Wrangler....or wrangled?

Flocks of feral cats are common in this neck of the burb/woods.  Eventually, some otherwise decent people will resort to dealing with the cats by shooting them.  And these people always say the same thing:  "There were so many cats and they all started getting sick...".

Unfortunately, this seems to be true.  The bigger the herd gets, the faster disease spreads.  And the faster the cats reproduce, the more sickly the offspring become.  Inbreeding also occurs more often which is not conducive to good health amongst the feline population.  Toward the end of Mama's (Mama was the cat that started my problem) reign of terror, most of her kittens were not surviving past the cute stage.  Finding these kittens was heartbreaking. But by then, there were plenty of others taking up Mama's torch.  This meant there would be more kittens.  It also meant I would be weeping over more dead kittens.

It doesn't take long, maybe a year of two at the most, for a feral situation become overwhelming.  Once you've walked in a shooter's shoes, it becomes easier to understand why they resorted to killing.  In the middle of such a predicament, the time, expense and seeming impossibility of the task makes other solutions appear far out of reach.

I actually enjoyed the first few ferals.  But these cats, untainted by human foolishness, are fiendishly smart.  They know a sucker when they meet one and take full advantage.  And a human sucker soon discovers she has absolutely no control over the situation.  Get attached to a wild cat that roams freely outdoors and there's a good chance you will loose it.  If a wild feline gets hurt or sick, it is nearly impossible to help it.  Too many felines and you couldn't afford to help, anyway.  Even worse, as the little kittens that played together reach puberty, their wrestling is no longer a game.  Even the females begin fighting over turf and trying to drive each other out.  More savage are the zombie toms.  They'll half kill each other while jumping anything that moves.

If you are soft-hearted enough to feed them and provide shelter for them, that soft heart is bound to get broken.  On average, the more fortunate outdoor cats only live about four or five years.  Of the ferals I've tangled with, about 97% of these creatures are extremely smart and would be wonderful companions.  Only a few remain hard core ferals.  And there lies another problem.  How do you save them all?  If you have any semblance of sanity, you eventually realize you can't.  What you can do is prevent more ferals by making sure your feline friends can't reproduce.

There is a fine line between cat wrangling and being wrangled by cats.
I crossed that line years ago.  Some of these bewitching beasties have become members of my household.  The rest will live out their natural lives here.  But rest assured, none of them will reproduce. 

Now if I could just figure out get rid of the marauding zombie toms.        

Dog "owners"- reclassification notice

I have nothing against dogs.  It's the people they attract that I have issues with.  There are several types of "crazy dog men". 

Ken u spel pit bull?  We are all familiar with bullies, the types that use their dogs to terrorize others because they don't have the guts to do it themselves.  Although the Cujo next door is not a pit bull, his people easily fall into this category.

Next are the bottomless pits of neediness.  As they are dragged along by their bandana wearing dogs, they are not-so- silently screaming, "LOOK AT ME!  PAY ATTENTION TO ME!"  

A subcategory of the previous type is the shallow person that uses their trendy little yappy dog as a fashion accessory.  This crazy dog man doesn't even get attached to the poor dog.  As soon as the next doggie fad comes along, the unfashionable dog will quickly be replaced.  As the late Rodney Dangerfield used to say, "Take my mother-in-law.  PLEASE!"  Well, my acid tongued mother-in-law falls into this category.    According to her, if a creature isn't hers or at the very least, trendy, the "inferior" creature doesn't even deserve a name.   (For an explanation see mother-in-laws tongue post).

We mustn't forget the crazy dog men that use their dogs as child substitutes.  The problem with this type of crazy dog man is that she doesn't like to change diapers.  She leaves the poop for everyone else to step in.

And then there are....THE MUTANTS.  These unnatural households have cats and dogs.    My sister is a fine example of a mutant. ( For astrology buffs, sun in Cancer, moon in Aries.  These types are as sensitive as cacti.)  She has six dogs and two cats.  When we chat, we must chat about her.  If the subject gets changed, she gets very nasty.  The last time we chatted, I rudely interrupted the Deb-a-thon to tell her something about one of my cats.  This interruption in the all-about-Deb-a-thon caused my dear sister to get angry and call me a "crazy cat lady."  Now, hold on a damn minute!  Six dogs are more than enough credentials to qualify her as a "crazy dog man".

