Saturday Thoughts, Ramblings and Rants

It isn't easy living with a multitude of cats and dogs and retaining what few threads of sanity I have left. It is even harder maintaining contact with friends, especially if they happen to be phobic about cats or dogs, allergic to pet dander, or too fond of the pristine condition of their un-cat and dog - furred clothing.

To be painfully honest, if you visit here, you WILL leave with fur somewhere on you. It doesn't matter if I've just spent hours cleaning and vacuuming and mopping madly, the fur is just there. Perhaps if we shaved all the animals we could de-fur the place but then we'd end up laughing at their naked appearance and the cats would end up depositing signs of their disfavor on our bed or on our heads in the middle of the night. Cats have a highly developed sense of their own leonine dignity and, like the Devil, do not appreciate being mocked.

Trust me on that one. Should I neglect to change all of the litter boxes several of the cats will find a way to force me to correct the situation immediately. Most of the cats (and the large, full male mixed chow-shepherd) will use the litter boxes in whatever condition they find them. Several, however, won't.

Cass-Purr the Second is one of the cats in the "I refuse to use an unscooped, unchanged litter box in horrid, stinky condition" group. God help me, he sleeps with us. The dialog goes something like this:

"Daddy can't change your boxes tonight, Cassie O Poo Poo Sweetie Lambykins, he forgot to go to the store and buy litter. But he'll get it tomorrow and then we'll change them."

Or like this: "Cass, I'm tired and feel like death warmed over and dead on my feet. I promise to change the boxes in the morning after I've made coffee and fed you."

Or thusly: "Cat, for heaven's sake, NOT NOW. Tomorrow. Manana. Now be a good furball and let me go to sleep."

Ah sweet bliss as my head hits the pillow. Whoopsie, not the pillow, I laid on top of Sissypuss, a pure white elder cat of 15 years of age. She moves from under my head and I try again. Drats, this time I laid on top of Hairy Katz. He doesn't move. Hairy works under the premise of "I was here first, go find your own pillow - or bed - chair - table - dinner ...

I remove Hairy and he goes to sleep on top of the Husband Person's head. Thankfully Carl the Husband Person sleeps like a rock, though not being a geologist, I haven't a clue how rocks sleep. I wonder if they toss and turn in their beds because there are rocks in their beds. It merits consideration. *Adds to list of things to consider*

Where was I? Oh yes, Cass-Purr the Second and the litter box. He'll usually let me get to sleep and then I'll wake, feeling something warm and wet pouring down my hip to pool at the small of my back or the sudden wetting of my head. If Daddyums was the one receiving Catly displeasure, he may or may not wake, so Daddy isn't usually the target. If he was, he wouldn't even wake up, which is probably why he isn't normally the target.

I usually scream, flinging off the sheets, blankets, cats, the Husband Person, books and whatever detritus happens to be on the bed. The cats scatter - most of them - and the Husband wakes. Thank heaven he is a calm, laid back man who rarely looses his temper. (Which is probably why we are still married after 40 plus years.)

He doesn't have to ask me what has happened. We're both too well trained by now to need to indulge in excessive vocalization. Carl will sigh and go to the kitchen, returning with an empty garbage bag, the new box of kitty litter and the baking soda. While he cleans the box, I strip the bed, get new sheets and blankets, remake the bed, get a shower, put the used sheets and my nightgown or pj's on to soak and finally return to the bed.

The entire time, Cass-Purr will be sitting on the dresser watching his humans go about their duties. The bedding changed, the female human bathed and (again) dressed in appropriate snoozing attire, I'll turn out the lights and lay down. Or I'll turn out the lights and lay down on Hairy or Sissypuss or Linux, Linus, Silverkins, Rascal, Godzilla, Mothra or any one of the other cats who decide to join us in restful slumber.

Whilst typing this, two gentlemen of a visiting church came by. They knocked on the door before I could get to it and our three, large, highly vocal, dangerous looking dogs hit the door. I could swear I heard one of them scream "Holy J* save us!" as they ran to the safety of their car.

I think Toby, the chow mix, snickered. The wretch. So I slithered through the kitchen door, leaving the dogs snarling, barking and slathering at the front door, through the kitchen, telling the suddenly hopeful cats that no, I was not feeding them then, just passing through, into the garage where I had to tell the Eastern Cat House cats that no, I was not there for their daily brushing and play time, then out the garage door without letting Akira the First slither outside with me.

Phew. Exhausting. Had a nice chat, came back inside to find carnage and notice that another good half inch of the front door had been eaten or clawed off, strange things written to this blog, (I think the cats were trying to contact the Mother Ship), caret browsing turned on and my coffee mug (on the floor to protect the keyboard) turned over and the puddle of coffee tracked through by a number of paws, large and small.

Sigh. So I got out the mop, did the floor, (again) fixed the blog, turned caret browsing off, closed the 5,347 Internet sites the cats had opened, and currently am attempting to find my train of thought which appears to have left the station. Hate when it does that, but I'm old, so I'm entitled.

Now the Husband Person, aka He Who Is To Be Fed, Loved, Cherished, Entertained and Adored is here and has made mention of being not ill-disposed to accepting a plate of whatever it is that I'm giving him for lunch. If I should sit here longer than the next 5 minutes, he'll go to stage two, which is "If you want me to finish that wall (the one the tornado took out), you might want to feed me."

The husband person is absolutely unable to feed himself. More on that later, though.

Here's what he's getting. It's called Feijoda, or black beans in a tangy sauce. I'll post the recipe as soon as I figure out why my trusty copy/paste shortcuts aren't working in this.

Oh Lord. He's gone to stage 3. "If you don't feel like cooking, I could go get something from the curb store." A diabetic, the Husband Person forgets that eating an entire pint of chocolate ice cream is a BAD THING and "going to the curb store for something to eat" always means he'll come home with chocolate ice cream, which he will commence to eat until the container is empty and his blood glucose is up to 300 and he's taking a high blood sugar nap.

I'm out of here for a bit. Seriously though, spay and neuter your pets.