Category: Pets

Freeloaders

There was a wee bit of a mix-up and now we might have another cat. Or not. It’s confusing and too soon to know for sure.

Every night at 11:00 on the nose, treats are handed out to Teddy and Izzie, like alms for the poor except they aren’t poor, and Izzie isn’t as deserving as poor peasants. And I’m not a good acolyte, either. Okay, it’s nothing like alms for the poor so just ignore the whole alms thing.

Last night, close to 11:00, Izzie abandoned her usual routine of trying to hypnotize early treats out of The Viking and went to crouch in front of the cat door. That in itself isn’t unusual because she squats there all the time, daring Teddy to make it past her without receiving flesh wounds. However, the timing of the squatting was unusual. She’s usually more focused on treats than petty assault.

I assumed that she was feeling more militant than usual. “Izzie! Let Teddy in for his treats!”

She didn’t move. “Izzie!!”

Her left ear flicked in my direction, but she still didn’t move. So, I went to the door and opened it so Teddy could come in. Except he seemed sort of hesitant even though he could clearly see that Izzie was behind me and, therefore not a threat.

“Come one, Teddy. I chased Izzie away.”

He came up one step and that’s when I noticed that his tail was unbelievably huge. “Holy moly, Teddy! What’s up with the big tail? Come on. Come get your treats.”

He came up one more step. The Viking showed up and gave his version of encouragement. “What the fuck’s the problem? Come on, Teddy!” He shook the treat jug loud enough for every cat in the block to hear.

He came up the top step and looked at me.

What the fuck?! Was this even Teddy? Same colour, same eyes. The light on the fur around his ears were the same silver. But the tail is too long, isn’t it? And did he lose about three pounds since supper?

“I don’t think this is Teddy.” The cat now had two feet in the house, and it was obvious.

I turned to look at Izzie who was standing off to my left. She was wearing her frowny face and staring at me. Apparently, she knew it wasn’t Teddy and definitely didn’t approve of my invitations to Treat Time.

“Where’s Teddy then?”

The motion detector light came back on, and I thought I saw Teddy squatting on the garage roof. I grabbed a flashlight and aimed it at the garage. Yup. He was just sitting on the garage roof watching the show. “What are you doing up there, Teddy?”

I scooted Skinny Teddy out the door. “Okay. Let me get this straight.” I said, rubbernecking between Teddy and Izzie. “You two allowed a strange cat that we’ve never seen before to sashay right up to the back door? You even let me invite it into the house for treats?”

via GIPHY

Skinny Teddy was just sitting at the bottom of the steps, wondering if treats were still available. Fat Teddy still squatted on the roof and Izzie, bored with the whole thing, was cleaning her right ear.

“Do you know that The Viking and I were sitting out enjoying a beer the other day and a mouse – yes! A mouse! – spent at least an hour scampering around back and forth in front of the office door? Yes! AN HOUR! You guys drag the corpses of rodents and birds you’ve killed into the house but allow a live mouse free access to the beer drinking patio?”

No one moved. They weren’t even looking at me. “And you think you deserve treats?!”

Skinny Teddy took a step toward the bottom step. “You know what?! I’m going to ask Skinny Teddy for its* resume and references. Gawd! Maybe it will earn the food and treats we pay for. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that damned fly that bumped against every window for two days!”

I sent Skinny Teddy away to put together an employment package and banged the back door shut.

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Teddy immediately left his perch and headed for the house. Izzie took up her usual position beside The Viking to beg for treats despite my mutterings that they don’t deserve them.

They don’t care, because The Viking is the weakest link in this household and will give them treats whether they earn them or not. And most of the time, it’s ‘not’.

Freeloaders.

*I hadn’t taken the time to check his/her private bits and besides is it even polite on a first meeting?

Uh, Oh!

It’s no secret that The Viking and I have had to apologize for Izzie many times over many years to many people within a three-block radius around our house. She’s…well…kind of a mobster but she commits her own crimes. I’m sure she’s tried to rope Teddy into being a hitman, but he’s just not that kind of cat, and I am eternally thankful for that because no one should be subjected to living with two Mobsters.

In case you’ve missed it, here is a partial list of her crimes over the past few years:

  • She broke into a guy’s house via a closed but unlocked basement window and refused to let him use his washing machine for 4 hours. When she was ready to leave, she went to his back door and shouted names at him until he opened it for her.
  • She bullied a neighbour’s dogs into neurosis.
  • She stole a customer’s truck and wouldn’t give it back. He had to come and get The Viking to remove her.
  • She car-jacked a car down the street, but the woman screamed so loud that a neighbour had to get me.
  • She kidnapped 2 newcomers to the block and refused to let them use their back door.
  • She started a fight club and came home bloody, over and over and over again.
  • She sits on top of a cabinet at the back door and slaps every customer as they walk in to pay their bill.
  • She supervised a guy, all afternoon, while he built a fence and then slapped him when he tried to give her a treat.
  • She started a fight with a Raven who came back with reinforcements and turned our yard into Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. I had to rescue her from under a spruce tree.
  • She taunted a Magpie, Alice Pooper, until Alice shouted insults and curses at her every time she left the house. It was deafening.

