Claus von Stauffenberg - Part II

Now that I had plucked the kitty out of the graveyard, my conscience wouldn't let me rest until I got him a vet check-up (in Bangkok, I had nearly killed my adult cat from bringing sick kittens into the house). The vet basically said, "This cat is in good shape; he's been eating somehow. He's about five months old." His right eye was in a near-constant squint, so she gave me some cream for it and sent me home.

Hoping the cat had been sneaking into the SPCA next door, but realizing he could still be somebody's cat, I put him back into the carrier and set off back to the cemetery. I crossed the street to the first house.

Nope, never seen the cat before. "Keep him! Take him home!" she exclaimed.

The next house had a woman and what I believe was her son. He was of the age that he might still be in school, or he might just be a "challenged" adult. I didn't inquire. They eyed the cat, and shook their heads. "Take him home! That's how we got our dog! He just showed up on our doorstep!"

Geez, I guess this "They choose you" thing is for real in the country.

I crossed to the other side of the street, and approached another woman. Nope, never seen him. "Keep him!" she said. Seems there's a theme....

Lastly, I stopped at the corner house, one of these interesting houses you see in New Zealand where people have a big yard and just make it their own. There are usually such a hodge podge of trees (fruit, ornamental, native), various vegetables and flowers growing in random places, a path cut out that might lead to nowhere. I just love them. The place we're staying at now has the same kind of set-up.

It was an old woman, bent over her garden toward the back. Not wanting to enter her yard and spook her, I called from the gate. "Hello, hello, ma'am?" Nothing. I raised my voice. Nothing. I opened her gate and walked slowly toward her, calling out. I was really afraid of scaring what few years she had left out of her. Finally, she looked up and I asked her about the cat.

A half hour went by where she talked a little bit about everything else, including her house which she was selling. She even went into the house and brought out the assessor's letter on her house -- a 3 bedroom with a big yard for only $180,000 (about $95,000 USD). Not bad!

She was such a sweet, old lady, I didn't mind. But eventually, I did need to know if she knew Grey Matter.

She knew him. She had seen him walking around the cemetery for quite some time. "Sometimes he crosses the road and sits on my fence. I talk to him."

Awww.

But he wasn't "hers." She didn't think he was anyone's cat. Okay, I'd had enough, he was coming home with me. Now we just needed a name -- something I approach with great seriousness. I considered Loki, from the naughty Norse god, and a couple other cutsie names. In the meantime, I was calling him things like "Grey Matter" and "Little Man."

Finally, we settled on the name I had picked from the beginning: Claus von Stauffenberg. For those not familiar, he was the German Nazi during WWII who was part of the German resistance, and one of the main players in one of a billion failed assassination attempts on Hitler. And like my kitty, he had only one workable eye.

Also, we had just seen Valkyrie in Auckland about a week before and had been surprised by how much we liked it, especially since we didn't think it had done all that well at the box office. I guess all the press around Tom Cruise's ridiculous antics over the past few years really did hurt him (as they did for Mel Gibson's Apocalypto, which was also a pretty good movie).

AND Valkyrie has a great cast (Bill Nighy! Kenneth Branagh! Tom Wilkinson!). Deliciously tense and occassionally tender, it's a good film, despite the fact you know the ending.

About a week later, after many forced squirts of eye goop into the kitty's eye, he no longer resembled his namesake. But it's just fun to call out "Claus von Stauffenberg" and to see a little grey furball barreling toward you.

I'm sure the real Claus would be deeply honored.

And now he's officially ours. Two SPCA adoptions and one stray, ALL under 2 years old. I feel a little guilty about that, since I believe in trying to get adults, but as they say, "You don't pick them, they pick you."

You Don't Choose Them - They Choose You

I (almost) always enjoy the the country boy-city girl differences between Beau and I. It can be so intriguing how these two kinds of upbringings, which I see as not just about location, but also a general cultural outlook, can differ.

One area they are almost always different in is animals. Country people tend to have a more utilitarian view of animals, and are more pragmatic in how to treat them. Killing them is just a fact of life. City people tend to be focused on animals as not just pets, but as integral members of the family. City people, like me, usually let their pets sleep in bed with them. The greatest dog Beau ever had, the one he keeps talking about to this day (though it died like 20 years ago) slept in the garage.

