For the Love of... Hugh.

I went and did the most un-Crazy Cat Ladylike thing known to modern man.

I adopted a dog.

Now, there's this little short-furred brown-eyed wet-nosed skinny-bloated un-neutered funky-smelling bat-eared cringing Rat Terrier with a bullet imbedded under the skin of his rear leg shaped hole in my heart!!!!

I'm so worried for my little Hughie. I'm so glad I took him to the vet and I knew- knew--! that he has heartworm. Hell-0! He's four or five years old in Texas with a coat of fur thinner than the magnetic ink on this page. He's afraid of big men with dark hair. He bit the dogcatcher when he was found on the street. Did I mention the bullet?

So... heartworm. Vet. Oh, yeah.

He came up positive for heartworm and hookworm. He has severe gingivitis. And then there's this other thing... this horrible thing that I'm trying so hard to understand. He's in the hospital right now and I just signed a month's worth of income away that I don't have and he's in so much pain...

We thought it was just a little bladder infection. The vet was concerned that there's also free fluid in his abdomen... and it's bloody. Really, a lot of blood. It's really scary to see a scrappy little bit of funny-smelling "Will you love me?" dripping blood on your floor. From a wound you can't see.

We're not sure why he has blood in his abdomen. It could be from the heartworm. From the hookworm. From an actual bladder infection. From a traumatic injury. Did I mention the bullet????

He's all scarred up too... been knocked around a good bit. He knows when he's in trouble, he wet on the floor the other day and the second I saw it he was so scared, cowering and shaking like he expected me to hurt him. I was too upset about his reaction to even mention the mess. I just told him I loved him and cleaned it up when he wasn't looking. That's when I saw the first indication of blood.

Now I have a really bad premonition.

It makes so much sense... There's a dog that's friendly enough to tolerate around the house as long as he doesn't get in Daddy's way, then there's this problem all the sudden where he can't hold it in the house. Dad gets mad, hauls off and kickes him in the gut once or twice (there's scarring on his side and we can feel scars on his abdominal muscle wall), and then kicks him out of the house. He all ready has heartworm by this time and probably hookworm because anyone who kicks a dog would never think to take one to a vet. Prove me wrong on that. I dare you. Then he spends a few weeks on the street, with whatever caused the urniary tract problem running rampant in his gut. He's lucky enough to get picked up by animal control and thank the gods, he's not killed the moment he bites the dogcatcher (who probably scared the living hell out of him and my last dollar says he's tall and has dark hair). Then he spends a few weeks in a kennel with who knows what diseases running around and no-one will adopt him because every time a man walks into the kennel, "Hugo" rushes the gate barking frantically.

Ok, ow ow ow my neck hurts...

By the time I show up, Hugh has a reputation with the ladies. The animal control officer who takes care of him is female, and she never had to leash him when she let him out of his kennel. He would hang out in the office with her. He proved to her that he could bond, that he's a good dog, that he's house trained.

He will sit and shake and he knows that a dog-bed is where he's supposed to be when someone says, "Go lay down." He burrows under the covers if you let him up on the bed and he snores a little. He's the perfect little foot-warmer. He warmed my heart right up too. He also guarantees that no matter what, I take a minimum of two brisk twenty-minute walks every day.

He's going to be in the ICU at the Vet's for at least three days. I've had him for all of... two weeks? Maybe a day or two more? And I'm crying because if I lose this little dog I don't think I'll ever be whole again. He answers that question my heart is always asking..."Am I everything that I need to be? Am I... enough?"

Hugh said, "Yes, you're my everything. I'll be yours, too." He says it in a way that my husband can't, that my daughter isn't capable of. He says it in a way that brooks no argument. He says it because it just is.

Wow, it's been a while.

This is Solace totally hating on me in my now-trashed still sorta brand-new house:



This, my dears, is why: Left to Right: Domino, Caesar and Daisy...

Domino: "Dis an intervenshun, lady. You needs a peddycure!!"
Periwinkle is convinced she knows how to operate the PC better than I do.
Guns is suffering from cute-and-cuddly overdose.

I have, through every fault of my own solely through the power of intention, become a cat rescue organization virtually overnight. These cats were born under my shed to a set of feral parents (One of which, yes, was likely Tom, Jr or Scrappin' Tom, as evidenced by the markings of at least two of the kittens.)

There is an additional kitten who is not pictured in this set: Fizgig. More on him later.

SO, Solace and Darius both see precisely no reason for kittens to exist on their plane at all and would like to know where the fuck I get off torturing them with the fuzzy little barsteads. Guns was in turns tolerant, aggravated, determined, fascinated and now totally enamored of all of our new charges. He wants them to find homes FAST because he's all ready become attached to all of them and will miss them sorely. Better to rip that band-aid off sooner rather than later, I suppose.

I plan to place these kitties with an adoption organization at the age of ten weeks. They're seven weeks now, weaned, litter trained and wormed. If they go to adoption through an orgianization, they'll be adopted to the tune of $125 a pop. From me? Free to homes and people whom I can trust and follow-up with to ensure proper care.

