Bitchypoo

Until at least the end of the year – and possibly permanently – I won’t be posting entries here at Bitchypoo on Wednesdays. I will still be posting entries at Love & Hisses, complete with far too many cat pictures, so you can always click over there to get your daily dose of cute.

No, this is NOT the beginning of the end. I just feel like I’m spending too much time online and am never caught up, and want to cut down a little.

Don’t be sad.

Also, Friday Comment-Answering-Extravaganzas will be going away. I’ll respond to comments in the comments (what a concept) unless, I suppose, you’re dying for opinions from others. Let’s do it this way – if you want me to put your comment up on Friday so other readers can give an opinion, just let me know in the comment. Otherwise, I’ll respond in the comments. Fridays will revert to regular ol’ entries.

Make sense?

(And I will post this on Tuesdays for the next few weeks because somehow not everyone reads and memorizes every word I post, some people just (GASP!) skim and forget everything as soon as they read it. Hmph.)

I made apple crisp over the weekend, and boy was it GOOD. And then I had leftover apple crisp for lunch yesterday – just apple crisp, nothing else -and OY THE GAS.

One day I’m going to learn that I can’t do that any more, eat nothing but a bowl of apple crisp and a scoop of ice cream for lunch and not have to suffer the consequences. If I’d had something with some protein in it, and THEN had the apple crisp, I would have been fine. You’d think after almost four years, I’d remember. And yet, I do not.

Hmph.

I also made a double batch of Caramel-Apple Jam yesterday, and tomorrow I’m going to make another double batch, and then on Friday I’ll make ANOTHER double batch, and then maybe that freakin’ huge-ass bag of Granny Smiths in the laundry room will be gone. (Might take one more double batch, though.) When the apples are gone, I’m done with the Caramel-Apple Jam making ’til next year. It’s awfully good, that jam, but kind of a pain in the ass to make, with the peeling and chopping.

I got the recycling taken to the recycling center, spent plenty of time with the Wonkas, vacuumed. Did laundry.

It was sunny Sunday AND yesterday, and boy was it nice to see the sun after so many gray, overcast days. The chickens and dogs and cats seemed to appreciate the sunshine, too.

I hear our sunny days are limited, though. SIGH.

I decided on Saturday, after I was about halfway through the latest Greg Iles book, that I am pretty much Iles’d out. I’ve liked his books in the past, but the last couple, I just haven’t been feeling the love. I actually felt guilty for refusing to finish the book.

But fuck that shit – feeling GUILTY for not finishing a book that isn’t holding my interest? How idiotic is THAT? Life is too goddamn short for that shit. If a book can’t hold my interest in the first fifty pages, it doesn’t deserve to be read, how about THAT? It’s not like Greg Iles won’t get the money I spent on the book, I am not TAKING money out of his POCKET, what the fuck is there to feel guilty about, I ask you?

So I didn’t finish the damn book. Instead, I picked up the next book in line, Lopsided: How Having Breast Cancer Can Be Really Distracting by Meredith Norton.

You wouldn’t think a book about a woman who was diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer and had to go through chemotherapy and a mastectomy would be laugh-out-loud funny, would you? Seriously, toward the end of the book I was laying on the couch reading, and there was this one section that made me laugh so hard I cried. I laughed out loud at least six or seven times in the course of reading this book, and I made Fred read four different sections that made me laugh.

I never do that.

I highly recommend Meredith Norton’s book.

Greg Iles’s book? Not so much.

The Wonkas are now bottle-free and have been formula-free since I moved them to the kitten room on Saturday.

“I sure am glad they’re off the bottle,” I said to Fred. “I don’t know that I really want to have bottle babies again. They make me worry too much.”

Cue the distant laughter of GOD.

Yesterday afternoon, the driveway alarm went off. Fred looked out the window and told me that it was our neighbor from two doors down and her oldest daughter. She rang the doorbell, and Fred went off to see what was what.

A minute later, he came back in the front door and called me.

“What?” I said, walking toward the front door.

“I need you out here,” he said.

“Why?” I said.

“Just! Come! Here!” he hissed.

So I did. And standing on the front porch was our neighbor and her oldest daughter.

Her daughter was holding a box. Of kittens. Tiny kittens.

I considered bellowing “OH HELL NO!” and going back inside the house, but I am far too polite for that.

It turns out that a mother cat had just been hit by a car and killed, leaving behind five – YES I SAID FIVE – babies. They were alert and had their eyes open, but were obviously still small enough to need to be bottle fed. Our neighbor couldn’t keep them because she has a job and can’t feed them every few hours, and she knows we’re crazy cat people so she threw herself on our mercy.

