Edgy Mama

Biscy and Guinness love on Elmo. The party was a wild puppy scene. For more photos, visit my gallery!

I just had to do an extra, unexpected load of laundry when I discovered cat barf all over my bathrobe. Houdini has a huge crush on my fluffy, white, chenille robe. He spends about two hours a day kneading and humping it. Because we replaced all the interior doors in our house over a year ago, but never got around to putting hooks on the door, and because we have zero closet space, my bathrobe spends most of its life thrown over the end of my bed. And being humped by a small marmalade cat. So I have no clue why he decided to vomit on his love. Was it accidental? Did he go to the bathrobe for comfort when he started feeling nauseated? Why did my cat throw up all over my bathrobe?

Last night’s late night drama was the election upset. If you’re not in Ashvegas, you probably don’t give a damn about city council elections, so you can skip this paragraph. If you’re here, and you didn’t vote yesterday, you’re irresponsible and I’m officially upset with you. Voter turnout was low and the progressives lost a seat to a Repub with no political experience. For more incisive analysis and real numbers, y’all can visit the AC-T, Scrutiny Hooligans or Ashvegas.

The past several nights have seen a remarkable variety of late night drama (LND) at the pnav: including the fire department, the police, midnight cat visits, and prodigious cat vomit.

Four nights ago, I was reading in my jammies, snuggling with Biscy the Dorkie Poo, when bright lights flashed through my bedroom window. I lifted the blind and saw Fire Truck #7 at my doorstep and three fire fighters moving quickly up the front walk. I called to E-spouse, who was in his office working. We both threw on some clothes and ran downstairs as the fire fighters pounded on the door.

Turned out that a 911 call had come from our house–from, specifically, E’s work phone. The fire fighter told us that cordless phones often erroneously call 911 when they are off the charger and their battery’s dying. I couldn’t get from him why this happens. Is the phone calling for help? Asking to be restored to the charger, please? Or do cordless phones call 911 after a certain amount of time in case their owners have died and are being eaten by their Dorkie Poo?

Anyway, E had made an international call and must’ve dialed 911 instead of O11 by accident. Then, when his call didn’t go through, he tried again, so the 911 dispatcher couldn’t get through to ask if he’d meant to call for assistance.

The fire fighters were understanding and left. Then, 10 minutes later, a policeman showed up. He hadn’t received the “it’s okay” call from the fire department or the dispatcher or whomever calls the other responders off. He’d already circled the house and asked E-spouse for identification and for details as to who was upstairs. I was back in bed and decided not to get up and get re-dressed again. I considered yelling “Help!” but I realized the police might not find that funny.

Anyway, E clearly did not seem suspicious, and when the policeman saw Biscy, he warned E that he’d left the back gate open. Good to know.

The next night some neighbor’s cat got in through the cat door, which is locked so Houdini, the fractured feline, can’t escape. First Rocky freaked out and started doing that deep in his throat howling thing that sounds like a baby crying. That freaked Biscy out, who ran around the house like a mad dog, barking and howling, until he cornered this sweet little black cat. The cat clearly belonged to someone, although it was collarless. When I opened the front door, the cat haughtily slinked out, ignoring the territorial little dog howling at his heels.

Seeing the cat leave the pnav was not enough for the Bisc because he could still smell the damn cat. Bisc then proceeded to sniff around and bark spasmodically for another hour. At 1 a.m. Finally, I wrestled the puppy to sleep by holding him on my stomach in the bed and scruffing him every time he started to bark. After 1/2 an hour of fighting me, he finally settled down and went to sleep. There are, definitely, some advantages to having a small dog. I don’t imagine I could have wrestled a Lab to sleep.

The next night (yes, it continues), Rocky the sumo cat overate and vomited all over the dining room rug. Which my girl didn’t notice when she stepped in the sick, in her slippers, and tracked it all over the house. My boy did notice it when he stepped in it barefoot. Anyway, I spent about an hour cleaning up cat vomit. It’s amazing how much a 20-pound cat can spew.

So tonight I’m looking for quiet. No more late night drama would be great. Have you had any LND lately?

Biscuit coming off anesthesia

Actually, the pup was only pitiful for about 8 hours after his surgery (yep, it was the one guys don’t want to talk about).

I’m supposed to keep him “quiet” for 7-10 days. Right. Once the anesthesia wore off, it was back to frisky Biscy. When I refused to play with him, he commenced to humping his bed enthusiastically. I guess it takes a while for the testosterone to work its way out of his system.

Houdini, the pelvic-fractured feline, is getting a bit better every day. He just started moving around a bit, albeit gingerly, looking rather like a 95-year-old man maneuvering on an uneven surface. He spends most of his time on his bed, either in the crate or in the sun on the screened-in porch. He’s happiest when snuggling. Luckily, the kids help me love on him.

I tell you though, the litter box is about to do me in. It’s a very small litter box, small enough to fit inside the crate with the cat, the cat’s bed and food and water (see below). Therefore, when he uses it, Houdini either paws a good of bit of litter out of the box or just turns the whole box on its side. Yuck.

