I was going to do a Wordless Wednesday and post only a photo tonight, but I don't think "wordless" is my style! I'm too much of a yapper; I've got too much to say.
First, to wrap up a loose end: I've spoken twice now with our pediatrician about the toy of Maya's that tested positive for lead. She is still declining to test Maya's lead levels, citing the fact that Maya's health and development seem normal. She believes I should not worry, and she doesn't believe any action is warranted beyond confiscating the toy. She and another doctor in the practice, with whom I'm also communicating, are being perfectly civil and patient and professional in their dealings with me, but I just don't feel comfortable accepting their opinion that Maya's blood doesn't need testing. So, tomorrow I'm going to call my physician, who also sees pediatric patients, and explain that I'd really like to get Maya's lead levels checked but that my pediatrician is declining to do so, and I'll ask if she or some other doctor in her practice would be willing to do it. We'll see what happens.
Tell me: Am I being unreasonable? Neurotic? Obsessive? You can be honest. Seriously. I'm in therapy for anxiety issues, after all! S believes that doctors know what they're talking about and that their opinions should be respected. He's not stopping me from pursuing this blood test, but if it were up to him, he'd skip it.
Would you? I need some outside perspective.
---
Yesterday morning, the oddest thing happened. Another car and mine drove essentially side by side for the vast majority of my commute to work---like, many miles' worth---and then, we turned into the same parking garage. And then, we ended up riding the elevator together in my work building up to our respective offices! It was weird. On the elevator, I was thinking, "That's him! That's the guy! We drove all the way here together, from Playa del Rey!" I tried and tried to work up the nerve to strike up a conversation ("Hey, aren't you the guy driving the dark green VW Golf?"), but I chickened out. I think, though, that he recognized me, too. He kept looking at me, and when I exited the elevator, he said a friendly, "Have a nice day!" It was just weird that in this huge, sprawling city, something like that would happen. I'm just irked that I let my shyness get the best of me. Who knows, I could've made a new friend!
---
My boss at work had to put his eldest cat down today. He came into work late and seemed so down and quiet. He and his wife have (well, had) five cats, and this one was 20 years old and quite sick. Five cats! I admire them for taking in and caring for so many animals, a few of which have health problems. Lord knows I can barely manage my two freaky felines---I can't imagine five. Anyway, this guy, my boss, has had a rough year. His father passed away, and he's been spending a lot of time with his mother, who has full-blown Alzheimer's. It just didn't seem fair that, on top of all of those things, he had to lose a pet. The amazing thing is, he just keeps coming to work every day, and getting things done. I admire his ability to compartmentalize. I find that very, very difficult to do myself.
---
In one week and one day, my little family and I will be heading back east to chilly upstate NY, to spend Thanksgiving with my parents. I'm looking forward to lazing around their large house; watching Maya romp in their backyard, which is like a football field in comparison to our teeny patch of grass; eating the usual Watson-family Thanksgiving staples (hooray for baked squash with marshmallows!); and visiting Indian Ladders, an apple orchard that makes RIDICULOUSLY DELICIOUS (and perfectly greasy) apple-cider donuts. Mmm.
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Toonces, the Cat Who Could Drive...Her Owners Crazy
I am so tired. I am so tired. I am so tired. I am so tired.
Last night Toonces was especially active. When used in reference to Toony, "active" is a cute little euphemism S and I have adopted to mean "defined by sprinting and leaping and battle-crying, resulting in little to no sleep for the two of us." Last night, I think the toy mice were to blame for Toonces's "activity."
Chilling on the couch (i.e., rickety futon) yesterday evening, S and I discussed---for the millionth time in the two years since we first adopted T. Kitty (like P. Diddy. Get it?)---how we don't play with her enough. She's rambunctious and super-playful, and she likes very much to engage in mock fisticuffs with all manner of erratically-moving string-like or mouse-like objects. In fact, she seems to thrive on this type of exercise. S and I, on the other hand, can think of other, more-enjoyable things to do after a long day at work than shake the Cat Dancer cat wand in the middle of the living room, for several minutes on end, while Toonces stalks it from various points around the room's perimeter. I mean, it's fun for the first ten minutes or so. But as time wears on, Toony's set-ups and choosing of vantage points and hiding places from which to stalk the wand become more and more elaborate. She'll spend five full minutes wriggling around beneath the bookcase to find the perfect little lookout point, then she'll sit there and follow the wand with her eyes for another eight. Meanwhile, there one of us is, standing in the center of the living room, bored, shaking the Cat Dancer halfheartedly while waiting for Toonces to finally make her move. Sometimes when I'm doing this, I repeat the words, "Look Toony! Come get it! Come get it!" so many times that I kind of work myself into a trance, and my mind sort of floats out of my head and goes somewhere else.