Recently, another difference came up, and it's one that I've always been rather touched by, even though I still don't totally buy it.

Beau strongly believes that you don't go out and buy a pet. As he's said many times, "A pet chooses you, you don't choose the pet." This is all well and good in the country where strays and dumped puppies can literally show up on your doorstep, but in the city, this just really doesn't happen, at least, rarely, save for the occasional outside cat that will gladly take any tuna you wanna leave out on a dish.

Thus, I truly believe that I choose the animal. I got to the local SPCA, maybe I visit it several times over several weeks. I go from cage to cage. I touch them, pet them, talk to them. And I wait...until I feel a connection. If it doesn't feel right, feel really powerful, I don't adopt.

A couple weeks ago we drove to the SPCA where we had adopted Tonks. She's at 8 months now and STILL hasn't gone into heat. This was a problem because when you adopt from them, they give you a certificate to get the dog fixed for free and ours was just about to expire. Well, the thing is, because Tonks is such an enormous, SPAZ of a puppy, the vet told us to make sure she goes into heat BEFORE we get her fixed, since those mommy hormones will chill her out and mature her a little.

So, we rolled into the SPCA to get our certificate time extended, but it seems we had shown up about an hour early (they have crazy public hours). We had already been driving around and doing errands in the other city for hours, and were eager to get home. Sitting around for an hour was not something Beau was willing to do.

The SPCA is on a piece of land it shares only with a large and ominous cemetary. I'm a big fan of these places, Beau is not.

Then we started to hear it - loud, long cries of a cat. Beau heard it first and started walking toward it, a short distance away from the SPCA and closer to the graveyard.

Then we saw it -- small and grey and a complete fuzzball -- an older kitten. How weird that he was out there. The second we made contact, he superglued himself to us, notably me. Every step I took, he was there, meowing and crying. I began to pet him and he cuddled and nuzzled. Awww man.

Right there was an old wooden loading chute, standing abandoned in the thick grass between the SPCA and the cemetary. Looking through the slats, you could see that three small little "beds" that the cat had made. Awww.

That cat desperately clawed his way up the chute until he reached the top slat which was at the level of my face. He tried to rub and cuddle my face, his purr about the loudest I'd heart. Oh man.

Beau, standing back a few feet said, "We're taking that cat home, aren't we?"

I looked up at him. "I don't know..."

"I don't see how we're getting out of here without that cat," he said.

The truth was, at this moment, I felt enormously conflicted. Beau is CONSTANTLY fighting me about getting more (any) animals. Even if I mention it in jest his face scrunches up like a lemon. "Noooooo," he growls, "NO animals."

But at this moment, Beau's country philosophy kicked in. "J., the animals pick you, you don't pick them. And look at...it..." He paused.

I grabbed the kitten's tail and pulled it upwards. "Oh boy, that's definitely a boy," I said.

"Yeah, he's picked you."

So, I stood there, conflicted. "But, what if he's someone's cat? He looks well-fed. And here we are, right next to the SPCA, maybe he escaped? And his eye..." His right eye was held in a permanent squint. Definitely an issue there.

You see, one of my (small) problems about living out in the country, is that it (allows) makes our cat an outside cat. Now, Fern would be one ANYWAY, that's clear, but it's absolutely necessary for us to have doors and windows open here during the day to allow the breeze to flow in from the sea. The only thing that has kept me from getting a second cat, is knowing it'd be an outside cat. And I want an inside cat. I want a lap cat, a sleep-with-me cat, a watch-TV-with-me cat. I spend a LOT of time alone up here on my beautiful remote paradise (with Beau at work), and I could use another heartbeat in the house.

But a free kitty!

So, five minutes later we were back on the road toward home, the kitten in my arms, doing that annoying cat-squalling-in-car thing. *sigh*

Over the weekend I introduced "Grey Matter" to the house. Tonks was thrilled -- another playmate! The other cat, Fern, was horrified and became nearly feral, only showing her face to grab 3 minutes worth of food before jumping out a window and back into the bush again.

