6 posts tagged “cats”

Anyone who knows our cats knows that from just about Day One, we've had litter box issues of one variety or another, and five years later, not much has changed. Sure, there are periods of calm, moments where we are lulled into complacency and seem to even rejoice in the presence of three cats in our lives, but those are always cut short and punctuated by stepping on an errant turd or finding that someone has pissed on the clean laundry.

I'm really not going to get into it, really I'm not. I just wanted to link to Dooce's post about her dogs today, because it gave me a hearty laugh or five, and because I am glad (even though I like them, don't get me wrong) that we have cats and not dogs. If nothing else, the poo is smaller and, in theory, the cats put it in a box on their own instead of requiring us to take them on long walks.

As an aside, I really have no idea how a dog gets an entire foxtail lodged invisibly inside one's ear. But I'd like to know.

It's been since March that I've done a profile on someone in my life. Since I've already written about Nobody and Peabody a fair amount, it's high time I properly introduced Sybil Sphinxie to the world of Vox. You may recall she had a bit of a scuffle earlier this year. She's recovered well, thank you for asking. I've been meaning to show her to you for some time now, but she's proved to be a bit elusive. She's not all that cuddly or really all that outgoing, so cute pictures and quirky vignettes about the Sphinxie are hard to come by.

Tranquil Sphinxie

Who: A stray schmittie who was hanging in Aspinwall about three years hence, somehow managing to survive on her own in some bushes in front of a church. Former co-worker George (who already has 4 katz) convinced me that with winter coming on, this "really, really friendly" cat needed a good home. We thought she might make a good companion for my dad who lives alone, so we agreed. About $400 later, the newly-spayed Sphinxie (we chose the name because she appeared to have a very regal and mysterious face) was a week away from a Thanksgiving journey to Ohio when we decided she should stay with us instead. My dad thought it would be okay for him to remove her stitches on his own-- to which I replied that I didn't think that would be a good idea. And oh yeah, there was one other minor complication. She was extremely, extraordinarily constipated. So Sphinxie turned out to be an all-too apt name.

Age: About four and a half, based on estimates by the vet, though we really don't know how old she is. I truly wish I somehow could see what she looked like as a kitten.

Likes: Going outside; drinking copious amounts of water out of bowls that are placed in out of the way places; just about any kind of table food (though we almost never give her any-- she just has a very endearing way of appearing at your side when you eat, very quietly and regally staring at you, waiting); yarn balls (I will describe that later); cardboard cat scratchers, upon which she scratches with so much power and enthusiasm you'd think she was preparing for a world-class cat-scratching post competition; scratching for 5 minutes after using the litter box; scratching in the vicinity of her food bowl after she's done eating, though it does nothing to prevent the other cats from eating her food anyway; late night heavy petting (but being left completely alone at most other times); Vrabel (she LOVES Vrabel-- is immediately at his side or on his lap as soon as he comes home).

Really doesn't likes: The other cats; being held; having her nails clipped; being petted if she doesn't initiate it; any sort of fast movement in her direction; any sort of heavy walking; children; having you touch her anywhere repeatedly. Sphinxie is the strongest cat I've ever met. Her paws, arms, and legs are like trebuchets-- and her teeth are like daggers. I suspect she was abused and dumped because she was clearly a house cat, and rather young, but also very skittish and terrified of a hand coming toward her. We've been really patient with her, and she's come a long way in her socialization. But man alive-- don't get in the way of her paws when she is swatting. You can actually hear the paw make contact she hits so hard.

More on the yarn balls: I've attempted to capture this on video or audio to no avail, but she has the most hysterical habit of waiting until everyone is quited down and out of her way, and then finding one of her yarn balls and caterwauling to it in an extremely high-pitched song of sorts. She flings it up in the air and catches it with her talons, and goes after it with the back paws. It is absolutely hilarious to listen to, but as soon as she sees you paying attention to her or hears you coming, she stops. She also seems to know where these balls are at all times, though I have a lot of trouble finding them. The other two cats lose their toys very quickly, all the time, and lose interest in them altogether. We've had 4 yarn balls for three and half years, and they all disappear from time to time and then she locates them all, and I'll wake up in the morning to find them all placed outside our bedroom door.

The exposed underbelly

Though it is true that "Phinxie" (as my niece refers to her) is "mean," I think she is just misunderstood in many ways. I feel somewhat bad that she has to share her space with the 'bodies, because if she were a solo cat, I know she'd be far more comfortable and affectionate. But she's part of the family now, so we just hope she is happy despite it all. And in case you were wondering, her constipation is not really a problem anymore.

