Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Monday, November 29, 2010

You Hold My Heart Between Your Fluffy Paws

...So Mind Your Damn Claws!

Today I underwent the annual ordeal that is Piddy Pat's trip to the vet.

I started doing this last year; before that, her visits were infrequent because she's an indoor cat and healthy as the proverbial horse.

However, she is getting up there in years--she turns 17 on March 13th; in cat years that equal 71 (for dogs and cats, the age equation is 7 for the first year 4 for every additional year). If she was a human, she would be one of those incredible little old ladies described as "spry," followed with "SHE'S HOW OLD?!?!?!?" She's really amazing--still playful and active, although she has gotten a bit set in her ways.

It's cool; I have no problem indulging her.

I don't know for whom the vet trip is more taxing, her or me. I have to do the grab-and-shove: the quick seize and head-first stuffing into the carrier bag, a ridiculous thing my mother bought for K.C. in her final years to transport her upstairs at night. I mean, it's a dog bag--one of those stupid bags designed for brainless tits who keep a yappy rat for a fashion accessory. Sorry, people, I really don't like most small dogs--anything that is smaller than my cat qualifies as a rodent, and the sounds the little buggers make just pierce my eardrums. Real dogs go, "WOOF," (or possibly "ARF!") not "YIPPPPP!" incessantly. Anything smaller than a Jack Russell there is no need for. Man up and get a cat if you want something that small. It will improve your character because the first time you try to use the cat as a fashion accessory, you will discover what claws are for and that expensive piece of designer shit will be in shreds.

And the world will be a better place. (Yeah, I'd like to park my Buick over people like the scions of certain hotel chains.)

And forget declawing--you want to declaw your cat, I'll be happy to cut off your fingertips for you because that's what you're doing: mutilating a living creature to save a piece of furniture. Anyone who declaws a cat should be sterilized and have a limb forcibly amputated. Scum.

Yeah, the Empress is very short on sleep--going on about three hours of it. I got it into my head yesterday that I COULD go for a win on NaNoWriMo, despite not having written a friggin' word until 3:00 p.m. yesterday. Have written 5K+ and the sequel to Broom Closet is starting to shape up.

And there was much rejoicing.

But I digress. As always.

Back to Piddy Pat. Schnookalupagus. Fuzzy Butt. Pain in MY ASS! Mummy's Iddy-biddy-Piddy-pie. Stupid Cat. Schnookypuss. BITCH! Bubbie-kitty. Yeah, she's my four-legged child, and I'm good with that. And she is MY cat, just as I am HER human. She has been since she first came into the house. See, we had K.C., the Three-legged Menace, the calico with a fan club, and K.C. was Mum's cat and made sure the tiny little interloper knew it. And because Pid was not much more that a puff of orange fluff with ginormous blue eyes and the runt of the litter to boot (we always get the runt--it's the unwritten rule of the house. You want a cat with serious personality--and serious emotional issues--get the runt. The entertainment will be non-stop). I had to set up a second litterbox, retrain her, go through the hunting training--what people call "playing" with a cat--cats don't play. They fucking hunt, especially the females, and Pid is the smartest cat I've ever dealt with that way. Only cat I've ever had (and I've had some smart, evil felines) who figured out that attacking the hand got you nowhere--go for the arm: less moving parts to deal with and the human gets the message VERY quickly.

I love that cat.

We got her in 1994; she was born on my Auntie Irene's b-day, which is one of the reasons Mum got her--she was the granddaughter of Missy, a cat of ours that was stolen; she looked a lot like Missiles (but prettier--I have never seen a prettier felis domesticus than Pid, all personal prejudice aside); and she was born on Auntie's b-day, five years after we lost her to cancer.

Pid adopted me as MomCat pretty quickly--slept with me, followed me, greeted me, got pissed at me when I wasn't around--and pretty soon, it was clear that I was the only one allowed to pick her up, carry her around, snuggle her up, etc. She will jump into Mum's lap occasionally (if I'm not around) for petting and will greet Idiot once in a while for a head rub; she'll meet strangers in the house and inspect, but I'm the only human on the planet that she loves.

That kind of loyalty... when I'm feeling my lowest, that loyalty means the world. I know I can't be as bad as I think if that perfect little creature loves me. And I know it's not because I'm the regular feeder (that's actually Mum, or was up until a few months ago); it's because... it's because she loves me. I know I wouldn't have survived my miscarriage in '94 without her; a week before Xmas, I lost the baby I was carrying, just two months along, unmarried, but wanting the child, even if the father was a piece of shit. When my baby died, a part of me died, but that little cat wouldn't let me check out.

So, the bond there is pretty intense. Whenever I go away for a bit, I am told when I get home. Actually, I'm told while I'm packing--it's one of the reasons I wait until last minute because I know a certain little Fluffy Person is going to start racing around, grumbling and grousing, bitching me out because I am leaving, and she won't have someone to sleep with. Because, yes, she sleeps with me. In the warm months, it's near me on the bed; at this time of the year, we fall asleep with her cuddled up against my chest like a living stuffie, purring and kneading on my arm (which is why someone I work with thought for a while I was a cutter--don't always remember to cover the arm so the claws don't catch). She's gotten more affectionate as she's gotten older, too, so she's now added some insufferably cute bits to her bedtime routine.

Well, I should say her "Mom, would you get off that FUCKING COMPUTER and cuddle up with me?" routine. My insomnia doesn't make her happy; neither does the laptop, a sudoku puzzle, my 'droid, or even your garden variety novel. As far as Pid's concerned, if I'm sitting on the bed, I am at her disposal, so now, the routine is leap on to the bed from wherever she's been hanging, pick her way over the books, papers, electronics, etc. testing her footing with tentative but determined paws and a chirruping to me that clearly says, "Maaaaammmaaa!"; eventually making it next to the pillow, at which point she turns around a few times, dancing on the edge of the mattress, and then starts headbutting my side, which is the cutest, most endearing and undoing gesture on the planet for me because cats don't just headbutt anybody--it's the ultimate gesture of affection on the part of a feline, and my cat doesn't do it for anyone but me.

And then the manipulative little bitch starts to purr. Eeeeeeeeeevilllll. This is why I have a cat, BTW--I love sharing my life with a little creature who is utterly dependent upon me for her sustenance and survival yet doesn't kowtow or kiss ass in any way, shape or form. That's self respect and self esteem, dammit. :-D

And you wouldn't think a six-pound cat could take up a lot of room, but let me tell ya, she may be tiny, but she knows how to take up space. If the bed is empty, she takes the middle of it. And stares at me when I tell her to move like I have grown a spare head and am speaking a foreign language, a look that clearly says, "Excuse me? Why should I have to move?" And while, yes, she is six pounds and tiny and therefore can be easily airlifted and shifted, she is also fast as a greased pig and before I can sit down, has resumed her position.

Mind you, she makes sure to say something because she's been sat on once, and it was enough.

OK, I have to do something productive and earn my wages. Send Piddy a little good energy--despite the fact that she seems incredibly healthy for her age, her vet found a little heart murmur that hadn't been there before, and is a little concerned for her thyroid as she's lost half a pound in the past year (not a big deal for you or me, but when you only weigh 6.5 pounds, it's a bit much). And if I lost her, well... I'd lose a part of my heart.

BTW, I don't hate dogs. I just wish so many didn't remind me of several ex-boyfriends--hairy, needy, whiny, and stinky at the worst moments. ;-)

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