Category: Fostering

P.A.W.S. Wakefield, an animal rescue shelter in Wakefield, Massachusetts, just rescued eight mothers and thirty-five kittens from one house (let me repeat: FROM ONE HOUSE) in Melrose, MA. They desperately need funds to get the cats spayed/ neutered and cared for,
and if there’s anyone out there in the Melrose-Wakefield, Massachusetts area, I’m sure they could use more foster homes, or adoptive homes for kitties! Their website is here, and you can donate here.

Y’all help out if you can, and help spread the word, please?

No Crooked Acres pics today – it’s been kind of overcast and drizzly all week, which doesn’t lend itself to great picture-taking. There’ll be pics next week, I’m sure!

The baby robins have moved on, it appears. Or they’re learning to fly – I went out to check the mail yesterday morning, and stopped by the tree to look in the nest. I saw no babies in the nest, but two robins were squawking and diving at me, so they may have been in the tree somewhere.

I did make Fred stop feeding the babies so we wouldn’t interfere with the natural course of things, but he insisted on going out to the front yard and tossing worms for the parents to snatch up and carry to their babies.

Those worms, let me add, were not worms he was able to dig up, because it’s been so dry here (well, at least until the last couple of days). They were worms that he bought at a convenience store (some convenience stores around here sell bait)(you know you’re jealous), which cost him $10.

Do you think I’ll be bringing up that $10 (FOR WORMS) every single time he tries to give me a hard time about money I’m spending on toys for the cats? Oh, yes indeedy I will. I look forward to it!

So, on Sunday I was out working in the garden. I was laying feed bags down around the peppers. Fred had been piling feed bags in the blue coop all year long so that come this gardening season, I could use them to block weeds. I carried 10 bags from the blue coop to the garden, carrying them up under my arm. I worked in the garden for a couple of hours, and when I was done, I was headed back to the house when my armpit started itching like crazy. I scratched at it a few times, but the problem is that half of my armpit area is still numb from the surgery I had in February, so even though it was itching, scratching it wasn’t really helping. Which was odd.

It itched for a while longer, and I asked Fred to look at the area and tell me what the hell was going on, but he couldn’t see anything. The itching finally went away. Sunday evening, it started to hurt, alternately aching and stinging. I actually took a hydrocodone to make it stop hurting and also because I figured it’d help me sleep.

Monday morning it was neither better nor worse than it had been the night before, so I decided to just keep an eye on it and go without a bra.

(What? The bra strap was irritating the swollen area. And any excuse to go without a bra, amIright?)

Tuesday morning, Fred looked at it before he left for work, and said he thought it was getting bruised-looking and that I should go to the doctor. I did – well, saw the nurse practitioner – and she prescribed an antibiotic and told me to come back if it got worse.

All this time, Fred had been INSISTING that I probably got a bite from a brown recluse, that there MUST be brown recluses living in the piles of feed bags in the blue coop, that my side was going to rot off. I would say, in fact, that he was disappointed the nurse practitioner didn’t insist I immediately check myself into the hospital and undergo lifesaving surgery (or whatever). He was also disappointed that it wasn’t anything that had to be lanced so that gallons of crap would come shooting out.

He was mostly disappointed, though, that he had to stop on the way home and pick up my antibiotic prescription for me because I didn’t want to wait around for it. (He was NOT disappointed that it was free, though. Gotta love Publix!)

As of last night, the swelling had gone down considerably. I think I’ll live.

Someone Fred knows was actually bitten on the cheek by a brown recluse. He had to have skin removed from his butt to replace the necrotic tissue caused by the bite. Gives a new meaning to “butthead”, no?

Tuesday afternoon, I had to take Declan to the vet. I noticed that he wasn’t playing with the other kittens, all he wanted to do was lay in the cat bed near the back door and watch the kittens run by. He also seemed to be favoring one paw, and felt warm to me. He howled and howled on the drive to the vet, only quieting down when he realized he could crawl under the blanket in the carrier. Once he did that, I didn’t hear another peep from him.

The vet looked him over thoroughly – he did have a temperature – and couldn’t find anything obviously wrong with him. She prescribed antibiotics in case he had an abscess forming. By the evening, he was hanging out on the couch next to Fred, chasing his tail.

Tuesday evening, I made dinner. The veggies have started coming in from the garden, most especially zucchini. I decided to make baked zucchini fritters (I use plain panko bread crumbs, though, because I’m not crazy about the Italian herbs. Don’t look at me like that, I just don’t like them! I think it’s the basil. Did I mention don’t look at me like that?). Sooooo we were eating dinner, and Fred went into the kitchen to get something, and he called “She ate one of the fritters!”

