Monday, May 3, 2010

If you've followed this blog for any period of time, you are probably familiar with Ninja Cocaine Kitty.

As I've mentioned before, Ninja Cocaine Kitty (not his real name, but changed here to protect his identity) has an interesting way of communicating with me. It usually involves flinging himself from across the room in a Freddy Krueger, Ninja-like stance.

But last night he elevated his communication method to a new high.

We're not talking any of that, "But did Timmy fall in the well, boy?" stuff for my pets. Nope. Not my cat. Instead, he actually fashioned a neck sign out of a bag handle and a piece bag.


I'm pretty sure when I caught up with him he was searching for a Sharpie to scratch out his little piece of kitty wisdom to me. Curses to bad timing.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Last night, we had chinese food. My favorite part of the meal -- like everyone else -- is the fortune cookie! (Hellooooo - bits of wisdom IN A COOKIE?!? GENIUS.)

Giddy with anticipation, I delicately break apart my cookie to find the following advice:

Behind an able man, there are always.

Period. That was it. ALWAYS WHAT?!?

Everyone knows the rule of fortune cookie etiquette -- if you get a fortune you hate, you get to choose another cookie.

(OK, you may not have known that rule of etiquette because, quite honestly, I just made it up. But anyway...)

Skeptically, I choose another cookie. I read it with a raised eyebrow.

Hubby: What did it say?
Me: The current year will bring you much happiness.
Hubby: Well you better get on it, you have about six weeks.

And just then?
The dog threw up.
Twice.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009



We have an old smelly cat.


She has been relegated to my home office space and the back entryway because she is old. And smelly.


Needless to say, my office now often smells smelly. And old.


A few nights ago, my husband comes in with one of those stick (literally) brooms that smells like cinnamon. They put them out around this time every year through Christmas.


I always make fun of them.


So, he SAYS he bought it because it will make my office smell better -- you know, less like an old smelly cat. However, it is nearing Halloween. Somehow, I think this broom had a different message intended for me.


You be the judge:





(FYI-it now smells more like Big Red gum in my office and less like a smelly old cat. This may be more conducive to working. It remains to be seen...)

Enjoy this post? Nominate it for BlogHer of the Week. (It'll make me feel warm & fuzzy...)

It's true. If you have a really warped sense of humor you can't just turn it off. Not for any reason, in any situation.

As you may know, we had to have my dog Indy put to sleep earlier this week. It's been awful. We left him at the vet's office to be cremated. The following is a conversation that took place between my husband and me yesterday:

ME: We got something in the mail from the Vet's office. It looks like a card. I couldn't open it...
Him: Hm...what do you think it is?
ME: *blink*blink*blink*
ME: Welllllllll...my best guess is that it's a sympathy card. However, I guess that they could be sending us Indy.
Him: *silence*
Him: *look of disbelief*
Him: *more silence*
Him: You know, that's not even funny...
ME: I know...

Don't worry. I cried later.
See?
There is a little piece of heart inside this black hole somewhere.

Today a 14 year relationship ended.

You never fully understand loss until it happens to you. You may have watched friends or family members go through it. You may have commiserated. But until it's you, you really don't get it.

Today we put my dog Indy to sleep.

It's an odd thing to say, "put to sleep". A bit misleading. Most living beings that I know that go to sleep eventually wake up.

Not the case here.

We experienced an exhausting weekend of rapid decline with him. One that had me praying that he would just die. It culminated in his inability to walk. He lost bowel and bladder control (even though he tried really hard to make it to the door to go out). But he remained fully aware. And he was humiliated. It was time and today was the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~

We acquired Indy much the same way we have our other pets. Namely? We're suckers for those pet adoptions they hold at various locations like pet stores. One sunny Texas afternoon about 14 years ago we made it into one of those stores to buy fish food. We left $300 later with a funny looking little dog that I *thought* was a German Shepard (I had always wanted one) and all the puppy acoutremonts. When he didn't grow above about 40 pounds, our best guess - with the Vet's input as well as many others, even strangers on the street - was that he was a cross between a Norwegian Elkhound and a German Shepard.