Remarkably, Biscuit seems to understand that his friend is injured, and when I let Houd drunkenly wander around the living room, Bisc just gives him a hello lick and watches him for a few minutes. He seems perplexed by the fact that the kitty doesn’t want to run, play or swat at him.

Friends? See Houdini’s tail? That’s cat for “hello.” It’s a good sign.

What Rocky thinks of the Bisc. Bisc tried to get sumo cat to play ball with him tonight. The pup raced around the house, holding his tiny tennis ball in his mouth. He caught sight of the Rock as he rounded a corner and stopped. Sweet puppy dropped the ball, which rolled towards the large one. Rocky and Bisc both looked at it for a few seconds. Then the Bisc gave up, but with that optimistic puppy frisk, grabbed the ball, and recommenced racing around in puppy spaz circles while sumo watched disdainfully.

Maybe next time you’ll get the ball, right Rocky? I’ll bet the Bisc will give you another chance.

It was bound to happen.

Saturday night. I’d just turned out the light in the kids’ room. I heard a crash from downstairs. I assumed it was E-spouse throwing around laundry baskets, as he is wont to do after our Saturday mega laundry party.

A few minutes later, I heard said spouse going downstairs. Hmmmmmm. Then I heard him yell for me with that “we’ve got a problem” voice. I ran downstairs and saw the fish tank, overturned, two gallons of water all over the kitchen, and Houdini staring intently at something that seemed to blend into the front hall oriental.

“Here’s Scratch,” I said, hissing at Houd.

E-spouse ran over and popped the fish into a glass of water. The fish swam. I applauded. For a few seconds. Then he floated, nose up, gills moving, but not much else. I started mopping up water. E went to the basement to mop up what had soaked through the floor boards. Sometimes, no sub-floor is a blessing. I watched Scratch closely. Still breathing, but clearly damaged. In fact, I noticed that he seemed to have lost a small fin.

The next morning, he was doing the upside-down float. No Easter day resurrections in this house. Guess the big guy doesn’t grant miracles to Unitarians.

The kids, intent on the pagan bunny’s gifts of chocolate, didn’t noticed that the fish had perished. Of course, I’d also moved the tank so the damn cat couldn’t slide it off the edge of the counter again.

We waited until after lunch to tell the kids. Both responded age-appropriately. The girl cried for a few minutes. The boy said, “I guess we need to get a new fish.”

E and the boy buried Scratch in my back flower bed. At that point, the boy expressed proper gravitas.

“I liked it when he ate well,” he said. “I loved him very much.”

I’m single Mom all week, and I’m finding balance difficult. I should be writing my biz profile for the newspaper right now. But I’m writing here instead. Because I’m feeling neglectful of you, my pretties.

We now own a pretty little fishie, whom my boy has named either Scratch or Electric. Or both. He’s a Betta fish, and mostly maroon, but with purplish-blue fins and sides.

About 24 hours after Scratch was ushered via plastic baggie to his lovely new home, I walked into the boy’s room to find Houdini sitting on the shelf next to the fish tank, gazing lovingly at our new pet. The cat had on his “isn’t this interesting?” look–his small head cocked sweetly to one side. Ever so gently, he placed a paw against the side of the tank.

Luckily, there’s a mesh top that fits on the tank, which I don’t think even Houdini can pry off. And we have, of course, overcompensated, and filled a medium-sized tank with enough water for several small fish as opposed to just one. So I don’t think the cat can push the tank off the shelf. Which is good, because it’s directly above the boy’s bed.

I tried to get a photo, but as soon as Houdini saw me with the camera, he scrammed. He clearly didn’t want me to have photographic evidence linking him to the fishie. Just in case.

Scratch ain’t a dog, but he’ll do for a while.

That’ll be all, pig.

I’ve written before about dogs and dog love and my son’s all-consuming desire for a dog. I’ve written about our failed rescue experiment with the beautiful but wild Australian cattle dog, Scout, who is now happily chasing goats on a farm (really!), instead of chasing my poor kittys and jumping our fence to chase cars on Merrimon Avenue (above–the only time the dog was happy in his crate). I did save his life, I did! Of course, in my WCS (worst case scenario) moments, I worry that I gave the poor dog to Satan worshippers who slowly tortured him to death in unspeakable ways. Fie my vivid imagination.

Anyway, the boy still talks, constantly, about dogs. He notices every dog that crosses his path and describes them to us in detail: “Did you see that dog? He was black and white and had a brown nose and a fluffy tail. He was sooooo cute!”

E-spouse, however, is severely pet-impaired. He never had a great childhood dog. He doesn’t get pets. He likes our cats now, but that’s only because in comparison to Scout (the failed experiment) they are incredibly low maintenance. And quiet.

So whenever the “next” dog discussion comes up, E changes the subject quickly. As quickly as you would neuter a dog who was humping all the neighbor’s bitches.

Yesterday, I was driving the boy home from school yesterday and he suddenly asked: “Mom, can we get a dog when Daddy dies?”

How do you answer that question? Well, we’re going to buy a fish tomorrow.