Tag Archives: cats

Jan 31 2011

nermal: in memoriam, by way of a photo essay

L.G. Nermal was born on August 9th, 2010. We didn’t meet him until November 11th. Some people say that cats adopt humans, not the other way around. Nermal didn’t adopt us: he never once gave a sense of ownership or superiority to either of us.

But he did choose us, out of the crowd, as it were. The very next day we had him in our home.

L.G. Nermal - day one

He was pleasant to the other cats from the get-go. They, on the other hand…

Not pictured: Switters's sense of impending doom

It was Ashley’s turn to name the new pet, and it took her a few days to come up with something. She eventually settled upon Nermal, from Garfield, because he made happy little quasi-twittering-type-noises just like the cat on the cartoon. And because, well, he wasn’t quite normal.

I added the L.G., which stood for Little Guy. The idea was that the initials would change over time or whenever a couple of adjectives were needed to describe him or his behavior.

He never got the chance to be anything but a Little Guy.

He liked to hang out in whichever room Ashley and/or I were in. Even if he was just sleeping.

He also liked helping us with homework.

The other cats, in time, warmed up to him. Randal isn’t one much for other living creatures as all, but he liked Nermal because Nermal played with Switters, meaning that for the first time in over a year Switters wasn’t forcing Randal to play with him. Switters and Nermal played together a lot initially.

They even kinda became buds.

Nermal had three favorite activities.

Any time I did laundry he would play in the empty laundry basket, sometimes moving it from room to room. I’d set it down by the closet, put some clothes away, and I’d find it almost in the living with one L.G. Nermal inside it. He would playfully attack anyone – felis catus or homo sapiens – who happened to walk by.

He also would run into the bathtub just as soon as someone finished showering. He would sit in the still-wet basin and watch fascinatedly as the droplets ran down the shower curtain and the walls.

And he loved it when we came home with groceries. Not because he was interested in the new foodstuffs. No no. He loved the bags.

He was a gift to us, and especially to Ashley. The other cats aren’t as friendly with her as they are with me, for reasons only they know. Nermal, though…Nermal loved her and wasn’t afraid to let her know. Any time he cuddled up to her, she was happy. He would sometimes wake her up in the middle of the night just because he wanted her to pet him for two minutes. Then he’d let he go back to sleep.

Christmas Eve. Ready to go.

Not long after the above picture was taken I noticed a sudden change in Nermal’s behavior. Normally in the morning before work I’d put some food in his bowl and he’d eat it like there was no tomorrow. (He was the loudest eater I’ve ever heard, especially for a cat. Sometimes it was just gross to listen to him.) Then he’d go over to the big boys’ bowl and eat their food.

On this particular morning – a Monday about a month and a half after he brought him home – he ate about five bites of his food and then started scraping the floor next to his bowl. When I came home from work later that day, there was food still in his bowl. This was unprecedented.

This behavior continued throughout the week and into the next. We’d battled some fleas right around the time that Nermal’d come into our home, so my guess was he had worms. The next day, though, was when I noticed his belly.

See how small his head is? That's because his tummy is huge.

Two weeks ago today we learned that he had F.I.P., something for which there is no cure. We chose to take him home and care for him rather than having him put down. These last two weeks were rough. He stopped playing with Switters. He stopped running into the bathtub when I got out of the shower. He slept more. His stomach got bigger while he got smaller.

We tried not to hold out hope, but at any sign of normal behavior – even just eating solid food instead of the Ensure we were told to give him – we both secretly and silently hoped that he was getting a bit better. I tried not to tell myself that maybe he’d just learn to live with his big belly, that maybe he’d achieve some type of homeostasis with it and he’d be the first-ever cat to survive F.I.P. It sounds crazy, but then again…I live with a woman who was not supposed to live past ten.

And I think this was especially hard for Ashley. More than just losing her buddy, Ashley knew what he was going through and how it felt. Back in the summer of 2007, her lung-function dropped enough that she didn’t have energy to eat. She couldn’t find a way to get comfortable that would allow her to breathe. She felt like she was suffocating constantly.

