Today marks a year since Spot died. And yesterday marked four five years since Tubby died.
The end of January is apparently not a great time to be an And3rson kitty. Um, not that any of the cats are sick or feeling poorly – that wasn’t a lead-in to another kitty death story, thank god.
Since it’s been a year since Spot died, that means it’s been almost a year since Joe Bob came to live with us, and I have to say that finally, FINALLY he’s really fitting into the pack comfortably. He’s not spending all his time on top of the bookcase (though that might be because Stinkerbelle has kind of claimed that space), and he’s coming around to be petted and to sit in Fred’s lap more. There have been fewer instances of Mister Boogers, Tommy, and Sugarbutt (the Asshole Gang, is how I think of them) picking on Joe Bob, which means thankfully that there have been less ear-piercing screams.
Actually, now that I think about, Stinkerbelle has been coming around more often, too. Last night she felt the need to come into the computer room, swish about the room, then meow bitchily before stalking back out of the room. I’m not sure what her point was.
Fred has started using the Cesar Millan “SHHHHHT!” on the cats when they’re acting up. It works as far as distracting them from whatever assholery they’re beginning, but it doesn’t surprise them into instant obedience the way it does with the dogs on The Dog Whisperer.
Speaking of The Dog Whisperer and his “SHHHHHHT!”, Fred uses it on George and Gracie, and it works amazingly well. That, and “Hey!” are his words to correct the dogs. I myself use a very negative sounding “ANNHHT!” (that’s the closest I can come to spelling it out) and they seem to know I mean business.
It surprises me a little that I can take a big bowl of kitchen scraps to the chickens, and keep the dogs back while the chickens dig in – despite the fact that they are VERY much interested in whatever it is – with just a look and body language.
I mean, given how many people have told us that Great Pyreneeseses (or, as the hoi polloi call them “Great Pyrenees”) are obstinate and not prone to obeying, I suspect we’re probably still in the honeymoon phase with those two, but I’ve gotta say – they sure are sweet. I think I mentioned that if I go out to the chicken yard, they’re very happy to see me. If Fred goes out to the chicken yard, they’re very happy to see him. But if we go out there together, it’s apparently Christmas, Mardi Gras, and Independence Day all rolled into one. It’s apparently THEIR DREAM COME TRUE, and they get very excited. They don’t jump up on us – that was the first thing we did, teach them not to jump up on us – but they jump up NEAR us, and it’s awfully damn funny to see them go from a sitting position to jumping straight up into the air because the excitement of having both of us in the same area is too great to be contained.
I told Fred the other day that I need to stop taking treats for the dogs with me every single time I go out there, because they don’t need THAT many treats, and I don’t want them to expect a treat every time they see me.
And then I promptly went and made a batch of Peanut Butter treats.
(Fred ate one of them when he got home since there was nothing gross in them, and he said they were pretty good. I haven’t eaten one, ’cause that’s not a habit I want to get into, and luckily I don’t care for peanut butter cookies, anyway.)
I have made a concerted effort to NOT bring treats with me every single time I go out there, and George and Gracie seem to love me just as much.
I’ve put a permanent link to George and Gracie over there on the left sidebar – every time I put pictures of them up, a million of y’all do searches to find out what breed they are, so I helpfully put that information under their picture.
I also changed the “foster kitten” information, since Samba and Rumba will be staying ’til they’re ready to go to the pet store. Their previous foster mother and I decided that it’d be best for them to just stay here instead of being uprooted and going back to their previous home.
I stopped medicating Samba (last night was her last dose of medicine), because she sounds all clear. I’ll give her through the weekend just in case she feels like relapsing (something that’s never happened in all the time I’ve had foster kittens, but still something I worry about), then as long as she sounds okay, I’ll make an appointment to have them spayed and id chipped.
Rumba is the friendlier of the two kittens, but I’ve actually been able to pet Samba several times too. They have to be in the mood to be petted, though. I can lure them close to me using a toy, but if they don’t feel like being petted, off they scamper when I reach out to them.
They are SO SWEET, have I mentioned?
As she reached for the slot machine arm, Samba sent a prayer to the Big Cat in the Sky.
“Please, Big Cat,” she whispered. “Samba needs a new pair of shoes.” Except that cats don’t wear shoes. Samba secretly wanted to win a ton of dough so she could blow it all on catnip toys. She suspected that the Big Cat in the Sky wouldn’t approve.
Samba kissed the slot machine arm for luck, then gave a mighty pull. Rumba sent a prayer to the Big Cat in the Sky. “All Sevens!” she whispered. “All Sevens!”
Upon realizing she’d once again gambled away the food money for the week, Samba frantically pulled the slot machine arm again and again, to no avail.
Tommy, Sugarbutt, and Newt, looking for trouble. I don’t call ’em the Crooked Acres Gang for nothin’, y’know. If there was a stagecoach coming through here regularly (or at all), I’d be concerned for the safety of the passengers.
Previously
2008: Yes, he is a good dog. No, we’re still not keeping him.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: Yesterday marked one year since Tubby died.
2004: Tubby is dead.
2003: No entry.
2002: Signs of spring.
2001: No entry.
2000: Some work day, huh?