Indy had some ridiculous name when we adopted him. I can't remember what is on the adoption papers, but it was something silly like Petey. I wanted to name him Newman just so we could say, "HELLO NEWMAN" a la Jerry Seinfield. Instead, we named him something equally as ridiculous as Petey and Newman. We named him Indy.

Todd and I weren't yet married when we got Indy (or he selected us, it's all very cloudy now), but the intention was for Indy to live with Todd but be "my" dog. He immediately bonded with Todd (of course), but somewhere down the line that switched and he was 110% my dog. (It may have happened after he ate the corner off of Todd's house outside. I'm not sure.)

Indy was faithful. He was smarter than any dog I've ever met and picked up quickly. It was great fun to teach him stupid pet tricks to show off to people (like standing on his hind legs and going around in a circle whenever I said, "Go around!"). He was eager to please me. He slept at my feet. He sat in my office for endless hours of work. He moved from room to room with me. He was always there (even if he had to tolerate sharing his bed with the cats in my office).

Indy loved the water. He loved people food - especially sharing my McDonald's bacon-egg-and-cheese biscuit. He liked going places, but he hated riding in the car. He loved being in the middle of everybody and everything going on.

Indy wasn't the cutest dog, especially when we first got him. He had these pointed ears that stuck straight up - bigger than his whole head. But he had a way of growing on people. I remember my mom saying, "He's kind of ugly" when she first saw him. By the end of that weekend, he had won her over. Same with my grandma - who said she didn't like animals in the house - but allowed Indy. He ran into the other room to check on her each time she coughed. She said, "I guess if I had a dog like that I would let him in the house." That's just how he was. You did things for and around him that you usually wouldn't. He was a great sport.

Indy had a condition called nystagmus which made his eyes jiggle back and forth. We grew accustomed to it, but those meeting Indy for the first time always gasped, "WHAT is wrong with your dog's eyes?!?" We amused ourselves by saying, "What do you mean?" and pretending like we didn't know what people were talking about.

Indy was a great dog, but he wasn't perfect. He liked the delicacy of cat poop (we dubbed the cat litter boxes the "Drive Through"). He chewed all of my running shoes (yes, I really ran in a previous life) - but he chewed the left heel only. He was a shameless table scrap moocher. He never behaved for me on the leash, but always did for Todd (even after hundreds of dollars spent on dog training). He was territorial over me. He hated Ella (and gave her little baby head more than one warning snap when she wouldn't shut up), even though she tried her hardest to be friends with him. He ate baby Ugg boots. He "barped" (a small little bark that wouldn't get him in trouble) when you left him outside too long. He made a dash for it if he ever escaped his leash and came back hours later looking like he had the time of his life with, "Whaaa? Why are you guys out here in the snow without a coat looking for me?"

No, he wasn't perfect, but he was my dog. He was a great pet. He was an amazing companion. And for 14 years he was my buddy.

You will be sorely missed, buddy.

Indy (Newman) (Petey) Wilson, 1995 - May 11, 2009

If you were anywhere near my house this afternoon (and maybe even if you weren't), you may have heard the following emanating from the walls:

ME (SHRIEKING to the dog):

That BETER.NOT.BE.WHAT.I.THINK.IT.IS.IN.YOUR.MOUTH.

IS THAT ELLA'S UGG BOOT?!?!

NO! NO! BAD DOG!

YOU BETTER HOPE THAT IT'S OK!

I'm pretty sure the conversation went something like this inside Indy the Dog's head (use your best dog imitation voice):

Indy the Dog: Look at my new chew toy! Look at my new chew toy! Look at my new chew toy! Wait, er? What's that?!?!?

Indy the Dog: UH, OOPS. ER...putting this down riiiiiiight over here.

Indy the Dog: LOOK! It's down! I'm a good boy, right? There are only a few slobber marks on it. See? Nothing we can't fix. GOOD BOY? (Please say I'm a good boy!).

Indy the Dog: Averting my eyes, yep I think averting my eyes would be best here! WHAT UGG BOOT?!?!

The UGG boot lives. Sadly, though, the dog is buried in the snow outside. (It's OK, I tunneled a little hole for his nose so he could breath).