Don't Mess with the Sphinxie

Sphinxie and Peanut

As some of you know, The Buddy Cat had a rough week last week and weekend. But he seems to be on the mend. A fresh pack of unopened Nutter Butters (or the cookies of your choice) to the person (Hotrod and Alexis disqualified) who can guess what was wrong with him.

SAGE BUDDY

1 comment

Earlier this week, our other cat, Sphinxie, the one who has not yet had a profile posted (because we don't love her as much as our other two cats, there, I've said it), developed a little problem. She came in from her daily respite out of doors (she is the only one that can be trusted to roam about outdoors without supervision), and promptly headed for the basement. Generally, she is in the lineup each mealtime with the other two, but that night, she stayed hidden. Same thing the next morning. I eventually found her sleeping on a cardboard box under the grand piano. Thinking nothing of it, I left for work.

Later that evening when I returned, I found her still in the basement. And this time, something was clearly amiss. She had a big giant lump under her eye where her cheek bone used to be. And she was really, really out of it. Fast forward past the really bitchy woman at the Cat Clinic who can just bite me. Sphinxie was apparently in a cat fight and the site of the bite (which may or may not have been from the bitch at the Cat Clinic) was infected, and good.

There are many tales I could tell about the past few days with the Sphinxie in her confinement. They would involve blood (mine) and venom (hers). But this chain e-mail made me laugh out loud today, in part because of the recent grounding of Ms. Sphinxie. Who for some time we have suspected was plotting something, perhaps our murders.

Editor's note: she is feeling better, though is not back to her old self. We have revised our former routine, and she will no longer be roaming free on a regular daily basis. Urban alley cats are just too mean and disease-ridden for our (albeit bad-ass) li'l Sphinxie.

Excerpts from a Dog's Diary
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing! 9:30 am - A car ride! My
favorite thing! 9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing! 10:30
am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing! 12:00 pm - Lunch! My
favorite thing! 1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing! 3:00
pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing! 5:00 pm - Milk bones! My
favorite thing! 7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing! 8:00 pm
- Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing! 11:00 pm -
Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

Excerpts from a Cat's Diary
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre
little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the
other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although
I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must
eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that
keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I
once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped
its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear
into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of.
However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good
little hunter" I am....Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was
placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However,
I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my
confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this
means, and how to use it to my advantage. Today I was almost successful
in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his
feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the
top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are
flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is
regularly released and seems to be more than willing to return. He is
obviously retarded. The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him
communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my
every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an
elevated cell, so he is safe. For now... Live Well - Laugh Often - Love
Much!

Prior to becoming pet owners (for me not the first time, for Vrabel, the first time since a childhood chameleon-- but never having been owner of a fur-bearing mammal, due to some suspicious excuses created by parents), we often remarked with disdain that we couldn't stand all the talking about pets that people do. Of course not being parents, we say this about people with kids, too, but what do we know.

We've had two cats for about three years now, siblings, a male and female. A third feline joined the fray two years ago, not optimal, but wound up being one of those things. I am sure you will be subjected to hearing more about all of them in the future.

In the meantime, I sing the praises of Helen Peabody, aka Peanut, thus named after the dorm where Vrabel and I and oh-so-many of our friends first met. She is doing spankingly well on Kitten War. Do not bother asking why she is on there in the first place, or why anyone plays this little game. If you have to ask... Anyway, see here and here. Vrabel inadvertently uploaded her to the site twice and no one over at the crack team of analysts at Kitten War caught the error. I invite you to play, and if you see our li'l Peabody, you know what to do.

This weekend, she brought me a little gift. For two weeks, it's been crickets. We live in an urban setting; thankfully we don't seem to have any rodents out back, and the birds have been untouched. Sunday, in the midst of an ill-fated silver jewelry party (again, if you have to ask...), she carried in a snake. Just laid it down on the dining room floor in the middle of the party. Had I my wits about me, I might have been able to say something stellar like this. Instead, I just consoled her after we threw the snake over the edge of the deck and went on with our drinking of mimosas.

Now a few months ago I was traveling for work. I got a call where Vrabel was laughing his arse off recounting something that had occurred the previous night. He'd woken up in the night with the thought that he just HAD to write down something that was really profound he'd thought of in his sleep; he went ahead and did it, then went back to sleep. (He's always saying he wants to do this, but never does.) Then in the morning, he suddenly remembered that this had occurred, but had no clue what it was he'd written. He scrambled around and found the scrap of paper. On it, he'd written:

I hate people who talk about their cats.

I talk about my cats.

I HATE MYSELF.