Random Cat Pix. Cos I can.

Solace being surprisingly adorable. She's really come out of her shell lately. She is proactively asking for attention and is seeking company for her naps.
Darius in his pea patch. I planted peas under this chair by the tree, and I'm using the chair for a terrace for the peas to climb. Why? Because the chair doesn't have a mate or a place really in my home, and I'm the type of person who would like all of my posessions to have a purpose or function. So this chair got relegated to garden duty. It is now art.
Miss Mia. This cat is not owned by me, but by a resident at my location who has requested privacy. Out of respect for someone I cherish, Miss Mia will not be mentioned except for in the most general of terms.

?

I'm trying to convince my family that it wouldn't hurt to foster a cat that has been with the rescue organization Classy Cats for a little while. Hopefully, you'll see pictures of a new cat here. IF there are people who have actually dropped by this blog, can you please let me know if you'd be interested in seeing pictures and blurbs about adoptable cats that my friends and I are fostering? Thanks!

How Darius Became a Freeloading Bum in Luxury.

You know what I'm talking about. It's like the heebie jeebies. You start thinking about creepy stuff like bogeymen and poltergeists and suddenly your entire house is teeming with denziens of evil.

Then, there's cats. You start thinking about them. Then, you get one. Suddenly... there are, like EIGHTY knocking down your door. And none of them, fortunately or unfortunately, are figments of your imagination.

It started with Solace. We were ready, as a family, for a new furry family member. Financially, it was a little bit of a stretch because the adoption wasn't timed perfectly... you get them when you can! But then...

Hot Plumber Husband: Hi, Honey! How was your day?

Harried, Driving Me: It was work. How 'bout you?

Hot Husband: Gooood...

Harried Me: What's up, tiger? (Yes. I really call him that)

Hot Husband: Nuuuuthin'. Funny thing happened at work today...

Harried Me: (cluelessly biting) What's that, babe?

Hot Husband: Well, one of the secrataries had the sh*t scared out of her today. She went to toss something in the dumpster at the shop and there was this cat...

Harried Me: (downshifting, in every sense of the word) Oh, dear.

Hot Husband: He's fine now, they let him in the office and he's been there all day...

Harried Me: Darlin', (if there's a pet name, I call him that. I call YOU that too. I am indiscriminate with endearments.)how much time have YOU been in the office today?

Hot Husband: Uhmm, it was kind of a slow day...

Harried Me: We have another cat, don't we?

Hot Husband: (backpedalling), Well, no, not unless you want one but we don't have to but both of the secrataries all ready tried and their husbands said no and...

Harried Me: (Arriving at daycare to pick up SmartyPants)He must be really darn cute for you to be lobbying for this.

Hot Husband: (Seeing his opening and advancing for the kill) He's an AWESOME cat! He's got a purr like a V8 engine and he's been so sweet and happy all day. We've been playing and he napped in my lap...

Harried Me: (Loading SmartyPants into the car): Love, if he napped in your lap, he all ready bought you. My input is irrelevant. I'll make an appointment at the vet and buy another cat box. Do you think Solace will like him?

Hot Husband: I'm sure they'll be fine (Translation: I don't know but I'm sure you can figure it out).

Harried Me: Are you sure he doesn't belong to someone?

Hot Husband: Well, I've seen him around the shop for a few weeks now, he's been eating trash and we all feed him a little of our lunch when we're here... He has a flea collar, but it's really old and cracked, and it rubbed a part of his neck raw...

Harried Me: Oh my gosh! Ouch! (Sympathy creeps in around the edges)

Hot Husband: Yeah, so I thought he would be better off with us. Maybe. If you don't mind...?

Harried Me: SmartyPants and I are on our way to the shop now to meet the little booger.

Hot Husband: Great! Ok, we'll be here... You'll like him a lot, I promise!

When we arrived, there was my sexy plumber husband looking three kinds of eager, and a puddle of black velvet curled up on an office chair, emitting a low-frequency rumble that can only be described as a Harley in a vat of marshmallow fluff. When the cat lifted his head, I could see that his coat was rubbed off between his shoulder blades, and there were raw patches on his neck and under his chin. His skin was dry and flaky, but his eyes were bright and he chirrupped when he saw us. Oh, he was skinny! All angles, and for some strange reason I noticed that his head seemed far too small for his body. I offered a hand, and the Harley shifted into high gear. He rubbed my fingers with his jaw, I suppose he could smell my hot plumber husband on me and knew that I was family. He was polite and playful with SmartyPants, she was immediately smitten. So, I dropped the bomb: "We'll take him home," I announced.

The secrataries twittered with pleasure and made supportive statements. "I have two conditions." Hot husband looked struck, and groaned.

He should have known better, the man. TINSTAAFL (Google it). "Ok, what is it?"