He better be glad we got this cute pic of Ella rockin' the UGGs the other day:

DISCLAIMER...No UGG boots, babies, or dogs were harmed before or after the creation of this blog post. OK, Ella might be really mad about that hat when she gets older, but I wouldn't say she was HARMED.

BACKGROUND:
When we first acquired Ninja Cocaine Kitty last year, he was just a confused scared little kitty. He was so small that he would try to "nurse" on Todd's goatee or on my ear. He would crawl up on my shoulder and latch himself in a jaw death grip to my ear lobe and try to nurse. He tried this for months and months after we got him and finally he grew out of it. He will still try it on occasion (which makes me sad and I say, "OOOHHH LOOOOK...he must miss his MOMMMMMY", completely forgetting that he just randomly Ninja flung himself at me mere moments ago).

FAST FORWARD TO THIS WEEK:
Ella is fascinated with our pets (2 dogs, 2 cats), which is sad because they want nothing to do with her (the spectrum varies from mild disinterest to complete loathing on their part). This week, Freddie (AKA: Ninja Cocaine Kitty) has been hanging around Ella a lot, so she's taken a great deal of interest in him. I've been teaching her "KITTY! KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!" (which she thinks is the BEST. NOISE. EVER.).

Upon Todd's return home from a business trip, Ella sees Ninja Cocaine Kitty and starts all, "KI-KI-KI-KI" (yes, she's a genius) in front of her daddy. Todd was in great awe of my new monkey trick. He then says, "OH! While I was gone, I had all these weird dreams. One was that we were pumping your milk with the pump, but not from your breast, FROM YOUR EAR LOBE."

Discussion about his mentally stability and need for regulated medication ensued.

After that, I was telling him how I was teaching Ella the "KITTY! KITTY!" thing this week and I couldn't figure out why Ninja Cocaine Kitty wouldn't leave me alone. It took me a moment to realize that he wouldn't leave me alone BECAUSE I WAS CALLING HIM ("Kitty! Kitty!")

(Hey, I never claimed to be bright).

At that point? My husband deadpans:

"He wasn't leaving you alone not because you were calling him, but because your ears were lactating..."

There's something seriously wrong with us in this household.

There's a show on British television (shut up) called It's Me or the Dog: How to Have the Perfect Pet. The lady's name is Victoria Stilwell and she goes into homes where they are having dog problems and teaches the owners and the dogs some respect. It was another one of those up-all-night-with-Ella's-reflux-might-as-well-watch-TV finds. It's also informative. And (shockingly enough) entertaining.

Anyway, I've learned quite a bit. The most helpful being what to do when your dogs are barking. According to Victoria, when your dogs are barking you aren't supposed to yell their names. You are supposed to make a loud noise like, "ACK! ACK!" What this does is simulate a noise the doggie mother would make if the dogs were doing something wrong in the litter. And, guess what? IT WORKS. Which is fantastic news since my usual approach of INDY! ABBEY! INNNNDY! ABBBBBEY! INDY-ABBEY-INDY-ABBEY-INDY-ABBEY! HEEEEY! SHUUUUUT! UUUUUP! really wasn't working at all when my dogs were barking.

So now at my house, when the dogs are barking you will hear me do a brief, loud ACK! ACK! (Go ahead and laugh, everyone else does, including my parents. Thanks mom & dad!).

End of the story? Not quite. Remember, we have an almost 7 month old. A few days ago Ella started doing this low grunt-like thing that comes out, "GRR! GRR!" - almost a cross between clearing your throat and grunting. I knew immediately what she was doing. The first time Todd heard her he said (look of confusion), "What IS she DOING anyway?!?"

My response?

I laughed hysterically (like any good role model parent).

ACK! ACK!

We are stuck in a world of poop and puke. (When I say "we", I mean my husband and I "we", not you and I "we"...)

If it isn't Ella pooping or puking, it's one of the dogs and/or cats. It's so bad that you step in cat vomit on your way to throw away a poopy diaper. I change the baby, go throw her diaper away, and go back to pick her up only to find that she's pooped AGAIN (and she finds it very funny when I say, "YOU POOPED AGAIN!")