The problem with F.I.P. is that it dumps nourishment from the veins into the belly. The belly swells, unable to drain. In time this begins to compromise lung-function.

Ashley hated that he was suffocating. She hated that he was going through what she’d gone through.

But that was why he chose us. Whether he knew it then or not, Nermal had an anomaly in his genetic code that would eventually cause him to die. In Ashley, he saw a mother who would be closer to him in a fundamental way that his own feline mother would never be. He saw a mother who would understand.

There’s another reason he chose us, but I’ll save that for another time.

Last Sunday was when I knew Nermal wasn’t going to make it. He’d developed a wheeze to his breathing and he couldn’t sleep for lack of comfort.

And he stopped looking happy.

I didn’t think he’d last the day. Late in the evening he climbed onto my lap and as I watched him lie there unable to sleep, the tears started. Ashley and I began our mourning then. We were up very late that night, neither of us wanting to be asleep when our little guy couldn’t fight anymore.

But he made it.

None of us slept well at all this week, especially after he began to behave erratically.

Finally, he was capable of little more than lying around.

We moved his box from room to room so he could still hang out with us like he liked to do so much.

Saturday night, around 7:30, I knew somehow that it was time. I scooped him into my lap and sat with him on the sofa, swaddled in one of the fleece blankets he loved so much. I kissed his little face and told him that we loved him, that we would miss him so much, and that it was time for him to go. He lied back in my arms and went slack. He cried out once or twice and Ashley and I moved him to the bed, where he could be warm.

Ashley told him then that it was okay to go. She said, ‘Go play.’ She bent over him and combed out his fur, fur he’d been too tired to clean for the last week. She cleaned him up and made him soft again and that is was brought him peace enough to let go. Inside his little shallow-breathing body, Nermal fell asleep.

Four hours later, L.G. Nermal exhaled for the final time. I was right there with him, holding his little paw. When I heard the final exhale, I knew it for what it was. I put my head on his little side and listened as his tired little heart stopped beating.

And as crazy as it may be, under that sad sound I also heard him purring. I knew he was gone, but the purring sound outlasted his heartbeat by about thirty seconds. I wouldn’t believe I heard it except that no scientist anywhere can tell me how it is that cats purr. Let alone if a cat can purr after his heart stops.

Nermal did.

Once he was gone I moved his paws closer to his body. I wrapped his tail around him. I held his eyes closed. I scooped him up, kissed him a final time on the cheek, and put him in his favorite blanket so that, as Ashley’d said, he wouldn’t be cold. Wrapping him in it, I placed him in his box.

L.G. Nermal died on January 30th, 2011. His was not yet six-months old.

And I cried. I cried and cried and cried. I’m crying again.

But that’s okay. I love our Little Guy Nermal, and I know I’ll miss him for a long time. I’ll think of him every time I get out of the shower. Every time I do the laundry. Every time I use one of the fleece blankets he loved so much.

I know how you were when you died, little buddy. But I’m going to choose to remember you differently. I’ll remember you like this, which was the third day after you’d come into our lives and the day I knew I loved you.

Goodbye my friend. I hope you’ve found a way to be able to play again.

Jan 25 2011

Nermal update

This is how we move Nermal around these days. He wants to spend most of his time in this box. But he also likes to be in the same room as me and Ashley. So at night we move him – box and all – into the bedroom. If we watch TV/read in the living room, the Nermal box comes along.

He is tired most of the time but can’t really sleep. He doesn’t eat other than the Ensure we force into his mouth with a syringe. He doesn’t play.

He hardly even meows.

We know it won’t be long now. We do what we can. We love him. We hold him. We cry sometimes.

And we move him and his box around. So he’ll be comfortable. So he’ll know he’s not alone.

None of this will cure him. None of it will make him better.

But we do it anyway.

