I used to be a good cat owner. I rescued them from the street and from shelters, gave them tins of tuna, petted them frequently, let them sleep on the bed.
I was sure that I would still be a good cat owner after the babies got here.
I think I was wrong.
When you’re carrying a sleeping baby up the stairs, it’s hard to be gracious toward the cat occupying the entire third-from-the-top step. Who can resist a kitty sweetly poking you in the arm with his paw, asking to be petted? I can, apparently, when that kitty is poking me while both babies are nursing. When two babies are wet and crying, I don’t want to listen to two cats whining to be fed RIGHTNOWRIGHTNOWRIGHTNOW.
And when the cats bring home fleas – despite a recent application of Frontline – and then generously scatter them over the couch, lo, my patience is sorely strained.
And when they pee ON MY PURSE in retribution for the reapplication of the flea treatment, my wrath, it is great.
And when I am so distracted by the fleas and the pee that I leave for work without the bottles I need for pumping, well, I think you can imagine how charitable I’m feeling toward kitties right now.
I love my cats. I don’t want to give them up. And I know no one will take two middle-aged cats anyway; at least, no one who wouldn’t subsequently stick a needle in them, which is obviously not something I would allow to happen. But I would like a hole to climb into now, please. Preferably one without fleas, or cats.
Husband and I are stuck in my office today, because the pest people are poisoning termites at our house. He drew this.
(Cats are not actually here.)
I’m not the most technically adept person in the world. I got a D in my 7th grade Drafting class when my toothpick-and-marshmallow bridge failed to meet federal and municipal building codes by collapsing in a sticky, pointy heap on the teacher’s desk. I was so depressed, I didn’t even eat the marshmallows afterward. So I was perhaps inordinately proud of myself when, this past Sunday, I successfully assembled our new double stroller, which involved screwdrivers, wrenches, instructions written by engineers, and bits labeled “Bar A2” and “Hole 7”.
After fitting everything together and gently applying pressure to see if the result would implode or shatter, I snapped in our hand-me-down carseats (thank you, Annika and Diane!). I called Husband in to applaud my handiwork, then parked the stroller behind the couch and went to bed.
I found this when I came downstairs the next morning.
I’m so glad someone values my work.
The cat was picked up today by its new owner. According to the Resident Relations manager at the Puzzletown Chateau, it is an exotic cat! Which leads me to wonder, why, oh, why, would you pay several thousand dollars for a cat and then leave it outside on your balcony?
Happy endings are the best.
Came home from our New Year’s Eve shindig to find this:
I told Husband we should have locked up the booze before we went out.