WHAT IS UP AT OUR HOUSE?!? I mean, are we under some POOPY-PUKEY full parenting/pet owner moon that I knew nothing about until now (or that people don't warn you about until you know the poopy-pukey secret handshake)?!?! It's REALLY wearing on our nerves, let me tell you. Ella belly laughs now whenever I say, "POOPY-PUKEY, POOPY-PUKEY, THAT'S ALL IT IS HERE! POOPY-PUKEY!" (yeah, way funny, kid, thanks).

A few nights ago, as I was TRYING to get some work done, I hear one of the cats hacking up a fur ball in the hall, while the dogs danced their pee-pee (poopy) dance at the back door. I sigh really loud and yell from my office, "TODD! One of the cats is puking and the dogs need to go out to poop!"

He appears around the corner with a poopy diaper in his hand and pleads, "Come on! I just changed a poopy diaper!"

To which I reply?

"What is THAT?!?! The DIAPER DEFENSE?!?!"

A few weeks after Ella was born, my mom and dad were up. I had gone out for something exotic (like groceries, I'm sure) and my parents were at home with Ella. Upon my arrival back home, I went into my home office to check my email. Much to my surprise, my computer desktop looked like this:

Yep-upside down.

Now, there were two things I knew:

1. I didn't put my computer desktop like that, and

2. I hadn't been drinking (seeing how I hadn't had a drink in many months and was breast feeding).

When my dad came in I said, "Ha, ha, dad, very funny." My dad is pretty computer savvy and I had assumed he had done this little "trick" as a joke.

His response?
"Uh, I've never seen that before in my life."

Well, APPARENTLY, Ninja Cocaine Kitty (who likes to lay on my keyboard and/or fling himself off of my keyboard to gain height and speed for his next ninja move), hit some series of keys that turned my desktop upside down. (Yeah, great idea right? A set of keystrokes that turns your screen upside down...)

Since then, he's done other minor "damages" - changing the resolution on the screen, opening a WORD document and then saving it, renaming files, and on and on...

If you're wondering what the PC key strokes are (and/or want to play this little fun nugget with your family and friends), the Windows key strokes are CTRL, ALT, and down arrow (all at the same time). (To get your screen upright again, just do the same except with the up arrow).

Now, Go forth and play tricks. Just email me to let me know the reactions of the people you play the trick on...

An update on Ninja Cocaine Kitty is so long overdue that it will be a multi-posting update.


Part 1: Ninja Cocaine Kitty and Ice Hockey


First off, I would love to tell you that Ninja Cocaine Kitty (NCK) has cooled his Ninja Cocaine spastic ways and settled into a nice, calm, loving cat. But that would just be be a lie. There might not be a bigger lie on the face of the earth. So, we'll just say NCK is continuing his Ninja Cocaine Kitty ways.

Case #1 - The Ice.


NCK is obsessed with ice. I don't mean just interested. I mean utterly and completely obsessed. It's so bad that he doesn't even have to hear you getting ice out of the refrigerator door, he can just hear you opening the cabinet to get the glass that you are taking over to get ice out of the freezer and he will fly through the house to fling himself at you in the best Ninja kitty move. Once he arrives, he awaits, crouched expectantly, for you to throw an ice cube in his direction. Sometimes he jumps up to catch it (this cat has some mad jumping skills), but mostly he just waits for it to hit the floor so he can ice hockey it all over the house, eventually leaving it to melt in a puddle where I can later step in it and think it's kitty pee or pet puke of some kind.


A couple of months ago, Todd said, "Guess where I found Freddie [aka: Ninja Cocaine Kitty] today?" With him, it's pretty much a toss up, so I shrugged unceremoniously.

"Hanging from the ice dispenser on the refrigerator door trying to get his own ice," Todd said in awe.


"Do you think he was trying to make me a margarita?" I replied. (...because it seemed the only reasonable response).

What I'm about to describe here is not for the faint of heart. Reader discretion is advised.

This will forever be known as "The Ottoman Incident."

OK.
So.
My dog tried to eat my baby's head.

Ok. Ok.
Let me back up:

A few days after we brought Ella home she was lying inside her Boppy pillow (the greatest invention since onion and chive sour cream, btw...) on the ottoman that goes with the big double chair. I was sitting on the chair part, she was on the ottoman, and my dog Indy was lying next to Ella on the ottoman.