OK, anyway. After comparing levels of guilt about the piddling amount of playtime we
each make for Toony, I wondered aloud if her several hundred toy mice had all ended up in the usual place, beneath the television stand, since I hadn't seen them littering our hardwood floors in the last few months or so. S guessed the mice were indeed beneath the TV stand, and he set out to retrieve them with the handle-end of a Swiffer mop.
Bad idea. Well, good at first. Then bad.
Toony freaked when she saw her long-lost toy-mice prey come bursting forth from the
TV stand in one forceful swoosh of the Swiffer. She gave an excited little chirp and set about batting at the mice with her paws and scurrying after them as they sailed across the floor. "Oh, how cute! She's so excited!" we idiot pet owners cooed. We spent the next several minutes watching Toony fling her mice down the long hallway, then chase frantically after them, then bat them around for a bit, then start the whole shebang over again. Our "We're too lazy to play with the cat" guilt was eradicated for the time being.
Unfortunately, the fun and games didn't end when S and I climbed into bed at 11:30. No no; Toony was only getting started. She spent the next several hours whipping herself into a toy mouse–induced frenzy, which manifested itself as lap after lap of hallway sprints, nails clicking and clacking every step of the way; little victory mews and cries of attack when a mouse was successfully conquered; and what sounded to me like a whole lot of crashing into walls. I barely slept. S, who sleeps like he's dead, slept just a bit more than I did. It was bedlam! I wondered if the neighbors were kept up by the clamor as well.
This morning, when I "woke up," (as if I'd been asleep!), I felt more tired than when I'd gone to bed. Today I'm having trouble reading and concentrating. It's pathetic! And what irked me more than anything was that as I was leaving the apartment this morning to go to work, I caught a glimpse of Toonces lounging luxuriously on my side of the bed, yawning and snuggling up against a fold of the comforter, preparing for a nice long nap.
Last night Toonces was especially active. When used in reference to Toony, "active" is a cute little euphemism S and I have adopted to mean "defined by sprinting and leaping and battle-crying, resulting in little to no sleep for the two of us." Last night, I think the toy mice were to blame for Toonces's "activity."
Chilling on the couch (i.e., rickety futon) yesterday evening, S and I discussed---for the millionth time in the two years since we first adopted T. Kitty (like P. Diddy. Get it?)---how we don't play with her enough. She's rambunctious and super-playful, and she likes very much to engage in mock fisticuffs with all manner of erratically-moving string-like or mouse-like objects. In fact, she seems to thrive on this type of exercise. S and I, on the other hand, can think of other, more-enjoyable things to do after a long day at work than shake the Cat Dancer cat wand in the middle of the living room, for several minutes on end, while Toonces stalks it from various points around the room's perimeter. I mean, it's fun for the first ten minutes or so. But as time wears on, Toony's set-ups and choosing of vantage points and hiding places from which to stalk the wand become more and more elaborate. She'll spend five full minutes wriggling around beneath the bookcase to find the perfect little lookout point, then she'll sit there and follow the wand with her eyes for another eight. Meanwhile, there one of us is, standing in the center of the living room, bored, shaking the Cat Dancer halfheartedly while waiting for Toonces to finally make her move. Sometimes when I'm doing this, I repeat the words, "Look Toony! Come get it! Come get it!" so many times that I kind of work myself into a trance, and my mind sort of floats out of my head and goes somewhere else.
OK, anyway. After comparing levels of guilt about the piddling amount of playtime we
each make for Toony, I wondered aloud if her several hundred toy mice had all ended up in the usual place, beneath the television stand, since I hadn't seen them littering our hardwood floors in the last few months or so. S guessed the mice were indeed beneath the TV stand, and he set out to retrieve them with the handle-end of a Swiffer mop.