For ages, cat people, male and female, have been pigeonholed into the stereotype of "crazy cat lady".  Since redistributing the wealth is currently all the rage, (I'm still waiting for my share), I will continue my crusade to evenly disperse stereotypes.  Men and women that call yourselves "dog owners" (as if you are entitled to own another being), brace yourselves for change.  You are no longer "dog owners".  You have been reclassified as "CRAZY DOG MEN".      

Mel Gibson look-a-like, Tommy, the money cat

Spring has sprung....sort of

 

  

Litter Box Blues

Lately, I'm feeling a little boxed in.  It could be the bad weather.  Or it could be that I'm outnumbered.  Indoors, there are six cats and six litter boxes.  On the big porch is another litter box, in case an unexpected emergency strikes during a birdwatching session.

Six against one.  Even Bruce Lee would think twice about tackling those odds.  But I'm no martial artist, I'm just an ordinary moron.  To keep the indoor air quality respectable, I go up against those boxes several times a day, more on special occasions.

On bags of litter, all kinds of promises are written.  Odorless.  Good for multi-cat households.  And my favorite, DUST FREE.  Believe any of those claims and I've got a bridge to sell you.

Trust me, the only odorless litter box is a clean one.  That perfumey stuff just makes "things" smell worse.  Some of those clay litters throw so much dust, they aren't safe for humans or pets.  All of us, human and felines, hate those paper pellets.  If those are dust free, so is dust.  Cedar shaving litter smells nice until it's used. Then it becomes ghastly since it doesn't absorb very well.  I find it too messy to use indoors and once used, even on a screened porch, it reeks. 

All litter sticks in the pads of little paws and tracks all over the place.  The fine stuff travels farther and is the worst to clean up.

Then there are individual feline preferences.  First and foremost, it's best to keep the cat happy.  If the cat doesn't like the litter or the box isn't clean, the cat is apt to select a place outside the litter box.  Some humans, myself included, really don't like this practice. 

Because one of my cats is asthmatic, lung killing clay and perfume are out.  No litter is completely dust free.  We finally settled on pine pellet litter.  There is some dust which is easily wiped away.  But there is not enough dust to make you hack like you've smoked a whole pack of cigarettes instead of cleaning a litter box.  Until moistened, the pellets are large, hard and noisy when scratched in.  This might bother some cats.  My cats tolerate it and I find the noise an advantage, like a built-in alarm system.  If a cat goes into the litter box room and starts scratching, I grab the trusty old poopy scooper and a plastic bag and clean it up before the aroma wafts through the house.  This is important with a cat, like Tommy the money cat, who could easily be used as a biological weapon.   

The two quirky piss pots, Salem and Miss B. prefer the perfumey fine stuff.  They have it on the porch and can indulge to their evil little hearts' delight.  But if Salem had her druthers, she would just go in the bag of litter.  This is so nasty.  Once was enough to encourage me to keep open bags of litter closed.  Cleaning litter boxes also seems to have a laxative effect on Salem.  As soon as I'm finished cleaning the boxes, she has to go.

Cats are fastidious creatures.  Mine seem to be more fastidious than normal.  One item per litter box is their gold standard.  They find the contents of used litter boxes offensive.  After a box has been used, Leo will come get me.  Like Lassie, he will lure me into the litter box room to do my job.  This feline fastidiousness also results in a strange game.  While one cat uses the facilities, others will wait outside the room in ambush.  When the cat tries to leave the room, the others will chase the offending victim around the house and if caught, the offender will be tackled.  Because of this, I have to break up a lot of bathroom brawls.

But at least they use the boxes and I truly appreciate this.  People tell me horror stories about living with cats that go any place but the litter box.  Since most cats are fastidious, either the offending cat is angry, the cat has a medical problem, the cat doesn't like the litter, or the litter boxes are not clean.

Six cats, seven litter boxes.  Some days I feel like.....Queen of the Litter box.   

    

Zombie Tomcats.....

Somebody left the gates of hell open and they're streaming out.  With vacant eyes and blood spattered tattered fur, they roam the yard seeking victims.  All hours of the day and night, their shrieks and howls pierce the air.  Zombie tomcats.  Too ugly to get willing dates, they pester each other and anything else that moves as they spray the air with their foul scent.  The ground is littered with clumps of fur yanked from opponents.

