The Pussy and the Peeper

Shortly after the incident with Oz this June, I fell into a bit of a funk. I didn't want to do anything but stay home and wallow in misery. One day, Mother wanted me to go to the store with her. I opted out, but she wasn't going to take no for an answer, because nothing conquers depression better than a trip to your local Walmart. So, I schlepped on some clothes, and left the house.

On the way home, we drove by house with a sign out front that simply said "Free Kittens". Mother loves cats. In fact, we have an agreement that if she were to ever win the lottery, she would have her own ranch for unwanted cats. My end of the agreement would be that I would quit my job, go to veterinarian school, and open up a vet's office on the property. Most days, I generally like animals more than people. This is an idea I could get behind.

Mother's eyes lit up at the sight of the sign, and I asked her if she wanted to go see the kittens. She readily agreed, made a U-turn, and within five minutes, we were knee deep in tiny fur-babies.

Somehow, that day, I ended up taking one home. I hadn't planned on getting another one, even after Shasta died (I suspect I may have an allergy to cats). But here I was, cradling a little gray and white. Mother, tickled pink, wanted to bask her newest grandkitteh in gifts, so we stopped by PetCo.

Baby animals are cute, and people generally like to pet them. This includes PetCo employees. One such employee, commandeered the kitten as she directed us to the kitten food isle. I will be honest. Despite my training in the medical field, and despite the countless wieners and vajayjay I have seen, I can't tell the gender in baby cats. At least in dogs, you can tell just by where it is located. In cats, their junk is located in the same spot. To make it worse, it's covered in fuzz. So, I asked the employee if she could tell us what gender my newest house guest was. With much fanfare, she flipped the kitten over on it's back, spread the legs open, and announced it was a girl.

"And that is her VAGINA" she finished with flourish.

On the way home, the cat was given the name Sophie. A nice, cute, girly name. Little pink collar, little bowl with flowers. Everyone liked Princess Sophie. Including George.

Life went on at Case de Blather without incident. Mother would come and tend to my own little petting zoo on those nights I worked. The other day, she mentioned that she thought Sophie had strange anatomy.

"Are you sure Sophie is a girl?" she asked. I reminded her that the PetCo worker assured us Sophie was a female as evidenced by the presence of the VAGINA. Because she worked at a pet store, she knew what she was talking about. Right?

Sophie purrs for Mother all the time. Me, not so much. Her interaction with me is usually fraught with teeth and claws. Today, I caught her in a rather pleasant mood and she let me scratch her belly, purring the whole time. So, there we were, enjoying some nice, quiet parent-kitteh time when it happened. A little pink appendage, resembling a Christmas light bulb, popped out from her vagina. Now, I'm not a veterinarian (yet). but with my vast experience, I deduced that it wasn't normal for any female (human or animal) to have anything pop out of their vagina unless something went in there in the first place.

Princess Sophie was, indeed, a boy. Now what?

Mother thinks I should let the name stand and not tell anyone, like the gender is a dirty little secret. I, however, am having a hard time bringing myself to call the cat by a name that is ill-fitting. So, I've been trying to think of what to do. There really isn't a male version of the name Sophie. I took a poll, and got many different suggestions:

Pat

Chris

Phillip

RuPaul

Sophocles

Since I have started referring to, eh, Sophie as a "he", he has been much more friendly to me. Perhaps that is why the hostility. I guess I would be pretty annoyed if people kept thinking I was a dude, although I can think of at least two obvious signs I'm a female.

So, what to do about the name??

A Girl's Got Needs!!

Lucy has been acting funny lately. She chatters in her kennel. And by chattering, I mean it's not a bark, and not a whine either.

It finally occurred to me that she could be in heat.

This might explain why she pounces on Sam each morning when I let them out. Sam, who has been fixed since he was a little boy, clearly has no idea what to do with the ladies. Bewildered, he just looks at her, then me, then her, almost as if pleading for me to save him from the wanton trollop.

Then, she routinely flops over onto her back with her legs in the air. May as well attach a sign to her ass that says, "Free! Help yourself!!" And she has that look.

You know that look. You see that look in the eyes of countless females at the Power and Light District.

I have since scheduled an appointment to get her girly parts fixed.