“Well,” I said. “The guest bedroom is free!”

We brought them inside, and I made bottles while Fred weighed them. The smallest weighed 9 ounces and the largest 11, which I decided means that they’re about three weeks old.

I stimulated them to pee (and they all peed well, which meant, I suppose, that they’d eaten well the last time they ate), and then we fed them. They weren’t terribly interested in eating, but we got some formula into all of them before we put them in the cage with a heating pad and stuffed animal.

They are adorable.

So, four kittens gone to the adoption center, and five added to the household. Apparently it’s very important to God that we have bottle babies in the house. SIGH.

(We haven’t even thought of names for them yet – but I’m sure we will in the next few days!)

There are four tabby-points (I think that’s what they are) (three girls, one boy) and one black and white (a boy).

The Wonkas are doing just fine. They like their new home, and they like that sun shines through the windows of their home, and they especially like that I come and visit with them lots (which they also liked in their OLD home, the guest bedroom downstairs).

::CHOMP::

“I KNEW there was something fishy about that “Balloon Boy” kid and his family.”

“Hey! GUYS! She’s handing out pettins. You better hurry, you don’t wanna miss out!”

Gus is totally the Cosmo Kramer of the kitten world.

And of course Sookie and Terry have made themselves RIGHT at home.

Terry gives Elwood a bath. Hey, SOMEONE’s gotta.

Sookie, playing in the guest bedroom.

Speaking of the True Bloods, the Saturday morning volunteer, who cleans cages at the adoption center at PetSmart told me this funny story about Hoyt and Bill:

I was cleaning their cage, and Sander (Mr. Alpha Male) was also out. Sander always attacks all the other kittens, (just playing I am sure to him). Well Hoyt and Bill were having none of that – they both ran after Sander and he went to hide in the litterbox that I had taken out of their cage while I was cleaning it. One sat on top, one sat in front of the box and Sander was so glad when I put him back in his cage!

I guess my boys are doing just fine.

The dryer is the happenin’ place to be, these days. I don’t know if it’s because it’s near a window overlooking the back yard or because it’s near the back door (it’s not because it’s warm, because when I actually start the dryer, whoever’s laying there usually leaves).

Previously
2008: King Suggie snoozes in his pile o’ cat beds.
2007: No entry.
2006: Biscuits for everyone!
2005: Your fascinating tidbit for the day.
2004: More Myrtle Beach.
2003: It’s got to be early-onset Alzheimer’s, y’all.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: I think back on the shit I pulled as a senior in high school, and I’m flat-out amazed that I managed to graduate.
1999: Just an all-around relaxing day.

It’s (more than) halfway through the month, and I’m finally remembering to put up the other very cool banner I got for October. This one was made by Aly, who makes a lot of my banners. How lucky am I, to have not one but TWO awesome banners this month!

Thanks, Aly!

Yesterday morning, I was looking through pictures I’d taken, and I came across this one, which was a picture I snapped of Sookie on Saturday as she snoozed on the cat bed on Fred’s desk:

Please note that at the front of the picture is the insole from a shoe. Fred has used that insole in the past to cushion his arm because resting it on the hard desk hurts the bony part of his arm near his elbow, and in fact rubs it raw.

I remain uncertain where he got that nasty thing, or how it is that the light dawned over his head one day as he rubbed his aching arm, and came to the conclusion that the insole of a shoe was the perfect solution, but it’s been there for as long as I can remember.

But as I looked at the picture and the way that nasty-looking (though, I’m sure, perfectly clean) insole detracted from a perfectly cute kitten, I tried to remember seeing Fred ever actually use it, and concluded that he didn’t. So I spun my chair around to yell at him to get rid of that nasty goddamn thing.

And there he sat at his desk, his elbow gently placed in the warm embrace of the insole.

You know how there are things that really aren’t that funny, but they hit you just right? This hit me just right, and I spun back around in my chair without saying anything, and I laughed until I cried.

For several days, starting the week before last, we had a turkey who walked around the back forty with his wings hanging low, his feathers ruffled, and his head drawn back into his shoulders. He acted, in short, like a pouty teenager who hadn’t been allowed to go to the John Mayer concert (do teenagers actually like John Mayer, or is it only mommy bloggers? No, John Mayer, YOU say what you need to say and then shut the fuck up about it.).

Fred dosed Sad Teenager Turkey with tetracycline for a few days, but still the turkey dragged sadly around the back forty. Then, one day last week, he called me from work.