Monday I drove the kitty back to town and went to the SPCA. I decided -- either he belonged with them, and if he didn't, maybe I'd just give him to them. I was still feeling...weird about the whole "choice" process. I was shocked that they didn't even recognize him, considering he lived right outside their gates. I put the cat carrier down and asked if I could look at the other animals. I walked up to the big cat cage, and put my hand against the metal mesh. Instantly, a mewing cat appeared. Seconds later, another and another. In less than a minute, I could make out about 20 cats. And this is a small, small town. Oh, man.

I couldn't possibly give him up when they had all these cats to adopt out. I turned around, thanked the lady, and drove across the street to the vet.

"He's about 5 months old, and someone's probably been feeding him, or he's been sneaking into the SPCA at night. He's hardly feral."

Racked with guilt, I set out on a small quest.

To be continued...

Happy Birthday, Binabun!

Happy birthday, my beautiful Sabina,
the best cat that has ever lived!

Since you were two months old, except for the 6 months I studied in France and that horrible month in quarantine in New Zealand, you have always been with me. No other living thing has been with me this long.

You have quite the kitty passport! You've lived in 7 cities, 4 states, and 3 different countries. You've endured torturously-long plane rides, and, very begrudgingly, 4 different cat companions at one time or another. You've survived fleas from a dog, a cold from a cat, and impressively, the "black parasite" of Thailand which killed the two kittens with you. *sniff*

You're definitely tough! You killed my parakeet *wince* and scratched the shit out of a Doberman (who was then terrified of you for life) in Milwaukee. In Madison, you caught a bat in mid-air and then proceeded to kick the crap out of it. In Bangkok, you left the decapitated bodies of poor geckos on the carpet for me to find. In New York City, you destroyed the arm of Steve's couch. And in Montana, you seem to have resigned yourself to stalking and killing my black socks. Well, that's better than the habit in your younger years of knocking over trash cans and sticking your head into "empty" containers of yogurt.

Despite all this, all you truly want is to be a lap cat, with 24 hours of non-stop stroking (hey, I can't get enough stroking, either!). You are affectionate and sweet, a real lover, and I swear, it seemed like you never left my bed while I lay, alone in a foreign country, sick and suffering with Dengue Fever.

You still seem so young to me, I can hardly believe it's been this long. I hope you live 14 more years. I love you, Bina!

No Rest for the Wicked

A couple Thursdays ago I was feeling pretty ooky at work, and the more I contemplated going home early to rest, the sweeter the idea became. I'm sure that has something to do with my general job dissatisfaction as well, but we've been over that bit before. I finally decided to cut the day in half, and go home at lunch, take a nap, and drink copious amounts of orange juice.

It was a particularly snowy day, even for Montana, and as I pulled into our apartment's parking lot, and I neared our covered parking, I thought to myself, "Geez, that giant white work van in the space next to us didn't give us much room to park." I continued my slow 90 degree turn into my space, like I have a thousand times before.

Yet, as I continued to turn into the space, the car stopped turning and began sliding....right for the giant van. Uh oh.

*BLAM* The impact into the van's front bumper (it was backed in to the space), surprised me, and seemed to make an explosive noise. My little Honda bounced right off of it and quivered. I have never hit another car in my life...well, except for some bumper nudges when parallel parking on snowy hills in Madison, and I was shocked and dismayed. I got out of the car and went to inspect the van. I didn't see any damage, not even a smudge on the bumper. Still, the noise and the very open parking lot made me think I'd probably been witnessed. Besides, leaving a note just seemed like the right thing to do - I'd be super pissed if someone banged my car and did it to me. So, I finished parking, tore off a piece of paper and wrote a carefully-worded note, and carefully placed it on the windshield.

As I was doing this, I heard a scream. For a split second my thoughts were, "OMG, someone saw me hit the car and is actually screaming?" I turned in its direction and couldn't see a soul. Then I heard it again, quieter, but not repeating itself, in a voice so hoarse you could almost feel its pain. Then I saw it.

Looking down, several feet away, was a tiny, grey cat. It was crying for all it was worth, and of course, I instantly melted into a pile of goo. I knelt down and held out a hand, and slowly, the cat came forward, crying the whole way. When it got to me, I stroked it, only to find its coat soaking wet and freezing. The thing was literally fur and bones, the body hard and bumpy and all edges. Taking a chance, I picked it up, and it nestled against me, continuing to cry. Oh god!