Meanwhile, I'm going to have a talk with her. Just because she's not getting her needs met, doesn't mean she needs to act so desperate. She can take a page from my book and GET SOME SELF CONTROL.Damn horndog.

New Roomie!

I'm still breathing. I haven't fallen off the planet. Just so you know and in case you were wondering.

Since the exodus of Brother and Hank, Sam has been rather bored. I always knew I was going to get a second dog, but I waited for the situation to fall in my lap. I looked on Petfinder and nothing seemed to compel me. A coworker was going to give me her boxer, but her sons found out and quickly organized a protest, which was successful. I figured that would happen...there's something about boys and their dogs.

So, it was the circular at work that an ad caught my eye. Free puppies. Mom was a golden retriever. Dad was, who knows. I sent an email to the owner, and a week later, she got back to me. One five month old puppy left.

The next day, I met the owner halfway (she came from the west). In her truck, there was a shivering black puppy. Her first car ride ever, she was scared shitless. Having brought Sam, we introduced the two, and there was no bloodshed. So, I took her home.

Mom named her Lucy.

Because she was from a farm, and had basically been an outdoor dog since birth, she was covered in ticks, smelled like a cow turd, and extremely shy to people. I immediately bathed her, pulled most of the seed ticks off, and she spent the night in a new kennel.

I didn't bother her for the first couple days. She mostly followed Sam around, but ran away from me. With time, she figured out what her name was. Understood that I was friendly. The housebreaking and the crate training are coming along slowly. One night, she managed to take a big crap in her kennel and roll around in it. The smell permeated the house when I got home from work. That morning, I sprayed her off with the garden hose and used a whole can of Febreeze on the house.

Lucy apparently doesn't like my decorating, because she moves things around the house. I'll find things from the living room moved to the bathroom. Stuff from my bedroom moved to my office. Food and water bowl moved to the bathroom. She particularly loves to scatter my dirty laundry all over the house.

She also likes to sneak on the couch and make herself at home when I'm not looking..

I took her to the vet yesterday, and she weighs 2lbs less than Sam. I told the vet that I didn't know what the breed of the father was. Judging by some of her characteristics (like dual dewclaws in the back), the vet figured her dad to be a Newfoundland. As in LARGE-ASSED DOG!!

Great.

After a week of having her, she has warmed up to me. She doesn't run from me, unless she has something in her mouth that she knows she shouldn't have. Sam is now playing with her. She's a sweet girl, and will fit into the family just fine.

My Fuzzy Little Can of Pop

When I was 18 years old, I became engaged to a boy named Nick. He popped the question over pancakes at some restaurant, Christmas Eve morning. The story reeks of romance, I know.

My father had just passed away just over two weeks prior to this, and Nick had stepped up to a situation that, quite frankly, was an absolute cluster fuck. Even some of the strongest men would find themselves shying away from. It was because of this, I felt obligated to say yes. Oh sure, I loved him, but in that ridiculous teenage love that is infallible and will conquer any obstacles, save for the actual marriage itself when years down the road you are in your mid-20's, saddled with children you can't afford, a marriage you resent because you know you could have been more, and struggling to make ends meet on two or more minimum wage jobs.

At 18, in the sudden ancient wisdom that had just come crashing down on my shoulders just two weeks before, I knew this. And yet, I still said yes out of obligation, and fear of hurting Nick's feelings. After all that he had done for me, what business did I have to refuse?

Most girls dream of their wedding, and then that golden opportunity presents itself, they throw themselves into the planning of the event. It's supposed to be an exciting and fun time. However, two months into the engagement, I may have looked through one bridal magazine, may have tried on two dresses, and never even considered setting a date. Nick was deliriously excited to be married.

I, however, was not. Truth be told, I wasn't excited about much at the time. I was still living in a fog of masked grief and shock. My cousin, who is loud, opinionated, boorish, and unrefined, is also very observant. After watching me for weeks move about life in a subtle depression, approached me one day. In her usual, blunt manner, told me that she knew my heart wasn't into getting married. I shrugged off her concerns, not wanting to discuss it. She became annoyed.

"If I got you a cat, you'd probably love that cat more than you love Nick!!"