Bad idea. Well, good at first. Then bad.
Toony freaked when she saw her long-lost toy-mice prey come bursting forth from the
TV stand in one forceful swoosh of the Swiffer. She gave an excited little chirp and set about batting at the mice with her paws and scurrying after them as they sailed across the floor. "Oh, how cute! She's so excited!" we idiot pet owners cooed. We spent the next several minutes watching Toony fling her mice down the long hallway, then chase frantically after them, then bat them around for a bit, then start the whole shebang over again. Our "We're too lazy to play with the cat" guilt was eradicated for the time being.
Unfortunately, the fun and games didn't end when S and I climbed into bed at 11:30. No no; Toony was only getting started. She spent the next several hours whipping herself into a toy mouse–induced frenzy, which manifested itself as lap after lap of hallway sprints, nails clicking and clacking every step of the way; little victory mews and cries of attack when a mouse was successfully conquered; and what sounded to me like a whole lot of crashing into walls. I barely slept. S, who sleeps like he's dead, slept just a bit more than I did. It was bedlam! I wondered if the neighbors were kept up by the clamor as well.
This morning, when I "woke up," (as if I'd been asleep!), I felt more tired than when I'd gone to bed. Today I'm having trouble reading and concentrating. It's pathetic! And what irked me more than anything was that as I was leaving the apartment this morning to go to work, I caught a glimpse of Toonces lounging luxuriously on my side of the bed, yawning and snuggling up against a fold of the comforter, preparing for a nice long nap.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Two’s a Crowd
One day into single-parenthood and already I’m tired of it.
S flew back East last night for a six-day stay with his family in the F.C., so it’s just Toonces and me till next Tuesday. Good god, it’s a challenge parenting this cat on my own. She’s so needy! I got approximately three hours of sleep last night, no thanks to Toonces and her noisy forays into the closet and onto the computer desk. That damn closet door won’t stay closed, and as soon as it pops open, Toonces dives in and immediately begins chewing on and ripping up the newspaper that’s in there. It’s a sound that woke me up three times last night. The sound of her scaling the computer monitor is loud as well. A lot of rattling around. And, she’s a bed hog. Without S snoozing next to me and taking up half of the mattress’s surface area, Toonces felt perfectly free to plop down on the bed’s dead center, then s-t-r-e-t-c-h herself out. Thanks so much, Toonces. I’ll be over here in the far right corner, curled into the fetal position so that you might be more comfortable.
Sigh.
Suffice it to say I’ve got some rather unbecoming bags underneath my eyes today.
On top of her nighttime hijinks, she followed me around all morning and kept mewing at me, as if to say, “Where’s that other human of mine? I like him better. You’re a poor substitute, Lady.” She sat on the bathroom sink and stared at me as I showered. She kept rubbing up against my legs as I sat on the toilet to pee (sorry, but it’s a pertinent detail). I’m the only person she can hang out with for the next several days, and already it’s an exhausting role.
Oh! And I nearly forgot to mention that she swiped at me with her scythe-like claws this morning when I tried to pet her before leaving for work. Nice! She drew blood.
My morning concluded with a bang as I arrived at work 17 minutes late and had to beeline for the crappy first-aid kit in the office kitchen (why the kitchen?) to grab an alcohol-wipe to dab on my bleeding cat-wound.
Happy Thursday, everyone!
S flew back East last night for a six-day stay with his family in the F.C., so it’s just Toonces and me till next Tuesday. Good god, it’s a challenge parenting this cat on my own. She’s so needy! I got approximately three hours of sleep last night, no thanks to Toonces and her noisy forays into the closet and onto the computer desk. That damn closet door won’t stay closed, and as soon as it pops open, Toonces dives in and immediately begins chewing on and ripping up the newspaper that’s in there. It’s a sound that woke me up three times last night. The sound of her scaling the computer monitor is loud as well. A lot of rattling around. And, she’s a bed hog. Without S snoozing next to me and taking up half of the mattress’s surface area, Toonces felt perfectly free to plop down on the bed’s dead center, then s-t-r-e-t-c-h herself out. Thanks so much, Toonces. I’ll be over here in the far right corner, curled into the fetal position so that you might be more comfortable.