Sep 22 2010

they can has cheezburger

The three p’s: pee, puke and poop. My concern about these should clue you in that Ashley and I are the (1) proud owners of three cats.

Randal. Unimpressed as always.

Taz. I'm sure she's eyeing someone's food.

Switters. You will do what he wants you to do.

While they are a lot of fun to have around, mornings are rough for all of us. About a month ago Taz decided that pooping in the litter-box was for posers and now just shits on the floor right by the litter-box in what I suppose is her openly ironic statement on litter-boxes in a post-postmodernist world. But she only makes this statement at night and when we’re gone for a few hours. When we’re home and awake, she uses the litter-box just fine.(2)

She also just doesn’t always make it to the box in time when she has to pee. So for a while there were nefarious and nigh-invisible puddles on the kitchen floor. Like a mine-field of urine. And let me just say that soiling your foot in kitty-piddle before you’ve even managed to pour coffee into your coffee mug does not make for a happy AM for anyone, ironic hipster-kitty statement or no.

And Switters sometimes just likes to spray. Mostly he does this on Ashley’s clothes, but occasionally on the sofa. And once or twice right on Ashley.

Randal goes through periods of a few weeks in which he throws up a lot. As does Switters. As does Taz.

So, yeah. My mornings sometimes are about not stepping in, locating, and cleaning up any or all of the three p’s.(3)

Monday morning seemed like a good day. There was no poop by the litter-box, so I figured Taz must have had a good night. I grabbed my coffee, took my shower(4), got dressed and headed to the living room for a little pre-work-day watching of the Today show.(5)

What I found first was small pile of doo-doo right in front of my chair. This is a new spot for Taz(6) and I chided her softly for it before cleaning it up. I got my cereal around and sat down in my chair and that’s when I noticed a pile of puke on the loveseat. Switters had obviously had a rough night too.(7) As I went to the kitchen for paper towels I noticed a second pile of puke on the sofa.

Apparently it was a rough night for the furniture too.

After cleaning the new messes up, I spied an odd reflection that meant only one thing: pee. How appropriate, right? Why give me two p’s to deal with when you can so easily give me three?!

The pile of pee was probably Switters, since it was aimed in the direction of Ashley’s sandals, but I’ve seen Taz nearly pee on her sandals lately too. The only cat exempt from scorn was Randal. In fact, Randal’s the cat I never have to worry about. He generally wants to be left alone and he’ll let me know when he wants attention and he’ll do so in a non-jerk way, as opposed to Switters who’ll sit on my book or otherwise on my chest instead of my lap. The only thing Randal does is puke, and the only problem with that is that Taz will eat it.(8) And that’s really more of a problem with Taz.(9)

So I cleaned up the urine as well, scolding the cats a little more but not too harshly.

Then, before bed, Taz and Switters were in the living room with me and Ashley. I called Randal in for a family meeting and informed them all that if no one peed, puked or pooped on the floor I would buy them a cheeseburger after work today.

And in the morning…well, what do you know? I owed them a cheeseburger. Even a double-cheeseburger only costs a buck, which is way worth it if I don’t have to wake up ten minutes early every morning just to clean up the kinds of things the Center for Disease Control says you should really try to stay away from.

I bought them a cheeseburger and, contrary to what the LOLcats site would have you believe, cats don’t really care for cheeseburgers. Except for Taz.(10) She ate more than half of a double-cheeseburger, meat, bun, pickles and all.

And then this morning there were a few very unhappy piles of liquid shit. How personally I take a pile of shit in the AM is directly proportional to the general liquidity of said offensive specimen. But I could only blame myself.

So yeah no. They no can has cheezburger.

