Return to Sender

Today I got a package in the mail from a lady I have never met.  Let me clarify that.  I didn’t order anything from anyone and I wasn’t expecting a package.  But there it was, with my name and address and a return name and address I didn’t know.

It sort of rattled, and I was kinda worried it might blow up in my face or contain an envelope of anthrax or maybe a rattlesnake.  XD  But I was curious and I love getting packages.  SO I opened it.

Inside was four boxes of Frontline for Cats and a note (names changed to protect the innocent*):

Lupee* told me about your cats.  >^..^< Please don’t wash them in Dawn  🙂
Use this instead!  🙂  Once a month.  Let me know if you have any questions!

Consuela*

Yeah, all those emojis were in there.  Still smiling, I immediately looked up the name on the package on FB, found our mutual friend, Lupee to confirm, and sent Consuela a thank you message.  I assured her that sufficient blood and tears had been shed that I would never again attempt to bathe the cats, and I thanked her for her gift.   I told her, (and now you guys) just how happy it made me that there are still genuinely nice people in the world that would do things for even complete strangers with no expectation of recompense.  It should also be noted, Lupee and Consuela live a continent apart and have never met either.   This was all done long distance.  Apparently they are both fellow animal lovers though, and Consuela had mentioned that DH and I were having a time of it getting rid of our cats fleas.

So today I just want to bask in this little warmness that comes from having good friends- even ones I have never met- and try to pass it on one day.  Return to Sender.  

Peace

 

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As promised…

Okay, I gotta be quick; my friend is graciously allowing me to use her phone as a hotspot. As promised, I saved up some blog posts for you on my hard drive and am uploading them now. Here is the first, and it is about none other than my dopey boy cat Methos. No time to link. If you’re curious, just type his name into the search bar on my blog. He is featured regularly.

Orig date:11/10/14
Clearly, my mother was right, and I have no fucking common sense. (Don’t tell her I said that.)
The cats have fleas– big, ugly, brown, hoppy bastards! We got some of that Hartz stuff and put it on their necks. (One of my vet tech friends told me I might as well have spit on them.) Maybe it’s worked some…maybe…but not fast enough. The cats (especially Methos–) have been driving me batshit with their scratching and biting and flaking bits of scabs and flea junk all over the place. Hubby and I are getting bitten. Darling Daughter prob is too, but she’s too happy being four to notice or care.
So yesterday my friend told me to salt the carpets and vacuum after 12-24 hours and she also gave me the [dubious] advice to bathe the cats in Original Dawn. Now, some of my more regular readers may already be shaking their heads and chuckling. They are no doubt recalling what I myself managed to forget (it was probably a defense mechanism,) and that is the traumatic event that was the last time I attempted to bathe Methos.
Don’t get me wrong; I knew it would be brutal. I even bought a pair of rubber dish gloves in preparation, a lame attempt to protect mine or my husband’s hands, (whoever was unlucky enough to have to hold him in the water,) until the fleas try to jump ship, so to speak.
Supposedly animals have three responses to fear; flight, fight, or freeze. With Methos, it’s fight and flight, and fuck up anyone in the way. He seemed to believe, despite our having taken loving care of him for almost eight years, that we intended to drown him– either that, or the water was lava.
Hubby had the gloves, (Methos still bit the shit out of him) and I ended up bleeding. DD wasn’t hurt at all but she still ended up screaming, in sympathy I guess, (sympathy with us or the cats, I don’t know.) I don’t think anything but his legs and tail even got wet. We chucked him in the cat room and shut the door, leaving him to recover emotionally.
Chloe was easier. She chose freeze (and cry.) Still, her undercoat never got wet. There was not a single flea in the water from either cat, but both were wet and upset, and we decided to just take the flea comb to them to see what we’d come up with.
As you may have guessed, the cats still have fleas.

Puppy…er, Kitty Pile

My best friend’s cat got pregnant before she could get her altered.

Er, her cat(s), I should say…

The big, mainly white Calico is the mama of the kittens.  She also happens to be the mama of the other Calico, who, in case you can’t tell, is majorly pregnant.  Tonight, while Mama was nursing her kittens, her pregnant daughter also seemed to want to be as close as possible.   At one time, it even looked like she tried to nurse too!   She also seemed to be very concerned whenever the kittens (her half siblings?) cried.  I can’t say I have a HUGE amount of experience with pregnant kitties, but I have seen my share of young kittens nursing.  Yet I have never seen anything like this.  The younger Calico is normally very shy of people, but tonight, she not only stuck close to her mother and the kittens (even allowing them to attempt to nurse from her) but she also allowed us to pet and handle her.

photo: Cynthia Gemmill

photo: Cynthia Gemmill

This time last year…

This time last year was a bad time for me.  I lost my grandmother and my cat in the same week.  I didn’t make it back to my home state for my grandmother’s funeral…and I buried my cat, my longtime buddy, in a blanket in the park.  My grandma died in a hospital after succumbing to injuries from a fall.  My beloved Neeners died in my lap on the way to the vet’s office for what was to be a second opinion.