So, yeah. She’s a Mobster. The thing is, she’s a lovable Mobster. And it’s mostly men who become enchanted. They laugh about her antics, put food out for her in case she gets hungry during a crime spree, they chat with her when she stops by to judge them. She always came home, though, clear on who her family was.

But one of her conquests from down the street has crossed a line. He stopped by to brag to The Viking that Izzie has been visiting him and letting him pet her and takes treats out of his hand. Directly from his hand!! It’s one thing for her to just visit, it’s another thing entirely when she becomes a strumpet for any Tom, Dick or Harry’s affection! She has never let anyone touch her; she has a strict ‘no touchy!’ rule. Apparently though, this guy has been on a year-long campaign to win her approval and he’s succeeded!

I was unaware of the treachery until I heard The Viking’s indignation tossed at Izzie. “So! You would rather hang out with the guy down the alley?! You bite my toes at night if I move even a little bit, but you let that guy pet you?!”

Izzie busily started an extensive bath.

“You eat treats right out of his hand?!”

Still bathing.

“And, I had to hear it right from that bragging bastard?!”

The bathing moved to the lady bits.

Surprised, I had to ask, “Izzie’s cheating on you?”

“Yes!!” He bellowed. “That guy stopped right out there in the alley, asking where Izzie was because he hadn’t seen her since yesterday when he Gave. Her. Treats!”

I looked at Izzie. “Really? You’re cheating on The Viking? After all the fancy collars he’s bought you? And the Dynamite sticks you love so much? That’s cold.”

Still bathing her lady bits.

“Well, I’m not feeding her supper tonight.” He said to me, then directed himself to Izzie. “You can go get your supper at your boyfriend’s house!”

Sadly, Izzie seems to be morally ambivalent about the situation. Teddy, on the other hand, has taken advantage of the demographic shift. The Viking is spoiling him outrageously, especially in front of Izzie. She looks at me like ‘What the Fuck?!’

I just shrug at her. “That’s what happens when you betray a Viking. And they have very long memories, too”

One thing I do know – Teddy would never cheat on us. He’s a staunch defender of the home, totally loyal since we got him off the streets. He doesn’t bite The Viking’s toes in the middle of the night either, and hasn’t committed a single crime in all the years he’s lived here.

Because he’s a good boy.

Thundering Chases

Sweet Baby Jesus, it’s been COLD!  Of course, this is Alberta so it’s only to be expected but I don’t have to like it.  And as miserable as it is for The Viking and me to go about our daily business when it’s -30°C, it’s even worse for the cats.

On the first very cold day, both cats moped around the house, complaining and whining – Izzie at the top of her lungs.

On the second very cold day, Izzie ripped apart a loaf of bread on the counter when I shivered my way to the grocery store and Teddy destroyed a roll of toilet paper.

“IZZIE!!  You dirty cat!!”

A destroyed loaf of bread paled in comparison to wiping my Lady Parts with shredded toilet paper though.

“TEDDY!!  What the fuck?!”

On the third very cold day, a Cold War began.  Izzie would sit in front of the Cat Door so Teddy couldn’t get back in after he ran out for his pee/poo.  And then Teddy would sit in front of the Cat Door so Izzie couldn’t get back in after she ran out for her pee/poo.

“IZZIE!!  You long streak of misery!  Get away from that Cat Door!”

“TEDDY!!  Get away from that…….oh, never mind.  She has it coming.  Just don’t keep her out for long or she’ll get frostbite.”

They both took turns sitting beside me on my desk, staring at my left ear without blinking until I started getting a bit freaked out – usually 15 to 20 minutes.  It worked better on The Viking than it did on me because I’ve had children and have extensive experience at Ignoring.

via GIPHY

On the fourth very cold day, a Peace Treaty was negotiated, and Play Etiquette was established.  Very loudly.  With lots and lots of cursing and name-calling.  They also took turns trying to convince The Viking and me that it was Dinner Time despite the fact that it clearly wasn’t Dinner Time.  And then The Viking made the mistake of telling Izzie that she was getting fat.  The cursing was very lengthy and very creative, and he won’t make that mistake again any time soon.

On the fifth very cold day, a racecourse was agreed upon, including a chicane* behind the sofa, and a climb over the top of the Cat Tree.  We may need to bolt it to the floor.

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There are now Thundering Chases through the house at regular intervals, 24 hours a day.  I bought a set of ‘Ruggies’ – sticky triangles you put under the corners of an area rug to keep it in place – but the rigors of Formula 1: Cat Edition are more than the ‘Ruggies’ can handle.  I reposition the rug several times a day.  The wind gusts generated by two cats hurtling around the chicane have kicked up some impressive Dust Bunnies – I won’t have to move the furniture for cleaning until Spring, at the earliest.  Every time I go into our bedroom, I have to push a storage bin back under the bed.   The kitchen chairs are rattled violently and occasionally knocked over in their enthusiasm, as are the office chairs when high-velocity furry rockets storm my workstation.  Invoices and statements explode like a blizzard in their wake because Holy Crap they are fast!!  One minute I’m making an invoice and in the blink of an eye, I’m surrounded by fluttering paper.  I never actually see them – it’s only a fuzzy blur.

The Viking and I aren’t complaining, though.  Our Babies are playing!  Peacefully!  It’s so sweet!  We had almost given up hope they would learn to play.

