Sometimes, I Think I'm the Only Pineapple in This Fruitbasket.

Thoughts from the past week:

• It doesn't count if it doesn't set off the fire alarm.
• I've been drinking just one Mt. Dew for three days now, and I have yet to kill anyone.  Someone give me a ribbon.  Quick now, before I fall asleep.
• I indulged in a bit too much holiday cheer, and I'm going to Mexico this spring.  Crap.
• That's why I'm cutting back the Mt. Dew.
• This might be the worst diet ever.
• Stink the Cat keeps trying to eat all the expensive dog food.  Isn't it dogs that are supposed to eat everything?  One more example of how my life is totally upside down.
• Acai juice and my sleepy owl hat will cure just about anything.
• Bankers do not appreciate sleepy owl hats.
• Fictitious blue PVC corsets never stop being funny.

The meds the doctor's got me on for this supercold have got me up most of the night.  Like, all week.  I'd like to blame this post on that, but let's be honest, here...

This is my normal.


(True:  But seriously, why is that whenever I make a pizza, the fire alarm goes off, but it doesn't when I set an actual fire?  I feel that might be a design flaw.)

The End of Days is Nigh. And Someone Needs to Come Over and Kill a Bug for Me.

(Note:  This was partly written Saturday afternoon, so please excuse some no-longer correct verb tenses.)

There have been some seriously cool bugs.

Jiminy Cricket is a pretty neat fellow, if perhaps a bit preachy.

Chester, the very talented headliner in A Cricket in Times Square.

Charlotte and her fantastic web.

The cockroach in WALL-E.

Buzz, the Cheerios mascot, if you're stretching.

This is not one of those bugs.

A truly enormous beetle has taken up residence on the suspension chain of my ceiling light.  It looks a bit like an elongated beetle that flies.  Or the First Horseman of the Apocalypse, Pestilence.  I haven't made up my mind yet.  Whatever.

It is taunting my dog.  No, seriously.  It's been here a few hours now, and I definitely see its pattern.

It reposes on the chain, standing upright on its hindmost legs, for long stretches of time while Prada growls at it.  (Prada is very brave, you know.)  Then just when her growls die out, the bug thrusts its thorax at us like an enthusiastic Elvis impersonator.  When the thorax wagging is no longer driving Prada quite mad enough, the bug flies down to the glass shade--always on the side facing us.  Bastard.  Eventually, it crawls back up onto the chain to start the process over again.

For about twenty minutes, Prada, Stink, and I all watched the bastard bug, transfixed.  I finally started a movie.  Between the bug and Prada's strong reaction to it, I was starting to (ear)wig.  Unfortunately, I chose a movie with dinosaurs.  When they started roaring, Prada almost fell off the bed, convinced the vile beast was on the attack.  Poor girl couldn't decide if she was cowering on my lap or valiantly defending me.

When the movie finished, I turned off the overhead light, foolishly thinking my bedside lamp wasn't bright enough to attract the monster's attention.  I was wrong.  It dive-bombed my face, at which point Prada and I both squealed like the little girls we are.

So I turned on the bathroom light, turned off the lights everywhere else, and hid under the covers till morning.

I am so badass.


(True:  The bug turned up the next morning in my bathtub.  And then I killed it, because I totally am badass.)

Stinks of Desperation

I've mentioned before that I have a cat named Cinco.  Her name is Cinco because I got her on the fifth of May.  I never call her that.  Long, long ago, her name got shortened and bastardized to Stink, and Stink stuck.

Stink tries to pass as an elegant dame, but the truth is, she's a bit of a nutcase.  (Probably the reason we get on so well.)

Yesterday was Tuesday.  Tuesday is dog class day.  After spending an hour and a half focusing solely on Prada, I was trying to devote some one-on-one time to Stink.  I petted her for just a few minutes before she decided she didn't want my hands on her body.  She sniffed in disgust and flounced off the couch to the floor by my feet.

Most people have a footstool or coffee table in front of their couch to rest their feet on.  Not me:  I've got pedals.  Like for a bike.  I generally pedal when I'm watching TV or a movie, because that way I can talk myself into believing that eating an entire can of Pringles at the same time is okay--I probably break even, anyway.

Well, I was pedaling now, and Stink stared at my feet in that creepy way cats have that make you wonder if you're going to wake up with a limb half-eaten.  Then she very deliberately sat in such a way that every rotation of the pedals had my foot stroking her back.  I shifted the pedals, but she repositioned herself.  I shrugged, mocked her, and continued--and Stink stayed put for the next six chapters of the book I was reading.

Foot fetish?  Freaky.


(True:  I have no idea if the term "stubble kittens," referring to barn cat litters born in the fall--when the corn is just stubble--is used anywhere but our particular corner of rural Wisconsin.)

Hops in the Right Direction: The Vow

We've always faced the reality:  sometimes relationships don't work out.  People get divorced.  People break up.  People rebuild their lives separately.

Dogs don't.  Dogs don't understand the "it's not you, it's me" thing.  They don't understand that you loved them, but now you've got a new job and you just don't have time for them anymore.  They don't understand that you just can't deal with the responsibility of dog ownership, or your new partner is allergic, and that they have to go.

Dogs are a "till death do we part" animal, and adopting one means a lifetime commitment.  (Incidentally, this is why so many shelters have a "trial period" during which you can decide this isn't the dog for you or this isn't the right time for you, and you bring the dog back before the dog gets too attached.  Good policy, and one I'd highly recommend you keep your eye out for if you are looking to adopt.  Sometimes, it's just not a good fit.)

This is especially important to remember with adult dogs with disabilities, be it an amputation, blindness, deafness, whatever.  Preliminary studies show that disabled dogs are even more attached to their handlers than other dogs.

Prada and my cat Cinco are my girls.  I am their guardian, and they are my responsibility and pleasure.  They are my family, and that means doing right by them even when that is challenging to me.  If someone comes into my life who is not prepared to accept what is to me, a simple fact of life, that does limit the role that person can play.  I mean, My Sister the Lawyer is pretty irritating sometimes, but if some asked me to give her up becuase they didn't like her, guess which person I'd choose?  It's no different with my pets.

So yes, I clean up my share of potty accidents and puke and hairballs.  I spend a couple of hours a week grooming.  I haul my butt out of bed at oh-dark-thirty to take the dog out.  I sometimes decline invitations because I have to go home and take care of those who are depending on me.  Sometimes, it's a real drag.

But in return, I get truly unconditional love and devotion, and it's so, so worth it.

(Update:  I understand I've hurt some people's feelings with this post.  Let me be clear:  I totally get that sometimes, things just don't work the way they should.  Sometimes, priorities conflict and you just have to do the best you can.  And sometimes, there are no good solutions.  I'm not qualified to judge these situations.  Unless your situation was your limited time to part-ay.  Then I'm totally judging you.)


(True:  Remember Mike the Deer-Puncher?  When we were in high school, he was fortunate enough to find Maggie, a very special dog who was really bigger than a lap dog ought to be, accompanied Mike on two cross-country moves and most of his hijinks, and had a bond with him that made you feel lucky just to witness.  We'll miss you, lovely lady!)