“She” would be Maggie, who is pretty much a stomach on legs. I can’t blame her, she is letting nine kittens nurse, for the love of god, but it’s kind of annoying that if I even think about walking near the kitchen, she appears and gives me the bright-eyed hopeful look.

We’d stupidly left the leftover fritters on the counter while we were eating dinner, and Maggie saw her shot and took it. The problem is that there was not only onion but also garlic in those fritters, both of which are toxic to cats.

(Human foods to avoid feeding cats.)

Now, there wasn’t much onion in the fritter she’d eaten – the recipe calls for 1/4 of an onion, which was spread over 8 fritters – but I didn’t want to take any chances. I called the vet and talked to her, and she suggested that since it had just happened, we should try to make Maggie vomit. If we weren’t able to, we could check her red blood cells every couple of days to make sure there was no damage.

We grabbed Maggie and took her into the bathroom, then gave her 3 cc of hydrogen peroxide. She was surprisingly good about letting Fred shoot it down her throat, and then she paced around the bathroom, licking her lips and swallowing. After 10 minutes, we gave her another 3 cc, and then both left the bathroom to get some evening chores done. Five minutes later, Fred went to check on her.

“You have GOT to see this!” he yelled, and I went to see.

I’m pretty sure she vomited up everything she’d eaten over the past week. It was awe-inspiring, to say the least. And there, in the middle, was every bit of the fritter she’d eaten. She recovered pretty quickly, and by bedtime was back to her usual “You have food for me?” self.

For dinner last night, I made more fritters (we are seriously getting quite a bit of zucchini from the garden right now and we both like these fritters). This time, I made two without onion and garlic, and let her have one of them. It’s not anything we’ll make a habit of, but after making her vomit the night before, we figured she deserved a treat.

It’s always something around here, y’know?

“Here, here, pass it here! PASS IT HERE!”

“PASS IT TO ME, YOU STUPID CENTER!”

So close, and yet so far.

Doesn’t seem to bother her that she keeps missing, does it?

Clove loves to stand there and watch Maggie lovingly as she eats.

Clove.

Coriander.

Cilantro (couldn’t get her to look at the camera!)

“Why yes, I AM sitting in the basket watching my brothers drink. What of it?” (Declan in the basket, Macushla front left, Finnegan front right)

Have I mentioned that they love this cat tree beyond all reason?

Ciara, up close.

Macushla, up close.

Fergus Simon and Finnegan. I love how FS has his big ol’ rabbit feet pressed against Finnegan.

It’s time for your weekly reminder: Corbie is gorgeous. That is all.

Previously
2010: All the fosters, ever.
2009: (A story we recounted, and I do not exaggerate here, at least five times over the course of the weekend.)
2008: Taking a few impromptu days off.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: I’ll try to drum up some drama for tomorrow, m’kay?
2004: (For the record, I do vacuum out there every couple of months…)
2003: A Day in the Life
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: I will be hurting bad tomorrow, though.

P.A.W.S. Wakefield, an animal rescue shelter in Wakefield, Massachusetts, just rescued eight mothers and thirty-five kittens from one house (let me repeat: FROM ONE HOUSE) in Melrose, MA. They desperately need funds to get the cats spayed/ neutered and cared for,
and if there’s anyone out there in the Melrose-Wakefield, Massachusetts area, I’m sure they could use more foster homes, or adoptive homes for kitties! Their website is here.

Y’all help out if you can, and help spread the word, please?

One of these things is not like the others….

Two of these things just don’t belong…

Can you tell which three things are not like the others…

By the time I finish my song?

(You can click on the pictures to go to Flickr, where there are notes on each picture pointing out who the interlopers are!)

So yes, as you might have guessed, the Spice Girls have gotten the run of the house along with the McMaos. It is, let me tell you, utter madness. But it’s also kind of delightful. I let them out in the morning, and then at bedtime we put the McMaos in the guest bedroom and the Girls in the foster room. We discussed putting all of them in one room, but I think it’s best to keep them separate at night for now. A couple of the McMaos (Ciara and Macushla) were a little hissy at first, but they relaxed pretty quickly.

Cori at the trough.

Let me tell you, I actually pulled all of those kittens off Maggie after a few seconds (before I snapped those pictures up there), because I was afraid she was being overwhelmed, but she gave me a dirty look and then called to the kittens to come to her. Who am I to interfere with her mothering?

Maggie, in the window in the dining room.

“What’s over HERE?”

Macushla, with Clove snuggled up behind him. Yeah, I’d say he’s adjusted well.

Coriander would like you to know that she’s no fluffhead. She’s got BRAINS in that head of hers, and she knows how to use them!

