Strange times have (once again) invaded the loony bin that is my house. They (whoever they are) keep telling me that I need to emphasize the positive, so I can verify that we have not been set upon by the IRS because of our libertarian, small-government beliefs.
Our names haven't surfaced in relation to Benghazi, nor have we ever heard from Hillary Clinton.
We have not heard anybody ordering coffee in the background while we're on the phone, so there's that.
We have no data in the cloud, so we're safe that way.
Now that I'm done emphasizing the positive, I can get back to my narrative.
Saturday morning Mrs. leftystrat hurt something in the shower. She limped to the couch and sat down. And when I say sat down, I mean she oriented herself south and threw her body at the couch, in a process we refer to as Elephants with Tutus. Or, as a friend says, Princess Grace.
The scream that ensued was not of this earth.
It sounded like she ripped something.
"It feels like I ripped something," she told me.
Five minutes later, when the screaming stopped, she discovered it was incredibly difficult to get around. Her normal clodding about became more of a stuttering clod, followed by something that sounded like "mrmmmph... OH."
I shrunk into my chair in horror.
Things were so bad that I had to drive her to her scheduled appointment. This is bad. I asked if it was Hospital Time yet and was told no in no uncertain terms.
Sunday morning, in the middle of a rather interesting dream involving a different Karen, a model and a lesbian from work, I was awakened.
Why, you ask?
Because it was Hospital Time<tm>.
Once or twice a year I drop my constant use of sarcastic replies and this was it. It took Yes Dear to a whole new level.
Emergency examinations are an exam apart from Regular examinations. Some distant relative of Hitler grabbed my wife's leg and asked her if it hurt.
No.
How about here?
No.
How about here?
AAAAAAAAH.
Good. How about here?
No.
It's not like the doc was looking for range of motion.... it's more like she was looking for all sorts of new ways to cause pain (for reasons only she and psychiatrists understand).
Finally one of the more alert doctors noticed what could only be called a divot on her leg. The diagnosis was torn something or other that sounded like Velociraptor. And the only relief would be motrin and staying off it. She left with a soft splint-thingie, which kept slipping down her leg.
Let me say another nice thing (who am I and what have I done with leftystrat?): the hospital was terribly efficient and we were out within ninety minutes.
NOW WHAT?
I can deal with all sorts of situations. I am a decent guy to have near you in an emergency: I only panic over stupid little shit, not the Big Stuff<tm>. I waited on my wife like professional staff. Since the docs mandated rest and relaxation, she was up the steps, down the steps and on the front steps to smoke. The real question the doctors needed to ask was if the injury was so serious it interrupted smoking. Because there's virtually nothing that can interrupt smoking (with the possible exception of death, but that's just a theory of mine).
The children were being more uncooperative than normal and a bit differently than normal. Usually Ren, the cat, is the difficult one. Lately they have switched places and Marshall, the dog, has become Hell on Legs.
I have described Cat Food Ballet before. This is the process by which the little monsters are fed in the morning. Unfortunately for me, things have gotten further out of control.
I go in the kitchen to feed Ren and close the door. I feed Marshall on the other side. In the midst of that, Ren opens the kitchen door and Marshall runs in, horfing up every last crumb of cat food. When he's done with the cat food, he stands up and raids the trash can. He's never done with the trash can. We recently discovered that both of them can flip the trash can over too.
While Marshall is in the midst of Trash Feast 2013, Ren has taken off to the dog food, which he is hungrily crunching up. When I scream "GET OUT OF THE DOG FOOD, REN," he reluctantly moves away; one of the few times he bothers to listen. Of course at this point, he moves away until he thinks I am done watching.
Most times after I yell at Ren, Marshall comes running, whining at Ren, and gets back into his own food.
I got so tired of watching these two lunatics running in and out of the kitchen that I finally put a ladder up against the kitchen door so neither of them could get it. This was followed by minutes of blessed silence, until such time I had to feed the cat again.