  1. Mostly. Depends on what they’re up to at that moment.
  2. Mostly. She did once poop on the floor right by my foot while I was reading. The obvious anti-authoritarian motive behind it was appreciated, if not the method itself.
  3. You want my life. I know you do.
  4. With the coffee in the shower with me.
  5. My peculiar love of the Today show is difficult to explain but I’ll try in a different post.
  6. Yes, I know whose shit it was. I know – on sight – which feces belongs to which feline.
  7. Yep. I know their vomit too.
  8. She will literally eat anything. The only thing she doesn’t seem to like much is cat food…but she’ll still eat it.
  9. Plus Randal is the loudest cat ever, behaviorally, and his puke-noise is fierce.
  10. See note 8, supra.
Apr 4 2010

sunday adverbs, vol. 10

Strangely

Friday I mentioned that this had been one of the more unusual weeks in recent memory. Let see if we can break it down, in chronological order no less.

On Monday

After work and after class, Ashley and I hopped in her car to head home. She wanted me to drive, so I sat down, fired up the car and opened the window a bit to move some air. As I put it in reverse and started to move, about five cars came through behind me. When I started to move again, two more cars came through. Then, the coast clear, I backed out in earnest. From around the corner, this woman in this huge Escalade came tearing around the corner, way too quickly for that parking lot and way too quickly for a vehicle of that size. I slammed on the breaks and she did too, avoiding a collision by a few inches. I remembering yelling, ‘Fuck!’ and some other vitriol intended for this idiot, forgetting that I’d opened the window a bit. I only figured it out when I heard her saying, ‘Sorry!’

This made me even more angry. She sat back there yelling, ‘I’m really, really sorry.’ What a fucking moron! All I wanted to do was back out so I could go home, and this jerk, who’d nearly caused an accident by hauling her over-sized competitive-consumption-mobile too quickly through a little parking lot, was blocking my way so she could apologize!

I yelled out the window, ‘I don’t care if you’re sorry. Just get out of the way.’ She responded to this with more apologies until I yelled,’ Just fucking move!!!‘ At which point she did and I was free to move about the country.

Ugh.

Cut to a few hours later, after Ashley and I had had a few hearty laughs at that woman’s idiocy and have had our dinner and evening together. We’re topping off our Monday evening with what we shall call amorous activities. It’s a somewhat laid-back session, not too intense but not lazy either. There’s some laughter and some chatter as well. I said something to her – I don’t remember what – and out of nowhere she says, ‘Ooh yeah! Talk to me like you’re Canadian.’

I’ve heard of people asking their partner to speaking in various seemingly exotic languages or accents during sex. I just didn’t think Canadian accent was one of them.

On Tuesday

I’d gotten contacts last summer for the first time in a long time. I’d run out of fresh pair last week, and rather than simply getting new ones I wanted an examination because they’d never really felt comfortable. So Tuesday I was in the optometrist’s office, where he put some iridescent dye in my eye and made like it was the 60s again by turning on a blacklight. He asked me to blink and look here and there and then he said, ‘Well…it’s not what we’d call chronic dryness, but you don’t have many tears in there.’ I considered telling him about my life over the last five-to-six years, complete with footnotes going back to my childhood and an appendix on chronic depression to justify why I might have simply run out, but I kept it all to myself.

On Wednesday

I had band practice on Wednesday and Ashley had a Camp Adventure meeting, so neither of us were home except when I stopped in for an hour after work for some dinner. I watched an episode of ‘Gilmore Girls’ and caught up on the previous night’s ep of ‘V’ and played with the cats.

When I came home around ten, I had a few things I wanted to do so I didn’t notice right away that Switters hadn’t come running from the bedroom when I’d walked in. I hunted around for him and finally found him under the bed, where he sat growling and hissing at me. I had no idea what was going on and was a little afraid, but I grabbed a flashlight and, after about 30 minutes, coaxed him out.

Which is when I finally saw that he wasn’t putting any weight on his left-rear leg.

I was afraid for the poor guy, and also confused because…how the hell? He’s a very rambunctious, sure, but I’ve never seen him come close to hurting himself. Sure he once got stuck behind the fridge at five in the morning, and yes he once time nearly burned the house down, and yeah once he got a little too big he nearly got stuck under one of the dressers, but…well okay, he’s come close to hurting himself. But this time he was in obvious pain.