One day last week I was watching something I’d taped several weeks ago. I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the show, but it had three litters of kittens, and followed them from birth to six weeks (?) old. At one point, there were baby kittens on the screen crying, and Maggie came in, all “WHY ARE BABIES CRYING! BABIES DO NOT CRY ON MY WATCH!”, and sweetness ensued. (Sorry for the length of the video, I do try to keep them to under a minute, but I am no editor!)

Stinkerbelle keeps an eye on those kittens from her perch up high.

Previously
2010: I’m always behind on everything always, is what I’m saying to you.
2009: The airport for the night, then.
2008: No entry.
2007: No Mister Boogers.
2006: No entry.
2005: Oh, the hilarity that ensues when your car and foster kitten have the same name! I could almost hear the laugh track in the background.
2004: PMS, anyone?
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001:No entry.
2000: Charmed life, have I mentioned?

P.A.W.S. Wakefield, an animal rescue shelter in Wakefield, Massachusetts, just rescued eight mothers and thirty-five kittens from one house (let me repeat: FROM ONE HOUSE) in Melrose, MA. They desperately need funds to get the cats spayed/ neutered and cared for,
and if there’s anyone out there in the Melrose-Wakefield, Massachusetts area, I’m sure they could use more foster homes, or adoptive homes for kitties! Their website is here.

Y’all help out if you can, and help spread the word, please?

Paula sent me the link to this page yesterday – Louis vs. Rick – and it made me cackle. He hasn’t posted anything since November 2009, but that certainly didn’t stop me from adding him to my Google Reader.

So, recently I was laying in bed and wasn’t ready to go to sleep just yet, so I looked on my iPod to see what TV shows I had to watch. I went ahead and bought this season of Gossip Girl on iTunes, but I wasn’t in a Gossip Girl mood. I did have an episode of Private Practice – the one where Charlotte is, y’know. I don’t want to say, so as not to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t seen this season.

I don’t watch Private Practice, but I’d read somewhere that that episode was a pretty powerful one, so I bought it, and then it sat on my iPod for lo these many months.

I blather these fascinating details to you so that I can then say that whatsherface, the surgeon who is McDreamy’s sister, mentioned to another character that she’d been drinking “a little too much” lately. And in an expository manner, it was revealed (though I’m sure that those of you who watch the show already knew this) that she is a recovering drug addict.

Which is when I was all, hold the phone here. Is it truly okay – an accepted practice – for a recovering drug addict to drink? I mean, to me it seems obvious that if I’ve got an addiction to drugs, I might fairly easily transfer that addiction to alcohol annnnd that could be a problem. No? What am I missing here?

I didn’t drive the sweeper around the back forty yesterday morning because something bit me in the armpit when I was working in the garden on Sunday (some sort of bug, I mean – not like a rabid skunk ran up and bit me. Though that would be an excellent entry, wouldn’t it?), and wearing a bra is annoying because the strap rubs right on the swollen, bitten part, and also I took one step out the back door at 6:30 and it was already hot and muggy out, and I thought “I do believe I’m going to take this armpit-bite as an excuse to not do any outdoor work today.”

So I didn’t.

Which means now I gotta. Well, I don’t HAVE to, but I want to get it done and over with, so today’s the day. I’ll probably only do it for a couple of hours, though, since it’s supposed to get super hot again today and there’s no shade in the back forty. Since the back forty’s a decent distance from the neighbor’s house, I’m going to get started at about 7:00, I think. They shouldn’t be able to hear the lawnmower, but if someone stumbles out the back door and gives me a dirty look, I’ll wait ’til 9:00.

“You SEE what I have to put up with?”

Fergus Simon’s goofy little face makes me laugh every day.

“Why, it’s AMAZIN’!”

“Yes, I’m wearing my tiny hat. What of it?” (Macushla)

“Howdy, pardner.” (Ciara)

::thlurrrp:: Miss Cori.

“Hello, I am beautiful.”

I love it when they smile.

Rough life, ain’t it?

We bought a cat tree for the foster room, and the girls really like it. At some point in the future, we’re planning on doing a kind of built-in tree with platforms attached to the wall and such, in which case we’ll move this tree somewhere else in the house. Kittens need cat trees, is what I think, and this one will do nicely for the time being.

What’s funnier than a tiny cat on a little kitten? Nothing, that’s what.

“I’m wearing my cowboy hat and you are not!”

“I’m a cowgiiiiiiiirl!”

Alice, on the cement pad in the back yard.