Ren stayed in the kitchen and I put the ladder back up. Unfortunately this didn't hold as well as last time and he kept ramming his nineteen pound bulk against the door, finally sending the leaning ladder over backwards. Right onto a picture, smashing the glass.
I'm quite surprised that the neighbors haven't called the authorities, what with all the strained-voice yelling "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU. AND YOUR LITTLE DOG TOO!" If my wife didn't smoke on the front step, they would be concerned that I killed the lot of them. Except for the crazy lady next door... she's mostly deaf. And very dumb.
When everything settles for more than a few seconds, Marshall starts whining that he has to go outside. Oddly enough, outside can mean anything from outside to "I want to get into the trash and check the cat food situation, Dad."
Recently we discovered that someone was eating at Cat Box Cafe. Guess who?
Marshall just got his summer haircut. Nobody knows why but after he returns, he spends every second physically in contact with me or my wife. He sleeps anchored to me, frequently on my pillow (in spite of my sending him back down to the other end - he just creeps back up seconds later). He's currently attached to my wife on the couch. He's like a large, squirmy back pillow (that farts).
This velociraptor tearing thing has to end. I simply don't have the patience to take care of Beelzebub's Bunch and my wife at the same time.
Showing posts with label cat box. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cat box. Show all posts
Monday, May 20, 2013
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Feline Aviation and Beyonce for the Win
We're fighting with the cat again. Still.
To be honest, it's been a battle from the beginning. I'm not what you'd call a cat person. This one, however, is at least quite personable. Unfortunately this doesn't balance against his propensity for destruction, evil, and general bone-headedness.
Ren earned the nickname Satan when we first got him. He would leap onto the stove, turning on the gas on the way up. Apparently the little bugger was trying to blow up the house with himself in it. We had to remove the knobs for a few months.
Then came xmas and xmas trees. Satan disembowled every xmas tree we put up, year after year until we gave up. He ruined many old, treasured ornaments by hurling them to the ground, where they smashed into pieces too small to repair.
He is not allowed to sleep in the bedroom because he claws the bed or my wife when he's hungry and won't stop until you feed him. Note that the dog does not do this, preferring to sleep in with his people. The worst thing Marshall does in bed is steal a pillow or blanket.
Cat Food Ballet<tm> is getting past the point of frustration in the house lately. Ren gets fed in the kitchen, with the door closed, then Marshall gets fed in the living room. Marshall doesn't care, instead spending all of his time in front of the kitchen door, waiting for the Cat Food Gods to open the door so he can lick the bowl clean. There aren't even microbes of cat food after Marshall is done.
Meanwhile Ren then runs over to Marshall's food and starts eating it. Ren was pretty much cured of diabetes and is not supposed to be eating dog food so we tell him to move. MOVE. I SAID MOVE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD. He doesn't even look up. You have to physically get up and make a move toward him before he takes off.
Five minutes later, he's back, as if we never said anything to him. If I had a squirt gun, I'd let it loose on him. Instead, I have to keep getting up. Yesterday I threw a shirt at him, which moved him a bit and he was back a few minutes later.
If the kitchen door isn't shut correctly, Marshall will open it and force his way into Ren's food. You have to physically remove him from the bowl, in the most spectacular case of Selective Hearing I've ever seen. Neither of the little bastards listen, except when convenient.
Meanwhile, Ren has also taken to urinating randomly on the rug. He has two litter boxes and it doesn't matter. He is in perfect health so this is simply an attitude problem. One of his new nicknames is Caboose because he's the last cat we will ever have. My house should not smell like cat urine because the feline who lives there has a bad attitude.
Ren has also discovered the out of doors and apparently doesn't mind rain or snow. He has spent several nights outside. He has all his claws so we're not worried about him protecting himself. In fact he reminds us about his claws on the furniture all the time. No matter how much we express our dislike for this annoyance.
Just to even things up a bit, Marshall has discovered Catbox as Snackbox. Suddenly dog kisses just aren't the same.