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The weather started getting nice again yesterday so we’re expecting fewer race heats.  And let’s hope they remember how to play for the next cold snap.

 

* A Chicane is a serpentine curve in a road, added by design rather than dictated by geography. Chicanes add extra turns and are used both in motor racing and on roads and streets to slow traffic for safety.

It Could Have Been Worse

It could have been worse.  Not everyone was thrilled with the camping experience, to be honest, but overall it was a good holiday.  And what were we expecting from two cats?

DAY 1

Teddy:  Thank Gawd we’ve stopped.  I need to pee.

Izzie:  That litterbox is mine and I’m not sharing.

Teddy:  So where am I supposed to go?

Izzie:  Don’t know, don’t care.

Once the trailer was leveled, we opened the door and were delighted to find there was no drama.  Teddy actually came out from under the bed almost immediately and Izzie wasn’t cursing and calling us names.  So, that went well.  We treated ourselves to several beers, directly after making it crystal clear that Teddy can use the litterbox.

DAY 2

Izzie:  It’s about time you got out of bed.  The water bowl is empty, and I can see the bottom of the food bowl.  I hope this isn’t an indication of how this debacle is going to proceed.  Also, Teddy pooped in the litter box and now I’m not going to use it.

Teddy had slept with us all night which was a little confusing because at home the bed is sacred ‘Izzie’ domain, whether she’s on it or not, and Teddy would never presume.  Could this be the beginning of a shift in power?

DAY 3

Teddy:  I’m bored.  If I can’t patrol the yard I may as well just eat.  No?  I’m disappointed, Mom.  Fine.  How about a handful of treats?

Izzie:  You’re going to get fatter.  I think I’ll just start the bullying now.

Teddy:  I’m not fat – it’s all muscle.  Just ask Slinky.

Izzie:  Your special relationship with Slinky isn’t exactly a Fight Club like mine though, is it?  So, don’t be bragging until you’ve gone 3 rounds with Baloshi.

Teddy:  If all your blood and scars are any indication, you aren’t doing all that good at winning in Fight Club, now are you?  I’m standing behind my muscles.

 

DAY 4

A precarious truce has developed.  Mostly because there is only one sofa that provides a good view outside*.  It’s so heartwarming to see them sitting side by side – if only this could last when we get home.

Izzie:  You are hogging the sofa.  Move over.

Teddy:  I’m not hogging anything.  Not a single hair is past the halfway point.

Izzie:  I didn’t say you were past the halfway point, I said you are hogging, which means you are too close to the halfway point.  Move over.

Teddy:  Nope!  I am well within my borders.

Izzie, erupting into a blizzard of slaps:  Move. Over. There!

Teddy, hitting her once on top of the head with a solid whack:  NO!

The Viking:  For fuck’s sake, Izzie!  Knock it off!

DAY 5

The Viking:  Teddy!!!  Your poop can’t possibly need to be buried halfway to China!  Stop digging in the litter box already!

Me:  Izzie!!  Stop digging in the litter!  We can’t hear the TV!

The Viking:  AGAIN?!  You were just in there 5 minutes ago!  Stop all the digging!

Me:  Now I know why their water bowl is always empty.

The Viking:  Look at all the litter on the floor!

Me:  It’s like Competitive Pee/Pooping!  They are going to wear out the bottom of the litterbox.

DAY 6

We had to go into town and buy a few groceries.  We left some windows open and hoped Izzie wouldn’t entertain other campers with her deafening yodels.  She can be very convincing when she screams.  We were deliriously happy when we got back and there wasn’t a crowd of people huddled around the trailer, calling PETA.

DAY 7

Me:  Where’s Teddy?  I haven’t seen him for a long time.  He’s not in our bed.

Teddy has staked out our bed as his own and is refusing to back down.  Izzie can sleep on the bed too, but as soon as she gets all bossy and angry, he kicks her off.

The Viking:  I don’t know.  Teddy!  Come here.

Me rattling the treat jug:  Teddy!

Izzie was sitting over by the litter box but as soon as she hears the treats rattling, she comes running, shouting her enthusiasm.  And then………Teddy comes out of the litter box.

Me:  For fuck’s sake, Izzie!  How long have you had him pinned inside the litterbox?!  No treats for you!!

DAY 8

I’m being lazy, laying in bed.  I’m not sleeping but not really ready to face the day just yet.  Until…..

The Viking:  Izzie!!  Stop chewing on those charging cords!

About five minutes later….

The Viking:  Izzie!!!  Stop clawing the sofa!

Not even 5 minutes later…..

The Viking:  Izzie!!  Stop slapping Teddy!

It’s obvious that Izzie needs some attention – being cooped up in the trailer day after day is starting to get to her.  We decide to pull out the harness and leash and take her outside.  Getting the harness on her is a two-person job and a bit of a rodeo but we managed.

Outside, she lays down on the outdoor rug in front of our chairs and things appear to be going well.  And then someone comes out of the laundry building about 25 meters from our site and she totally loses shit!  She bolts to the trailer door, climbs the screen all the way to the top of the door and when she runs out of room she vaults off the screen to the ground, hitting the stairs in the process.  It all happened so fast we didn’t have time to react.  I grabbed her when she hit the ground and took her inside.  She didn’t appear to be in pain, so I gave her and Teddy some treats and left her alone to recover.