Previously
2010: Fred pointed out yesterday that the kittens are always free, but the puppies never are.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: Needless to say, Maxi’s persona non grata when the chickens are present in the back yard from now on.
2006: The discerning decorator always considers that cats are decor accessories as well as beloved, spoiled-rotten pets and takes into account the decor of their home before adopting said animals.
2005: “If I can make four percoset get me high for the next year, you just might.”
2004: (Don’t lecture me, I KNOW. I swear I’ll wear sunscreen from now on okay, MOTHER?)
2003: No entry.
2002: Hell. O. Dolly. God in heaven, they were SO DAMN GOOD.
2001: Plus I’m taking this newfangled thing they call “pen and paper.”
2000: No entry.

In case you missed it, I posted an entry about Coltrane yesterday.

Thank you all for your kind words, here and on Facebook and Twitter. Even though Coltrane hadn’t been spending much time inside with us since the weather turned warm (he was briefly banned from the house after we realized he was spraying all over the place every time we let him in, but he looked so sad at not being allowed inside, that we relented because we are suckers. The boy had a bladder the size of Texas.), his absence is definitely felt. He was always so very happy to see us in the afternoon, when it was time to feed the pigs, and he’d follow us around and talk to us until we picked him up or at least petted him.

This is my favorite picture of him, from last September, though I didn’t post it yesterday because I was afraid he looked a little, um, not completely alive in it. (He was, though, he was just delirious with joy. He LOVED being held.)

So, the garden is coming along. Today I’ll be driving the sweeper all over the back forty to pick up as much as I can of the grass clippings out there. Then I’m going to dump them in the back of the trailer, and go a-sweepin’ some more. I hope I don’t pick up anything too gross (as that’s where the dogs poop and all), but you better believe I’ll be wearing my gloves when I handle those clippings, just in case.

Saturday I weeded around the watermelon and cantaloupes in the big garden (as opposed to my watermelon that are growing in the straw bale in the small garden), and then I put down feed bags around the first row of pepper plants to stop weeds from coming up. I used landscape anchor pins in each bag, to hold it down. I used plenty of those things, and I suspect that come this Fall when it’s time to pull them all up, I will be HATING myself. But at least the damn bags won’t blow all over the place.

Sunday, Fred and I put landscape fabric down around the watermelons and cantaloupes. Weeds will likely still be able to come up right around the plants, but unlike a couple of years ago – when the weeds around the plants were waist-high after a little bit of neglect, causing us to give up on them – the plants will have fabric to spread out on, and won’t have to compete with weeds for sun.

Fred went off to do other things around the property, and I finished putting feed bags down around the rest of the row of peppers I’d started the day before, and did the same on the second row of peppers. Then I started pruning tomato plants (just cutting off the lowest branches) and was about a third of the way down the first row when Fred came to see what I was doing. I asked him what time it was, found out it was 9:00, and that was all she wrote. I think I’ve mentioned that I don’t work outside after 9:00 in the summer.

So today I’ll spend as much time as I need to (EVEN if it means I have to work outside past 9:00! Gasp!) gathering clippings from the back forty. Then Tuesday I guess I’ll start dumping clippings on the garden. Perhaps I’ll take Wednesday off from this “gardening” nonsense. We’ll see.

About those baby robins in the nest in the front yard. I told Fred what Doodle Bean said – that baby birds get all the water they need from the worms and bugs their parents feed them – so he stopped giving them water. However, it took a couple of days before he accepted that they were probably getting enough worms and bugs from their parents to keep them alive, so he fed them some more worms.

This time, I followed him with the camera.

It was hard to make a video, because the nest is higher than I am, so I wasn’t quite sure if I was getting anything with the camera. I swear, I always thought that mama birds would eat the worms/ bugs and then vomit them back up into their babies’ mouths (or something gross like that) and I even told Fred that if he truly loved those birds he’d do the same (hee), but these babies sucked down the worms like they’d been doing it all their lives.

(I did make Fred stop feeding them. They seem perfectly healthy and active, and it’s better to let their REAL parents take care of them.)

“OH MY STARS! Doesn’t ANYONE ever vacuum this room? Look at this mess!”

“::sigh:: And the MIRRORS!” Look, I clean them all the time! If these kittens would just stop sticking their noses on them!

Clove takes notes on this “cleaning” business in case there are any tips she can pass on to me.

Maggie wonders how she ended up in this room again, this time with three babies instead of six. Why, it’s like a vacation!

I love Cilantro’s crazy little face.

Maggie continues to clean whilst waiting to be let out.

Hmm. I wonder if I could train her to sit up like this for a snack?

Cilantro and the teaser.

Ciara in the sun. She knows she’s a pretty girl.

Fergus Simon’s serious little face always cracks me up.

Newt’s keeping an eye on the kittens from the Newt Cave. The kittens aren’t sure whether it’s safe to approach or not.

Finnegan wonders if perhaps it might be time for the snuggle?

Sleepy Declan.