Marshall is also inordinately fond of trash. When he's not cleaning the cat bowl, he's trolling the trash for interesting morsels. Marshall is a very interesting test of housekeeping. If you can't see or hear him, he's in trouble; which was caused by one of the humans not putting something away. Or he took yet another package of popcorn off the dining room table and ate most of it. He has a genuine love for kettle corn (and sweets in general, like his daddy).
That fellow must be in charge of the Kool Aid.
In other news, I jailbroke my iPad. Went smoothly, worked on linux, allows a lot more freedom.
To be honest, it's been a battle from the beginning. I'm not what you'd call a cat person. This one, however, is at least quite personable. Unfortunately this doesn't balance against his propensity for destruction, evil, and general bone-headedness.
Ren earned the nickname Satan when we first got him. He would leap onto the stove, turning on the gas on the way up. Apparently the little bugger was trying to blow up the house with himself in it. We had to remove the knobs for a few months.
Then came xmas and xmas trees. Satan disembowled every xmas tree we put up, year after year until we gave up. He ruined many old, treasured ornaments by hurling them to the ground, where they smashed into pieces too small to repair.
He is not allowed to sleep in the bedroom because he claws the bed or my wife when he's hungry and won't stop until you feed him. Note that the dog does not do this, preferring to sleep in with his people. The worst thing Marshall does in bed is steal a pillow or blanket.
Cat Food Ballet<tm> is getting past the point of frustration in the house lately. Ren gets fed in the kitchen, with the door closed, then Marshall gets fed in the living room. Marshall doesn't care, instead spending all of his time in front of the kitchen door, waiting for the Cat Food Gods to open the door so he can lick the bowl clean. There aren't even microbes of cat food after Marshall is done.
Meanwhile Ren then runs over to Marshall's food and starts eating it. Ren was pretty much cured of diabetes and is not supposed to be eating dog food so we tell him to move. MOVE. I SAID MOVE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD. He doesn't even look up. You have to physically get up and make a move toward him before he takes off.
Five minutes later, he's back, as if we never said anything to him. If I had a squirt gun, I'd let it loose on him. Instead, I have to keep getting up. Yesterday I threw a shirt at him, which moved him a bit and he was back a few minutes later.
If the kitchen door isn't shut correctly, Marshall will open it and force his way into Ren's food. You have to physically remove him from the bowl, in the most spectacular case of Selective Hearing I've ever seen. Neither of the little bastards listen, except when convenient.
Meanwhile, Ren has also taken to urinating randomly on the rug. He has two litter boxes and it doesn't matter. He is in perfect health so this is simply an attitude problem. One of his new nicknames is Caboose because he's the last cat we will ever have. My house should not smell like cat urine because the feline who lives there has a bad attitude.
Ren has also discovered the out of doors and apparently doesn't mind rain or snow. He has spent several nights outside. He has all his claws so we're not worried about him protecting himself. In fact he reminds us about his claws on the furniture all the time. No matter how much we express our dislike for this annoyance.
Just to even things up a bit, Marshall has discovered Catbox as Snackbox. Suddenly dog kisses just aren't the same.
Marshall is also inordinately fond of trash. When he's not cleaning the cat bowl, he's trolling the trash for interesting morsels. Marshall is a very interesting test of housekeeping. If you can't see or hear him, he's in trouble; which was caused by one of the humans not putting something away. Or he took yet another package of popcorn off the dining room table and ate most of it. He has a genuine love for kettle corn (and sweets in general, like his daddy).
----------------------------
HEY EVERYONE - did you watch the Superbowl?
C'mon, you know I am the AntiSports. It's only mid-day and already I'm sick over my head of hearing about the Superbowl from my coworkers and online. Rome is burning and all we talk about is WOW -that halftime show! Some of us are actually watching tv for the commercials. Some of us are so vapid that we must spend all our time talking about how fantastic Beyonce was and how fabulous it was that her old group showed up and how about their outfits and dancing?
Bread and circuses indeed.
