer because it was running at the time and, therefore, making noises. These cats don't like noisy things. They fearfully stare at my laser printer every time I print a document. They glare at us whenever we turn up the music and rock out. And they despise power tools.
So, what do the kitties do to express their unhappiness? To tell us that, after more than a week of silence from the laundry area, they're extremely upset with the change?
They piss in the dryer.
Sigh.
I am so ticked off at every cat in this house right now.
Our washing machine broke last week. This is not the cats' fault, but it does mean that we haven't been able to wash our clothes lately. Also: I had not done laundry in the few days before our machine died on us.
I do not have that many pairs of pants. This morning, all but one pair was dirty. The one remaining pair? Blue jeans, which were in my basket of clean laundry.
This morning, I got dressed as usual and got into the car to go to school. I left early today because I wanted to go ahead and vote. My thinking was that I could vote, go to classes, come home, and enjoy a relaxing weekend.
Hah.
I was halfway down my private road when I smelled something very, very bad. Like...cat pee. Odd, because the cats could not get into the car; the windows are rolled up whenever I'm not driving, and none of them have ridden in my car.
Sniffing around for a second revealed the source of this nauseating, permeating stench: me.
That's right, folks: one cat, or perhaps multiple cats, took a big, steaming piss in my laundry basket, all over my one and only clean pair of pants.
So I backed up to the house, came inside, and retrieved a pair of shorts. A quick sniff test proved that they had not fallen victim to the cats.
Mom: What are you doing?
Me: The cats peed in my laundry basket.
Mom: You don't have another clean pair of jeans?
Me: Of course not.
Mom: It's kind of cold outside.
Me: Yeah. Tell me about it.
Mom: You'll freeze your bony butt off if you don't wear long pants.
Me: I know, but I can't miss school.
Two of the cats sat in a chair at the kitchen table, staring at me.
Me: WHAT?
Cats: Meeeow!
Me: Oh, hell, no. I'm not giving you SQUAT until you tell me who pissed all over my pants.
Cats: [Pointed look at rabbit]
Me: Oh, yeah, right. The rabbit got out of her cage, hopped up onto the table, into my basket, and peed everywhere.
Cats: Meeeow.
Me: Lies!
So my Mom, being a nice person, went into her bedroom and grabbed a pair of Dad's Levi's for me. Yes, we wear the same size. And I've been trying to steal this pair anyway, because they're the 501s with the button fly.
This filled me with all kinds of happy, so I went into the bathroom to change. After I came out and threw my pee-soaked jeans into the laundry basket, I did another sniff.
Me: Oh, man. Are you kidding me?
Mom: What?
Me: They got my SHIRT, too.
That's right. The evil, conniving little twits managed to piss on my shirt, too.
I did, fortunately, have a clean, non-kitty-soaked t-shirt. Good for me.
I did not, however, have a clean bra. The cat piss had permeated the shirt and soaked into the one that I was wearing.
That's when I issued my latest edict: No kitty treats from me until the guilty cat confesses. Or another cat rats that one out. I don't care which.
However: when I came home, Bucky (my big, tuxedo attention hog) climbed up on my lap and started purring. Mostly because I was eating dinner at the time. So I relented and let him lick the bowl when I finished, and he refused to point out the guilty cat.
Too bad I'm not so quick to forgive humans, right?
These are supposed to be MY egg rolls, but all of you cat lovers know how THAT goes.
Say hi to Scrappy. Also known as Scrapola or Get Your Fat Head Out of My Food.
Her likes include: Chinese food, wet cat food, potato chips, chili and that evil kitty toy that's basically a big plastic ring with a ball trapped inside.
Her dislikes include: stupid humans who don't share their food, the vacuum cleaner, her brother and sisters.
I've been boycotting China for the last few weeks. Their toxic junk is poisoning pets and children, putting drivers in danger and giving sandal-wearing Americans very nasty rashes, or burns, or something. Saving a few cents is not nearly as important as helping to send the message that We Are Not Amused.
Sometimes, it's very difficult to avoid Chinese-made junk. I live in the middle of nowhere. Right now, Wal-Mart is quite literally the only place in town to find certain things. You can't find stuff like plastic racks for your refrigerator - the ones that hold your canned sodas, I mean - anywhere but Wally World. That's just one of many examples.
And Wally World, as we all know, has dumped all pretense of buying American-made goods. When Sam Walton was alive (back when I was a wee child in the 80s), you had a very hard time finding anything that wasn't made here in the States. But now...well...they might as well re-name the stores "China Mart" and be done with it.
Yesterday, I needed a couple of pet-food dishes. Wal-Mart had a buttload of them, but they were all made in China. With the recent lead-paint fiasco, I'm not about to buy any painted product for any member of my family - especially the kitties. They're the closest that I ever intend to come to having children, so they're very special to me.
On the way home, I stopped at the dollar store to pick up a couple of things. I passed by the pet section and found a couple of really neat little dishes. They're plain looking, but they're made of thick, sturdy plastic. The fur babies aren't going to shred, crush or otherwise destroy these dishes any time soon.
They were only two and a half bucks each, so I picked up the light-blue one and flipped it over. I really expected to see a "Made in China" sticker.
But no! These affordable, sturdy pet dishes were not made in China.
They were made right here in the United States!
So I did, of course, buy both of them with a huge grin on my face. Not only am I denying China my support...I'm also giving my own country a vote of confidence.
I love it when the little things in life go so right.