There hasn't been a lady cat in heat around here for several years.  But that doesn't stop the zombie tomcats.  No ladies, no problem.  They tear each other to pieces.  They battle all over the yard.  They battle on the porch and on the deck.  Twenty times in a a twenty four hour period, I have to go out and scare the beasts away.  But they just keep coming back.

It would be nice to keep them off the porch.  Their vile perfume does nothing for the curb appeal of the place.  A well aimed bucket of water chases them away, but not for long.  The Zombie Toms are not even repelled by strategically placed garlic cloves.  If I knew what the hell wolf bane was, I'd try that.  But until I figure out what wolf bane is, I'll have to find another way to battle the Zombie Toms.

 

The curse of Old Yeller

Things aren't always what they seem.  Take poison ivy, for instance.  In the fall, its foliage explodes into such glorious reds and oranges, a body wants to frolic barefoot in the evil stuff.  Trust me, that is one impulse best controlled.

People wrongly associate black cats with evil.  Everybody expects that, so a black cat would be the last place anything sinister with half a brain would lurk.  Evil wants to ambush a person unaware so it has to find a better hiding place than darkness.  Instead of darkness, it hides in plain sight in the shades of sunset orange or pale early morning sun.  If you want evil, find yourself an orange cat.

For some strange reason, my color blind family has always called orange cats yellow.  Actually, yellow suits their sneakiness better than orange, so I call them yellow, too.

When it comes to a being becoming evil, free will comes into play.  Yellow cats don't want to be evil, so some mischievous entity gave them a blessing which is really a curse.  And the curse is that these damn yellow cats can reproduce faster than a norovirus on a cruise ship.  Get yourself one yellow cat and in the blink of an eye, you've got a whopping infestation of yellow cats.

I suspect yellow cats came to this country on Viking ships.  These Viking cats have managed to retain the pillaging habits of their human Viking pets.  I have disarmed every female on my property of reproductive capabilities.  Still, wave after wave of evil yellow varmints stage raids.  They plunder the food dishes, pester the womenfolk, attempt to take over the dwellings and spray everything in sight.  I don't know where the blasted things are coming from, but they keep on coming.  One disappears, another takes its place.  Even worse, they're probably all descendants of Old Eric the Ugly, the first yellow tormentor. 

At one time, Pretty Darryl was the bane of my existence.  He's been spraying, stealing and fighting around here for years.  But since he's fended the other brutes off , he's been semi-tolerated.  Unfortunately, lately, Pretty Darryl and the current Yellow Beast seem to be in cahoots.  When they're not tearing each other to pieces, they're terrorizing the spayed ladies.  These ladies are not the least bit interested, but these depraved brutes don't  care.  It seems the Yellow Beast has corrupted Pretty Darryl.

So many yellow cats.  Maybe one too many black cats has crossed my path.  A few years ago, on a Friday the 13th, I dropped a mirror while walking under a ladder to avoid stepping on a crack.  So now....

When the moon is full
And the cold wind howls,
Pissing tomcats on the porch yowl.
 Yellow ones, dammit!         

Boo!

Hypocrisy. Green living and fireworks.

One of the biggest complaints some folks have about cats is that they eat birds.  Humans do, too, but that's different, I guess.  Of course, cats have to catch their own birds.  Most of us have somebody else do our dirty work by cooping birds up, pumping them full of antibiotics and catching them for us.  This supposedly makes us superior to other predators.

Then there are those folks that recycle their trash and load up their gas guzzlers with reusable shopping bags.  These are the same people that speed by you while waving their middle finger and shouting obscenities at you for polluting by smoking a cigarette.  As they speed off, they run over any person or animal that happens to be crossing the road. 

Upon arriving at their Mc-mansions, they wave at the lawn guys they hired to spray the chemicals that will poison the whole neighborhood.  That lawn has to be nice and green for the biggest eco-friendly holiday season of the year, 4th of July week.  That's when men celebrate their manhood by guzzling beer and treating the neighborhood to a solid week of nightly rounds of explosions.

On these nights, windows rattle and the air is thick with smoke and reeks of gunpowder.  The noise frightens my creatures.  It frightens their creatures and often others get injured, but these guys only care about showing off.  The noise and pollution from their explosives must have a dreadful effect on the wild creatures living outdoors and the air quality.  More harm is probably done to the environment on these few nights than at any other time. 

