Thanks, you guys, for your advice and positive thoughts in our direction (for the skimmers, Fred is looking for a job). Still no calls yet, but it’s early days yet, right? Right!
Remember how I’ve mentioned before that I have a Gmail email address that I don’t really use, that it’s got my first and last name in it, and I occasionally get emails from the college mates of a Robyn Anderson in Canada, discussing assignments, and sometimes I get emails from the mother of a Robyn Anderson in Texas, that I’ve gotten emails from the frequent flyer program of the Robyn Anderson in Texas, and work emails – once I got a spreadsheet from a coworker of hers?
And that I always respond to these emails with “You have the wrong email address. Please tell STUPID Robyn Anderson that she’s so STUPID she doesn’t know her own goddamn email address”?
(Okay, maybe I just say “You have the wrong email address” with a polite smiley. But the other stuff is totally implied.)
I logged into that email address over the weekend, and found that she had sent HERSELF an email with a list of tasks.
Now not only do I know where she works, I know the boring-ass tasks she tells herself that she has to finish by the end of the day.
I responded back with “Don’t wanna. How come I have to do all the work?” and a smiley, but have received no response as of yet.
Fred thought I should have responded with “Seriously. You don’t know YOUR OWN FUCKING EMAIL ADDRESS?”
I’m far too polite for that, though. I prefer to disparage her behind her back.
By the way, I was so annoyed by Firefox’s constant fucking updates, and the way the last time it updated my system was screwed up for an entire afternoon, that I finally gave up and downloaded Google Chrome to give it a try.
I’ve gotta say, I like it so far. There are a few things that annoy me – like, I’m not seeing an “undo” button, and I don’t know how to use the menu to print, so I have to remember to hit control-P (and the print menu that comes up won’t let me just print the highlighted selection for some reason, and that annoys the bejeebers out of me), or control-F for “find”, but I like the bookmarks toolbar at the top of the page. Also, Chrome loads in about a tenth of the time, and hasn’t forced me to update in the four days I’ve been using it, so I’m giving it a cautious two thumbs up.
The water fountain is an endless source of amazement. They’ve all gone swimming in it (accidentally) at one point or another.
I weighed them yesterday. Corbett (above) is the runt, at 1 1/2 pounds. The other three all weigh 1 pound 12 ounces!
Bellied up to the water bowls.
Bolitar, lookin’ for a snuggle.
Hey!
Remember yesterday when I was all GET A LOAD OF THAT BELLEH:
And y’all were all HOLY COW WHEN’S SHE GONNA DROP THOSE BABIES?!
And I was all DO YOU SEE THIS THING?! (Or at least I meant to – I forgot to post the picture, actually.)
And y’all were all HOLY MOLY YOU WEREN’T KIDDING, THAT IS ONE PREGNANT CAT! (Or you would have been had I posted it.)
Well, yesterday morning I decided that the fact that Maura had had herself a dirty behind for the last few days, and acted as though it hurt when I cleaned her off, might mean that she could have impacted anal glands. So I called the vet’s office and made an appointment and I loaded her up into the carrier, and headed for the vet.
She was completely silent all the way to the vet’s office (I am serious when I tell you that this is one laid-back cat), except for a few times when she turned around in circles trying to get comfortable, and I thought WOULDN’T IT BE FUNNY IF SHE WENT INTO LABOR RIGHT NOW, OH THAT WOULD BE HIGH-LARIOUS!
We got to the vet’s office, and I turned her over and sat down in the waiting room. The shelter manager came in while I was sitting there, and she went back to see what was going on. She asked a few questions, and then suggested I just come back so I could answer any questions the vet had. I went back, and as I walked back, the vet was feeling Maura’s abdomen.
The vet couldn’t feel any kittens. And as far along as Maura was supposed to be, she should have been able to feel kittens. She was pretty concerned that Maura might have developed Pyometra (basically, when the uterus fills up with pus), and suggested that she go ahead and spay Maura.
I agreed, and left Maura there.
All day long, I worried about Maura, of course, because I am nothing if not a worrywart. Also, I was a little sad that there would be no wee baby kittens. When the vet’s office was about to close, I picked up the phone and called to see how she was doing.
“Oh, Doc was about to call the shelter,” said Belinda, who’d answered the phone.
I steeled myself for bad news.
Turns out that our Maura, big ol’ pregnant Maura? Huge, ready to pop Maura? Maura with the great big pregnant momma cat appetite?
FAKING IT THE ENTIRE TIME.
NOT pregnant. NOT FOR ONE MOMENT PREGNANT.
NOT suffering from Pyometra. PERFECTLY FINE.
She TOTALLY played us.
She’s not pregnant. She’s just big-boned.
“Look. I never SAID I was pregnant. You just assumed. I went along with it for your sake, because I am sweet and kind and didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
I’m going to go pick her up from the vet’s office in a bit. Then I’m going to bring her home and girlfriend, who’s been living the life of Riley with the eating of the kitten food and the two snacks a day of canned food, is going on a DIET.
In a few weeks, after she’s healed from her spaying and up to date on her vaccinations, she’ll be headed off to the adoption center.
The party is over, sweet girl!
“I don’t believe I care for the sound of THAT.”
“I told you she was fakin’ it. When you gonna trust the Sheriff Mama to know what she’s talking about?”
Previously
2009: (The smell of boiling chicken livers: gag me.)
2008: No entry.
2007: No entry.
2006: Now, I’m sure I’d rather be skinny and bald than fat and hairified, but what I’d MUCH prefer to be is skinny and hairified, thanks.
2005: I think that a more accurate description would be “covered the annoyance of itching by making your skin feel as though you’re being set on fire.”
2004: Meme.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Fred’s such a bastard.