Shortly after Fred and I wished each other a happy anniversary Monday evening, Miss Stank sashayed across the room, gave me an angry glare*, and snuggled up next to Tommy.
“You realize,” I said to Fred as I watched Tommy diligently lick the top of Miss Stank’s head, “Even if we wanted to, we could never get a divorce.”
“DARN,” Fred said, trying to look disappointed but only succeeding in looking proud of himself for dissing me. “Why’s that?”
“Because Spanky is mine,” I said. “You gave him to me as a gift for Christmas. And Miz Poo is mine, too. Sugarbutt and Tommy are mine, also.”
“Tommy’s not yours!”
“Tommy’s mine because we could never separate him from Sugarbutt. And Sugarbutt is ABSOLUTELY mine.”
Fred did not disagree with that.
“So if I took Tommy, I’d have to take Miss Stank as well, because it would break her heart to be separated from him. And I’d take Newt, because I love him and you prefer Miss Momma, so she’d be yours. So I’d end up with Spanky, Miz Poo, Tommy and Sugs, Miss Stank, and Newt. And you’d end up with Mister Boogers and Miss Momma and Joe Bob.”
There was a long silence as Fred considered.
“I could live with that!” he declared, once again looking proud of himself. Lucky for him, he’s got fast reflexes so the book I threw didn’t hit him squarely upside the head, only glanced off his shoulder.
*Every evening, we eat dinner around 5. Beginning around 5:30, Miss Stank decides it’s Snackin’! Time! and she begins her routine of walking across my line of vision, glaring angrily at me, and then meowing one high-pitched, demanding meow. I glare back at her and say “NO.” She goes away. Two minutes later she comes back, glares, sashays across the room, and meows again. If I stand up and walk anywhere near the kitchen, she runs in front of me, sits on the rug on the kitchen floor and howls. And howls. Then glares. Then sashays. And on and on and on until it’s 7:00. And if I should have the nerve to stop in the bathroom to pee on my way to the kitchen, she comes into the bathroom, glares at me, and howls and howls and howls. The NERVE of me.
We lost a chick yesterday – and by “lost” I mean “she died.” Fred noticed that she seemed slow and wobbly, more wobbly than the other chicks that is, and this morning he told me he was worried that she wasn’t going to make it. When I went out to look at them mid-morning, I saw immediately the chick he meant. She was just sitting under the heating lamp, not moving much. The chicks don’t ever realize I’m there until I say something, in which case they scatter all over the place, chirping in fear. This one didn’t even move, and when I reached down to touch her, she barely moved. I dipped her beak in water a couple of times, and she never drank. When another chick smacked into her in an attempt to run by, she fell over on her front and couldn’t seem to get back up. I set her on her feet, but she just sat and wobbled there. By the time Fred got home, she was dead.
Poor little chick.
We noticed another one was ailing last night and kept an eye on her and tried to get her to drink and eat, but when it’s a tiny bird, there’s really a limit to what you can do. This morning, she was dead. The rest of the chicks are looking bright-eyed and perky, so hopefully that will be the last chick we lose.
To tide you over ’til I post a video of myself sounding like a sheer and utter idiot on Friday (there’s something to look forward to!), here’s a video of the chicks and their reaction to being spoken to.
I spent two hours cleaning the hell out of the kitchen and laundry room yesterday, just because it had been so long. This cleaning included getting on my hands and knees and scrubbing the floor, which desperately needed it. I cleaned the microwave, I cleaned the refrigerator (and found a container of sour cream that expired in December, blech), I switched the flour and sugar and brown sugar and cornmeal to my new canisters (with red tops – they don’t really scream “country kitchen”, but they’ll keep the damn moths out that’s for sure), I wiped everything down, and when I was done the kitchen looked clean and if you really looked closely you might notice that I’d cleaned, but maybe not two hours’ worth.
Oh well. I know it’s been cleaned, and that’s all that matters.
The plan for today is to clean the dining room (and get the damn cat carrier off the table once and for all) and computer room and maybe my bedroom. I’m not making any promises, though.
Later I’m going to run to Big Lots and do some browsing. In and amongst all that excitement, I’ll snuggle some kitties and check on the chicks obsessively. Maybe run out a bagel and some grapes to the pigs.
I’d make a humorous comment here about how you wish your life was as exciting as mine, but to be honest, I kinda love my life right now and wouldn’t trade it for anything.
The kittens are doing just fine, though they are not crazy about this new twice-daily dose of Doxycycline. Can’t say as I blame them, but once they get past the taste, they forgive pretty quickly. And then I put Terramycin in their eyes, and they’re like “Woe is me, and when will the suffering ENNNNND?”
But then the sun shines and they get happy again. Nothin’ like sunshine to make some happy kittens, I tell you.
Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: I’m a total freak.
2003: She’s home!
2002: Of course, my sympathy for him will only last until he poos in the hallway instead of the litter box again.
2001: I am the dumbest dumbass in the whole wide world, I really am.
2000: Sometimes, they lay on the floor and perform for us.