So I was skyping with a Frog the other night and she had the temerity to accuse me of not blogging much lately. Stung to the very quick I replied indignantly, but with dignity 'am so!' to which she could only dig up the weak response of 'are not!' The debate raged, rather surprisingly like a ping-pong match, for a few minutes more with neither giving any ground and finally, gracefully, we turned to other important topics like this fantastic mash-up trailer titled Twilight: Modern Warfare 2. However, I am nothing if not generous and so, despite CLEARLY being in the right (am SO!) I have resolved to post today AND tomorrow.
So tbbbpppptht Over-Stretched Frog.
When the household added The Face of Boe (and let me tell you, getting that ginormous jar in the door left us in a bit of a pickle - HA HA HA HA! HA!) I acquired, in addition to a very nice if slightly mysterious Significant Other, three bikes, an entirely superior stereo system, a much larger television than the one which is now consigned to the exercise room, and two cats.
Now, I had pretty much declared that I would Never Have Cats Again. It's not that I dislike the species or anything. I recognize their general fuzziness and independence and I don't have any problem with providing a tickle under the chin now and then and ensuring that there is at least a bowl of water somewhere inconspicuous in the house. It's the poo. Cats produce a simply amazing amount of poo for their size, and they do it all day long and well into the night, and they often ANNOUNCE the fact with a bit of grunting or mewling and certainly with some loud and determined scratching. And you have two choices for dealing with this - either allow the little shit-machines outside which means endangering lizards and snakes and wild birds, all of which I'm quite fond of and none of which I feel should be slaughtered at the paws of some already well-fed house cats. Or, you can have a litter box.
I LOATHE litter boxes. I hate the smell of the clean litter alone - really, truly hate it - but filled with excruciatingly smelly cat poo? URK. BLERG. Awful. NO LITTER BOXES. Ergo - no cats. Besides, I'm a dog person anyway.
Which wasn't an issue until, in a manner yet to be revealed but which is a really good story, The Face of Boe turned up equipped with two cats. Given the choice of no The Face of Boe or two cats I chose the lesser of two evils (okay, wasn't like it was a REAL struggle or anything) and we moved all three in. I thought the litter box was going to be the greatest issue, the real sacrifice on my part. I was wrong. [note: the litter box is vile. It is foul. It is absolutely horrid. I also have nothing to do with it and also have at least mild hopes of finding SOME way of eliminating the smell. Don't shatter my dreams, they're all I have]
It's the crack. The cat crack.
Someone, and I don't know who, had the bright idea of introducing just a teeny, tiny, microscopic portion of cheap wet cat food to their night and morning feeds. I mean, a TINY amount. But to these cats? It is ambrosia - it is beyond ambrosia, it is a drug of the most pernicious and addictive kind, and ever since their first taste, their days and nights are spent either passed out in a post-cat-crack coma, or shaking and jonesing for morecrackmorecrackmeeeeooooorrrrrrcrack. Which is mildly amusing when their evening feed approaches and they spend two and a half hours trying desperately to convince the meat-headed two leg types to stop mouthing meaningless syllables like it's-only-seven-you-stupid-cat and open the flipping tin already. It is less charming when they do the same routine starting two and a half hours early in the morning. Because they are normally fed at five thirty.
They each have their own approach.
The first cat, female and ridiculously furry, is obscenely fat and has an unwholesome fascination with her own bottom as it's the only bit of her she can reach. She is, understandably, not the most energetic animal, and therefore confines her efforts to mewing. She starts with pathetic, wasting way from starvation, but making every brave effort to hold on. It's a tiny mew, a gentle one, and heartbreaking. She rapidly abandons this however and spends the next fifteen minutes continually shouting NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! at the top of her remarkably healthy lungs. In final desperation she will jump heavily up onto the bed and walk her considerable bulk up and down our helpless bodies which, if we had ASKED for a back massage (and weren't sleeping on our backs) might be pleasant, but as she has small feet and enormous weight and an uncanny ability to find the most soft and sensitive bits it's more than a little painful.
The second cat, male, long, lean and rather gorgeous, is considerably more clever and has a wide repertoire of techniques. He has, during the previous day, nosed around the bedroom and everywhere nearby and tested various surfaces for their acoustic properties. He does this by balancing on his rear legs and doing a boxer-training-with-a-bobbly-thing action on whatever the chosen object is. Favorites include empty cardboard boxes, resonant doors, and crackly plastic bags. He has a particular favorite bag in the den that sounds very convincingly like loud thunder. The next trick is to race up and down the hallway on the un-insulated wood floor. Let me tell you - cat like tread MY ARSE. He zips back and forth three or four times to really get his speed up and then skids around the doorway and LEAPS onto the bed hoping, and generally managing, to land just right to knock the wind out of someone and make them do their very best jack-knife fold. As he's a black cat in a very dark room it's impossible to see him and clout him one, not to mention how darn QUICK this animal is. If he's feeling a bit winded by all these efforts he then sneaks up to the head of the bed, chooses a victim and begins grooming their hair. Lovingly. And thoroughly. And eventually violently. Until he gets bored and just starts grabbing a mouthful and yanking as hard as he can. This usually earns him a very short flight to the floor. Finally, and most effectively, he flushes the other cat out from wherever she's hiding, and incites an operatic bit of play-fighting directly under the bed.
It is a testament to my saintlike character that both these cats are not only still alive, but are thriving.
At least, for now...
