Too Tired For Titles

Happy Birthday, Maud.

I had a dream last night, during the very little sleep that I had, that you were lying stretched out across the floor like you always are, only you had died in the night.

(I also dreamt that somebody poisoned my dog. A dog that is long dead).

And then I stumbled across Crazy Aunt Purl’s death of Roy, got to Loggins & Messina and started crying at my desk.

(Stupid Loggins & Messina. Of course, I cry at the drop of a hat when I don’t sleep).

I am very tired.

I love my cat, the baaaaaby, the bunny, the crabby old woman, and the friend who hears me crying in the middle of the night and calls to see if I’m okay.

I love the man who gave me the cat, who wants to be awakened when I can’t sleep even though he knows it means he won’t be able to get back, who can hold me and keep me calm when I panic, and who just wants me to be happy. And to sleep.

Perhaps tonight, I will love Ambien.

And Did I Mention It Was Early?

This morning, per her usual habits, Maud tried to knock over the lamp. Now, I'm not at my best and brightest in the mornings, and so rather than hunt her down and deal with her trying to knock over my coffee and sit on my magazine, I put her on time out. That is, I shut her in the bathroom so I could finish my breakfast in peace.

I could hear her pawing away at the doorknob, and thought to myself what a smart little kitty I have. She gets that the doorknob is the key to opening the door! Soon enough, she'll figure out how to open doors and we won't be able to put her on time out anymore! My widdle baby's gwowing up!

Ahem. That was not entirely accurate.

When I got up to let her out, the handle wouldn't turn. She had somehow managed to lock the door. And of course, being one of those cheapy bathroom door-style locks, we didn't exactly have a key.

I tried jiggling a paperclip in the hole. I tried jiggling a chopstick in the hole. Maud tried batting at the doorknob some more. No results.

I wasn't exactly panicked, because that bathroom is where we keep her food, water, and litterbox, so if she was going to lock herself in anywhere, this was the place to do it. But still. I was going to have to leave for work soon, and I really didn't want to leave her in a tiny room with a closed window on a day that's shaping up to be 80 degrees and humid.

I called Guy, and luckily reached him before he got on the train. He went down into the basement and came up with some tools. Some tools that were more effective than a paperclip and a chopstick. The hinges came off, the cat came out.

She may look intelligent and thoughtful there, but apparently she's really dumb.

Or she's messing with us. One of the two.

Is There a Lamps Anonymous?

I'm sure everyone is desperate to know what's new with Maud these days. (And you wouldn't believe the number of hits I get a week for "cat q-tip orgasm.")

We did get her spayed, and it was traumatic. For me. She was fine. But when I went to pick her up, the vet handed me a sheet saying that she shoud have no water for the first day, no food for the next, and should not be allowed to jump or walk around or go up or down any stairs for at least two weeks.

Okay, she lives for those things. They are the whole reason for her existence. Food, water, and jumping up on things. And knocking shit over. The vet didn't say anything about that, but since all our stuff is kept up on things (tables, shelves, etc.) she's out of luck. And the only way we could keep her from jumping up on things (since there are things in every single room. We don't have space to have a room that just has, you know, air in it) was to lock her in a little kitty cage. For two weeks.

We decided to see if she coud be trusted to not jump up on stuff. She jumped on the table. She ran down the stairs. We tried locking her in the bathroom, and she jumped on the radiator and the tiny little shelf that used to hold glass bottles and shells and things until she knocked them all down.

We gave up. Our concern for her wellbeing and the state of her stitches was less powerful than our wish to avoid hearing her howling for two weeks because she was stuck in a tiny cage.

Anyway, she's fine. She pulled the stitches a little, but they did eventually heal up, and though her belly is taking forever to grow all its hair back, she's as active and lovingly bitey as ever. Now we're just waiting for her to settle ino the post-spay phase and become a lazy little lump.

It hasn't happened yet. Guy is most distressed by her habit of knocking over anything that has liquid in it, and is on a mission to make sure that we all gulp down our beverages as fast as we can because Maud might get them--a strategy that works really well with coffee and makes me hyper for the rest of the day.

I, on the other hand, would be fine if she would just FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LEAVE THE LAMPS ALONE.

Maud has an addiction. She loves lamps. Specifically, she loves clawing them and knocking them over. The problem is, I too love lamps, almost as much as I love glassware, and there are a lot of lamps in our house. And while Guy can shrug and say "hey, there's a weight on the bottom there, she can't hurt it, stop yelling at her because I'm missing Xander being funny," I can't, because I love almost all of these lamps (there's one she's welcome to) and they are not allowed to break.

We have to refill the special Maud-punishment-spray-bottle a lot these days.

So if anyone knows of a twelve steps program for cats, I would be most grateful.