A week later, she showed up at my job with a box, and inside was a little gray and white furball. As much as I liked cats (my family had them growing up), and as cute as the little kitten was, I protested. Having a pet of my own came with responsibility that I wasn't ready to assume, and didn't want to. I had enough on my plate without trying to worry about caring for something that actually depended on me.

Despite my pleas, my cousin left the kitten with me and I took her back to my apartment. A day later, I called her Shasta. To this day, I don't know why.
So Shasta lived with me, and a few months later, I finally found the courage I needed to break things off with Nick. Shasta had nothing to do with my decision, but when I made the break, it was safe to say I liked the cat better. Nick, sensing a change in the tide, became more clingy and needy and desperate. The breakup was everything ugly that I feared it would be. Nick was devastated, and in my crippled emotional state, I was indifferent.
The reason I share this with you, is to try to explain why Shasta's death has affected me more than a pet's death might for most without coming off like some Crazy Cat Lady. You see, she was not only my cat, she represented a lot of things. She was the first thing I actually cared about in the aftermath of my father's death. In the past 14 years, she has been the one constant in my ever-evolving life. She was insistent on being held right after a shower because I didn't smell like anyone. Her little tail quivered when she was happy to see me. She could hold a grudge. She was quiet. She was sweet-tempered. Some of her biggest fans were self-proclaimed cat-haters. One of which being Mr. Recommendation the night she jumped on his lap while he was sitting on the toilet.When Mom lived with me a few years back, they bonded in a way that she never bonded with me. (I actually think she barely tolerated me most days.) It was Mom who started calling her Lil Shasta Roo...which evolved into Lil Roo. She never took up a lot of space, yet the house now feels empty without her. I know she's better off. I opted to have her cremated so I can plant her ashes with a new rose bush come this spring.

I know animals lack the ability for rational thought, but I do wonder if she thought I was a good owner. I'd like to hope so. I owed that much for helping me get through the rough spots in my life, and saving me from a doomed marriage.

So, here's to my Lil Roo and the 14 years she was my unjudging companion. May she be fat and happy on Rainbow Bridge.

Tuesday Blather

I went to the blogger meet up on Tuesday. I almost didn't make it because I overslept by about 4 hours. This month, the meet up was at the 75th Street Brewery. I'd never been there, so a new an exciting experience for me!

A lot of the familiar faces were there, then some folks I hadn't met. Also a couple of Twitter-ers that I really had no clue about. Twittering has become this big, huge thing. I don't Twitter that often, unless I'm at work and it's a slow night. Sorry, Twitter-peeps, if I didn't know who you were.

I came home and for whatever reason, I decided to check on Little Roo. She didn't seem quite herself before I left. I found her in the closet, covered in her own drool. Her eyes were not very bright, and when she walked, it was as though she were a drunkard. Alarmed, I called Mom.

Deciding to take her to the emergency vet's office, I loaded her in the carrier and Mom and I went up north to the ER vet there. I don't know of any late night vet service in my neighborhood, and I had taken pets to this place in the past. I like the vet there, it's what I know.

I'd be lying if I said that Mom and I weren't sniffling the entire drive there. I was prepared for the worst.

We get there, and a lady with a huge ladle on a stick is trying to get a urine sample from her greyhound. A man with a Russian accent is in the waiting area to hear word on his Schnauzer. The vet takes Roo and disappears into the back. Mom and I sit on one of the benches in the waiting area. The owner of the greyhound enters with her urine specimen. Everyone in the waiting area is red-eyed.

A tech appears with a box holding the Schnauzer. Apparently, it died. She apologizes and the Russian guy takes the box and disappears into the night. Me, Mom, and Greyhound lady simultaneously start bawling. The Emergency Vet Clinic is a depressing place.

The vet appears and asks me questions about Roo's diabetic regimen. Apparently, her blood sugar was really low, and that is why she was acting funny. He gave her some special canned food to bring her sugar up and told me that she could be not-diabetic anymore and might not need insulin. Whatever the case, he told me to not give her any more until I get her looked at by my regular vet.

In a nutshell, she was going to be okay for the time being. She's 14 years old, so I know that she is in the twilight of her life. However, I'd like to think that she's got a couple of good years left in her.

I'm not ready to say good-bye just yet.