Ciara really likes the cedar scratching post.

Macushla gets a little time to himself.

The McMaos are still nursing – TRYING to nurse, I should say – and Maggie puts up with it for a bit, then decides they’ve had enough. Yesterday, Maggie was following me around in hopes that I might be overwhelmed with the desire to give her food, and she was in turn being followed around by Finnegan and Fergus Simon, and every time she stopped, they tried to nurse with her standing there. It was too funny.

One day last week she let them nurse briefly, and I happened to have the camera at hand. So I made a video, of course! (Please note: all that stuff was on the floor because Maggie knocked it down and I hadn’t had a chance to pick it up.)

Tommy in the back yard. I love it when they lay like this!

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: No entry.
2008: This weekend I’ll probably give vacuuming a try and give the Roomba a break.
2007: And since it’s still muddy in the garden, no weeding for me again today. Darn!
2006: “Save your breath,” I said, gasping for air. “I don’t believe a word you say, you lying liar.”
2005: “Spot caught a copperhead!”
2004: No entry.
2003: Poor Gram.
2002: Oh, quit with the gasps of horror.
2001: Lynn is very very nice, but as I’ve mentioned, she doesn’t appreciate the beauty of silence.
2000: I was giving out dirty looks left and right, let me tell you.

Complaints? She haz them.
Starring: Clove.

“That camera is TOO LOUD! You’re always holding that camera when you could be holding ME!”

“You need a pedicure! Looking at your ugly feet is making me wanna BARF!”

“I’m hungry! And I have to walk all the way to the other side of the room to get to the food! I’ll probably starve first!”

“I AM FAINT FROM HUNGER!”

“I can barely stand to lick my reflection, this mirror is so gross! I don’t care if you cleaned it yesterday, you didn’t clean it today!”

“That’s too HIGH. I can’t REACH that! And some of your former fosters WHO YOU CLEARLY LOVE MORE THAN ME pulled all the feathers off! What use is a feather teaser without feathers!”

“YOUR LEGS ARE SO WHITE THEY’RE BLINDING MEEEEEEEEEE!”

“Cori is breathing in my FACE and her breath smells like gross stinky nasty grossness!”

“That is STILL too high, and I can’t reach it I AM NOT EVEN GOING TO TRY!”

“YOU are not PETTING me RIGHT. Can’t you do anything properly?”

Alice vs. the Robin.

Slowly….

slowwwwwwly…

EVER so slowly and patiently the mighty huntress creeps toward the tasty, tasty Robin.

But then she lost sight of her goal and got too excited and pounced far too early, and off flew the Robin to a safe spot.

“Drat!”

Previously
2010: Last night I sang “I’ma kick you in the a-ass. Snackin’! Time! is EARNED, mah friends. Snackin’! Time! is EARNED, oh yeah.” to the cats.
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: Which reminds me, last time I had a sit-down with The Lord, The Lord informed me that doing what might lead to business on Sunday is FORBIDDEN, but abandoning as many of His Creatures to be hit by cars and lay dying on the side of the road, as possible is A-OfuckingK with Him! It’s in the Bible!
2006: Not to mention that I woke up three separate times with my tongue COMPLETELY DRY.
2005: Due to Poop Watch version 2.0, there is no entry for today.
2004: Damn weather!
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: It’s the wild monkey sex, I must confess.
2000: “It’s NOT a cult, Mom!”

Over the weekend, I happened to read A Potential Problem, by Jennifer Groepl, on my iPod Touch. I’m not usually a big fan of YA

(though now that I think about it, the Harry Potter books and the Hunger Games trilogy are YA, aren’t they? Maybe I should stop saying I’m not a fan of YA.)

but I ended up staying up ’til midnight to finish reading it, and now I’m anxious for the next in the series to be available. This is what’s truly awesome about the e-book revolution (if I can cheesily call it that), that you get to read well-written books like this one for a mere $2.99, and (or so I’m hoping) you don’t have to wait forever and a day for the sequel to come out.

Definitely worth a read; check it out.

So, I was laying on the couch catching up on my vitally important Real Housewives episodes (I am not loving New York this season ’round), and there was a knock at the door.

Now, the TV (and the couches) could not possibly be closer to the front door. And most days I don’t open the blinds that hang behind the couch where Fred sits, but on this particular day I had, because I wanted more light to come into the room. The front door has a beveled glass design in it, so whoever was knocking could likely see through the glass that the TV was playing – if they couldn’t hear it. And if I didn’t answer the door, it would have been a mere three or four steps to the windows over Fred’s couch, where whoever was knocking on the door could peer in through the window and see that I was watching fine quality entertainment, AND that I was laying my lazy ass on the couch surrounded by 130 cats.

