Waiting for the deuce

For me, one of the bonuses about being pregnant was getting to wrangle out of a household chore that I really despise: cleaning the catbox.

As everyone knows, pregnant women aren’t supposed to clean the litterbox.  And since I always followed the pregnancy letter of the law to a “T”, I made this tidbit known to my husband pretty much the moment we found out we were expecting.  “It’s just not safe for the baby,” I explained, while munching on a cold cut sandwich.

So he obliged.  And, to my delight, he continued cleaning it weekly, even after the babies were born.

I admit, I also didn’t offer to take it back.  I figure I cleaned up enough human poop to make up for it.   But that meant that for the past six years, I’ve been lucky enough to stay far, far away from the litter box.

Until this morning.

Today is Booyah’s routine pet exam.  And apparently, since she’s getting up there in cat years, we get to take something extra to her annual exams.

A fecal sample.  More specifically, a fresh fecal sample.

Now, if you’re a dog owner, this might not seem like a big deal to you.  If you’re like all-but-one-of-my-neighbors, you’re probably used to scooping up the little gems in tidy little plastic bags and depositing the warm little presents in the garbage.

But for a cat owner, and more specifically, for a cat owner who has grown accustomed to not handling animal turds, it is a big deal.

So here I am, typing away at the computer.  Waiting for Booyah to drop a deuce so that I can go hunting through the litter box for nuggets.  It’s like waiting for the grass to grow.  Only stinkier.

After which I get to wrestle my angry, scratching pet into a cat carrier that she loathes more than anything.  And then I’ll drive said cat, moaning and hissing to the vet and back.

It almost makes me wish I were pregnant again, so I could delegate that task to my wonderful husband.

But on the plus side, I figure my day can only go up from here.

Of Mice and Men

My ferocious tabby, Booyah, has a really annoying habit.  She’s like Lenny in Of Mice and Men… only the feline version. 

Okay, so she doesn’t really talk. 

But much like Lenny, she likes to make friends with small creatures.  Insects, rodents, you name it… she tries to befriend it and play with it.  And, like Lenny, she does not know her own relative strength.  She’ll bat at it, try to cuddle with it and, more often than not, she will end up squashing the poor helpless creature into an untimely death. 

In the case of spiders, this is a good thing indeed.  I hate spiders.  The mice and shrews she leaves on my door mat… not so good.

And, occasionally, she won’t entirely finish the job.  Such was the case a few weeks ago, when I found a maimed baby bird on our back lawn.

When I saw the poor little thing, I knew I had to do something.  It was obviously badly hurt, and could not fly.  But what should I do?

I turned to my vet for the answer.  She said that, in all likelihood, Tweety was a goner, and there was nothing I could really do.  The best thing to do, she said, was to put it out of its misery.

And here’s where my dilemma started.  Spiders excluded, I’d never killed an animal before.  And thus began the formulation of “Operation Put Tweety Down.”

I called Jay at work.  “Maybe he’ll come home on his lunch break and take care of it for me,” I thought.  Drat.  He was in a meeting and didn’t answer his phone.

I Googled:  “How to kill an animal.” Big mistake.  I was immediately turned off by all of the sadistic, graphic advice out there on the internet.  Gross. 

I re-Googled: “How to humanely kill an animal.”  The best solution I could find was to put Tweety in my freezer.  And there was no way in a million years I was doing that.  That was even grosser.

In desperation, I sent out a plea for answers via Facebook and Twitter.  Crickets.  Apparently, no one wanted to touch that one with a ten foot pole.  I don’t blame them.

I was about ready to give up, when I had an epiphany.  I suddenly remembered the Red Rider BB gun in the garage, a Christmas present from my in-laws.  (Yes, that’s a story for another day).  Up until that point, I’d only used it to shoot holes in pop cans.  And I was pretty good at it, too.

But on this particular day, my trusty BB gun had another use.  Quick, painless and to the point.  And I felt absolutely awful about it.

The whole episode made me realize how sucky it must have been to be George… always cleaning up Lenny’s messes.  And while my story isn’t anywhere near as eloquent as Steinbeck’s, it does have some strange parallels.

Except my story?  Would be titled, “Of Birds and Women.”

Mama's Losin' It
#4. Your pet’s least likable character trait.

Poop, food, and a surprise nugget

http://www.kludgymom.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/fridayflipoffsfinal1.png

It was so cathartic doing Friday Flip-Offs last week that I’m back for more.  This time, I’m keeping it short and sweet… and throwing in a little surprise at the end.  Here goes:

To the Diaper Genie in Chip’s room.  Flip off.  You clearly do not work in containing the stench, as it smells like something died in there.  If I could make one wish, Genie, it would be that you would actually do your job.