If these patriotic people also care about the environment, instead of wasting money on explosives and toxic lawn chemicals, they could donate that money to organizations that help veterans.       

     

Four friends, some in high places

Training a human is an arduous process for a kitten.  Even worse, there are time constraints.  From birth, the kitten is under pressure to get its human trained before the kitten outgrows its kittenish cuteness.  If a kitten is gifted with extra cuteness, the training progresses rapidly.  If you've ever been worked over by a kitten con artist, you know exactly what I mean.

The feline mind works in mysterious ways.  Sometimes feline ploys make sense.  Other times... well....  I bear psychic scars from some of these other times.  For instance, there was the disturbing behavior of the kitten that would not come in at night when you called her.  But if you went out with a flash light, she would come running.  Answering a flashlight is troubling, but it is not an example of diabolical feline calculation.  This peculiar behavior was merely an an indicator of things to come. This kitten has grown up to be a seriously ditzy cat.

But the devious cunning displayed by another pair of schemers was downright chilling.  Even amongst young cats, it's common knowledge that cats are better climbers than humans.  So what better way to make a human prove her devotion than to climb up on something high and howl until the clumsy human finds a way rescue the kitten in distress. 

The cute, little, big footed calico would get up on a roof and howl.  To rescue this kitten, the height fearing human had to stand on a step ladder, contort out a window backwards and snatch the squirming kitten from the jaws of death.  Fortunately, this also proved traumatic for the kitten and she only did it a few times.

Unlike her sister, the "angelic" little white kitten was not traumatized by rescues.  She expected them.  Her game was to climb up into a huge oak tree, carefully select a branch I could barely reach, and park herself there.  Then she would yowl at the top of her impressive lungs until I managed to get her down.  While I was getting her down, the cow spotted sister would get jealous.  So that sister would run up to the same spot and howl to be rescued.  Unlike the demure mastermind of the plot, this little fiend always managed to claw the hell out of me on the way down.  Although I didn't like this game, they did.  So, we played this game several times a day for weeks.

Update:  The little calico had tried to train me but her conscience won out.  She was just too nice to continue making the human jump through hoops.  She is now an undemanding pleasant companion.  The extra-cute little white diva was not troubled by such scruples.  She so rigorously trained me that to this day, I am her slave.  The cow spotted copy cat is still plagued by sibling rivalry issues.  And the butter- brain that communed with flashlights is still a butter- brain.    



   

Feline asthma

Now that the North Carolina toe sucker has been nabbed, we can all breathe easier.....  Unless we have asthma that is flaring up. 

Until the beautiful boy pictured on the right was diagnosed with asthma, I did not know cats were susceptible.  Unfortunately, they are, and it's more common than one would think.  About one out of every hundred cats has asthma and supposedly it's more common in purebreds.  Leo is only part Siamese.

Feline asthma usually makes its self known between the ages of two and five.

Leo was nearly on schedule at about eighteen month old.  The Vet treated Leo's first few terrifying asthma attacks with oral steroids.  This soon became a nightmare.  As soon he was tapered off one round of the pills, he would have another asthma attack and have to start them again.  The pills did not seem to work that well and the doses had to keep being increased.  The side effects of steroid pills are numerous and frightening, and I could tell he often didn't feel well.  I couldn't get his asthma under control and his activities were being restricted.  Almost anything seemed to set his asthma off.  To control the asthma better, he would have had to add other pills with other side effects.  During one of his exams, a heart irregularity was discovered.  Some of the pills could have also caused heart issues for the young man.

ENTER INHALED STEROIDS!  One puff a day and his activities do not have to be restricted.  Occasionally, maybe once every couple months, he will have a mild coughing attack but it is usually brief and subsides on its own.  I do keep a rescue inhaler in the house, just in case.

Giving a cat an inhaler seems a daunting task.  But if the cat cooperates, it's easy.  To give a cat an inhaler, you must use a feline aero-chamber fitted with a little mask that covers the cat's nose and mouth.  The inhaler is inserted in the aero-chamber in the opening opposite the face mask.  Then the mask is placed over the cat's  nose and mouth and the top of the canister is pressed once.  The mask and chamber holding the medicine are held in place until the cat has taken five or six breaths.  That's it. 

With the right cat, administering an inhaler is much easier than the all day ordeal of collecting a feline urine sample with the wrong one.   