Teddy:  Who’s the ‘fraidy cat now?

DAY 9

We were forced to break out the cat toys.  Izzie is becoming unruly.  Teddy just lays around, looking out the windows, napping on our bed.  He’s a fucking joy!  Izzie is the exact opposite and her Feral Side is starting to show.  We have a fishing pole toy and a wand toy.  Guess which one Teddy got?  That’s right.  Neither.  I even took Teddy into the bedroom and closed the door.  Thirty seconds later, she was outside the door shouting death threats while she was chewing on the fishing pole toy that she got away from The Viking.  Teddy couldn’t concentrate and who could blame him?  Sigh.

DAY 10

Me:  Teddy!  Quit clawing the carpet!

I forgot his cardboard scratch board at home.

Izzie, chasing him down to rain hellfire slaps on his head:  Don’t. Claw. The. Carpet. Dumbass!

Me:  Izzie!  I don’t need any help from you!!

The Viking takes Teddy to the Cat Tree and gives a thorough demonstration on how to scratch it rather than the carpet.

DAY 11

It’s totally dark.  I’m guessing somewhere around 3:00 in the morning.  The trailer is rocked by two huge thumps followed by a hair-raising, high-velocity sound that could be a torpedo launched from the living room to the bedroom.  The Viking and I bolt upright in bed, shocked out of sleep.  There are screams – most likely from Izzie because she’s a Screamer – and a long, high-pitched ‘No..No..No..No..’– probably from Teddy because somehow he has learned how to talk.  Despite getting catapulted from sleep, we both become instant cheerleaders.

The Viking:  Get her Teddy!

Me:  Slap her harder, Teddy!

The Viking:  Good boy, Teddy!  Don’t take any more of her shit!

Me:  Stop screaming Izzie – you’ve had this coming for days!

Does this make us bad Cat Parents?  Probably.  But any jury of our Cat Parent peers who have met Izzie would exonerate us in a nano-second.

DAY 12

A rainstorm rumbles by and drops a fairly substantial amount of rain.  Izzie loses her shit.  Again.  Oddly enough, Teddy is just chilling, completely unaffected by the downpour.  After giving it some thought, we decide it’s because when it’s raining at home, Teddy invariably has to shelter in place – not by choice, mind you, but because Izzie sits at the cat door refusing to let him inside – so the sound of rain pelting the vehicles and trailer is nothing new.  For Izzie though, this is her first experience of the deafening sound that heavy rain makes on the trailer roof.

She ends up under the bed.

Teddy:  ‘Fraidy Cat, again?

DAY 13

The Viking and I are pre-packing for our departure tomorrow morning.  We want to fall out of bed and be on the road in half an hour.  Teddy is suspicious and uneasy.  He doesn’t like change and keeps giving me huge, sad eyes, like he’s going to his own execution.  We reassure him but he knows something is up.  Izzie doesn’t give a shit.

DAY 14

7:00am – Zoom!  Zoom!!  Izzie is flying from the bedroom to the living room, getting impressive airtime from the stairs in the bedroom.  Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom!!  Back and forth over and over and over again.

The Viking:  For fucksake, Izzie!!  We’re trying to get shit done, here!

 

So.  We’re home.  Both cats disappeared for hours, probably doing their rounds, sizing up the situation after two weeks gone.  The Viking and I have Vacation Hangover.

 

*There are various other places they can lay down and watch outside, but it seems the sofa is the premium observation place.

 

Belly Rubs and Death Threats

We are finally taking some holidays.  It’s been a while.  Like 2 years already.  That’s what happens when you run your own business – when the work is there, you get it done because you don’t know what will happen around the corner.  We’re biting the bullet though, because we need it.  And since we’re so excited, we hoped the cats would be as well.

Me:  Hey guys!!  We booked a campground!  We are loading up the trailer and leaving on Saturday.

Teddy:  What?!  When you say ‘Trailer’, do you mean that huge monstrosity sitting in the driveway?  The thing you made me stay in a couple of months ago?  THAT thing?!

Me:  Yes!  I’m so excited!  It will be so relaxing and peaceful.

Teddy:  No.  I’m not going.

Me:  Oh, come on, Teddy.  It’s not that bad.  Izzie didn’t mind.  In fact, I’m pretty sure she enjoyed it.

Izzie:  I did!  It was cozy.  Hygge!

Teddy:  Says the Succubus from Hell.

Me:  If you bothered to come out from under the bed you would have enjoyed the peace and quiet.

Izzie:  Yeah, Teddy.

Teddy:  Shut up, Izzie!  You’re the one who threatened death if I did come out.

Izzie:  Hahahahaha!!

Me:  That’s not funny, Izzie and if you do it again, you’ll be banished to the cat carrier.

Teddy:  HA!  We all know that’s not going to happen because she’ll scream the leaves from the trees, the birds from the sky and the bugs from the ground.  Nothing can survive when she gets going!

Me:  Okay, you have a point.  We would probably get thrown out of the campground.  Still, if you stood up to her from time to time maybe she wouldn’t be such a bully.

Teddy:  Have you seen her face?  She started a Fight Club for fuck’s sake!

 

Me:  Okay, you have a point, again.  Going camping will give her face time to heal though.  So, there is that.