To Booyah.  I won’t flip you off, because I love you.  But smearing poo across the bathroom floor is simply unacceptable.  If you have a dingleberry, come see me, and I will help you take care of it.  In the meantime, flip off, poo smears.

And finally, to blog posts with pictures in it like this… flip off.

Let it be noted, my finger is not aimed towards the blog or the blogger, but towards these posts and photos that keep popping up in my Google reader late at night.

Because these pictures are evil.  I don’t even like chocolate that much, but I was still licking my computer screen.  I cannot tell you how many times I have been driven to late night snacking because this particular blogger wrote a food post that made me positively salivate.  Her posts have sent me downstairs to reheat the Mac ‘n Cheese I served my own kids for dinner… many a time.

With that, I’m giving Gigi at Klugy Mom an award of my own… the first ever Deliciously Evil Award.

There are no stipulations or rules with this award.  It has the cash equivalent of one meeelioon dollars.  And it comes with just one feeble request.

Pretty please, with organic whipped cream on top, could you please do a food post on carrot sticks and celery?  My butt would sure thank you for it.

It sucks being a cat in this house

Dear Ex-Best Friend,

Remember me?

That’s right, I’m still around.  I know you’ve completely forgotten about me now that the monsteys have arrived.  But I still exist.  I’m a cat.  With real feelings.

Remember how you used to spend hours sitting on the floor and watching me play?  How you used to bring me toys?  How my litterbox actually got changed every week?  Those were the good old days.

I used to be your BFF.  I was your first baby.

Before they came along, that is.  I remember when your belly started growing insanely huge, and all of the sudden, I didn’t fit on your lap any more.  And then one day, you came home with it.  It’s all been downhill from there.

Now?  Seriously, the only time I get any attention around here is when I yack up a hairball or do something else naughty.

And my name?  What’s up with that, anyway?  Do you even know how confusing it is to hear your name called from the other room, and to run in there eagerly, only to find out it’s dad, watching ESPN again?  I’ve come to really despise Stuart Scott.

Or when you shout “Booyah!” after you discover a hairball.  It’s hard to tell whether it’s a good or a bad thing.  I’m thinking it’s good, which is why I continue to leave you presents around the house.

And so the cycle continues.  I give, give, give; you yell.

Clearly, this is a one-sided relationship.

The only thing good about my day is when you drop them off at school, and settle down in the office to work.  Then, the lap is once again mine.  That, and the fact that you share your Bud Light with me.  Maybe you do give… a little.

Even if you don’t give me attention any more, at least they do.  It’s not always the good kind, but I’ll take anything I can get at this point.

For the record, though:

This is a ride.
This is also a ride.
And sometimes, this is a ride.

But please remind the monsteys that my name is not “Ride.”  Nor do I give them.  My name is Booyah.  But my real friends call me Boo.

Sincerely,
Booyah (your ex-best friend)

Mama's Losin' It
#2.  I miss the friend you used to be.

What’s worse than smelling like poop?

Q:  What’s worse than smelling like poop?
A:  Smelling like someone else’s poop.

When I opened the door to Chip’s room this morning, I was greeted by a smell I can only describe as rancid.  Chippy had a major blowout sometime during the middle of the night, and boy, was it a dandy.  Messy and stinky combined.  I’m used to changing diapers, but this one seriously made my eyes water.

When I was putting on Chip’s socks, I noticed the odor still lingering.  I check Chip’s clothes and diaper, and can find no trace.  I wash and sanitize my hands.  We’re in a big hurry this morning, so I don’t think much more of it, and I herd the kids out the door to take them to daycare.

However, when I get home, it still stinks.  I start my little quest to try to figure out where it was coming from.  I check Chippy’s crib sheets.  I empty the diaper pail and spray a healthy dose of air freshener in his room.  This helps somewhat, although I’m still getting a whiff of something.  In desperation, I lift up the cat’s tail to see if she has something stuck in there.  It’s usually a good thing when I come up empty in this department, but this morning, it only left me more stumped.

As a last resort, I go into the other room to change my own clothes.  It’s then that I look into the mirror and see the little brown streak on my nose.  There are a couple of points about this that mortify me.  First, I somehow got poo on my own nose without knowing about it.  That in itself is gross beyond words.  Secondly, I had conversations with both of the kids’ teachers today, as well as several parents, and no one bothered to tell me, “Hey, you have a little bit of crap on your nose.”

Rest assured, if I ever see you walking around with something on your face, I will let you know.  Especially if it resembles poop in any way, shape or form.  I’d rather be called a “brown-noser” any day than walk around with poo on my face.

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