On Thursday

Ashley and I took Switters to the vet, with whom we shared our best guesses at to what Switters had done. The vet seemed to think that the most plausible thing was that he’s climbed up into the box-spring of our bed (he’d torn a hole in the bottom a long time ago) and got twisted around up there or something. That is where I found him, right beneath that hole, so it makes sense.

The vet said he’d broken his leg – either the tibia or fibula – and it was likely a small fracture, maybe just a hair-line. They kept him the afternoon for some x-rays and when we picked him up he looked like this:

It might be a stylin' cast, but he friggin' hates it.

He’ll have to wear this for about six weeks, but the vet said afterward he should be absolutely back to normal functionality. That’s good news because I already miss yelling at him roughly 20 times a day for getting into things he’s not supposed to. And it’s been too quiet at night.

Feb 23 2010

meow means meow

This is our cat, Randal.

Randal in his natural state of lying around.

He’s named after Randal Graves, from Clerks, and exhibits exactly zero of his namesake’s characteristics. But he’s a sweet if surly cat and I love him very much. I found him living on the streets of Cleveland, a heroin needle tied off above his right forepaw and lying in a bed of used kitty condoms commanding a brood of what I can only call crack-tabbies to compromise their inhibitions on webcam.(1)

In the three years since, he’s been my bud, my pal, my homie, my wingman(2), and my confidant. There was a little while back there when he was pretty much all I had. No matter how fussy he gets, no matter how many times he glares at Ashley with nothing but marrow-deep loathing, no matter how many times he falls off the wagon, I’ll love him like my first child.(3)

This is our other cat, Switters.

Switters in his natural state of fucking with you.

Switters is named after a character in a Tom Robbins book and exhibits pretty much all of the namesake’s characteristics. But he’s a sweet kitty when he wants to be and makes Ashley and I laugh more than Accidentally on Purpose(4). He wandered into the library about six months ago and once I picked him up, I knew he was mine.(5) He’s pretty much exactly the kind of cat that Randal is not.

Whereas Randal lies in one spot for most of the day, Switters is a blur most of the time.

Whereas Randal uses the scratch pad only occasionally, Switters sleeps on it, eats on it, hangs out on it, does his laundry on it, mixes drinks on it…

Whereas Randal never likes to sit on your lap, Switters will literally climb up your pants in order to get some quality lap-time.

Whereas Randal is submissive, Switters is domineering.

Whereas Randal shows no interest in any type of sexual activity, Switters is very much interested in sexual activity…with Randal.(6)

When the lights go out, Switters gets his boner on. It’s awful. They’ll play around all evening, or else just ignore each other. But once Ashley and I go to bed, so begins the humiliating growls of a cat fighting off a would-be rapist.(7) Sometimes Switters trying to mount him for maybe an hour or so. Other times, like last night, well…he’s ready to go all night with Randal’s sweet, hopefully virgin ass.

I’ve read that this is simply Switters establishing his dominance, but here’s the thing: Randal doesn’t challenge Switters’s dominance at all. When Switters bites the back of Randal’s neck and gets a leg up, Randal just growls and runs for higher ground. He never smacks him. He never kicks him in the balls. The only person who defends Randal is me.(8)

More likely than not, this is all going to lead to Switters losing his testicles, and probably Randal too – because if we have one of them done we may as well have them both done. It’s better for them in the long run, and yeah, if they get out they won’t knock up the neighborhood kitties. It’s something I should have already done, I know, but it’s hard for me to sort-of play god like that.

All the same: I need my sleep, Ashley needs her sleep, Randal need his little anal hymen intact, and Switters needs a harsh lesson in ‘no means no.’