Sigh.
Suffice it to say I’ve got some rather unbecoming bags underneath my eyes today.
On top of her nighttime hijinks, she followed me around all morning and kept mewing at me, as if to say, “Where’s that other human of mine? I like him better. You’re a poor substitute, Lady.” She sat on the bathroom sink and stared at me as I showered. She kept rubbing up against my legs as I sat on the toilet to pee (sorry, but it’s a pertinent detail). I’m the only person she can hang out with for the next several days, and already it’s an exhausting role.
Oh! And I nearly forgot to mention that she swiped at me with her scythe-like claws this morning when I tried to pet her before leaving for work. Nice! She drew blood.
My morning concluded with a bang as I arrived at work 17 minutes late and had to beeline for the crappy first-aid kit in the office kitchen (why the kitchen?) to grab an alcohol-wipe to dab on my bleeding cat-wound.
Happy Thursday, everyone!
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Hip-Hop, You Don’t Stop
Let me tell you the story of Hip-Hop, the affectionate-kitten-turned-wild-street-cat that roams my neighborhood.
I first met Hip-Hop one Saturday evening while I was doing laundry. (Oops, I just revealed how boring my life is. Let’s get past that and move on, shall we?) So anyway, I was taking my sopping wet clothes out of the washer and chucking them into the dryer when I heard a sudden, persistent mewing coming from outside. My first panicky thought, of course, was that it was our adorable Toonces, and I briefly wondered where she was and if she’d somehow gotten outside. A few moments of concentrated listening, however, revealed that the cries were not hers, and that they sounded like those of a very young kitten. I popped my head outside and found the cutest, fuzziest little kitten stuck atop the fence that separates our duplex from the one next door. He’d climbed up and was unable to get back down.
Being too short to reach up and help the poor little guy myself, I called S to come to the rescue. S, animal lover and general softie that he is, was happy to oblige. He reached up and effortlessly plucked the cat from his perch, and the kitty immediately got comfortable in S’s arms and began purring. What a snuggly little creature! He seemed perfectly content to stay in S’s arms and let the two of us rub his head and chin. It reminded us of Toonces’s youth, when she’d purr for anybody at anytime and seemed to enjoy cuddling. (She’s since reached her surly, rebellious adolescent stage. Sigh.)
The kitten’s tag revealed his name was “Hip-Hop” and that he lived a block east of us. S called the owner, whose pleasant British accent I could hear through his cell phone, and the owner asked some general questions about Hip-Hop’s wellbeing and how far he’d strayed. She then said it was too late for her to come by and pick the kitten up, but that she’d swing by in the morning to get him. We thought that was sort of weird, but OK. (Once we set Hip-Hop back down on the ground, he’d likely go scampering off and end up who knows where, right?) The owner also casually threw in, at the end of the conversation, “I guess I should get him neutered at some point.”
!
Um, yeah, lady. You should. It’s a little irresponsible to let your young male cat roam the neighborhood, free to impregnate any willing female cat who happens to cross his path. (We didn’t say that to her, though.)
So, that was that.
Since then, we’ve seen Hip-Hop a million and one times. I doubt his owner ever drove by to “pick him up.” Hip-Hop is always in our neighborhood stalking birds or making eyes at Toonces from the other side of Toonces’s favorite window. At first we’d see him outside and be like, “Oh! Hip-Hop, you cutie!” and pet him and fuss over him. But as more time goes by and he spends more and more time on the street and in other people’s yards, he grows dirtier and wilder and less affectionate. His formerly bright gold, fluffy coat is now dingy and grayish. And he’s forever pouncing on birds and eating them. He’s become very predatory. He also does crazy maneuvers like running up the sides of houses, which is of course quite dangerous.
The last time we saw him, he was scratching himself with fervor. He seemed totally incapable of stopping the scratching; I’m sure he’s got fleas. A couple of neighborhood kids and I were standing above Hip-Hop on the sidewalk watching him, and the one girl said, “I think his owners let him out for good,” which seemed like an astute prediction to me. If it’s true, I’m pissed. You don’t just bring home a kitten and then neglect him. That same afternoon, I tried to pet Hip-Hop, and he didn’t let me. He swiped at me with his paw and resumed scratching. He seems undomesticated at this point. It’s a shame.