“I know what’s wrong with the turkey!” he said.

“What’s that? Is the head cheerleader ignoring him and going out with the quarterback, leaving him to drag sadly around the back forty and write bad poetry?”

“I think he has Blackhead.”

“Well, that seems appropriate. Is there anything you can do to treat it?”

“Metronidazole. Do we have any?”

“I’m in the middle of scooping litter boxes right now,” I said. “Let me call you back.”

I finished scooping litter boxes, searched in 300 locations for the Metronidazole (I really need to come up with a more organized approach at keeping all this crap in one place), and found a bottle with four pills in it. I called Fred and reported that we only had four pills.

“Can you crush the pills, mix them up with water, and give him his first dose?” Fred asked.

I set aside my initial reaction, which was to say “FUCK no, turkeys are YOUR job.” because he’s helped me dose foster kittens more times than I can remember, and I think we all know that foster kittens are MY job.

He gave me the directions for how much water to add and what the dosage should be, and I went off to crush the pills and mix them with water.

Now, I’ve crushed metronidazole pills and mixed them with water in the past because I’ve had to treat foster kittens for giardia. The kittens invariably react to metronidazole by making the most disgusted faces and flailing and foaming at the mouth and gagging.

I’ve always figured they were just being drama queens because you KNOW how baby kittens can be. It’s just drama drama DRAMA all the damn time with them. “WhineWhineWhine, I’m peeing in the litter box and she keeps batting at my tail and I don’t liiiiiiiiiike it!” or “WhineWhineWhine you was petting me and then you stopped, why you not love me no more?” or “WhineWhineWhine, that toy mouse is three inches away from me and I can’t reach it, waaaaaah!”

So I crushed the metronidazole and mixed it with water, and then drew up the correct dosage for the turkey, and I headed out to the chicken/ turkey yard. As I crossed the back yard, I rubbed my mouth with one hand.

And it appears that I had gotten some Metronidazole powder on my hand, and when I rubbed my mouth I got it on my mouth. Then a few moments later I licked my lips.

That is some godawful NASTY FUCKING HORRENDOUS FUCKING SHIT. I made the most horrendous face and gagged and foamed at the mouth and had anyone been near me, I would have kicked them.

GOOD FUCKING CHRIST. We can put men on the moon, but we can’t make Metronidazole palatable to kittens or humans?

JESUS CHRIST.

(But kittens are still little drama queens. Just not about the Metronidazole.)

I located Sad Teenager Turkey and lured him close to me with scratch (which is cracked corn mixed with some secret ingredient – crack cocaine, I’m guessing. Maybe a titch of heroin. These birds would kill your mother for a handful of scratch.), then grabbed him up. Now, I’ve never medicated a turkey on my own before – usually Fred holds the turkey and pries his beak open and I squirt the medicine in his gullet, and when Fred lets go of the turkey, the turkey gets a thoughtful look, stares off into space for several moments, and just as you think he’s about to share the secrets of the universe, he stretches out his neck and swallows.

So I put the turkey in the doorway of the coop with his back to me, and I kind of held him against me and reached one arm around him to grab his beak. He tried to pull away, but before he could, I stuck the end of the syringe in the side of his beak and squirted the medicine in. The entire time this was going on, Hjonkie, who is apparently the head of the turkeys, was distressed and disturbed. He paced back and forth, getting ever more distressed and disturbed and vocal about it as he paced. I just knew that as I was bent over Sad Teenager Turkey, Hjonkie was going to peck me in the top of my head, and he’s a big fucking turkey (not fully-grown, but certainly getting bigger every day) and I was sure that after he pecked me, he was going to be yanking some brain matter out the top of my head.

I need all the brain matter I can get, I think you already knew that. So I kept a wary eye on Hjonkie and said in a stern voice “You back off, fuckface.” and squirted the medicine into Sad Teenager Turkey’s beak, and then let him go and backed away just as Hjonkie decided he’d had Enough of this Shit and stomped over in my direction. I stopped backing and looked at Hjonkie and said “OH. Did you have something to say to me, fucker?” and magically Hjonkie was all “Oh, is that a fly over there?” and headed off in the other direction.

Had you told me ten years ago, when I started this site, that one day I’d be medicating a Sad Teenager Turkey and showing a pushy bastard of a turkey just who was in charge (hint: IT AIN’T YOU WHO’S IN CHARGE, HJONKIE, YOU FUCK.), I completely, totally, 100% would have thought you were a bored weirdo who was making up things to freak me out.

