Hello! Come on in. I’ve got fresh coffee but no Toffifees or any other delectable treats because I’m on the wagon. My sugar intake was getting out of hand and steps had to be taken. However, if you have smuggled something, I’m completely ready to fall off the wagon for a few minutes while no one’s looking. Because I’m weak.
We have to sit in my bedroom because I have a problem. And it’s getting bigger by the day. And it’s all of my own devising. We should be safe here though.
Never let it be said that I always make good decisions. If someone were keeping track, I’m probably only batting 40%. It’s not that I don’t think everything through because I do, and if you asked anyone who knows me, they would add ‘ad nauseam’ to the statement. I think my problems begin when I start thinking that everyone thinks like me despite the mounting evidence to the contrary.
What I would do in any given situation, it turns out, isn’t what most normal people would do.
Don’t ask me why. I think I’m perfectly logical and can critically think my way out of most wet paper bags when necessary.
My newest problem involves an old problem that I thought I found a solution for, but it turns out that I’ve only made the problem bigger. And louder. And more painful.
You see, the adorable, sweet Izzie isn’t actually adorable and sweet. Think Queen of Mean and you’re not far off. One moment she’s lovey and the next she’s got a claw at your Jugular Vein.
We believe it’s because she’s frustrated that we don’t play with her as much as she wants us to play with her – which is every damned waking moment. We play an average of 3 to 4 hours a day with her but that’s not enough because she won’t play by herself. At all. We have all the lastest in Cat Entertainment plus all the Golden Oldies toys and nothing engages her. She needs a playmate. To be certain that was the issue, we tried it out with Mim’s cats and she played wonderfully.
So, on Thursday, The Viking and I went to the Humane Society and adopted another cat. Yes. That’s what we did. And the regrets are piling up. I searched through every SPCA within an hour’s drive of Calgary and finally found an adorable, 10–12 month old cat that had experience with other cats and was calm and chill. We went out to meet him – Kent – and WOW! This little guy came right over to us and climbed on The Viking for loves immediately. We talked to the staff and they all adored him. He was the perfect!
So we brought him home.
And Izzie lost her damned mind!
She couldn’t hiss and spit fast enough, loud enough or long enough to fully articulate her feelings. Honestly, the X-Rated curses and name-calling was enough to curl my hair and my hair is firmly and determinedly straight – just ask my hairdresser. Her future playmate fainted and he’s lived on the streets for several months.
We put poor Kent in the spare room with a litter box, 9156 toys that Izzie won’t play with, food and water and reinforced the door with 6 inches of solid steel.
Imprisoning Kent calmed Izzie slightly but when I went to sit and love her a bit she slapped me 4 times in quick succession. I think it was Morse Code for either
You! Cheated! On! Me!
Or
What! Is! That! Thing?!
Or
Make! It! Go! Away!!
Or
You! Will! Die! Slowly!!
And every single time I touch Kent, I get slapped by Izzie. Hard! I’m not talking ‘love taps’, I’m talking ‘bitch slaps’!
I am only thankful that she isn’t using her claws which indicates that there is a small portion of her soul that hasn’t fully gone to the dark side.
So, there you have it. Kent isn’t sticking up for himself so The Viking and I are rotating cats through seclusions using the spare bedroom and our only bathroom. We communicate via walkie-talkies:
Me: I have The Evil One contained in a sack in the kitchen. It’s a rodeo so you should hurry.
The Viking: Roger! I have The Sweet One and moving to the family room.
Me: Roger…..Wilco….I think. Transferring The Evil One to the Bathroom in 5….4….3….2….1!
The Viking: Has the package been delivered?
Me: The Package is secure.
……..
Me: I probably should have gone pee before we put The Evil One in here. If I’m not out in 4 minutes send help. They should wear armour.
The Viking: For Fucksake!
There isn’t much change today except Izzie only slapped me twice. And Kent isn’t Superman. Apparently. Because he just cowers when she growls. Perhaps he’s too nice. That should never be a problem but when you are dealing with The Queen of Mean you have to stand your ground.
I hope I don’t have to get a third cat to save the second cat from the first cat.
PS: We aren’t sure about Kent’s name. He came in with two other cats – a female and a male – and the staff at the SPCA named them Lois, Clark and Kent. Witty, but I’m not sure I like the name Kent. Kent. Kent. Kent. When The Viking, with his accent, is calling him….it sounds so close to….well, you understand. On the other hand Clark Kent was a bit of a wuss until he became Superman. And it will take Superman to tame Izzie, I’m afraid. But Izzie’s name is Isolde so we thought Tristan was a great name. Maybe I’ll go and make The Viking yell ‘Kent’ over and over to make sure it doesn’t turn ugly…….
Thanks for stopping by. Hopefully we can sit in the kitchen for coffee next time you come.
Thanks, as always, to Part Time Monster for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.