Izzie:  I don’t want it to heal!  I’m enjoying the notoriety.  Orange Charlie is terrified, as are Ross’s dogs.

Me:  Sigh.  Why do you have to be so miserable, Izzie?  Geez!  And Teddy, there are worse things than taking you camping.  Do you remember when we left you home for a day and a half?  You literally wouldn’t speak to me for almost a week.

Teddy:  That’s because you didn’t inform me of your plans before you just left.  I thought you were dead and then you show up all happy and sparkly without the slightest concern for my worries.

Me:  I’ve apologised for that a million times already!  That’s why we’re taking you camping.  You just have to get over it.

Teddy:  I think you might have missed what I said earlier – I. AM. NOT. GOING. IN. THAT. DEATH. TRAP. EVER. AGAIN!

Me:  Okay, look.  We can’t leave you home alone for so long.

Teddy:  Exactly.  You shouldn’t be going at all.  Stay home like other normal people.  It’s totally irresponsible as a Cat Parent to traumatize your Cat Children.

Me:  Sigh.  Just give it a chance, Teddy.  The Viking and I will make sure Izzie behaves herself.  It will be fine.

Izzie:  HEY!!  You’re not the boss of me!  If I want to make death threats, I’ll make death threats and there is nothing you can do about it!

Me:  Actually, I am your boss.  And fine.  New plan.  We’ll leave Izzie home and take Teddy with us.  That would work, wouldn’t it?  Izzie doesn’t care if we’re here or not as long as there is food and Teddy will have the trailer all to himself.

Teddy/Izzie:  NOOO!  NOPE! NADA!  That plan sucks!

Teddy:  I used to love you, you know.  I thought you were the best Mom ever.  Obviously, I was wrong.

Me:  Teddy, you still love me.  You can’t help yourself, because you love the belly rub.

Teddy:  Curses!!  The belly rub is my kryptonite!

Me:  You are both coming camping!  We will have toys and treats and we have a harness and leash for each of you so you can hang out with us outside.

Izzie:  A leash?!  What kind of fuckery is that?!  I don’t do leashes OR harnesses.  I thought we settle that debate 3 years ago!

Me:  You can’t wander around the campground on your own.  It’s either the harness and leash or you stay in the trailer.

Izzie:  Then, I’m not going now.

Me:   YOU ARE BOTH COMING CAMPING!!  AND IZZIE WILL BEHAVE HERSELF AND TEDDY WILL COME OUT FROM UNDER THE DAMNED BED!!  PERIOD!

 

So.  Wish us luck.  I have a feeling that we’re going to need all the luck we can get.

 

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UPDATE: Izzie’s Fight Club

We are still in the middle of a titanic struggle for passage rights between Izzie and her Arch-Nemesis.  Baloshi has the law on his side with owner rights, while Izzie is claiming historic migratory rights.

It’s not going well.

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The Viking, Teddy and I have taken turns trying to convince her to just go around Baloshi’s yard, but she’s a stubborn little fuck.  The Viking has always held the title as The Most Stubborn Fuck in the Household, however Izzie has made it into a real competition.  I’ve never seen The Viking with open war wounds though, so I’m going to award the title to the new champion.

Her face is a mass of scars, scabs and open, seeping wounds.  She’s more grumpy, sarcastic and shouty than she usually is too, and that’s saying a lot given her normal temperament is somewhere between Angry, Vengeful Harpy and Bite-y, Slappy Gorgon.  I’m beginning to get a complex.

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We really have only one solution…….two solutions…..if we listen to Izzie who wants us to descend on the Ladies and Baloshi and burn the place to the ground.  With a flame-thrower*.  So, the only viable solution would be to lock her in the house.  We took a vote:

The Viking:  Nay.  Do you want us to be lacerated to ribbons in the dead of night?

Teddy:  Only if you chain her to a corner with a short leash.  My fur is finally starting to grow back after her last temper tantrum.

Me:  I would be in favour of the leash but it won’t stop her shouting threats and curses and I’m the one who is in the house most of the time.  Also, I think she knows how to VooDoo.  So, Nay to the leash.

The Viking:  We could wear protective clothing.

Teddy:  Nay.  I’m not wearing clothes.

Me:  It’s 32°C today.  Nay to protective clothing.

The Viking:  Maybe we could reason with her?

Teddy:  HA!

Me:  I’m with Teddy on that one.

It was unanimous – we can’t keep her in the house and still remain blood-free.

All we can do is to tend to her war wounds and continue to encourage a detour around Baloshi’s yard.  She won’t listen, but at least we tried.

 

*I’m not allowed to have a Flame-Thrower due to safety issues but Izzie pointed out that The Viking could do it.

Izzie’s Fight Club

It’s official.  Izzie has started a Fight Club in the neighbourhood.

If you are a follower of my blog, you are familiar with Izzie.  The worst cat on the planet.  Cranky, sarcastic, stabby, name-calling, cursing, shouting Izzie.  I’ve never had to work so hard to teach a cat not to murder me.  Or The Viking, but The Viking is a Viking and doesn’t really need me to fight his battles.

A couple weeks ago, I met a new couple who moved into the house at the end of our block, and immediately had to apologize because Izzie held them hostage, forcing them to escape through their front door.  Everyone on the block has offered the newbies advice on how to deal with Izzie which, at the end of the day, boils down to “Don’t Touch Izzie” and “Call Lori or The Viking”.