  1. Or maybe he was on the front porch as I took out the trash one cold night. I don’t remember which.
  2. His ability to help me pick-up ladies is legen…waitforit…dary.
  3. Who is living happily, so I hear, in a suburb of Paris with the fine French family I sold him to fifteen years ago. They tell me the bruises I see in the pictures they send are from his love of football (presumably European style).
  4. Which is a pretty bad show sandwiched between two halfway decent shows that we watch on Monday nights cuz we’re too lazy to do much else.
  5. Another version of this goes thusly: He materialized in the library after Satan gave him a week’s furlough and once I picked him he knew my soul was his.
  6. Note that Randal will leave the room if Ashley and I begin displaying even modest amounts of amorous affection, whereas Switters will pull up a fucking chair and watch. He’s really quite creepy sometimes.
  7. Of the anal variety, obvs.
  8. And if Switters is doing his thing and I get out of bed, he fucking hides. Who’s the dominant male now, bitch?!?(1)
    1. Yes, I’m aware that I’m smack-talking a cat.
Nov 10 2009

and a flaming pussy at the end

Lately I’ve actually had plenty to blog about, but no time to blog. So today, here’s a nice, long post in four parts (with footnotes of course) to catch you up. I thought about breaking these into their own posts, but decided to opt this way. So suck it.

1. Trans-Siberian Orchestra

On Sunday, Ashley and I went to see Trans-Siberian Orchestra with Bubby and Dee.(1) My love for TSO, when it began 12 or 13 years ago, was instantaneous. From the opening arpeggio of ‘Christmas Eve (Sarajevo 12/24)’ through to the power-chord-riddled climax of the song, I was hooked like I’d never been hooked before. This occasion marked the one and only time I rushed out to buy a CD immediately after seeing the video. I felt cheap and dirty for having let MTV influence me so, and upon my return I showered until the upper-three layers of skin were gone. But I listened to the CD the entire time.

The album didn’t disappoint, and though the following albums haven’t been up to par(2), I’ve never faltered in my love for what they do. Seeing them in concert was the culmination of many years’ worth of longing to see them but never having cash at the right time.

The show didn’t disappoint, either. The band played well, the sound was amazingly well-balanced, and the light-show may have topped the Pink Floyd show I caught back in ’94.(3) A little warning sign was posted on the entrance to the arena:

“Trans-Siberian Orchestra makes use of strobe lighting effects, which may cause seizures in some people. Also, Bo rules!”(4)

This is the most understated warning I’ve ever read. It couldn’t be more understated if Eddie Izzard stood there(5) and personally announced it to each passerby in his droll, British manner. There were more lights than Chevy Chase stringing Christmas lights on a house on the sun. There were screens of lights, lasers, strobes, kliegs, spots, and even fire…fire that changed color no less.

Let’s just say that Helen Keller could have dug this show.(6)

And, as I’ve mentioned, I did too.

Though she should have known better, Dee arranged things so that Bubby and I were sitting together. As such, tonight at band practice we’re going to figure out how we can pull off a few TSO covers, including their version of Canon in D.(7)

2. Ashley’s test results

Yesterday Ashley got the results of the recent bronchoscopy she underwent to see how her lungs are doing. This is a fairly routine procedure for lung-transplant patients, the purpose being to check for infections and signs of rejection. It’s pretty much as the word sounds: they stick a camera down her throat in into her lungs all the way into her bronchial passages.(8) The procedure carries its own risks, but her doctor felt it worthwhile to do.

I’m happy to report that the brochoscopy showed no signs of rejection. She has a mild infection, but it’s something that cystics contract on a regular basis and, therefore, is nothing to worry about. Her chest x-rays were also clean, though she was very amused that her breasts now show up on the x-ray. After being so thin for so long, she loves having boobs for a change.(9)

3. Ethical concerns and low-light grilling

After work yesterday, we went to the store to find something for dinner. I happened across a new brand of chik’n cutlets and decided then and there that it was pleasant enough outside to fire up the grill. So Ashley bought herself a nice big steak and we went home where I realized that I was going to lose the light in a hurry. It was already 5PM, and around here it’s getting dark at that time already.