Flashback: We had wondered how Indy was going to react to the baby upon arrival. He is, after all, MY DOG - he sleeps at my feet, he goes from room to room with me throughout the day and he looks sincerely dejected when I go into the bathroom and shut the door. He's always done this. For THIRTEEN YEARS.

So you can see how we would be curious about the effect of a baby addition to the family.

Not to mention he absolutely freaks out every time he hears a baby crying on the television.

Yeah. You think this would've been clue enough for me, but no...

So when we brought Ella home, we were surprised that Indy was less than interested. He really didn't seem stressed at all. The heaven's opened, the birds sang, the bunnies hopped, all was good.

Except for The Ottoman Incident.

So when they were lying together on the ottoman, Ella was doing one of those loud, long baby cries while Indy slept next to her (you know WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH...). All of a sudden, out of a deep slumber, Indy goes GRRRAP and snaps at her head.

And then I proceeded to gently remove him from the ottoman while speaking in soothing tones.
*ahem*

Look, I know it sounds bad and without making excuses for him, if the dog wanted to bite the kid he would've. But he doesn't. I know this because he's done the same move to both Todd and me when he's sleeping and we try to move him. He's just a crotchety old dog when he sleeps. (Who, apparently, doesn't want WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH bouncing around in his head when he's trying to sleep. I COMPLETELY understand...)

Flashfoward a few weeks: I put Ella on the ottoman to play with her and, yep, you guessed it, Indy is there again (I have a slow learning curve). One of Ella's flailing arms accidentally lands on one of Indy's legs, which he looks at and then moves (and he's all like EWWW baby human germs! Baby human germs!). When it happens again, he gives a warning growl (which allowed me to intervene this time).

The saddest part?

Ella just looks at him all like, "Dude...I have NO IDEA what you are, but I SO want to be your friend..."

Poor kid. Nothing worse than being rejected by your own dog.

So my dog eats cat poop.

He views the cats' litter boxes as a buffet feast with the finest Russian caviar and champagne. It is canine cocaine sought out by the worst of addicts.

On a rare occasion when he's able to get the litter boxes within sight (which are stored away nicely at the back of the house in a laundry room with the door cracked only enough for the cats to gain entrance), you can just see him scheming. He might as well have a cartoon bubble over his head detailing his plan. His eyes glaze over, he licks his chops and he waits for the exact right moment for me to turn my back or take a load of laundry out to dash in and gobble up a piece or two of the crunchy delights.

We call the litter boxes the "drive through".

That's bad enough, right? But his snacking doesn't end there in the laundry room. He actually takes the nuggets onto the rug in the back hallway where he can savor each crunchy bit.

He desperately needs a 12 step program for his "little problem".

Now, this isn't the workings of a stupid dog. As a matter of fact, this dog is pretty smart. But he's willing to risk all - knowing that a few minutes of berating (by me shouting, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! NO! NO! BAD DOG! VERY BAD DOG!") is well worth his apparent kitty litter high. To his credit, when my head spins around and I start to freak out, he drops the piece of poop from his mouth and looks at me like, "WHaa?!? How did THAT get there?!?" Then, if I turn my back for 1 millisecond, he gobbles it up. Only kitty litter remnants left on the rug to prove his plight.

Aside from the complete gross out factor, I just don't get it. How could something that's been eaten, digested, eliminated and then covered with tiny rock-like pieces be even remotely pleasing to any palate?!?

Never mind that it comes from another's BUTT.

The older female cat just stares at him like, "DUDE. That just came out of my A**."
The dog answers by licking his chops and then proceeding to smack for several moments while we are all treated to the sound of him getting the crunchies out of his teeth.
And that, my friends, is a treat all in itself.

Addendum: This is the same dog that is more than happy to give you a big old sloppy wet kiss right on the mouth when you come over. You've been forewarned...

I was reading about "the most successful living animal painter" Tillie the Jack Russell Terrier on Brad Listi's blog. I had previously seen a segment on some news show about Tillie a few months ago (at which time my husband and I laughed hysterically at the absurdity). However, when I saw Brad's posting, I had a lightbulb moment.