I’m guessing Hip-Hop will ultimately meet his end in this very neighborhood. I’m guessing he’ll either be squished by a car or attacked by the large raccoons that come out after dark. (I’ve seen them twice now, on my evening walks. They scare the sh-t out of me.) I hope neither of these things happen, but I fear they’re likely. I wish Hip-Hop’s owner would take him back in, get him a bath and a flea dip, and have him neutered. I’m not the kind of person, however, who would tell a stranger what I think she should do.
But maybe I'm just being a coward?
I first met Hip-Hop one Saturday evening while I was doing laundry. (Oops, I just revealed how boring my life is. Let’s get past that and move on, shall we?) So anyway, I was taking my sopping wet clothes out of the washer and chucking them into the dryer when I heard a sudden, persistent mewing coming from outside. My first panicky thought, of course, was that it was our adorable Toonces, and I briefly wondered where she was and if she’d somehow gotten outside. A few moments of concentrated listening, however, revealed that the cries were not hers, and that they sounded like those of a very young kitten. I popped my head outside and found the cutest, fuzziest little kitten stuck atop the fence that separates our duplex from the one next door. He’d climbed up and was unable to get back down.
Being too short to reach up and help the poor little guy myself, I called S to come to the rescue. S, animal lover and general softie that he is, was happy to oblige. He reached up and effortlessly plucked the cat from his perch, and the kitty immediately got comfortable in S’s arms and began purring. What a snuggly little creature! He seemed perfectly content to stay in S’s arms and let the two of us rub his head and chin. It reminded us of Toonces’s youth, when she’d purr for anybody at anytime and seemed to enjoy cuddling. (She’s since reached her surly, rebellious adolescent stage. Sigh.)
The kitten’s tag revealed his name was “Hip-Hop” and that he lived a block east of us. S called the owner, whose pleasant British accent I could hear through his cell phone, and the owner asked some general questions about Hip-Hop’s wellbeing and how far he’d strayed. She then said it was too late for her to come by and pick the kitten up, but that she’d swing by in the morning to get him. We thought that was sort of weird, but OK. (Once we set Hip-Hop back down on the ground, he’d likely go scampering off and end up who knows where, right?) The owner also casually threw in, at the end of the conversation, “I guess I should get him neutered at some point.”
!
Um, yeah, lady. You should. It’s a little irresponsible to let your young male cat roam the neighborhood, free to impregnate any willing female cat who happens to cross his path. (We didn’t say that to her, though.)
So, that was that.
Since then, we’ve seen Hip-Hop a million and one times. I doubt his owner ever drove by to “pick him up.” Hip-Hop is always in our neighborhood stalking birds or making eyes at Toonces from the other side of Toonces’s favorite window. At first we’d see him outside and be like, “Oh! Hip-Hop, you cutie!” and pet him and fuss over him. But as more time goes by and he spends more and more time on the street and in other people’s yards, he grows dirtier and wilder and less affectionate. His formerly bright gold, fluffy coat is now dingy and grayish. And he’s forever pouncing on birds and eating them. He’s become very predatory. He also does crazy maneuvers like running up the sides of houses, which is of course quite dangerous.
The last time we saw him, he was scratching himself with fervor. He seemed totally incapable of stopping the scratching; I’m sure he’s got fleas. A couple of neighborhood kids and I were standing above Hip-Hop on the sidewalk watching him, and the one girl said, “I think his owners let him out for good,” which seemed like an astute prediction to me. If it’s true, I’m pissed. You don’t just bring home a kitten and then neglect him. That same afternoon, I tried to pet Hip-Hop, and he didn’t let me. He swiped at me with his paw and resumed scratching. He seems undomesticated at this point. It’s a shame.
I’m guessing Hip-Hop will ultimately meet his end in this very neighborhood. I’m guessing he’ll either be squished by a car or attacked by the large raccoons that come out after dark. (I’ve seen them twice now, on my evening walks. They scare the sh-t out of me.) I hope neither of these things happen, but I fear they’re likely. I wish Hip-Hop’s owner would take him back in, get him a bath and a flea dip, and have him neutered. I’m not the kind of person, however, who would tell a stranger what I think she should do.
But maybe I'm just being a coward?
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