The fledgling flight with the inhaler was scary for both Leo and me.  I love the cat dearly and didn't want to mess up.  He didn't like the face mask or the hissing noise of the canister.  But after about a week, we both were pro's.  Every morning, he gets his puff and then breakfast.  The trickiest part of the whole thing turned out to be keeping his nosy siblings out of the way. 

The aero-chamber and steroid inhalers are more expensive than steroid pills.  But inhaled medicine goes directly to the problem area, instead of affecting the whole body the way oral steroids do.  This increases the effectiveness of the treatment and reduces side effects and risks.

   
 

    

BEWITCHED

Throughout the ages, cats and magic have been intertwined, and rightly so.  These beautiful creatures are magical, mystical and mysterious.  But the old tales of witches and their feline familiars is so wrong.
Leave it to egotistical humans to tell the story backwards.  The truth is cats have human familiars to do their bidding.  I should know.  They speak, I jump.

Black cats.  People automatically assume there's something witchy about them.  And there is.  Off the top of my head, I can think of two separate traumatic incidents where a black cat actually saved my life.  One cat lost his life in the process.  Thank you, guys.

Respect black cats, but don't ever underestimate the others. 

For the past few years, I have been under the spell of a brother and sister pair of bewitching white cats.  I am under no delusions as to who calls the shots.  It isn't me.

They have their paws full dealing with this thick skulled human.  Sometimes it's very difficult for them to get their point across.  And though they resemble each other, their personalities and human wrangling techniques couldn't be more different.  But whatever method they use, their persistence is amazing.  Sooner or later, one way or another, they always get this human to toe the mark. 

Here, Ginger! Never mind!

If you start feeding them, even feral cats can be sociable creatures.  Translation: underfoot. 

Whatever you're outside, there's always a few regulars following you around to keep an eye on things.

Sometimes it gets annoying.  If it's a nice night and I wander out to star gaze or moon watch, I have to keep moving.  Standing still in cat language means, "Please sharpen your claws on my legs.  Maybe I'll feed you again."  This claw sharpening and leg climbing can get painful.  When it keeps happening, I have several choices.  I can get mad, but that doesn't do any good.  I can feed them again.  Or I can pick up an acorn or stone and toss it.  When something gets tossed, the nosy creatures have to chase it and check it out.  Of course, sometimes it's risky picking things up in the dark.  Every once in a while, I pick up something nasty.  But except for the leg shredding, cats are good company if you're wandering around at night.  They're pretty good "watchdogs" and their sharper than human senses come in handy.  As long as the cats aren't acting nervous, I usually feel safe.  Protected by my leg- shredding feline security guards, on nice nights I frequently lurk outdoors.

But one night last summer, this security system didn't work out.  I had gone out and within a few minutes, the usual crew began to appear.  First Vick showed up.  Then Peg.  Then Clyde.  Then Hallie.  They milled around, watching me and waiting.  And then I saw something white coming out of the bushes.  Thinking the white was Ginger's white bib, I began to call her.  She waddled towards me out of the bushes and kept coming.  Ginger was a fit young cat and the waddling wasn't quite right.  And as she got closer, I noticed the white fur wasn't a bib but a white stripe.  I stopped calling Ginger but the skunk kept coming.  I slowly backed up and kept backing until I reached the porch.  I waited until I got safely inside before I screamed.

Meanwhile, all the cats were still sitting out there, wondering why I had bolted.  Apparently, Mr. Skunk was a buddy of theirs.  And Mr. Skunk must have been using the felines' extra senses, too.  Since they weren't scared of me, he wasn't scared of me.  And they weren't scared of him, but I was sure as hell was.       

Friends or familiars?

Sometimes people insinuate that these cats are my familiars.  Familiars?  That seems a bit harsh.   

But whether or not these cats are familiars, they think they are and that's all that matters.  Since I am out numbered, I have no say in the matter.  Indoors or out, I can always count on feline help... whether I want it or not.  Their whiskered little noses are in everything. 