As I turned toward the house, Beau was standing up on the landing looking down at me. "What have you got there?" he said with both curiosity and wariness. "A caaat," I said in an almost little girl voice. Beau didn't even bother to protest, but the look on his face said it all.

Inside, I made a beeline for the bathroom to quarantine the cat. I've had plenty of experience with stray cats infecting my own cats (The "black parasite" in Thailand which killed my two kittens and nearly killed Sabina, and the dreaded Feline Leukemia which ran rampant). Fergus was very curious about our new visitor. Sabina, as usual, was completely disgusted.

I went and got two shallow bowls, one filled with water, the other with "kitty crack" (that wet food that comes in the shiny pouches that my cats always whore themselves for). I placed both dishes down on the bathroom floor, and took a seat there myself. The cat nearly lunged for the water bowl and began drinking ...and drinking....and drinking, while I attempted to towel it dry and warm it up. It drank for 10 full minutes, and though I prodded it, it completely ignored the cat food, to my astonishment. All it wanted to do was drink, and me thinking it was probably NOT okay to let it drink 3 bowls of water, finally pulled it away.

It was a sweet cat, tiny and grey with two white paws and Siamese-looking (narrow and slightly crossed) eyes. Calling the local Humane Society, they said they couldn't come to pick it up (damn), but that I would have to bring it in. This was not a HUGE deal, but I had come home because I felt sick and the Humane Society was all the way across town and halfway to the next one. Hrm, okay.

After a little more TLC, the cat loaded in one of my carriers, I took it back outside and into the car. I had the heat way up and didn't play the radio (surprisingly difficult for me), in attempts to keep things calm. It did indeed stay very calm and eventually crawled out of the carrier, into the back seat, and began to sleep.

At the Humane Society, the ground covered in fresh snow, I attempted to drive up to its front doors, which involved a sharp, short hill. The Honda got about halfway up before it decided it wasn't worth it. I felt a quick lightning bolt of panic, then relaxed, and let the car basically slide backwards down the hill, where, slipping and sliding, I found a snow-filled space. Trying to cover the kitty from the sleet and snow, I trudged up the hill myself, and entered the building.

The process went fine, though I admit feeling strangely uncomfortable, like when you can tell a security guard in a store is watching you even though you have no intention of stealing anything. You get that paranoid, guilty feeling. They confirmed it was a Siamese cross, and were nice enough though to let me come into the exam room with the vet, who told me it was a girl, ahhhh. (I christened her "Sophie" in my head). I was in for a couple of shocks when he said, "This cat is about five years old." FIVE? This tiny thing? And then next when he weighed her and she only came up to 4.8lbs! Sabina, who is a fairly petite cat, is usually about 9lbs! Poor thing!

They told me they had a lot of success with rehabilitating starved cats and that she'd probably be fine. I asked if they called me, but they basically said I should call them. I went and visited all the other cats and dogs in the place, and lost my heart to the sweetest English Setter named "Ben," before tearing myself away and leaving for home.

I just visited their webpage, but no sign of Sophie yet. She's probably still getting better. I hope.

Koala Bear

Saturday I had planned to do a lot of housecleaning, but I suddenly just got so tired, and I couldn't resist lying down for a bit. Fergus decided to join me, and instead of snuggling up next to me, he thought it better to climb up on my back and sleep, a la koala bear style. He laid his face so close to my ear that I could hear him lick his lips. I love having the cats sleep with me, but this was a bit...intimate.

Fergus!

Oh, and I've decided to go with "Fergus" for our new addition to our human-feline family. I think he likes it too, 'cause he's already starting to come when I call his name. Thank you for your comments and suggestions, even ones like Dingleberry and Soloniosum *smacks Spongie* Though I really liked all those names, Fergus felt right in the end. I say *I* since Beau plans on calling him his usual names for cats:

- Cat
- Goofball
- Oh-You-Little-Shit (after he gets bit or scratched when he plays roughly with Sabina)
- Lemme-Step-On-Your-Head (This one for the sheer pleasure of riling me up), as in:
"Hey you, come here -- Lemme step on your head!"

I'm still totally thrilled he's here and liking him more each day. He is currently in a sort of tense truce with Sabina - they slept next to each other last night for the first time, though every now and then she couldn't help but emit a low-tone growl. And he terrorizes her by leaping onto her back and biting her head, then joyfully chasing her around the house, while she lets out these unnerving screams of protest. She's old and her tolerance for play is not too high, but she needs a bit of exercise. It's rather funny, except for this morning. Screaming cats are not funny at 6:00am.