Never know where you’re going to end up, do you?

Edited to add: After a few days of Metronidazole and a few more days of Tetracycline, Sad Teenager Turkey seems to be pretty close to normal again.

So, Lafayette, Bill, Hoyt, and Sam were not adopted this weekend, not any of them. ::SIGH:: At least the four of them are sharing one (big) cage, so they can entertain each other.

I absolutely hated leaving them there Friday morning, but I spent almost an hour letting them sniff around the cat room and play with toys before I picked up and snuggled each of them, one by one, kissed them and hugged them and told them I loved them and to be good, and then put them in their cages.

(They started out with Bill and Lafayette in one cage, and Sam and Hoyt in another. But another cat got adopted that evening, freeing up one of the big cages, and so they all four ended up in one cage, which I like.)

I stood at the end of the aisle, where they couldn’t see me, and I watched them for a few minutes (you KNOW I was all teary-eyed like a great big baby), and they were curious and sniffing around and checking out toys, so I left and went over to Target to buy some groceries. By the time I was done at Target, it was past 9:00 (which is the time Petsmart opens), so I went back to buy cat food, and then stood at the end of the aisle and watched them. All four cats were flopped down in their cages, sound asleep.

When I got home, Sookie and Terry greeted me at the door, and they seemed a little confused like something was missing, but they weren’t quite sure. I didn’t put them in the kitten room that night, because we’d decided that we’d leave the two of them with full access to the house until it’s time for them to go to the adoption center. Besides, we were going to move the Wonkas to the kitten room Saturday morning.

I woke up at some point very early Saturday morning with seven cats on the bed with me – Terry and Sookie, Jake and Elwood, Miz Poo, Tommy, and Spanky. Most of them were pressed up against me, and I was as warm as I could be. I accidentally brushed Terry with one hand and woke him up, and he blatted at me until I started petting him, and then he purred and blatted some more.

He certainly does crack me up.

They seem to have adjusted seamlessly to the way things are, now. Their routine is that at bedtime, they run around with Jake and Elwood and race up and down the stairs, jump on each other and play-fight, and then when I turn the light off, they (eventually) settle down. Things are going well – but I sure wish the boys would get themselves adopted so I can stop worrying about them!

::thlurrrp::

I don’t know if Jake has a crush on Sookie or Sookie has a crush on Jake, but they certainly like to snuggle up together.

Awww, last pic I took of Hoyt before we headed off to the adoption center!

Bill and Hoyt, right before we left for the adoption center.

Clean pile of cat beds on the table + 10 seconds = two kittens claiming the tower o’ beds for themselves.

If you didn’t check Love & Hisses over the weekend, you missed an awesome picture of Gus.

I moved the Wonkas up to the kitten room Saturday morning, and it went quite well. I scrubbed the room down and vacuumed it, then got it set up for them, carried their litter boxes and food upstairs, then put them in the carrier and took them up to the room. It’s actually smaller than the room they were in, but it’s also a lot more kitten-friendly. There are more cat trees to climb, more toys to play with, and there’s a water fountain! They slunk around the room, sniffing at everything and occasionally coming over to me for a reassuring pat. I finally left them alone to get acquainted with their new home, and when I went back to check on them an hour later, they were all curled up in a cat bed, and were happy as could be.

Since I moved them to their new home (for the next seven weeks, at least), I decided to do away with their morning and evening bowls of watered-down formula. They’d been off the bottle for three days (I think), and I’d been watering down the formula I’d been giving them a little more every day.

Now, I give them a can of kitten food in the morning, and another can at night. For the rest of the day, they have bowls of Babycat available at all times. I’ve noticed that Gus has zero interest in the canned food, but the other three belly right up to the plate when I bring it into the room. I guess Gus marches to the beat of his own drum.

I’ve seen Gus, Veruca, and Violet drink out of the water fountain, and the pee clumps in the litter box are as plentiful as ever, so I think we’re successfully off the bottle and formula and onto the real food!

My next step with be transitioning them to Science Diet Kitten – but I’ll give them a few more days to adjust before I add that to the mix.

This will be the cover of Gus’s upcoming album of soulful love songs. The first single will be the heartbreaking ballad Why She Always Gotta Bite My Toes?

I don’t know what’s got Gus alarmed, but it must really be something!

Can someone tell me how to stop these babies from growing up so fast? Mike’s getting long and lanky!

The halo proves he’s an angel baby brought to earth to torture us all with the cute.

OH. A comment the other day reminded me that I haven’t mentioned this – the lady who was going to take Gus? It appears that she’s rethought that. Gus is still available, if anyone’s interested.