And then about 10 days ago, I noticed Izzie’s face was swollen up and a small bald spot on her nose.  I assumed she was stung by a bee – tis the season after all.  The following day, she wandered by and her nose was huge!  It looked like it was broken, and that one bald spot had multiplied to four or five.

“Izzie!  What the fuck?  Are you fighting?!”

She didn’t answer.  Apparently, the first rule of Fight Club is that you don’t talk about Fight Club.  The Viking and I tried to get a better look but that went about as well as you can imagine.  So, all we could do was keep an eye on her.

3 days ago, she came home in terrible shape.  Her poor nose!  She was exhausted and slept all day.  It was awful.  And like every good parent, we turned on Teddy.

“Who is she fighting with, Teddy?!  Don’t you know that you should be helping her?  Brothers don’t let their sisters get beaten up!”  Apparently, Teddy is aware of the rules of Fight Club too because he had nothing to say.  Izzie is quite a small cat – maybe 5 or 6 pounds – while Teddy is a big guy, probably 8 or 9 pounds.  He doesn’t have a scratch on him because he’s a lover, not a fighter.  And any wounds he has ever had came from Izzie.

2 days ago she came home even worse.  Night before last she must have taken a day off from Fight Club, but this morning she’s Rock Balboa.

“Who the hell are you fighting with, Izzie?!”  Geezus!  “Look at your poor face!  Fucksakes!”  It’s kind of heartbreaking to see her pretty little face mauled.  Also, her ‘love eyes’ usually look kind of terrifying but now…..well….it’s inspires one to pee themselves.  Not me or The Viking because we know her, but you definitely would consider peeing yourself.

We contemplated and quickly rejected that these might be bee stings but the only way these are bee stings is if she is willing to take it in the face over and over and over again because they taste so delicious.  I’m not buying it though – and bees sleep at night.

We can’t imagine a cat that has lived in the neighbourhood for the past 4+ years and has already come to an agreement with Izzie would suddenly become this combative.  There must to be a new element.  Enter the new cat at the end of the block – Baloshi.

After giving the situation some thought, I think I’ve figured it out.  Teddy is a home boy and he is the guardian of the yard.  Slinky, the crazy cat next door, frequently tests Teddy’s resolve by trespassing, but it’s mostly posturing and name-calling before Slinky retreats.

Izzie, on the other hand, is a free spirit and a wanderer.  The world is her oyster!  She visits everyone on the block, sometimes even beyond the block if something interesting catches her attention.  She watches a guy down the street work in his garden all afternoon.  He loves her.  She used to poop in Mark’s flower bed but once he put Cayenne Pepper in it she just sits and gives him The Stink Eye.  He loves her, too!  Even the traffic on the busy road at the end of the block stops for her.  Everyone loves the miserable little thing, including The Viking and I.  And she has managed to install herself as Queen of the World by bluster and bullying alone and no one has seriously called her bluff.  Ever.  Until now.  Baloshi.

The conflict is, most probably, about the Right of Passage.  Izzie doesn’t want to inhabit Baloshi’s yard, she just wants to wander through and maybe take a hostage or two when she’s bored, just as she’s always done.  But just try convincing her that there’s a new cat in that previously unoccupied yard who isn’t prepared to allow her access whenever the hell she feels like it.

She isn’t taking the news very well.  Queen’s don’t make exceptions for peasants.  We can’t stop her unless we lock her in the house and that’s just a recipe for disaster.  So, we inspect her face every morning in case she’s in need of emergency care and tell her in our most loving of voices…….

“Izzie, please stop using your face to hit Baloshi in the mouth.  You look like shit.  We love you but we will start calling you Rocky.  Now, go to bed.”

 

Welcome to the Neighbourhood and Sorry for Our Cat

On Saturday morning I happened to glance out the window that faces the back alley and saw two women stop and point at our fifth-wheel trailer and Goldwing.

That’s weird and who are those women?

Should I go out and see what they’re looking at?  I don’t want to look like a nosey, busy-body who charges and confronts everyone who walks past though.  On the other hand, maybe there’s a dead body – human, feline or canine.  Under those circumstances, I should definitely get out there because I don’t want any corpses lingering around.  Perhaps they aren’t pointing at anything at all but practicing dance moves – like John Travolta in Grease – and they don’t need my interference.   They’ve got the pointy finger bit perfect.

via GIPHY

Or, maybe there was something wrong with the trailer and because I don’t want to appear aggressive, the problem escalates into a full-blown catastrophe.  I could also wait until they move on and then rush out, but maybe they are stalking homes to burgle and me going out there might convince them this isn’t the neighbourhood for that kind of activity.

Decisions, decisions.

Okay.  I’m going out there.  However, I’ll pretend I’m on my way to put something in the garbage, so it doesn’t look like I’m suspicious of them.  They are both holding coffee mugs and that doesn’t seem like something a nefarious gang of robbers would have in their hands.

I started whistling as I sauntered toward the alley and at the moment the women could see me, I pretended surprise.  “Oh!  Haha!  I didn’t see you there.”

via GIPHY

They bought it.

Woman 1:  We are just trying to get our cat to come home and he’s under your trailer.