---------------------------
For some unknown reason, my company was meeting with people from Apple. Overheard at the meeting: We don't really listen to customer input. We create the future and everybody can just catch up.
That fellow must be in charge of the Kool Aid.
In other news, I jailbroke my iPad. Went smoothly, worked on linux, allows a lot more freedom.
--------------------------
Apparently most of our newspapers have been hacked by the Chinese. This is a very perplexing happenstance. After thinking about it for a bit, I have decided that this is a non-story: even if the Chinese decided to take over our newspapers, they could not do a worse job than the existing ones. It's win-win for everyone.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Honey, the Dog's Acting Like a Dog Again
I'm warning you: this one's going right over the top. Those of you with weak constitutions or a questionable stomach had better get out while the getting's good. In fact, if you have eaten within the past twelve hours, it may be a good idea to avoid this post (some would say this entire blog).
I love my dog. Most people who have met Marshall love him too. He's got his own fan club at work. If I could attract the women he can, I'd have no time to type (or eat).
Marshall is the most dangerous of animals - a smart cocker. If even a small fraction of humanity put the same effort into eliminating poverty that Marshall puts into locating and shredding used tissues, the planet would be a much better place. He will watch you carefully. If you do not get up and throw out the tissue immediately, he sees where it is. If you stand up and happen to forget it, it's his. Even after you throw it out there's a fair probability he will locate and shred it to pieces all over the carpet. We had to purchase trash cans with lids so he couldn't get into them. This worked incredibly well until he figured how to pop the lid. As far as we know, there's no such thing as a cocker-proof trash can (except perhaps the ones outside of the house).
All cockers are crazy; it's in the breed standard. Every rescue cocker (Marshall is our third) has had abandonment issues. His latest trick is to form a spaniel seat belt across your midsection so you cannot get up. He loves the car and sticks his snout out the window. My wife has to lock the window to keep him from rolling it down all the way. I keep reminding her to never leave him in the car with the keys, lest he drive off.
Another of Marshall's recent favorites is kettle corn. He has gone through about four huge bags of the stuff. He waits for one of the humans to put the bag down and leave the room. Faster than you can say you're screwed, Marshall has the bag ripped open and is sinking his entire head into the popcorny goodness. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to outsmart this dog.
I have previously mentioned Marshall's otherworldly drive for cat food. It is his favorite substance in the entire universe - even more than tissues. He will spend hours at the kitchen door, waiting for the cat to open it so he can lick out the tiniest morsel of left-over cat food in the bowl. Then it's the trash can.
Marshall does not do a ton of really doggy things, aside from the obvious, so we occasionally have to remind ourselves that he is, in fact, still a dog. So imagine my surprise when I had to walk in the kitchen, normally to drag him away from the cat bowl or trash, but found him chomping away happily. He was enjoying cat food but in the pre-processed sense of the term. I yelled, he ignored me.
My relationship with the cat is more of an adversarial one. As the wife explains it, he's a tremendously good cat but when he goes evil, watch out. He has decided to start peeing around the litter box, as opposed to inside it, for no apparent reason. At one point this was traced to an infection but he's fine now - he is just being a f-er. Now the bugger has two litter boxes, which is starting to turn into two snack boxes if we're not watching Marshall closely.
I am simply not interested in pulling used tissues out of my dog's mouth, nor am I thrilled with having to drag the little monster out of the cat box.
His new nickname: Poop Dog.
Rejected names: Poop Doggie Dog, Shit Hound, Defecation Dog, Cat Box Crook, and of course, Shit Head.
It's not that we don't feed the little so and so: he gets exactly what the vet said to feed him, plus tissues, plus trash, plus small bits of cat food left in the bowl. The last time we took the vet a stool sample, she wondered about the large amount of shredded tissue included....
It would be much easier to simply go with the flow than to chase Marshall away. If we move the cat box up, he'd only figure out a way to get it, possibly further defiling the carpets. Perhaps we should just surrender to the inevitable and help the Cat Poop Industry try to market this new delight....