The house cats are a talented group.  No task is too menial for these felines.  If I garden, they are more than happy to dig up the plants and pee in pots.  If I paint, at least a couple are guaranteed to race through the wet paint.  There are also several feline seamstresses.  One specializes in stealing spools of thread.  Another is so talented, she can jam a sewing machine by staring balefully at it.  If I ask her to stop, (nicely, of course), she will cease glaring at the machine and it will magically begin to work again.  The whole group excels at laundry tasks and are quite willing to jump in baskets of clean clothes.  Then there are the carpenters.  Although their handiwork looks more like the work of carpenter ants, they mean well.  And speaking of bugs, all the cats work hard to keep their home bug free.  Three cats are computer specialists, taking turns jumping on the keyboard as I type.  The cats also have culinary interests.  One has to be bribed before I am allowed to cook.  Another has been known to spring up into my plate on occasion. 

The outside cats work just as hard by digging holes all over the lawn, catching moths on the porch, clawing at the screens, mooching at all doors and rewarding me with mouse heads.

The indoor and outdoor cats all make excellent watchdogs and let me know if anything is amiss.

Familiars, friends, domestic help, or pains in the rump?  It doesn't really matter.  The pay rate is the same for all the job descriptions.           

The Cujo's strike again and again

I heard it happen and it still haunts me. While standing  on the porch, I heard Cujo begin one of her countless barking sessions.  But this time it sounded more vicious than usual.  Then the 160 decibel A-holes begin screaming and yelling.  It consisted of "GET OUT!  GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!  GET OUT!"  While they screamed and yelled, Cujo kept barking.

A few minutes later, I figured out what had happened.  Salem appeared at the screen door, shaking and covered in her own excrement.  I cleaned the shaken cat up and checked her over as best I could.  I knew something was wrong but I didn't know exactly what until the wounds on her neck abscessed.  Her thick fur had covered them.  After treatment by the vet and a round of antibiotics, Salem recovered physically.  Emotionally, she never did.  If a stranger comes to the door or enters the house, Salem freaks out and goes into hiding.  She won't come out until the stranger has been gone for an hour.  Then she slinks around, checking everything out to make sure it is safe before she will settle back down. 

What kind of people are those A-holes?  After their dog bit Salem, they chased her off and never tried to help her.  While they were screaming at her, did they throw rocks at her, too?  Yes, the naughty cat crossed over the wall.  But if a person had walked onto their property and gotten attacked by the dog, would they have stoned the person or just buried him in the back yard? 

A couple weeks later, I heard barking and ran outside to see Angie racing towards the house.  I caught her and brought her in.  This time, it wasn't hard to miss the blood running down her white haunch.  I rushed the trembling cat to the animal hospital.  She was treated, given antibiotics and recovered.  Sort of.  But because it all happened so fast, I swear she thinks the Vet bit her.  Since then, bringing her to the vet is about as much fun as a root canal. 

Even though my yard is a couple acres in a rural area, I don't dare let Minnie's five kids outdoors any longer. After patching Tommy the money cat up half a dozen times, he's no longer allowed out either.  And believe it or not, there are days when I would love to toss him back out. 

Crazy dog men and A-holes, what goes around comes around.  And it will come.  Enjoy.

Best Crazy Dog Neighbor is 3 states away

Sometimes, crap happens.  Sometimes we don't have a lot of control over the crap that happens.       For example, a bunch of flaming a-holes moves in next door.  The screaming kids with 160 decibel vocal chords aren't bad enough.  In addition to the screaming kids, the A-hole family also has an overweight, slobbering, vicious, cat eating, black beast.  This big black beast is the creature of nightmares.  Even worse, the A-holes won't keep it restrained. 

I have the vet bills to prove it.

The A-holes call this 150 pound monstrosity a silly unsuitable name.  Picture a 150 pounds of slobbering snarling fangs answering to the name of...well something like Tinkerbell or Fluffy.  That is so wrong.  When you are in your own backyard, standing between the snarling lunging hell-hound and Tommy, the money cat, the only appropriate name for the monster is... CUJO.

As you can imagine, this sort of incident has resulted in some bizarre discussions with Mr. A-hole.  At first I tried appealing to his affection for the hideous creature. 
 Me: "This is a busy road and the cars are always speeding.  Aren't you afraid your dog will get hit?"
A-hole:  "I know it's a busy road.  That's why I have an electric fence."
Me: "Well, the thing ain't working."
A-hole:  "Oh, it works.  I just don't put the collar on."