(They all are!)

Stinkerbelle shoots me a look o’ hate from atop the canning cabinet.

Previously
2008: No entry.
2007: I do an excellent Bob Dylan imitation. Just ask Nance!
2006: I know. I’m going to hell. At least I know I’ll have good company!
2005: I WILL BE THE VICTOR, DAMNIT!
2004: More Myrtle Beach.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: I’ve turned into a crazy cat lady for real, haven’t I?
2000: The spud turns 12 next week, can you believe it?
1999: I’ve been out of sorts all day.

Oh, the PMS fairy has arrived in full force, that bitch. It’s not until the Day o’ Rage arrives that the two preceding days of boohooing given the slightest provocation (sad commercials, sweet kittens, stain on my shirt) make sense. And I’ve probably mentioned this before, but knowing the reason for the Day o’ Rage does not lessen the Rage in the slightest.

I was okay until after I got back from the vet and doing laundry and found that the laundry I’d put in the dryer two days ago was still wet. Because I hadn’t started the dryer. Which meant stinky clothes in the dryer. Which meant I had to rewash them. Which meant a temper tantrum.

O GOD WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?!?!?

And then I took the tomatoes which had been sitting out thawing for the last day, and I was going to run them through the food mill, then put them on the stove to simmer all day, so I could can them today. When I put the third tomato in the food mill and it popped like a zit, spraying tomato juice all over the fucking place, I decided I’D HAD ENOUGH OF THE GODDAMNED TOMATOES. Which meant a temper tantrum.

O GOD WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?!?!?

I stomped out to the chicken yards and tossed all the tomatoes to the chickens, who looked at the tomatoes like “What is THIS shit you’re trying to foist off on us” like the ungrateful motherfuckers they are, and I believe I probably yelled “GO FUCK YOURSELVES, YOU FUCKING ASSWIPES EAT THEM OR STARVE I DON’T CARE!” at them.

O GOD WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?!?!?

Then I came inside and spent – I fucking shit you not – half an hour trying to get a decent image of the book I’m currently reading, so I could FTP it up to my site and link to it in the sidebar. (Yes, I’m aware that Goodreads has a widget for just such an occasion. I don’t like the look of it, and I can’t figure out how to edit it to make it look the way I want.) I finally found a decent one, and FTP’d it up annnnnnd… it wasn’t there. FTP’d it up again. Not there.

FTP’d it up.

Not there.

FTP’d it up.

Not there.

Cue the bellowing. The GODDAMNing. The MOTHERFUCKing. The WHATTHEFUCK??ing.

The rebooting.

STILL NOT WORKING.

Cue the tantrum.

O GOD WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?!?!?

Tantrum completed, I uploaded the image to another place completely, where it uploaded successfully, linked to it in the sidebar, and since I’d blown that half hour I’d INTENDED to spend vacuuming the house fucking around with images and FTPing, I got up to go out to the chicken yards. I go out around 12:30 every day to toss out scratch for chickens, check on babies, give the dogs a treat, and gather eggs.

As I stood up, I glanced out into the back yard and noticed that Sugarbutt was sitting, watching something near the back steps VERY intently. I thought I could hear the sound of a bird being tortured, and then Kara ran across the back yard. I ran to the back door to prevent any half-dead creatures from entering my house, and saw Lafayette.

That little fucker had figured out the cat door. And he’d gone outside. AND Bill was sniffing at the cat door in a very interested manner.

I shooed Bill away from the door and then opened the door and sputtered at Lafayette, who turned and looked at me, all “HAI!”

“Get in here!” I said sternly, and he did.

“Get away from the door!” I said, and shot a blast of canned air at him. He ran into the kitchen.

I grabbed my basket for egg-gathering and a cup of scratch, and headed out to the chicken yards. I checked on baby chickens and fed the dogs their snacks and gathered eggs, and then trudged back to the house. I was putting the basket of eggs on the shelf unit by the door when I HAPPENED to glance at the door and saw Lafayette casually push his way through the cat door and skip-a-doodle-doo down the steps. Then Bill walked over to the cat door and pushed his head through, all “HOWYADOIN’ OUT THERE, BRO?!”

Why, hello tantrum time.

O GOD WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?!?!?

I stomped over to the door and shot a blast of compressed air at Bill, who ran into the kitchen. I flung open the door and bellowed “GET IN HERE!” at Lafayette. There might have been a string of obscenities involved.