Besides that, our neighbor had come over the night before to ask Fred something, and so I thought perhaps it might be she who was knocking on the door to interrupt me.

I was trapped, in other words.

So I pushed 78 cats off of me and stood up, and went to open the door.

Was it our neighbor? Why, fuck no it wasn’t our neighbor. It was some guy holding an ADT sign and possibly (I don’t recall exactly, but it seems likely) wearing a polo shirt with the ADT logo on it.

“Hello,” he said, and offered his hand to me. I was taken aback for a moment – here in the South, it’s HIIIIIGHly unusual for a man to offer his hand for a handshake; in fact, I don’t think it’s considered proper etiquette CAN I GET A HOLLA COUNTESS LUANN, DAHHHHHHLING – but after a slight pause, I shook his hand.

Now. If you are GOING to offer your moist hand (yes, it was close to 100 degrees outside, and no, that doesn’t stop from being judgey because I was minding my own goddamn business when your moist hand knocked upon my door) for a handshake, it would behoove you to not lay your moist hand in MY perfectly cool and dry hand as though your hand is a dead, limp, moist fish. It would behoove you to shake hands properly. PROP. ER. LY.

I know what you’re going to say. “But Robyn!” you are exclaiming. “What about my arthritis! My old and aching joints cannot take the pressure of a handshake!”

To you I say, THEN DON’T OFFER YOUR ARTHRITIC CLAW FOR A HANDSHAKE AND IF A MOIST AND LIMP HAND IS PRESENTED TO YOU, GLARE UPON IT AS THOUGH YOU ARE MORTALLY OFFENDED. Really, does a moist and limp hand that lays in your hand make your arthritis feel better?

I suspect not.

So Mr. Moist and Limp set off the “I don’t care if you’re here to give me ten million dollars from a dear departed relative I never knew existed, I want nothing to do with you” alarms in my head, but I set my face in a polite listening pose and I waited.

Such a great deal Mr. MaL wanted to offer me. He wanted to put the ADT sign in my yard so that if my neighbors’ homes were broken into, they would see the sign, and it would cause them to call ADT to have a home security system installed.

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL.

For allowing them to put the sign in my yard, they would give – I SAY GIVE – me a $1,300 home security system. For my own home.

FOR FREE.

“Wouldn’t you agree that that’s a good deal?” said Mr. Moist and Limp, who was now rather sweaty.

“That sounds fabulous,” I said.

He stared at me, perhaps trying to decide if I was sincere (I was not). He inched slightly closer to me, perhaps already counting his commission.

“But you’d need to talk to my husband,” I said. “I don’t make any kind of financial decisions in THIS household.”

He stared at me, and then stammered for a moment before I took pity on him and told him Fred would be home after 6:00.

I cringed through another limp and moist handshake, and then he was gone.

I was upstairs with the kittens that evening around 6:15 when I heard a knock on the door. Fred wasn’t home – he was supposed to be when I told the guy he’d be home after 6:00, but he later found that he had to work later than expected. I didn’t answer the door, and the guy hasn’t been back.

You better believe I’ve left the blinds behind Fred’s couch and on the front door closed ever since.

“What’s she doing?”
“Eating our Babycat. Isn’t she purrrrty?”

“Where’s she going?”
“I dunno.”

“This one needs a bath.”

“What? She was hungry!”

Coriander gets hissy with Ciara.

“What the – ?”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS, BUT IT’S SKEERY.”

“You know, I’m not really sure what I think about all these little – Ooh! Babycat! Pardon me while I belly up to the bowl!”

Macushla keeps an eye on Cilantro.

“Where’d she go?!”

I had no sooner uttered the words “I’m pretty sure the McMaos aren’t nursing any more” than they apparently took my words as a challenge.

I love all the different stripes.

Poor Maggie. She puts up with so much from these little brats!

Even at too old for this nonsense, they are utterly adorable when they nurse.

In the doorway between the hallway and dining room. (Hey, that’s appropriate, no?)

She’s had just about enough of THIS.

“Do you see? Do you SEE why I’m always hungry? They’re sucking the life out of me!”

Maxi and Newt, in the side yard. Newt spends almost all day either in the side yard or in the house. Maxi spends most of the day off to points unknown, then moseys back home mid-afternoon.

Previously
2010: Fucking flies.
2009: Brian graduates.
2008: No entry.
2007: “UGH. I HAVE A DEAD BIRD IN MY HOUSE AND I TOUCHED IT!”
2006: Do I know how to live large, or what?
2005: It took me a minute to get it. Duh.
2004: Have I mentioned that I have a big ol’ crush on Roland? Yeah. There’s me, being geeky again…
2003: Still no Fancypants.
2002: Well, did you feel the earth crack open?
2001: I guess not everyone is as much a wimp as I.
2000: I feel like I spent all day running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off and got nothing accomplished.