Heat

Last week, Maud underwent her first heat. It seemed a little early, as we still call her The Kitten, but I guess way-underage sex is not limited to the human species. In fact, given that Maud is only about seven in cat years, tweenage sex is downright responsible.

I've done a quick about.com check, just in case we had it wrong and she was just being crazy kitten or something.

1. Immediately preceeding oestrus, your female cat may become unusually affection, and rub her hind quarters against furniture, other cats, and/or her favorite human.
Well, she didn't bite us quite as much, and Guy got a lot of hindquarter rubbing, though I'd prefer to believe that's because he's male and not because he's her favorite, because hey now that's not right. But I wouldn't go so far as to say that she "became affection" because that would require some feat of postmodernist deus ex machina.

And at that point I stopped reading about.com because clearly if they can't check their own grammar I have some serious doubts about their veterinarian abilities.

Actually, it was pretty clear what was going on. It was like a combination of cramps and the worst case of female blue-balling that I have ever seen. She couldn't settle anywhere, but just kind of followed us around whimpering and dragging her crotch on the floor. Guy joked about how he would help her if he could, only really he wouldn't because punchline a) it would probably be a little more than she was looking for, and punchline b) it's icky for many many reasons. She didn't seem to think so.

I joked about buying her a kitty vibrator, which it turns out wasn't so far out there. Everything2.com, which granted is even less respectable than about.com, recommended inserting a Q-tip into the cat's vagina, and moving it back and forth until the cat orgasms, which apparently should be very easy to determine.

I think we'll just get her spayed, thanks.

We kept the vibrator jokes to a minimum when the kids were around, but obviously they noticed something amiss, since Maud was like an entirely different--and very unhappy--animal. I came home one evening to Boy saying "Dad says Maud's in heat. What does 'in heat' mean?"

Thanks a bunch there, Guy.

"It's something cats go through when they're ready to have kittens."

"We're going to have kittens?!!!?"

"No. It doesn't mean she's pregnant, it just means she's old enough to have kittens now." (Boy knows about sex, and talks about it often, and somewhat inappropriately, i.e. "That gesture Girl is making looks like semen.")

"Oh. Can we have kittens?"

"No. We already have a kitten." Just one that's old enough to have her own. Sad world.

Later, Boy asked Guy "Do all women go through heat?"

Guy said "NO. Just cats."

Hmm.

If I got scratched, it was my own fault

So I had a dream last night that I lost Maud.

We were Christmas shopping in a store, one of those giant winding ones with crystals and ungents and scarves, and Maud was trotting along quietly and not swatting at anything. Don't ask me why she was out shopping with me, or who we thought we were shopping for in a store like that, dreams don't respond to logic.

There were lots of other cats there, and I was heading into a section where there weren't any--the guy's section. I asked the owner of the store if I could leave my cat to hang out with all her cats, and I'd be right back.

I wanted to try on a dress, you see--a red, oddly constructed dress--potentially either very flattering or godawful. But the man wouldn't let me go try it on! He was a big biker guy, so again don't ask why a big biker guy was working at a store with red flowy dresses.

"You're not going to buy it," he said, "so why should I let you try it on?"
"I MIGHT buy it," I said. "I can't know if it'll look good until I try it on."
"You're just one of those girls who likes to go into expensive stores and try on the dresses and pop all the sequins off and then leave."
"I am not one of those girls," I protested. Although I may have been at one point in my life. "Do you know what a pain it is to take off one set of clothes--especially when it's cold out and you have on lots of layers--put on another, and then take that set off, and put on the original ones? It's annoying! I don't do it for my own amusement!"

But he would not budge. So I went off in a huff to go find Maud. I asked the lady where she had gone, and the woman stared at me blankly. What cat? There are like a hundred cats here.

And there were--cute kitten after cute kitten, most cuter than Maud because they were younger, but no Maud. I went to the sacrificed animals section--nothing. The tiger balm section--a white kitten. In the way of dreams, I went round and round, getting increasingly more panicked.

However, unlike most anxiety dreams, this one solved itself! I did find her--lying in one of those chairs that look like they're carved out of a whole tree, next to a fire. I picked her up and she purred, forgiving me instantly, and we proceeded to shop for presents for my sister--would she and her roommates have time for a complicated foot scrub regimen?

Sorry sis, that was crazy dream talk. I already bought all your presents.

And so when I got up this morning, I heard Maud yowling outside my bedroom like she does, and went to scoop her up and give her a hug. She dashed up the stairs like a mad thing. Sorry Maud.

Ichabod Maud

Okay, to be fair, not all aspects of Halloween were as terrifying as The Attack of the Many Trick-or-Treaters. All four of us got dressed up, Girl as a Spider Countess (that's what it said right there on the package. I think that was the name of a Diablo II villain), Boy as a Clone Trooper (not to be confused with Storm Trooper from the original Star Wars movies--CLONE Trooper, people. Move with the times), me as Drucilla/just a woman wearing a lot of black because I hated the vampire teeth. Best of all, though, was Guy. I am sad to say that I don't have a picture available just yet, and I was too horrified to look at him, much less photograph him, but I do regret that now because really the horror/humor ought to be shared. I'm hoping Boy and Girl's mom will send some documentation my way...