I know that it will surprise you, but bellowing angrily at a kitten does not so much make the kitten want to run TOWARD you. Lafayette skipped the rest of the way down the steps and began running across the back yard. I turned around and put my boots on, then ran out after him.

He ran across the yard in great big happy leaps, all “I AM FREE FROM THE TYRANNY AND OPPRESSION OF BEING CONFINED TO 2200 SQUARE FEET! I AM FREE! FREE, I SAY! THE WORLD IS MY OYSTER!!!!” I ran after him, swearing all the while (but also kind of laughing because the great big leaps were funny). I finally caught him when he reached the fence and stood there staring at it, thinking “I CAN SEE THROUGH IT, YET I CANNOT WALK THROUGH IT. IT IS A WINDOW?”

I scooped him up and carried him back to the house, telling him the entire way that he was very bad, then shut the back door. Sugarbutt and Tommy were still in the back yard, but they know how to bang on the door in the perfect way to annoy me, so I figured if they wanted in, they’d let me know.

Then I was going to eat lunch, but do you suppose that there was ANYTHING in the house for lunch? OF COURSE NOT, and OF COURSE I hadn’t planned ahead.

O GOD WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?!?!?

I ended up using one of those sandwich thins, split it open, slapped pizza sauce on it, put a few pepperoni and a sprinkle of cheese on it, then broiled it.

In retrospect: 1. The pepperoni tasted kinda funny; I have no idea how long it had been sitting in there. 2. Not enough protein, which always makes me crash.

Half an hour later – the gas to end all gas.

O GOD WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?!?!?

Finally, I gave up and retired to the bedroom, where I crashed for about half an hour with Hoyt snuggled up to me on one side and Bill snuggled up to me on the other.

When I got up, the gas wasn’t gone, but I was in a better mood. I think that the cute fuzziness of Bill and Hoyt combined drove off that goddamn PMS fairy.

She’s not EVEN welcome here, but you KNOW she’ll be back again next month. Bitch.

First: Sookie went to the vet yesterday because her eyes didn’t seem to be getting better despite the oral antibiotics and the antibiotic ointment. They took her temperature (it was normal) and the vet looked her over and said that she thought that perhaps the antibiotic ointment was irritating her eyes, that I should go to regular “tears” (GenTeal makes a gel eyedrop that works really well) and give it a few days to see how that works. She could need a steroid shot to help the swelling – hopefully by Monday she’ll be looking better. She spent most of the day yesterday sleeping on a chair in the dining room, but she also got up and played a few times.

Second: Someone emailed and pointed out that I am horribly lax as far as providing pictures of Sookie lately, which I knew because over the weekend I went through my pictures to send the shelter manager pictures of each of the cats, and couldn’t find a decent shot of Sookie since mid-September. My only excuse is that she’s a quiet cat who tends to go off and sleep in out of the way places, as opposed to her loud, obnoxious, in-your-face brothers, and when I have the camera out I tend to take pictures of the cats around me. I’ll do better in the future, I promise!

Third: Sam, Hoyt, Lafayette, and Bill are going to the adoption center tomorrow morning. I will miss the heck out of them (and I’m sure I’ll be a big, sobbing baby when I have to leave them there), so I’m keeping my fingers crossed that they’re adopted quickly – y’all keep your fingers crossed too, okay?

Terry does his road kill impression. Seriously, I don’t know how that could possibly be comfortable.

Elwood and Hoyt, snuggled up on a dining room chair. See that bit of kitten body over to the middle? That would be Sookie. She likes to make it difficult to get a decent picture of her.

Bill has his way with the blanket.

Lafayette’s in charge of kitten cleanliness this week.

Sookie and Sam on the cat tree in the front room.

Bill gets his daily allowance of cardboard.

“Hey, come back! There’s room for both of us in here!”

Since four of the True Bloods will be going to the adoption center tomorrow, I’m going to be moving the Wonkas up to the foster kitten room this weekend. I hope they don’t get too freaked out – I suspect that they’ll think it’s pretty neat, with the rug to keep their toes warm, the cat towers to climb on, and all the toys to play with. Not to mention the water fountain to splash around in!

Poor Gus – someone’s always chomping on him. I think they think he’s made of cotton candy.

Have I mentioned I want to squeeze Mike to death?

“What?”

I don’t encourage them climbing up my legs, but it certainly makes me laugh. Maybe when they have cat towers to climb, they won’t feel the need to climb me?

Fightin’ time!

Bath time!

“Yes, operator? I’d like to make a long-distance call. Operator? OPERATOR? DARN these tabby-foot phones, they’re always dropping the connection!”