Finally,
Me:  "Look, Buddy, your dog just nearly ripped me to pieces.  Keep it restrained."
A-hole:  "How do you know it was my dog?"
Me:  "It was your dog."
A-hole:  "Well, how long ago did this happen?"
Me:  "Five minutes ago."
A-hole:  "Then it couldn't have been mine.  She came in 6 minutes ago."
Me:  "Yeah, right after you called her off."
A-hole:  "Well, your cats are always in my yard."
Me:  "Look, I've explained the situation to you.  I have no control over what feral cats do.  Besides, there's no leash law for cats.  There is for Cujo.  And if I catch Cujo in my yard again?  Well, I will do what ever it takes to protect those cats.  Next time, it might not be a cat that gets hurt.  Understand?"
A-hole:  "I hear ya."

Since then the electric fence has been working pretty well.  But what a battle to get there.  Now if only they would muzzle those kids. 

    

    

Comments? CAT PEOPLE and "CRAZY DOG MEN"

Computers work in mysterious ways.  As long as I can touch one without breaking it, I am usually content.

It has been pointed out to me that Mozilla Foxfire will not allow comments on this site, nor will it allow me to reply to them.  The only way to comment or reply is to go through the Internet Explorer.  I haven't a clue why.

Comment gently, please.  Unlike crude, brutish, slobbering "CRAZY DOG MEN", Cat People are sensitive souls.

After sparing a few seconds of thought on the differences between cat people and "CRAZY DOG MEN" , it becomes  obvious why certain personalities gravitate towards one species or the other.

People that seek feline company are looking for intelligent companionship.

"CRAZY DOG PEOPLE" are a whole 'nother can of worms.  These needy people are not looking for companionship.  They are exhibitionists and bullies looking for attention from other humans.  Obviously people are going to look at you when you are dragging or being dragged by a snarling slobbering beast on a leash.  And what better way to lash out at society than to force others to step in your mongrel's poop. 

Believe it or not, I actually like dogs.  It's their owners I have issues with.  "CRAZY DOG MEN", if you must be bullies, tangle with a species that will give you a taste of your own medicine.  Get some geese.

  

Sensitivity lesson #2- feline and female discrimination

Some forms of charity are recognized and lauded.  Other forms are spurned.  While one "humane" organization euthanizes local dogs as fast as they enter the door, another "humane" group is "rescuing" dogs in foreign locales by the truckload and bringing them in.  Shouldn't charity begin at home?  This behavior is insane.  Every local dog should be found a home before these misguided nitwits bring in more.  But in spite of their bizarre "rescuing" habits, people rally around them, funding them and patting them on the back.  Nobody calls them "crazy dog ladies".    

Rescue some cats and guess what happens?  Although cats are also living beings, a cat rescuer is  promptly labeled a "crazy cat lady".  Never a "crazy cat man".  They, whoever the hell they are, would have you believe that no male has ever been owned by a cat.  I know for a fact that this is untrue.  Men and cats can and do get along and even reside in the same dwellings.  There are many women and men out there that do not like being called "crazy cat ladies".  A "crazy cat lady" is a false, harmful, hurtful stereotype, especially traumatic to men. 

Unlike drooling slobbering dogs and their drooling, slobbering, belligerent humans, cats and their humans are very intelligent.  Anyone with half a brain should recognize that "crazy" is a more suitable description for the drooling slobbering flea bitten bullies that hang with dogs.      

With all this political and media blather about equality and redistribution of the wealth, why not redistribute the discrimination, too.  If every person that is owned by a cat, whether male or female, is a "crazy cat lady", then every person that "owns" a dog, whether male or female, should be called a "crazy dog man".  It may take a grassroots effort to spread the word, but once the word is out there it should spread faster than fleas and ticks on a dog.  WARNING: OWNING A DOG MAKES YOU A "CRAZY DOG MAN"!

And since we are on the subject of discrimination, pet stores are some of the worst offenders.  Three quarters of their merchandise is geared towards dogs.  The other quarter is divided between cats, fish, rats, gerbils, birds, snakes, lizards, spiders, etc.  Friends of cats should unite and rise up against this discrimination.  As household companions, dogs and cats are equally common.  The other "pets" make up a small percentage of the companion population.  This discrimination against cats doesn't even make economic sense.  Cats live longer than dogs which means that more money can be squeezed from feline owned humans.  And feline owned humans are more apt to be owned by multiple felines.  Pet stores should be jumping on the money train by taking advantage the generous natures of humans towards their feline companions.  And finally:      

WARNING:  OWNING A DOG MAKES YOU A "CRAZY DOG MAN"!
  