Suffice it to say, Guy's costume morphed from Vampire Elvis (he didn't die, he just became undead), Angelus (which didn't work because neither Angel nor Angelus would go outside on such a bad hair day), Joey Ramone (really looked nothing like him, but it was cooler than being some freak walking around), to Phil Spector (which was the most accurate but really the least one Guy wanted to be. Better to be the widespread slaughter of Angelus).

Even Maud got dressed up. She was the Headless Horseman:

Untapped Market

As I prepare Maud's evening meal, I always announce to her what I will be serving: tuna & chicken, oceanfish, lamb & beef...

Lamb & beef? I understand the others, but when was the last time you saw a cat on the hunt for a tasty bit of mutton? Try to imagine a hoard of kittens attempting to bring down a cow--the cow would flick its tail, look over its shoulder in mild annoyance, and then go back to spazzing as cows do. And I have noticed a marked difference in the amount of purring and quivering in pleasure when Maud eats chicken instead of beef.

I really think Purina and NutriSource should look into producing foods that cats eat. Or better yet, I should get in on this pet food goldmine--hey, it's not every niche market that gets an entire row at every single grocery store.

Rat canned cat food. Or mouse--or both, for variety. I'm kinda going with no on the tweety bird front--too much care required for too little production value. But goldfish? Get enough of them ground up and you'd have one happy kitty.

The only problem I've having is with the name...Rat Cat Food, while certainly descriptive and appealing to cats, is probably not quite as appealing to the person wielding the wallet. Any suggestions?

Maud Update:

Maud has grown since she was last described. A lot, in fact. We left for Hawaii, came back, and in between she doubled in size, and the rate doesn't appear to have slowed.

Remember the cuddly baby who used to sleep on shoulders?
Well, she doesn't really do that anymore. She's more of a nipper and a biter, and her preferred target is an ankle. She isn't all bad, though. She is inordinately interested in water, and has been known to join you in the shower.
(That's her on the bathmat contemplating entry). She is, sad to say, quite fascinated by my knitting, but loses interest if she's very tired, or if The West Wing is on. When she is in one of her rare loving moods, she will purr around your face, and even go so far as to stick her nose up one of your nostrils--this is the epitome of affection, in Maud's opinion.

But see those two pictures above? That's Maud before we left for Hawaii.


This is Maud when we returned. She became Batman, stalker and destroyer of all things made of plastic/paper/cloth/human flesh.

Problematic

We have a difficulty. Obviously, Maud cannot play with yarn. As Awwfancy stated, it would be bad for her, and expensive for us, both in vet bills and in shredded kid mohair. Also, I've never really been the sort of person who thought cats needed toys or beds or special food--growing up, our cats lived outside, ate the Costco bags of food, and were yelled at if they scratched the car.

But I love to knit, and I love to knit things for people I love and I love Maud. So I have printed up patterns for little mice, and even (yes, it's true) a felted cat bed.

Apart from the whole "my God, I'm a cat-spoiler and next thing you know I'll be referring to myself as her mommy" thing, there's the "but I thought we didn't want her playing with yarn" thing. While a felted cat bad will (hopefully) bear very little resemblance to loose yarn, a little mouse, when played with for a while, probably will just become a ball of twisted yarn loops. Much like the contents of my bag-o-projects.

So really, for consistency's sake, I ought to not knit her anything. But I can't help it--and neither can Boy. He shares the impulse to make something for someone, and frankly that's always something to be encouraged. And what's more, he wanted to make an i-cord--so here we have the added benefits of a) a project small enough that he'll actually finish it before getting bored, and b) learning to be comfortable with dpns.

I do realize that an i-cord is basically just a fancy string. Sigh.

The War At Home

From my previous post, we may all have suspected that this would occur. I certainly did.

It all started small and innocuously, even sort of sweetly. Yesterday, Boy claimed to have a tummy ache and asked to stay home from camp. Of course, his tummy ache immediately cured itself the moment the babysitter obeyed his repeated requests to take him from his mother's house to ours--or, shall I say, the moment he had Maud in his arms. Where she remained, I imagine, for the majority of the day (Girl isn't quite comfortable with Maud, and will pet her occasionally, but tends to shy away).

Now, since this wasn't school he was skipping out on, and since it meant Maud wouldn't be left alone all day, I was all over this action. I became less enamored with it, however, when I returned home.