Before I move forward with my big idea, let me give you some background on Tillie's art:

Tillie's human attaches carbon paper to regular paper and then Tillie scratches away and voila! A genius at work. Here's an example of Tillie's work:

In this picture I'm pretty sure that Tillie's saying, "You Schmucks, I sniff other dog's butts and eat goose sh*t and you want to believe that I am a creative genius?!?" or maybe she's thinking, "You doofs, you're going to pay $2000 for THIS?!?!" She's more likely to be thinking, "Is that SNAUSAGES I smell?!?!" though.

(But that's just my interpretation).

Personally, I think all the scratching means she's mad at her human for naming her something dumb like Tillamoock Cheddar. Or, maybe she just needs to go to the bathroom? But hey, I'm no artist, so what do I know?

Anyway, before you nay-say, let me tell you this:

According to a CBS article, Tillie has had 17 solo exhibits and has sold more than 100 of her paintings, which sometimes sell up to $2,200 each.

Yep.

Here's the lightbulb moment:

For all of you people who paid up to $2200/each for Tillie's designs, I give you TP ART by Ninja Cocaine Kitty.

For a small donation to my bubble gum ice cream fund (please see DONATIONS on the sidebar of this blog), you can receive an ORIGINAL Ninja Cocaine Kitty TP Art of your very own. (Please note: Donations of $25 and up only, please. Hey, you think toilet paper is cheap these days?!?!) Each piece of Ninja Cocaine Kitty's TP ART is unique, so your TP ART may vary from the one shown in this picture.

In addition, each donation will also receive this "I'm so sweet how could I have ever done anything wrong like try to chew your face off?" frameable catograph of Ninja Cocaine Kitty:

For the highest donation, I will also throw in the original JK Wilson rubbing of the Weinermobile.

(I know, just when you thought it couldn't get any better).

HURRY! ORDER NOW! Quantities are limited as we never know when Ninja Cocaine Kitty will get his next round of inspiration (also known as "we don't know when the next time he'll sneak past us into the bathroom he's been banned from...")!

Now that you've been here for a few months, it has become increasingly clear that we need to set some ground rules. The new Ninja Cocaine Kitty (NCK) Ground Rules, effective immediately, are as follows:

1. The kitchen counters are not your racetrack. Please do not use them to gain height and speed on your enemies.

2. Please do not stalk and then hide by the back door so that you can attack the 2 dogs every time I let them back into the house. They don't like this. REALLY.

3. That weird shrieking-growling-hissing combo sound that the adult cat makes when you attack her with your mad Ninja Cocaine Kitty skills is not her way of saying, "Please continue biting and attacking me. It feels really good and this is loads of fun. Bring on the love!" She doesn't like it. Please stop this behavior immediately.

4. The bay window in the kitchen with all the plants and glass bottles was not set up as your personal obstacle course. Please stop using it as such.

5. The flick on your nose to get you to release your Ninja Cocaine Kitty death grip is NOT an invitation to quickly regroup and then fling yourself again at the same spot on my arm with 10x the strength. Please stop.

6. THIS. IS. NOT. YOUR. HOUSE. We were here before you, we'll be here after you.


We reserve the right to update, change, and/or add to the Ninja Cocaine Kitty Ground Rules as needed.

I think the proper amount of time has gone by to pay my late cat Max respect, so now I'll tell you about the new addition to our family:

About 4 days before Max died, we "acquired" Freddie, a little kitty. I say "acquired" because it was more like me screeching at our friend Paul to go back to the park to save the little kitty he had seen clinging to a tire in the rain. I guess I sufficiently guilted, because Paul semi-obediantly retrieved said kitty. When he brought the kitty to the bookstore, I thought he was dead (the kitty, not Paul). He could barely hold his head up and we could barely feel his heart beating. After we dried him off, he still looked very, very sad and we weren't sure he was going to make it.

My plan was to nurse him back to health and then to find him a good, loving home.