Phew!  So glad I didn’t come out like a Pitbull.

Woman 2:  He’s grey and white.  See, there he is, up on the fence!

Woman 1:  Hi, my name is Steph and this is Erin.

Me:  Nice to meet you.  I’m Lori.

Erin:  We just moved into the house at the end of the alley.  Our cat is Baloshi.

Me:  That’s wonderful.  Welcome to the neighbourhood!  I have two cats.  One is gray….

Steph:  That’s Teddy, right?

Me (wondering how they know that):  Yeees.

Have the neighbours been talking?  Of course they have! It’s the first law in Neighbourhood Rules:  Get to the Newbies first and spill all the dirt on everyone else.  You’re just being helpful after all and saving them from getting involved with the bad seeds on the block.

Erin:  He’s such a nice boy!  He’s making friends with Baloshi and it’s going really well.

Me:  That sounds exactly like Teddy.  He’s a sweetie.  Umm….I also have a black cat…..

I watched the smiles fade from both woman’s face.

Steph: Izzie.  Right?

Me:  I’m so sorry.  What did she do?

Erin:  She sits on our back step so we can’t get out.

Steph:  We tried just stepping around her but apparently that’s not a good idea.

Okay, that isn’t as bad as I was expecting.  It’s a simple Hostage-Taking.  Considering some of her past sins, this isn’t even 4th on the list.

Me:  Did either of you bleed?

Erin:  Oh, no!  She just refused to move so we couldn’t get the door open.

Okay.  No physical damage then.  That’s good news.  Probably a little emotional trauma though.  I’m going to put this at a solid sixth on the list.

Me:  I’m really sorry.  We’ve tried talking to her but she either ignores us or calls us curse-y names.

Steph:  Oh, don’t worry.  It wasn’t that big of a deal.

Sure, you say that now but wait until she steals your car.  She’s already stolen two – the first time with the owner still in the actual car.  She made the critical mistake of having her window rolled down.  One of the neighbours heard her screams and came to get us.  The second time, Izzie just declared the vehicle as hers and refused to let the owner have it back until The Viking physically removed her.  That guy will lock his truck door next time he comes around.

So, I had a chat with Izzie.

“Izzie.  Stop taking the new people hostage.  I honestly didn’t think I would have to spell this out, but here we are.  Hostage Taking is forbidden.  Yes.  Another forbidden thing.  And since we’re already here, let me take the opportunity to remind you of the other forbidden behaviors.  Again.  You cannot….

    • Break into a person’s home and block them from getting out of their own house. Yes, I’m talking about Peter.
    • Steal household appliances. Yes, I’m still talking about Peter.
    • Steal vehicles, whether the owner is inside the vehicle at the time or not.
    • Stop traffic while you clean your ass in the middle of the street. All the honking brings the police.
    • Slap young children.
    • Take people hostage, even if you don’t draw blood – it’s a felony and you can be prosecuted!
    • Bully the dogs on the other side of the alley. Don’t bother denying.  Ross found your collar stuck on the fence.
    • Pick fights with Magpies or Ravens because they come back en masse and turn the entire block into a scene from Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ and I’m forced to rescue you. Three birds shat on me last time.
    • And while I’m on the subject of ‘Birds’, you cannot catch birds outside and bring them inside to ‘finish them off’. That’s just gross.
    • And for fuck’s sake, stop beating up Teddy! Geezus!”

Have I missed anything?  Probably.  Give her a couple of days and I’m sure she’ll find something that will require my deepest apologizes to random strangers.  Our long-term neighbours don’t even require an apology anymore – we’re all in this together, I suppose.

So, welcome to the neighbourhood and we’re sorry about our cat.

Pudding Crypts for Cookies

When we adopted Izzie (the black succubus from Hell), and Teddy later (the feline equivalent of Joey Tribiani), The Viking did a shitload of research into the best cat food versus the best price.  After developing a complex algorithm, he decided on a brand and invaded the pet store to purchase it in bulk, both dry and canned.

For three years we’ve fed the Cats the same food and everything was fine.  Until it suddenly wasn’t.  They just stopped eating the canned food one day.  I don’t know why – it smelled fine, it looked fine, the ‘best before date’ was fine, it was FINE.  According to the Cats though, it was a toxic stew that we should be ashamed to call food.  So, The Viking went back to the complex algorithm, found the next best food and invaded the pet store again.

And guess what?  They love it!  They love it so much they’re willing to trample me to death to get to The Viking as he dishes it up.

However, we still had a couple cans of the old stuff.  Personally, I was willing to just get rid of it because it was apparent that neither Cat gave a thought to being fiscally responsible.  We discussed it and they were adamant: not a single speck of the old food would pass their lips for the rest of their lives!   But nothing annoys The Viking more than wastefulness*.

So he came up with a diabolical plan that is only slightly less diabolical (only because he didn’t do it to me) than my Mother’s diabolical plans.  She used to make delicious pudding when I was a kid and then hide old, dead cookies in the bottom of the bowl and we were forced to eat it because child abuse was not quite as frowned upon as it is these days.  And now The Viking took a page out of Mom’s diabolical book and mixed the toxic stew with the new food and presented it to the Cats like it wasn’t abusive at all.