P.S. Beau reminded me of one more name he frequently uses: Dumbass. I'm not a fan of that one either, but he says, "But I always say it as a joke, like 'Hey Dumbass' hahahahah."

Ha.

Name that Cat!

After a year of lobbying, culminating in some intense negotiations over the past couple weeks, I finally "convinced" Beau to let us get another cat. (Convinced being a very strong word). There are certain things I believe when it comes to cats: 1) You should always have two. They keep each other company over the long hours when you're gone, and well, it's just more fun that way; and 2) You should try to get them from your local Humane Society if at all possible.

This past Saturday I went to the Humane Society of Western Montana specifically to see a cat named Donovan I had read about in the paper. He had all the qualities I wanted in a cat, both physically (adult, male, short-hair, inside cat, fixed, different coloration than Sabina), and personally (likes other cats, affectionate). When I got there, I made a beeline for him. The place was fairly crowded already. He was in a small glass room with another cat, and immediately he began crawling all over me and rubbin and lovin. Awwww.

Then he bit me. And then he bit me again, and again. Ow, damn it! Now, I don't mind a little cat nip (ha ha), but an adult cat who repeatedly bites you is a bit of a problem. I kept stroking him and talking softly, thinking maybe it was a fluke, but he'd rub-rub-rub, then proceed to sink his fangs into the palm of my hand. Again and again. Oh, shit.

I decided to give him a break and went to see the other cats, of which they had quite a few. They had a lot of really wonderful ones, mostly female, who were sweet and loving. I opened up a lot of cages and stroked a lot of kitties. I would take photos of my favorites with my cellphone and send them to Beau at work. One cat in particular caught my attention. He was a male Siamese with gorgeous blue eyes. I've never really been a fan of the breed. They're loud and pissy in general, and their super-angular over-breeding is resulting in a pretty queer look. Thankfully, this cat looked more old school with the darker coat and larger, muscular body. Also, despite the fact that all the other cats in the room were mewing and calling, he was surprisingly silent. As soon as I opened his cage, he climbed up so his front paws were on my shoulder, and then be began to nuzzle my chin.

Yeah, I was hooked.

I checked him out - adult male, fixed, and declawed *WINCE*. "Likes other cats, especially the ladies." Oooh, well that will help! His name was Cinder.

I tried to be fair though and took my time to visit all the cats there, revisiting some, and even took a moment with the kittens though I had no intention of adopting one of those. I then went back to Donovan. A small boy was standing in the room with him, tightly clutching one hand in the other, and displaying a face of pure misery. "Did he bite you?" I asked the boy. He nodded silently. I tried to console the boy and asked him a few more questions of which he simply nodded or shook his head, continuing to hold his hand protectively. I tried to then pet Donovan and talk softly to him, but he just kept biting me. I went and talked to the staff about Donovan and his biting and they kind of looked at each other and smiled. "Yeah, he's a wild one," they said. Oh well.I went and visited the dogs, then came back and asked the staff about Cinder. Well, they said, a lot of people had been inquiring about him, and in fact, someone was coming right now to see him to adopt. At this particular Humane Society, you can come in and adopt on the spot, so it's pretty much first-come, first-serve. It turns out that Cinder had been the "Pet of the Week" in the local newspaper and so was getting a lot of interest. Shit.

My original plan was to come when they opened at noon, narrow it down, and then when Beau got off of work at 4pm, race back to the Humane Society which closed at 5pm to adopt a cat. Although Beau was less than thrilled about this, it was important to me that he be a part of the process, help choose. The staff explained that I still needed to submit the permission slip from our apartment manager (true) and come back with that before I adopt. They apologized that they couldn't hold Cinder for me, but I understood. That was fair.

Then the staff told me some more about his history. He'd been with a family with a small boy who had broken Cinder's leg at just 6 months old! Horrors! Then, they'd had Cinder declawed shortly afterwards (this is something I am totally against). Finally, when he started peeing out of his litterbox (because they had just gotten a new dog), they gave him up. Heartbreaking! (The litterbox problem stopped instantly after he was surrendered to the Humane Society).