*ahem*

Just for the record, that plan NEVER works for animal lovers. So, OF COURSE, we couldn't get rid of him and he's, shall we say, gotten quite comfortable at our house. Fast forward 3 months:

Freddie (what we named him, correction, what I named him and will never hear the end of...), has become Ninja Cocaine Kitty. I swear, this is the fastest cat I've ever seen. I often hear Hannah (Max's "sister" and our other 13 year old cat) crying out in complete pain and agony as Freddie Ninja-flings himself across the room and attaches his tiny, chiclet-like Ninja kitty teeth into any part of Hannah's body that he can reach in some kitty cocaine-induced frenzy.
It hurts.
It hurts REALLY BAD.

The reason I know this? Is because throughout the morning and evening, Freddie will Cocaine-Kitty-Ninja-fling-attach himself to my arm.

It's TERRIFYING. This is a picture of him running at me:

(OK, really, that's the Zuni Fetish Doll from the 70's-era Trilogy of Terror. But I SWEAR Freddie looks JUST LIKE THAT while he's lunging at me...)

(WHAT?!?!? You've NEVER SEEN nor HEARD OF Trilogy of Terror. *tsk*tsk* For shame... I think I saw it at the drive-in when I was 6. Which would explain a great deal of why I'm like this now...but, I digress...)

To make it worse? Freddie NEVER cocaine-kitty-Ninja-flings himself at Todd. It must have something to do with that secret testosterone hand shake.

So, anyway...we got a new cat...



Next Time: How Freddie tries to nurse on me...

On May 22, my companion of 13 years died. (No, not THAT companion! I was referring to my beloved cat Max).

I've had Max longer than I've had my husband. Max has been through countless boyfriends, moves between three different states, and the addition of 2 dogs. And, still, he was a great, loving cat.

Max was the kind of cat who liked to be around everyone and in the middle of everything all the time. He like everyone and everything: people, dogs - he didn't discriminate.

He even liked Little Green Men!

He wasn't a snobby or pretentious kind of cat. In fact, I'm not sure he knew he was a cat AT ALL. (There's evidence to suggest that he surfed the 'Net when I wasn't around...)

He had a WIDE RANGE of interests.

For example, he seemed to be really interested in my writing skills...

...and was obviously a Stephen King kinda fan.

He seemed to have this strange fascination with gang signs, too.

I guess you could say he was a renaissance kind of cat.

He was the kind of cat that would race out of the garage door in defiance each morning, only to realized half-way out onto the driveway that he was an indoor cat that had no use for the outside. Every morning at approximately 5:45 a.m., he would cowel (cross between howel and cry) at my bedroom door because he was sure that he was starving. As a matter of fact, anytime anyone made a move toward the kitchen, Max was literally underfoot and racing. That cat sure could eat (in case you couldn't tell). He was unique and most un-cat-like, that's for sure.

The only thing he did like a "normal" cat was sleep...

....and sleep

...and sleep some more.

So, sleep well my dear friend. Farewell. You will be missed.

Max Williams-Wilson (aka: SugarsMax & Maxamillion)

June 1994- May 2007

So, today is Friday the 13th.

On the radio this morning they are discussing this day and how freaky people get about their superstitions. So, I was commenting to my husband how silly it was that when bad things happen on this day that everyone attributes it to FRIDAY the 13th. We had a good laugh about it.

Fast forward 15 minutes.

I hear my dogs yapping this weird high-pitched yap outside and mistakenly assume that it's just because it's 40-degrees outside on October 13.

WRONG!

I go out and find that our "I'll run away the first chance I get" Shepard mix has broken his tie out and is nowhere in sight. So here I am, 4o-degree weather, wet hair, in a bathrobe (and not one of those plush warm robes, no, a bathrobe that is as thin as my worn sheer IU graduate tee...) running around outside my house at 8 a.m. I call into the house to Todd, tell him Indy ran away, and he promptly says:

FRIDAY THE 13th!

I continue my search. No dog. Not only was there no dog, but there was a HUGE dead animal lying in the road in front of our house - what timing! So, hyperventilating, I run out to the road. (Don't fret, I had changed into non-matching clothes by the time I ran out to see if it was my dog. It wasn't, thankfully).

I guess the joke was on me.
Never mock the 1-3.

(Yes, the dog did come home. He was waiting patiently at the front of the house like, "Hey, where ya been? It's cold out here," while I drove around the area and my husband became a human popsicle walking the area).

BAD DOG! VERY BAD DOG!