I’d like to say that both Cats noticed immediately and refused to eat it.  But, nope!  They happily chowed that crap down and licked the bowls clean and I find that reprehensible.  It’s like they compromised without a thought.  Where’s their pride?  What happened to standards and expectations?  Don’t they know they have a responsibility to the rest of us?  When they give in to tyranny once, the overlords know they’ll do it again.  And if Cats will cave, then humans will cave, too, because everyone knows that Cats have an aversion to authority that surpasses even The Viking’s aversion to authority.  It is common knowledge that if you want to take over the world the plan begins with Cats and they’d better have good catnip toys.

What they’ve done is create a world of possibilities where any atrocity is possible.  They’ve shifted the current Space/Time Continuum and we now live in an entirely different place.  A place where Mom’s diabolical Pudding Crypts for Cookies is the norm and not considered the unimaginable horror that it is.

And I can’t just ignore who kicked off this current regime of terror – The Viking!  He has become the kind of person who will hide terrible food under delicious food.  He’s become a Monster!  If he’ll betray our cats, it’s only the smallest of steps to betraying me.  How can I trust any food he makes now?  Will I find Pickled Herring masquerading as a pork chop?  Fried Liver hiding under a lovely cream sauce?  Sauerkraut disguised as Spaghetti?  Curry Meatballs pretending to be any normal kind of meatball?

I’ve given this considerable thought and my only option now is to install HD video surveillance in the kitchen.  Yes, I could sit and monitor exactly what he does when he’s cooking, but he’ll bide his time until I need to pee, or the phone rings, or another Just Energy salesman rings the front doorbell, before he slips Kale into something.  I would rather be safe than sorry, so I’ll install a Viking Cam in the Drinking Horn on the sideboard.  And then I’ll squat like Golem in a dark closet with the monitor, watching every move he makes until I can bust his ass for Food Crimes Against Humanity.

The cats are on their own, though.  The little traitors deserve every gross thing The Viking hides in their bowl because they brought this on themselves.

 

*Slow drivers in the fast lane comes in a close 2nd.

Where’s A Coyote When You Really Need One?

I like birds – they’re pretty and sing-song-y and generally don’t get in my way – meaning, I haven’t tripped over one.  Yet.  There’s still plenty of life in me so there’s a reasonable probability that at some point in the future I will trip over one or two and I can only hope the birds in question don’t hold grudges and/or can’t run very fast.

Anyway, I like birds, but to be honest, I’ve never spent a good deal of time minutely examining my thoughts and feelings about them.  Until this morning, that is.  At 6:30am I was given the perfect opportunity to delve deeply into my opinions and emotions about birds and come up with a definite conclusion:  I like birds – except Magpies.  I fucking hate Magpies!

The specific Magpie who became the object of my early-morning cursing was the one sitting under our bedroom window squawking and chatting with one of the cats.  It was, most likely, Teddy because he seems to have some kind of dysfunctional relationship with it that may or may not include racial slurs, name-calling and cursing.  It follows Teddy around, shrieking at him, then Teddy answers it in Cat and it shrieks again and Teddy answers again.  We’re quite surprised because Teddy….

isn’t the cat around here that’s famous for shouting and swearing – that honour goes to Izzie, The Queen of Mean herself.

Teddy is a sweet, chill guy who channels Joey Tribiani.

via GIPHY

I suppose I could be wrong about the content of their conversations.  Maybe it’s a weird friendship between a Low Talker and a Shouter.  Maybe they are conversing over the state of the local economy and how the influence of weather patterns could disrupt the flow of goods and services to the most vulnerable in society.  Maybe they are plotting and planning a coup in the Squirrel Community.  Maybe that bloody bird has a miserable sibling, too.  Maybe they are comparing notes and strategies for coping.  Who the fuck knows and, at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter.

These two-way conversations go on several times a day for such a ridiculously long time that even the neighbours are starting to notice.  I’ve tried on several occasions to capture this phenomenon but that damned Magpie is as shifty as it is loud, and Teddy has the innocent act down pat.

At 6:30 this morning, I was having visions of pulling every single feather out of that gawd-damned bird until it was naked as the day it was hatched.  I had a lengthy intervention with Teddy, explaining that he needs to find a friend that doesn’t drive me to the serious contemplation of murder.  He listened very carefully, then went outside and found that bird again!  Probably to tattle on me for racism or something.  Will my car be covered in Magpie Poop now?

Under normal circumstances, I would never try to dictate who a person has as a friend because friendship comes in many different forms.  Cat and bird friendships should be encouraged in the hope of interspecies peace.  But a Magpie?  Really?  Teddy couldn’t find any other bird in the neighbourhood to befriend?  One that was less offensive and less loud?  A Finch?  A Sparrow?  How about a Hummingbird?  Hummingbirds are nothing short of awesome!  Nope!  It had to be a damned Magpie!  I would suspect passive/aggressive behavior if it were Izzie because she would totally do that, but Teddy has neither the smarts nor the personality to pull it off.

Since I apparently have little influence on Teddy’s choice of companions, I’ll just have to come up with a name for my nemesis.  A little help would be greatly appreciated, people.

In the meantime, it’s my kind of luck that someone will write a children’s book about this, ending it with the sweet cat and the pretty bird living happily ever after and I’ll look like the asshole.

Where is a coyote when you desperately need one?