I still have a strange feeling of unreality when it comes to my grandma’s passing; maybe it’s from lack of closure because of not being able to be at her funeral.  Most of the time, my grief is sort of a dull sadness that resides in the back of my mind.  The other day, I happened on a photo of her holding my daughter when J* was about three months old, and I suddenly felt the grief rear up, along with the familiar disbelief– denial– I’m really never going to see her again?

With Neeners, my grief is tainted by an unshakable guilt– why did I not do something for her sooner?  Even if I couldn’t save her, maybe I could have at least spared her pain.  What must she have thought of me when I had to give her the medicine that made her sick to her stomach?  Did she think I was torturing her and she didn’t know why?  I feel like I failed her somehow, even when I try to tell myself I did the best I could.  If we had had the money to get the tests she needed for a more accurate diagnosis, sooner…

It’s too late for me to do anything about any of this.  I could try to end this post with some wise thought or platitude about how time marches on and we all die sometime.  Really, my only point with this post was to sort of remember my lost loved ones on this sort of anniversary week of their passing… and hoping that “honoring” them somehow keeps them from being forgotten.

“Pussycat, pussycat, I love you…”

So, today I was over at my friend’s photo blog, and I was inspired by her photo for yesterday of a baby tabby cat.  I remembered that I have gotten some pretty sweet shots of baby kitties myself.  So after perusing my blog contents to make sure I haven’t already posted these (I’ve typed in every relevant tag I can think of and I’m still not sure,) I give you these cuties.  *these photos are my property, so I ask anyone who wants to use them or share to please give me credit and possibly a link-back.

ks6

ks5

ks4

Saturday Morning First World Problems

Nothing to improve a Saturday morning like stepping in a steaming pile of cat puke.

This after virtually a whole night spent feeling like Donald Duck in one of those old Merry Melody cartoons.  You know, the one where Donald is trying in vain to sleep but one thing after another seems to confound his efforts?

My first mistake was eating a snack too late.  I’ve discovered, much to my dismay, that if I eat much later than 8:30 or nine at night, I will invariably wake in the middle of the night even hungrier.  It must kick-start my metabolism, kind of like a second wind for my appetite.  And in case you’re not a regular reader, I have a very low tolerance for being hungry.  It makes me cranky and miserable, especially when I’m trying to sleep.  So then I eat a little “mid-night” snack, which is really nothing more than me grabbing something as I make a small circuit from the bedroom, to the kitchen, to the bathroom to pee, and then back to the bedroom.  And since I usually wake up multiple times a night, catalyzing this routine usually results in several repetitions of this routine, as the more I eat in the middle of the night, the hungrier I am each time I wake up.  I’m usually okay if I can fall right back to sleep; I can take a sip or two of juice and be fine. I try to drink juice or milk or even water in place of eating, but sometimes that just aggravates my bladder and then I can’t sleep because I keep having to pee…  And then when I get up for good in the morning, I already have five hundred calories under my belt (pardon the pun) to try to work off for the day.

And then the damn cats– Methos, specifically.  He’s always doing irritating shit, like butting into the black out curtains and letting in light from the lamp outside my window.  He’s learned that he doesn’t have to run away unless I actually get out of the bed, so after like the fifth time he opened my blinds, I finally got up to lock him in the laundry room.  Chloe hears the door shut, knew she was next (cuz that’s where the litter boxes are), so she led me a merry chase around the coffee table trying to evade capture.

It sounds ridiculous even as I type it.

So, last night was spent in a semi-comatose swirl of eating, drinking, peeing, tossing, and turning.  All of J*’s stirrings made me anxious, as I dreaded her waking early and me having to get up and stay up.

Hubby had a headache this morning, but I managed to beg him into getting up with J* so I could at least get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep.

So I get up around ten AM and, as I make my coffee in the kitchen…squish…

Methos-neko?

Most of you are probably familiar with “basket cat,” AKA the most relaxed cat in the world, or zen cat…   Shironeko (neko means cat(s) in Japanese)is known for not only being an extremely tolerant cat, allowing his owners to stack almost anything on his head and feet and take pix, but also have a goofy, happy,and completely relaxed look while doing it. I love Shiro.  Seeing his sweet “smile” never fails to lift my spirits.

Shironeko

Shironeko

Today, Hubby and J* were playing with Methos…and the Duplos.  You see where I’m going with this?  Well, after taking the first pic or two, this gave me a brilliant idea.

Methos is tolerant…but he sure doesn’t look zen yet.

Methos and Duplos

Methos and Duplos

Methos and the Pelican

Methos and the Pelican

IMG_3049

Methos and the alphabet blocks

Methos and the alphabet blocks

"Hello Methos"

“Hello Methos”

Methos and the plastic tub turtle

Methos and the plastic tub turtle

So, yeah… I guess he’s a work in progress.  One day he’ll let us take the pix without that I’m going to kill you in your sleep look on his face.

Happy Friday!

*all pix of Methos belong to alienredqueen; please do not use without permission/credit