Tired of your dog stealing cat food? Try new Poop Treats - the Canine Delight!
Concerned about the dangers of pet food? Feed it to Rover pre-processed!
Fido Fudge - Straight from the Cat's Ass.
Spot Snacks
Brown Eye Treats
AssSnacks
Pre-Processed Purina
Poopy Chow
Poop Tarts
Please submit your suggestions - Poop Marketing is a brand new industry that needs your help desperately.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I love my dog. Most people who have met Marshall love him too. He's got his own fan club at work. If I could attract the women he can, I'd have no time to type (or eat).
Marshall is the most dangerous of animals - a smart cocker. If even a small fraction of humanity put the same effort into eliminating poverty that Marshall puts into locating and shredding used tissues, the planet would be a much better place. He will watch you carefully. If you do not get up and throw out the tissue immediately, he sees where it is. If you stand up and happen to forget it, it's his. Even after you throw it out there's a fair probability he will locate and shred it to pieces all over the carpet. We had to purchase trash cans with lids so he couldn't get into them. This worked incredibly well until he figured how to pop the lid. As far as we know, there's no such thing as a cocker-proof trash can (except perhaps the ones outside of the house).
All cockers are crazy; it's in the breed standard. Every rescue cocker (Marshall is our third) has had abandonment issues. His latest trick is to form a spaniel seat belt across your midsection so you cannot get up. He loves the car and sticks his snout out the window. My wife has to lock the window to keep him from rolling it down all the way. I keep reminding her to never leave him in the car with the keys, lest he drive off.
Another of Marshall's recent favorites is kettle corn. He has gone through about four huge bags of the stuff. He waits for one of the humans to put the bag down and leave the room. Faster than you can say you're screwed, Marshall has the bag ripped open and is sinking his entire head into the popcorny goodness. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to outsmart this dog.
I have previously mentioned Marshall's otherworldly drive for cat food. It is his favorite substance in the entire universe - even more than tissues. He will spend hours at the kitchen door, waiting for the cat to open it so he can lick out the tiniest morsel of left-over cat food in the bowl. Then it's the trash can.
Marshall does not do a ton of really doggy things, aside from the obvious, so we occasionally have to remind ourselves that he is, in fact, still a dog. So imagine my surprise when I had to walk in the kitchen, normally to drag him away from the cat bowl or trash, but found him chomping away happily. He was enjoying cat food but in the pre-processed sense of the term. I yelled, he ignored me.
My relationship with the cat is more of an adversarial one. As the wife explains it, he's a tremendously good cat but when he goes evil, watch out. He has decided to start peeing around the litter box, as opposed to inside it, for no apparent reason. At one point this was traced to an infection but he's fine now - he is just being a f-er. Now the bugger has two litter boxes, which is starting to turn into two snack boxes if we're not watching Marshall closely.
I am simply not interested in pulling used tissues out of my dog's mouth, nor am I thrilled with having to drag the little monster out of the cat box.
His new nickname: Poop Dog.
Rejected names: Poop Doggie Dog, Shit Hound, Defecation Dog, Cat Box Crook, and of course, Shit Head.
It's not that we don't feed the little so and so: he gets exactly what the vet said to feed him, plus tissues, plus trash, plus small bits of cat food left in the bowl. The last time we took the vet a stool sample, she wondered about the large amount of shredded tissue included....
It would be much easier to simply go with the flow than to chase Marshall away. If we move the cat box up, he'd only figure out a way to get it, possibly further defiling the carpets. Perhaps we should just surrender to the inevitable and help the Cat Poop Industry try to market this new delight....
Tired of your dog stealing cat food? Try new Poop Treats - the Canine Delight!
Concerned about the dangers of pet food? Feed it to Rover pre-processed!
Fido Fudge - Straight from the Cat's Ass.
Spot Snacks
Brown Eye Treats
AssSnacks
Pre-Processed Purina
Poopy Chow
Poop Tarts
Please submit your suggestions - Poop Marketing is a brand new industry that needs your help desperately.
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