Cordelia: How's Maud doing? Did you guys have a good time today?
Boy: She loves me. All she wants to do is be held by me. She slept in my arms for an hour today. Can we watch tv? Maud loves to fall asleep while watching tv.
Cordelia: Not right now. Can I hold her?
Boy: (generously) Sure. It's so wonderful that we have a sweet little kitten! You know, my arms are her personal bed and salt lick.
Cordelia: All of us are.
Boy: Yeah, but my arms are her personal bed and salt lick. Dad agrees with me. Can I hold her again?
(Continue ad nauseaum)

Grrr. Grrrrrr. We are mere steps away from "Since she loves me best, and since I spend the most time holding her, don't you think she should just be my cat?"

Okay, so the sane, calm part of me knows that a) this was inevitable, and b) it really doesn't matter, since she does live with all of us, and this whole thing is going on entirely without Maud's participation or knowledge, as she just wants to love and be loved and frankly owning a cat is quite impossible.

But the other part of me says that it's only been two days!! What's going to happen by the time my birthday comes along? Will my relationship with my birthday present be reduced to "Hey Boy, would it be okay with you if I pet Hermione?"

Maud

There has been consistent controversy in my household--Boy wants a pet. A turtle, a goldfish, a cat, a dog, a lizard--he doesn't care, he just wants a pet, dammit. And Guy and I have been hard-hearted. We can't afford all the business a fishtank requires (nor do we particularly care about fish). Ditto lizards and turtles, plus those are unhealthy. Super ditto dogs, what with the walking them and No, Boy, you wouldn't want to walk him every day, nor would you be able to, as we won't let you walk around the park by yourself at night. Cats will claw our beautiful ABC Carpet & Home couch that we adore and are still paying for.

However, all that stated, this is not about Boy. This is about me. See, secretly, I've been in his camp all along. Well, maybe not so secretly. I truly don't care about fish and have an aversion to reptiles, but I have named our theoretical dog Bear. And he will remain theoretical, because I disapprove of any dogs smaller than a lab, and love Newfoundlands (Bear is a Newfoundland), and we can all just have a laugh at the absurdity of a dog that size in an apartment. Not to mention the size of the dog's crap--do walkers charge extra for extra-large poo?

But a cat. . .a cat I really did want. I periodically take a look around animal shelter websites, to see what poor baby needs a home today. And the whole clawing thing could be dealt with--I would cry to see that couch damaged, but there are these little soft-paw things you can get, or you can clip, or you can watch it like a hawk and never go to work and then not be able to afford cat food.

But the bigger issue is that Guy is allergic. And his statement "I don't want to be sick all the time in my own home" is quite reasonable. So, apart from the occasional "wouldn't it be wonderful to have a cat?" I've left it alone.

But yesterday, on a whim, we drove up to Buttzville, NJ (really, that's its name) and stopped at a roadside antique store on the way. And there was a little grey kitten there. . .the last kitten, the woman said. They'd been abandoned at birth, and the rest had found homes, and there was just this little girlie left. I held her as we walked around the store, marveling at the idea that a) anyone would take another kitten over this perfect grey one, and b) that Guy had once declared that my daemon (as in Philip Pullman, Lyra, and Pantalaimon) was a grey cat.

I couldn't help it. I said "Can I have a kitten for my birthday?" Which isn't for two weeks, but it's a big one ("Quarter of a century, makes a girl think") and I knew he hadn't gotten me anything yet.

We left the kitten there, and drove off.

Guy, it turned out, was actually willing to discuss it, and had in fact been thinking about a cat for my birthday previous to this encounter with the grey kitten. But he wanted me to actually think about it, as there are several potential problems.

1) The aforementioned couch
2) Guy's allergies--which have been surmounted in the past, but still no fun
3) we're going away in two weeks
4) cats+yarn=tangled and torn yarn.
5) I've never had indoor cats, and Guy has. He says they're against sleeping.

But as we wandered through flea markets, and stumbled across $4 kitten carriers, and discussed possible solutions to the aforementioned problems, it began to feel more and more fate-like.

Suffice it to say, we bought the kitten carrier. We went back to the antique shop. We have a new member of the household.

This is Maud:
(On our horrible Holiday Inn carpeting. We try to ignore it, but Maud likes it).

She's playful, but cautious--a casual explorer, more comfortable poking around small rooms and people's feet, and won't venture anywhere she hasn't been specifically taken. Loves to be held. Not quite clear on the whole eating thing--she got called a tard once or twice for being quite willing to eat off our fingers but incapable of understanding that the same substance sat in her bowl--in larger quantities, to boot.

She gets very tired very easily--nipping one moment, then conked out the next. The red splotches on Guy's neck are sunburn, not allergic reactions. I swear.

She is named after Possession's Maud Bailey, and I refuse to allow anyone to nickname her anything else until she answers to that. My father nicknamed my little sister's cat Johnny Cat, and he never went by anything else. Maud deserves better.