You know, I’m sitting here thinking, and for the life of me I cannot remember what on earth I did on Saturday. I’m sure there was housework and lots of snuggling with kittens, but other than that do you think I can remember a single thing I did? Not a one.

Actually, that’s not true – I know that Saturday afternoon I could no longer keep my eyes open, so I lay on the couch and looked through magazines for a few minutes. I decided it was time for napping, so I turned onto my side and that was the signal to all 300 cats in the house that it was time to GET WILD. I had one behind my knees and one in front of my knees, and they were snaking their sharp little monkey claws between my knees to bat at each other. I put them on the floor, and one bounded up onto the back of the couch and the other settled on my hip, and they batted at each other and rolled around biting each other and occasionally me. I put them on the floor again, and they bounded up from the floor, did a half-gainer across my face, to the back of the couch, and back down to the floor. Over. And over. And over again.

Little fuckers.

So when they were taking THEIR naps at 5 pm (seriously, naps at 5 pm. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?) I went in and poked them and said “Are ya sleepin’, huh? Are ya sleepin’? Wake up, it’s TIME TO PLAY!” It was no fun, though, they just blinked at me and went back to sleep.

We watched the Coen Brothers’ remake of True Grit Saturday night, and it was really good. I could only understand about every third word Jeff Bridges (as Rooster Cogburn) said, but that didn’t affect my understanding or enjoyment of the movie. I recommend it.

Sunday morning I slept in ’til 6:15 (horrors!), and when I got up, I had to clean up a pile of cold cat barf in the computer room not two feet from Fred, who SWORE he hadn’t seen it. LIKELY STORY.

After an early morning cup of Diet Coke, I pulled on my gardening gloves and went out to work in the garden. We put down weed fabric between the rows of tomatoes, and then Fred hooked the sweeper up to the lawnmower, and I drove around and swept up the dried grass from when he mowed Thursday. As the sweeper filled up, I went over to the garden and filled up a bucket, and carried it into the garden and dumped it. When I was done, the weed fabric was covered in a thick layer of dried grass (and leaves, and god knows what else the sweeper picked up).

I know, I know. You’re all “But why did you bother to put the weed fabric down if you were going to just cover it with dead grass, which would effectively block weeds from growing? Why? Why, Robyn, why? And did you wear those damn BOOTS with shorts and a tank top, did you really?”

I say to you, YES I wore a tank top and shorts and BOOTS, because sneakers would have been filled with grass in ten seconds flat and also those boots are comfy and furthermore shaddup.

I say to you also that Fred erroneously told me that as grass decomposes it leeches nitrogen out of the ground which would make my tomatoes unhappy. HOWEVER. Last night I was questioning him further about this made-up sounding horseshit and GUESS THE MOTHERFUCK WHAT. He made it up in his own mind, and we didn’t need to put that weed fabric down, I could have just tossed that grass down on the bare ground and not have to pull the weed fabric up this Fall, and I tell you what, I will be CURSING HIS ASS when I’m pulling that shit up. Is what I’m saying. That fucker.

So it took me the better part of the morning to drag the sweeper in a most random fashion around our property, then dump it on the garden. I only got one row covered in grass clippings, but Fred mowed the back forty on Sunday. After the clippings out there has (have?) dried for the better part of the week, I’ll take the sweeper out there and I’m sure by the time I’m done gathering all the clippings from the back forty, I’ll have enough clippings (clippings clippings clippings) to cover the garden six feet deep in, y’know. Clippings.

Who won’t be weeding the garden this summer? That’s right, it’s us who won’t be weeding, WOOT.

(I hate weeding.)

Then I transplanted all my catnip from the pots they were growing in, to the empty raised bed I pulled the spinach and romaine from last week. I stood over my garlic chives and despaired about how they are spindly and useless and stupid and not growing worth a shit for some reason (fuckers). Then I went into the house, and by the time I’d showered and put dishes away, it was lunch time.

I didn’t do anything noteworthy (or that I can really even remember) for the rest of Sunday. I should probably go out and do something in the garden today but, eh. I don’t wanna. I suppose I’ll vacuum.

OH. I know what I did Saturday afternoon – I cleaned the piles of crap off the top of the dresser in my bedroom, and straightened out the two bookcases in my room. It makes a huge difference, at least to me. Seriously, I’ve been piling crap on top of my dresser for months now, and it’s nice to have it all put away and mostly organized.