Mother in law's tongue

It's poison.  It's lethal.  And it never stops flapping in its search for vulnerable targets to wound.  For over a quarter of a century, this past- its- expiration- date specimen has been shooting deadly barbs in my direction.  No topic is off limits in its crusade to inflict harm.  Not children.  Not pets.  Especially not pets.

Unlike this poisonous specimen, animals are not idiots.  They instinctively don't like or trust this venomous creature.  And that is enough for me.  If an animal dislikes or fears somebody, alarm bells go off in my head.  In this particular case, the animals' dislike of this razor tongued weed just reinforces my own.

I consider the cats that live in my house family members.  It is very annoying when a noxious weed invades our home and begins belittling family members, even furry ones.  During her last onslaught, the deadly specimen parked its self at my kitchen table and took root.  Since the unwelcome uninvited guest overstayed and overstayed, I had to attend to some domestic chores.  While other family members were cornered at the table by the dragon lady with the serpent's tongue, I passed through the room calling a cat.  As I went by, what I heard coming from the deadly mother-in-law's tongue rocked my world.

"OH, FOR GOD'S SAKE!  SHE ACTUALLY NAMED THE DAMN THINGS?"

What kind of an ignorant entity is this?  Over the years, the mother-in-law's tongue has hosted a couple specimens of her own.  With names.  Of course, her specimens were trendy canines, little yappy dogs with runny eyes and registration papers.  Does this mean only pedigreed yappy dogs deserve names?  Dog people.  Go figure.  Mother-in-laws tongue, may you get root rot. 

 

House cat house-work

Yawn.  It's strange being indoors all the time.  True, old Cujo next door can't bite us any more.   But except for the occasional insect, there's not much to chase.  I wish we'd get infested by mice or something.

Fat chance.  As soon as it gets warm, our human will put that smelly Frontline on us.  We can't even get infested by fleas.

Well, fleas and ticks weren't so great, anyway.  I suppose we could go dig up a potted plant.

That's out.  Our human put rocks on the soil.  If I break a nail, our human will rush me to the Vet.  And you know what that's like. 

Get over it, Angie.  He was just trying to take your temperature.

Yeah, right.  And I suppose you've got a bridge to sell me.  Hey!  Why don't we go tear up some more of the carpet.

Sounds like fun.  We can tear the books out of the bookcase, too.  Our human loves picking the books back up.  And she likes taping the pages and I just love that ripping sound tape makes.  Hey, when we're finished with the bookcase, we can tear up a little more of that drywall in the stairway .  You know how I hate that color.

Great idea. We'll get on it.  Right after we take a little nap.  Yawn.



   

A tale of two piss-pots

When someone is trying to convince you about the pros of spaying, they will tell you it protects females against urinary tract infections.  I haven't exactly found this to be true. Out of a litter of five, four of them being spayed females, two of the girls have had urinary tract problems.  

Now, way before the urinary tract problems occurred, I had been wondering about the sanity of this particular pair.  The mental manifestations of their pee problems appeared long before the physical symptoms of their respective ailments.  Remember, this pair of piss-pots doesn't necessarily prove that a flaky cat is guaranteed to have urinary tract problems.  All it actually proves is that these two piss- pots are flakes.

 

Although the two are sisters, their I.Q.'s are at different ends of the scale.

 

 Apparently, the cute and innocent looking tiger is dumb as a bug.  She won't answer to her name, but shine a flashlight and she will come running.  Only she knows why.  She also mistakes potted plants and buckets of anything as litter boxes.

 

The other sister is brilliant.  You can't fault her twisted logic.  Rather than use a litter box, she would prefer to go in the bag of litter.  To this girl, an open bag of litter is an invitation.  She can also open doors and is obsessed with human bathrooms.  Several years in a row now, she has been voted girl most likely to fall in the toilet.  On many occasions, I have grabbed her just in the nick of time.  Unfortunately, she also has a potty mouth.  She likes to talk and though I don't speak her language, the tone of her voice reveals she is cussing.

 

None of the other siblings show confusion over the definition of a litter box.  None of the others have had urinary tract problems.  So, which came first, the chicken or the egg?