So, I left and called Beau, telling him about Cinder. I was going to wait on all of this, but I decided I should just go ahead and take care of it, and with my sweatshirt absolutely covered in cat fur, I went to my apartment manager and got my permission slip (after plunking down even more of a deposit than the original). I went home and showered and changed clothes and by this time, Beau had called back and told me he trusted me enough to do this on my own and go ahead. My heart pounding, I raced back to my car and drove back to the Humane Society - on the other side of town, of course.

When I got there, they recognized me and told me that there was a couple in with Cinder now, and I should basically just wait, biting my lip. I filled out the application and turned in my apartment permission slip and sat down in the lobby. And waited. Awhile.

As I sat there, two different calls came in specifically for Cinder. In addition, a spiky-haired woman walked in inquiring about him as well. I waited for the woman behind the counter (a different one) to basically tell the spiky-haired woman the same thing they'd been telling them all, "A lot of people are interested in him, forget it." But to my horror, the staff person ended up escorting the woman back to see him. I was going to protest, but I didn't get the words out fast enough, and was intimidated about shouting across the room as they walked off. So, I sat there and waited. And waited. Here and there the staff woman I had been talking to shot me sympathetic looks and I tried to smile back. I even went in and petted a sweetheart of a dog for a bit before coming back to deposit my butt into the chair.

The spiky-haired woman emerged and began whispering to the staff people. Uh oh. I glared in her direction, just daring her to try to steal him out from under me. Then I heard one of them say, "Oh no, Cinder can't go to a home with kids. He doesn't like kids." Yes! The spiky-haired woman left.

After what seemed like eternity, they called me up to the counter. Apparently, the previous couple had decided against Cinder after he had bit the woman on the chin. *snicker* Okay, that's not really funny, it's just luck. The staff were unfazed. "That poor cat has seen 50 people today. He is so overstimulated and exhausted. We're not surprised." So, with that interesting green light, I went ahead and filled out all the paperwork to adopt him, and for just $10 more, he could be microchipped as well, which I had done (Sabina already has one for when she went to NZ). They gave me a bag of Science Diet, a collar and tag, all his medical history, a free vet visit card, and of course, Cinder, in a large cardboard box.

Driving home, he finally found his voice and began to cry. I let him out and petted him and peering out the windows with wide-eyes, he was fine. And now, we're all home, cats in two different rooms (it takes Sabina quite awhile to adjust to a new animal), and all's well. He's still a total sweetheart and I adore him. I miss him when I'm at work. We did have one small accident *cough* but since then it's gone smoothly. I look forward to many many years with .... with....what's his name?

That's where I hope you, all four of my readers, come in. I thought I'd throw out the names I picked for him. Cinder is actually kind of a cool name, especially with his gorgeous coat, but I'd prefer to name him myself for one, and secondly, there's something I feel...like how he had this traumatic childhood and now is his time to start all over, with a new name. Over-personification of a cat, perhaps, but I can identify with wanting to start all over anew.

Anyway, below are the names in the running. I'm curious as to what you all think. Like any of them?

Name choices:
1. Fergus - named both after a literary character in a series Beau and I read, and after Beau's family's Scottish clan.
2. Kiwi - cause it's a cute name and relates to our beloved time spent in New Zealand
3. Atticus - after Gregory Peck's stellar character and because it sounds cool. "Also, it's close to 'cat,' so I can just call him 'hey, cat' like I want to," muttered Beau.
4. Phoenix - cool name, Harry Potter connection, and it's where I grew up.
5. Stile - named after another literary character and kind of a neat homonym.

A GOLDEN SHOWER!

OH. MY. GOD. You are not going to believe what just happened. I was sitting here on my gentle, quiet Sunday morning, watching Meet the Press, and enjoying a very kind email sent to me by someone who actually reads this blog. I had the large Law & Order hardback book by Wolf and Burstein in my lap, where I was checking something. I saw my naughty boy cat (Seamus), sniffing and pawing at a large, black plastic bag on the ground near me. A cat pawing and sniffing at something always worries me, since sometimes it means they may want to use it to crap on.

I shooed him away and with a flourish snatched up the plastic bag.