Previously
2008: Sam’s might be the ruination of this nation, but GODDAMN do I love that store.
2007: if you set foot in Crooked Acres, the law is that you admire not only the And3rson kitties, but also the And3rson fosters.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: Pretty beach pictures!
2003: I’m afraid Miz Poo’s reign as Queen Shit may be coming to a close.
2002: Elvis sneer, zits, weird wiry hair. What next, I ask you?
2001: Cheater entry.
2000: No entry.
1999: Fascinating, isn’t it?!

I’m about to run Sookie to Tennessee to see the vet, so for today, I leave you with a video of Terry the Mouth (with a special vocal performance by Hoyt!).

What’s great is that you can actually hear his voice changing. I don’t know when the first video was taken (back when he was a baby, apparently!), but the most recent (toward the end) was within the last week.

He cracks me up, that boy.

(Pardon the awful camera work, and the bad editing. I am no movie maker, for sure.)

Previously
2008: He’s not usually pink, for the record.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: “M-O-O-N!” Fred said. “That spells Tom Cullen!”
2004: No entry.
2003: I’m pretty certain “Never going to fucking go hiking with him EVER A-FUCKING-GAIN” crossed my mind at least once.
2002: Hotel room so big/ roomy, spacious, perfect. Butt/ is what it smells like.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.
1999: Don’t get your bippies in an uproar, though; we’re not trying to get pregnant.

Yesterday just flew by. I slept in ’til almost 7 (I tend to sleep in later on the weekends – Saturdays, I get up around 6:20, Sundays around 6:30 – I imagine that if Fred took a week off work and I didn’t have to get up to let the chickens out a little before 7, I’d sleep in ’til 8 every morning. Oh, wouldn’t Fred act like I was sleeping ’til noon if I did THAT. He gets up ridiculously early even when he’s not working, so he thinks everyone should do the same.), then I got up and made a couple of Bacon, Egg & Toast cups (the awesome thing about that recipe is that you can make as few or as many of them as you’d like). I made a batch of Chunky Caramel-Apple Jam (some of which is available for sale), and a batch of Scorchin’ Strawberry-Habanero Jam.

I was sitting in the guest bedroom snuggling with all four of the Wonkas when Fred asked me to come out and look at Sookie’s eyes. They seemed a little goopy and swollen, so I put ointment in her eyes, and we started her on a regimen of antibiotics. For a few hours she acted quiet and sat hunched-up as though she didn’t feel well, but by the end of the day she was playing with her brothers, and snuggling with my boots, which she dearly loves to do because she’s a weirdo. We’ll keep her on the antibiotics, and I’ll be vigilant about putting ointment in her eyes, but I don’t think there’s going to be a problem.

I went back into the guest bedroom and hung out with the Wonkas, and they were bouncing-off-the-walls wild, biting each other and clawing at my feet (what the hell is it about kittens and my feet??), so I left them to it. As I walked out of the room, Fred came down the hallway on his way to find me and ask me to come look at “this.”

“This” was the damn refrigerator. For the last few days, it’s been putting out weird (yet kinda neat) hollow ice cubes. Fred had been getting a drink when he noticed that there was water leaking out from under the refrigerator. We pulled it out (okay, HE pulled it out. I supervised.) and found that the tray underneath the fridge was full of water and had started to (slowly) overflow. I cleaned up the water on the floor, and then cleaned the ten pounds of accumulated dust and cat hair from the floor and walls.

(Actually, considering that it’s been almost exactly two years since we got that fridge, it’s kind of surprising conditions back there weren’t worse.)

We ended up having to empty out the refrigerator and put everything from the kitchen fridge into the laundry room fridge.

“This would be the perfect time to clean out the refrigerator,” Fred said, all perky-like.

“Except that I did that JUST LAST WEEK,” I growled.

We did end up getting rid of a lot of stuff, mostly expired salad dressings and 17 – YES I SAID SEVENTEEN – jelly jars with various and sundry dabs of habanero jams in them. No wonder we never have room for anything in that fridge.

Due to advice from an expert, we left the fridge unplugged overnight, and started it up again this morning.

“What the hell do people who only have one fridge do in this instance?” I asked.

“Well,” Fred said. “If it was [Douchebag we know], he’d call L0we’s and tell them to come get it and bring him a new one, because he always buys the extended warranty. And then he’d sue them for the cost of any food that spoiled.”

I laughed.

“You think I’m kidding!” he said.

“No, I know you’re not!”

Ah, douchebags. What fun would life be if they weren’t there for us to mock?