Undeterred, I fired up the grill and put her (real) meat and my (fake) meat on (very opposite) sides of the rack. In time I would have to grab a small flashlight and hold it in my mouth while I checked to see if her steak was properly done.(10) One of the neighborhood cats approached as she always does and I pet her and fed her a little of Ashley’s steak, careful to wipe my hand before touching my chik’n again. I kept my plates and utensils separate, but still the ethical question bogged my mind, viz,

Part the first:

Ashley, due to her lung transplant, requires more of certain nutrients than most of us do. (Mostly iron, but other things that help her absorb and use the anit-rejection meds.) The best source for these nutrients, other than the supplements, is red meat. In this case, is it ethically acceptable for her to eat animals?

Part the second:

Because she has been told to eat red meat by her doctors, and because she may not be able to live without it, it is wrong for me, as a vegetarian, to prepare meat and meat-dishes for her? (I’m not eating them.)

The always-up-for-an-ethical-food-debate Lindy Loo has stipulated that the first argument is questionable and she challenges the doctor’s information that red meat is the best source for iron. She pointed out that doctors and surgeons are typically under-informed w/r/t nutrition issues and give advice that contradicts that of nutrition studies.

This makes sense to me and I think she has a valid point. However, Ashley takes quite a bit of iron each day, in the form of pills, and after some recent blood-work was told to up her iron intake, not through more pills, but specifically through red meat. I know that some nutrients (protein is a good example) are found in several different forms depending on the source(11) , and that nutritionists advise getting these nutrients from a variety sources. Perhaps this is the case for iron. It’s a question to be asked.

W/r/t the second ethical question, I don’t see a problem with it personally, nor does Lindy Loo. I make sure that I’m not mixing up my utensils and plates and whatnot, yet I’m sure some people(12) would have a problem with a vegetarian cooking meat. So I continue to debate it in my head.

4. And lastly, Switters and fire

Last night, around midnight-thirty, Ashley asked why something smelled like food. I looked out to the kitchen area and the light wasn’t quite right.

Because the stove was on.

Somehow Switters, who’s just gotten big enough to be able to jump up on the sink and counter, and therefore also the stove, had turned the knob and lit the stove when he’d jumped down. The gas burner was going on high and burning the shit out of some potatoes we’d accidently left in a pot.

But at least the cat himself wasn’t a running blaze through the apartment.

The whole thing was scary as hell. If we hadn’t been home….

And I’m not sure what to do. Cats climb around; it’s in their nature. He’s a rambunctious little dude and a lot of fun, but I can’t have him burning the house down. For now we’ve taken the knobs off the stove, but I have a feeling that from now on I’ll be worried about what he’s doing when we’re not home. I’ll soon long for the days when I was merely worried that he was peeing on the sofa or chasing the other cat around all day.

So there. You’re all caught up. Because clearly you cared to be.

  1. Friends of mine, and, together, we form three-fourths of our own band.
  2. The Christmas Attic isn’t as musically interesting as Christmas Eve and Other Stories, but does have a few high points. The Lost Christmas Eve is, musically, the best of the trio, but doesn’t transmit the story as effectively as the first album. In fact, you can’t discern the story of The Lost Christmas Eve without the CD insert, and who the hell buys CD insets anymore?
  3. This began my long-term love affair with Cleveland, as it was the first time I was there.
  4. Due to the constraints of memory, the language here is an approximation.
  5. In tight pants, a sensible blouse, and fabulous heels, of course.
  6. Or do I mean Anne Frank?
  7. I’ll maintain until I die that it way better in Db.
  8. She is, thankfully, put under before they do this. Though the technician told me of one guy who wasn’t put under and I imagine that when they got the scope down far enough they found a giant set of steel testicles.
  9. Just yesterday she said, “Even God couldn’t make boobs as awesome as mine.” And I wholeheartedly concur.
  10. Medium-well.
  11. Animal, vegetable, or mineral.
  12. PETA, for example. But seriously, if there’s a more hypocritical ethical-concern group out there, I’ve never heard of them.