"One, I get to name him." (Otherwise, the poor thing would wind up with either an Egyptian or German name that I either couldn't pronounce or would come out sounding like a bodily function)

"Damn. Fine. What's number two?"

"It's time to buy a house."

Welcome to the family, Darius!

How Solace Came to Be

You know what I'm talking about. It starts with that one little flutter of longing in your heart..."Maybe a kitten. Just one. We're such a quiet family, I'm almost bored..."

Then, the momentum increases..."Ooh, we could Rescue! It would be great! Rescued cats are so sweet... it's like they know, and they appreciate you more..."

And you start shopping on Pet Finder. And you set a date: "I'll wait until after (insert holiday, event or bill payment here). Then, we'll find the perfect one...

But look at all these sweet kitty faces!

"Uh oh..."Oh my gosh! Lookit that awesome cat! WHAT?? Who would FOUR PAW DECLAW such a beautiful creature?? She's at ANIMAL CONTROL?? FOR TWO WEEKS??!! Oh, HELL no they did NOT just..."

Gasping for breath as you careen off the doorjamb at Suburbia Division of Animal Control, desparately clawing at the front desk counter as you scare the cat-love out of the poor volunteer behind the fossilized computer station...

"The-diluted-mainecoon-lookin'-cat-that's-been-declawed-she-was-on-PetFinder-yesterday-is-she-still-here??"

Blink. Blink.

"I want to adopt a cat. A specific cat. The Cat! Can you help me?"

"Oh. Ok." She's still a little stunned, so I try not to crawl over the desk and shake her. "Can you please fill out this adoption application?"

I swear, to this day, I don't know if it was legible. Finally, FINALLY, a no-nonsense looking lady in scrubs strolls into the waiting room and calls my name. Thank God. At least that part was readable!

"Um. Hi." I'm feeling a little sheepish now. "I'm looking for a specific cat. She was on PetFinder yesterday, but she's not listed today. I'd really like to adopt her if she's..." (GULP) "...still here? She was listed as Princess...?"

The...longest...five...seconds...of...my...life.

"Oh! Sure! I think she's still in the infirmary. She had a sinus infection, and she's been here so long. The Humane Society said that they were going to pick her up today... do you want to see her?"

DUH. "Um, yes, please. Is she well enough to adopt?"

I saw that. The fractional hesitation...and I so totally didn't care. The cat could have been blowing green snot-bubbles out of her nose at that point. She was mine.

"She's had a full course of medication. She should be fine. Sit here, I'll go get her..."

The rest is history. She purred. She rubbed on my daughter's face and even wound herself around my husband's workboots. She was adorable. Now she sleeps on my bed. Thank God, she was still alive. It's Cat Karma. Once you start thinking about it, the perfect cat will present itself. If you hesitate... Who Knows? Timing is nothing when it comes to aquiring a cat. It's all in the Karma.

Welcome to my world. Please watch your step, dear.

Hi!

I created a blog after lurking in several other people's blogs. I realized that I was hearing a lot of questions from friends and acquaintances that I could address with pictures and friendly banter, so I figured, "What the heck?" I spend eight hours a day typing on a computer at work about really dry, boring stuff that usually makes people want to pull their lower eyelids up over their heads and run screaming off of the nearest nuclear vent stack. But only after setting their hair on fire, of course.

I bought a house just at the beginning of the year. In actuality, I negotiated and settled on a price with one hand on the cell phone and the other in our Christmas turkey. It was December 24, at 8 p.m.

We got a cute little "arts and crafts" cottage in a consummate southin' town with tile floors and, well, a kitchen that looks like this:

I will wait patiently while you compose yourself.

Yes, that really is a red kitchen with a mauve countertop.

Yes. The backsplash is for real.

You could stop laughing now.

Really. Now.

So! We moved in. Yeah, I know. They painted it that way. What were they thinking? I bought it that way. What was I thinking??

Still not too sure who the sucker is here. But anyway, it's nothing that 5 gallons of Kilz primer and a day that ends in me refusing to speak to my husband won't cure. Oh, and my husband? I call him Guns. Or "The Crackless Plumber." Depends on the day and whether or not he left the seat up.

I haven't mentioned cats yet!

Meet Darius:

And Solace:

And y'all already know Tom, Jr. He's one of the outside ferals of the "Scrappin' Tom" clan. You'll hear more about them later, I'm sure:

The purpose of this blog is to detail my adventures of a first-time homeowner in the crappiest real-estate market in ten years. Included, and mainly focusing on my adventures with a muddled and diverse mix of both tame and half-feral moggies in suburban USA, where I am apparrently the only resident who does not allow the four cats in residence to wee on everyone else's bushes.

Posts to come in the near future:

How Solace came to be.

How Darius became a freeloading bum in luxury.

Meet the two other resident kitties, and their stories.

The schizophrenic cat person: should I drive the Scrappin' crew away, or plant catnip? You Decide!!

Guns thinks I'm ignoring him. Off I go--!