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.

Blood and Claws (not a horror story, just bathing the cat)

…okay, maybe it is a horror story.  Methos has been scratching and licking and biting a lot more than usual lately.  I also saw a flea on my baby’s head a week or so ago when I was changing her diaper… at least I think it was a flea.  It was fast and I couldn’t squish it between my fingers, and then it disappeared, never to be seen again.  I have even gotten a few random “bites” that, with help from my frantic scratching, have turned into formidable patches of irritated skin.  I didn’t have any bites on my ankles, evidence, said my neighbor, that the whole house wasn’t infested, just the cat.  My other cat seems completely fine.

So, after several nights of kicking the cat off the bed due to his incessant scratching and biting (shakes the whole friggin’ bed), I decide he needs a bath.  I’d been told by more than one person that Dawn dish-washing liquid kills fleas.    He’s not routinely bathed, because he grooms himself well enough usually. In fact, he normally has some of the softest fur of any cat I’ve ever seen.  It’s thick and shiny.  I request hubby’s help to bathe the cat, cuz I know it will be a…process.   He basically laughs at me, and then wisely declines.  So the next day I enlist the help of my lovely- and unsuspecting- neighbor.  Actually, she has cats and knows what it’s like to bathe a cat who isn’t “into” baths.

Never, EVER have I heard noises like this come from my cat.

I won’t give you a blow by blow.  Let’s just say it was probably a lot like putting a rabid honey badger in a toilet and flushing…I’m guessing.  I’ve never flushed a furry animal in my life.  My husband was home for lunch at this juncture, and as I haul the cat back to the tub again (when the claws start pinwheeling, you let that bitch go!!!) he decides to come in to help… gee, thanks.

“I eat venomous snakes for lunch! You want a piece of me??!!”

By this point, the cat has already lost at least part of a claw trying to wrest his way free.  He’s making some yowling/growling/mewling sound deep in his chest and has tracked tiny dots of blood on the tile floor from his wounded claw.  He uses anything in which his claws find purchase to try to win his freedom, including but not limited to our skin and clothing.  And he’s panting like he might have a stroke.

I can not understand for the life of me WHY this should be so traumatic for him.  He can’t actually think I intend to drown him.  I try to soothe him with words, but he doesn’t seem interested.  Cats are the only animals that will literally damn near kill themselves trying to get away from something… that’s not even hurting them.

So anyway, as there is only room for two of us by the side of the tub, I step back and hubs wedges in next to my neighbor.  In two seconds flat, hubs is bellowing expletives and the cat is– once again– out of the tub.  Hubs is bleeding profusely from several not horribly deep but deep-enough-to-bruise scratches on his hands and arms.  All of us are wet, the cat is traumatized, the bathroom is half flooded.

After toweling Methos off as best as possible given the circumstances, we decide to leave him in the bathroom for a while to dry off (and because I’m hoping he’ll calm down and decide not to piss on any of my stuff in retaliation.)

My neighbor gets away relatively unscathed; I’m glad because I’d have felt bad if she got hurt.  I think the cat and I have both stopped bleeding.  Not hubs– he’s torn up and has to change his clothes and bathe in Bactine before going back to work.

I actually feel guilty for upsetting the cat so badly, and worried that maybe the dumb bastard seriously injured himself trying to get away.  Now I’ll spend the rest of the night kissing up to him.  He took a nap with me later on in the day, so I guess he forgives me for the bath.

So I won’t tell him that the whole time this was going on …I saw… Not. One. Flea.

Fuck.

PS.  Note there are not actual pix of Methos in this entry.  I didn’t think of it at the time, and even if I had, we were all too busy trying to keep from sustaining any grievous wounds to bother taking any pictures.  Besides, I’m almost positive he’d never forgive me for having hard evidence of his humiliation.