*SPLASH*

An ENORMOUS, and I do not joke when I say ENORMOUS wave of yellow cat piss flew from the bag and splashed ALL over me, my book, and the treasured comments from my writing professor that were sitting on the ground at my feet. It drenched my clothes, and even left a sizable mark on my roommate’s (eek!) computer chair which is already old and rather…absorbent.

I don’t know how many of you have had the pleasure of taking in the scent of cat piss, but it is one of the most powerful, disgusting, gag-inducing smells on the planet. Sometimes it’s like sticking your head in a toilet bowl of ammonia, and sometimes it has a more sickly, buttery smell. This one is the latter.

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Needless to say, after rinsing off my poor book, I have taken a very long shower.

WHY, do you ask, would my cats piss in a large trash bag on the floor? Well, let me just tell you…the apartment is in various degrees of super tidy and super disastrous. Both my roommates are in Las Vegas (thank you, Jesus!), so I was taking this opportunity to do two things: 1) clean the nasty apartment and 2) finalize teaching my two cats how to use the toilet. Yes, the actual toilet (see the book listed on the left).

The toilet-training had been going really well. Basically, I’ve been putting an inch of The Voice newspaper underneath their litter box each day, until it reached the height of the toilet itself. So far, except for one accidental dumping of the litterbox, it has all gone fine. Despite the ever-increasing height of the box, to even where I was wondering if they could jump up there, the cats have been doing great. Then, I moved the box literally ON TOP of the toilet seat, covering it, securing it with bungee cords. Besides being terribly inconvenient (I had to remove the bungee cords and litterbox every time I wanted to use the toilet), it has also gone really well.

Now, the final step! And just in time since my roommates come home tomorrow night. You remove the litterbox completely, stretch a piece of saran wrap over the toilet opening, dump some litter there, and leave it. The cats, already knowing the toilet is wear they go to the bathroom, should jump up there as usual (despite the now lacking litterbox) and see the litter and then just use it to crap/piss. I tried to encourage them, just as I have with the scratching post and such. Of course, cats are not happy to be up on a toilet seat, and they were a little alarmed that the part with the litter would not support their weight.

But, I waited. I left the house, since they often go the bathroom when I’m not around. I came home. Nothing. Not even a dent in the litterbox. How do you encourage a cat to crap?

I went to bed, thinking now, they wouldn’t be able to hold it any longer and would take advantage of me being unconscious. When I woke up, I went to the bathroom and saw two small indentations in the litter, but no piss, no crap. Someone had tried it out and given up.

Well, I guess I know what happened! Finding the large plastic bag on the floor (leftover from my new 13” TV I bought last night – an issue from another time), they thought that would be a lot easier than balancing on a slippery toilet seat.

Again, can I say, FUCK!?!?!?!?!

I am not sure what to do now. Do I just give up, pull the litterbox out of the closet and just forget I even tried this? Start over again at zero and try again? Keep up my faith that they will use the toilet seat within the next 24 hours and that I will NOT find any other piss/shit surprises?

I’m going to go work-out now and pray that when I get back, I find cat poop in the toilet.

Oh god, my hands still smell like cat piss. Gotta go.

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Quickie Book Review: Live from New York: An Oral History of Saturday Night Live by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller -- A

Hip hip hooray for such a great book, a "juicy read" as my co-worker put it, on all the sex, drugs, and rock -n- roll of SNL. This hefty volume (600 pages of story not counting appendix/index), is intriguing and enjoyable from first to last page. Written as if every cast member/writer/"suit" were sitting around a campfire retelling the show's history from inception to present day. you feel as if almost nothing was left out or kept secret. The honesty is a little shocking but really, quite refreshing and eye-opening. The authors seem to REALLY want you to appreciate how unique, groundbreaking, and demanding SNL was/is to create and maintain, and the message does get across. After reading it, you're not sure if you want to work for SNL or would pay NOT to. As I was reading it, I felt this strange attachment and obsession for the show come over me. The only disappointing part was the vitriolic whining of of Janeane Garafalo whom I've always thought was absolutely cool and "for real." She just comes off (and this is in her own words, since the book is just a compilation of direct quotes) as self-righteous and yet at the same time, snidely insecure. Chevy Chase is an asshole?? And Mike Myers and Dana Carvey didn't get along during the Wayne's World movies? Woah!