A few months ago I bought a plastic drawer unit thingy at Lowe’s so I could keep all my kitten supplies in one place. Once I got it all organized how I wanted, I put the unit in my closet. Unfortunately, it gets really hot in my closets in the summer (and cold in the winter) and I was afraid that wasn’t good for the medication, so I moved it out into my room. It’s not the prettiest thing, but it’s behind the door and no one will see it but me (and Fred, though I highly suspect he doesn’t even notice it), and I’d rather be safe than wondering why the holy hell the dewormer (or whatever) I’m giving the kittens isn’t working.

So I’ve got it sitting next to the small bookcase that used to live in the bathroom, behind the door, and I also got all my cat beds and blankets straightened out into neat piles.

“What doin’, lady?” (Declan, with Ciara and Fergus Simon behind him.)

Declan, up close.

Macushla, sleeping on the guest bed. Even though they have the run of the house during the day, they tend to return to the guest bedroom for naps, and of course they’re locked in there for the night.

Pretty Ciara, giving me some sass.

Cat bed under the human bed. What better place to sleep, right?

Just checking in.

So, Maggie has been doing more visiting with the Spice Girls. In fact, if I go upstairs during the day, she’s apt to follow me up and ask to go into the room with them. At first, I was like “Oh, right, she wants to eat their Babycat (food)!” But she really seems to enjoy spending time with them, has been letting them nurse for a few minutes at a time, and loves to groom them. She’ll spend half an hour or so with them before she starts sitting at the door waiting to be let out.

Friday night, we put her in the room with them overnight, and then Fred let her out when he got up Saturday morning. She moseyed out the door, went down the stairs, and sat by the guest bedroom waiting to be let in with her babies. If left to her own devices, she’s happy to split her time between the Spice Girls and her babies, so we let her do that.

I’ve let a few of the McMaos in to see the Spice Girls (limited, short visits), and it’s gone okay. Some of the McMaos are hissier than others. Cillian’s pretty laid-back. On the other hand, Clove went right over to Declan and tried to rub against him, and he gave her THE most offended look and hissed at her.

It was seriously cute.

I’m not ready to give the girls the run of the house just yet – maybe another week – if only because I’m afraid they’ll get pushy with one of the McMaos and then get smacked, and I’d prefer to have them just a bit bigger for that.

Speaking of size, the girls are currently weighing in at 1 lb, 4 oz (Clove), 1 lb, 8 oz (Cilantro), and 1 lb, 12 oz (Coriander).

Lita asked how old the Spice Girls are. They were about 5 weeks old when I got them, which makes them about 7 weeks old now. Their eyes still look really blue in the pictures I’m taking, but if you’re able to get a close look, you can see that they’re actually changing color. They still look bluish, but that’s mostly because they’re blue around the edges.

“Wow, these mirrors are nasty.”

“Seriously, you ever clean these things, lady? This is horrifying. I’m afraid I’ll get a disease next time I lick my reflection.”

“Someone hand me the Windex!”

(YES, I clean those – in fact, I cleaned them before the Spice Girls moved into that room! But when they’re always touching the mirrors with their paws and noses and licking them, and sneezing on them, they get gross quickly.)

Cilantro keeping an eye on the feather teaser.

“Hi, Mama! Are you our mama? Will you be our mama? Can we follow you around and harass you like you was our mama?”

Maggie remembers what she so loves about little ones: they can’t leave her tail alone.

Comfy are we, little girl?

Clove, rubbing up against Cilantro. I love it when kittens do that.

Stinkerbelle in the evening sun.

Stinkerbelle pretty much lives on top of the kitchen cabinets (we call her our “house feral”). She comes down to eat, of course, and use the litter box and sometimes to look for her beloved Tommy. Lately, she’s been venturing into other parts of the house instead of spending all her time in the kitchen, because Alice has started hanging out in Stinkerbelle’s cat bed. I like that Stinkerbelle’s not spending ALL her time atop the cabinets, though of course she’s still up there a lot. You can pet Stinkerbelle if she’s in the mood to let you, but she has an extremely low tolerance for petting, and Fred is always getting a smack from her when he tries to pet her more than a couple of times.

Previously
2010: No entry.
2009: They’re adorable; you’ll have to take my word for it.
2008: “This isn’t a bad movie,” Fred said at one point. “Even though Christian Haydensen is the worst actor in the world.”
2007: “It’s four tiny pink featherless baby birds in a nest that fell out of the chimney.”
2006: “I’d like to suggest, in the most non-harassing way possible, that we go for a hike after dinner.”
2005: Gives a whole new meaning to the term of endearment “Shithead”, doesn’t it?
2004: No entry.
2003: Still no Fancypants.
2002: What the FUCK is going on with Meg Ryan’s hair?!
2001: House hunting.
2000: Any way you slice it, it’s going to be one hell of a long drive.