As a result of emptying out the fridge and freezer in the kitchen, I found some stuff wayyyy back in the freezer that I didn’t know we had. I actually found a pack of three boneless, skinless chicken breasts. I haven’t bought chicken from the store in close to a year, so I’m going to guess that chicken’s pretty old. It still looks good, though, so maybe I’ll make some Crockpot Swiss Chicken. We haven’t had that in a long, long time. Our chickens are really good, but they don’t have large enough breasts so that Fred can debone them and leave me with enough meat to make a meal from.

(That whole last sentence sounds kind of dirty, doesn’t it? Or maybe it’s just me.)

I also found a big back of chicken backs and bones, from which I have been intending to make chicken stock. I’ve never really made chicken stock before, so if someone has a super-simple recipe that they swear by, I’d love to hear it!

For dinner last night we had a pork roast (just rubbed with spices and roasted for 35 minutes per pound at 350ºF), fried green tomatoes, and baked squash. It was truly a Crooked Acres-grown meal, and the best part is that we have enough for at least one more meal, and probably two.

Today, I’m taking a break from making jam, but I plan to use up the rest of the Granny Smith apples we bought on Sunday by making many batches of Caramel-Apple Jam before the weekend gets here.

(I’ll probably save some apples for Apple Crisp. I haven’t made that in at least two years, if not longer.)

Would it be too much to ask for a few days of sunshine? We’re forecast to get rain all week, though we’re expected to have a sunny weekend. I’ll believe that when I see it – those damn weathermen LOVE to promise us sunny days that are juuuuust out of reach.

Have you ever seen a happier cat?

I love it when they snuggle up to sleep – and they ALWAYS snuggle up to sleep!

“I HAZ A COMPLAINT.”

“A COMPLAINT, DO YOU HEAR ME?!” (In the foreground, Bill’s all “Yeah, what’s NEW?”)

Tommy snuggles up with Lafayette and Hoyt.

webbthistle mentioned in yesterday’s comments that the Wonkas’ eyes are changing. They are, indeed. They’re no longer that deep, dark, almost purple, blue. They’ve changed to a really pretty greenish blue, on the way (I’m sure) to shades of green.

I had a long discussion with Veruca last night, and she finally agreed that she’s a big girl now and doesn’t need the bottle. Then she “convinced” the rest of the gang that they don’t need it, either. They’re a little nervous about this no-bottle thing, but I’ll give them formula in bowls in the morning and evening for a few more days, and there’s always crunchy food available in a small dish, so they shouldn’t starve.

I’ve noticed that Gus and Mike are more interested in the crunchy food, and the girls prefer the canned stuff, though Violet will occasionally eat some crunchy stuff, too. Judging by the amount of crunchy food that ends up scattered across the floor, they also enjoy a good swim through the crunchy food.

There doesn’t appear to be any danger of these babies starving to death, in any case.

“How’m I gonna tell Mom that I failed Gym? She’s gonna KILL me!”

Count Verucula.

I love me some Mike.

Not only is Miz Poo willingly sleeping next to Elwood – please note that her arm is UNDER him. As if she’s SNUGGLING.

Previously
2008: Like I was having a temper tantrum, so I grabbed his list and took off so he couldn’t check it twice.
2007: No entry.
2006: I sure do wish I was going to see Callie Torres and not some old guy.
2005: Does this mean I’m getting old?
2004: No entry.
2003: Bringing home Mister Boogers.
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: All about the cats.
1999: I certainly am bitching a lot today, aren’t I?

So, guess who’s had herself an online journal for ten years and two days now??

Hard to believe I started this site back in 1999, and have been writing here five days a week all that time.

I think it’s time to shut down. See yas.

I KID. I’m going nowhere.

Here’s to another ten years!

(I can only imagine how many cat pictures that’s going to include.)

I reformatted my computer this weekend. Well. I think you probably already know that I did nothing of the sort. I backed everything up to an external hard drive, and Fred reformatted my computer. He started it Saturday night before we headed to bed, and by the time I got up Sunday morning, everything was pretty much good to go. I just had to install iTunes, Avast! anti-virus, Open Office, Paint Shop Pro, and Quicken. Then copy everything back over from the external hard drive.

For the record, I have so many pictures that it took over 2 hours to copy them from my hard drive to the external hard drive, and another 2 hours to copy them back.

I really need to look through my pictures and delete some of the less awesome ones.

When we weren’t messing with my computer, we ran up to the flea market in Tennessee and bought a couple of big bags of apples (more Caramel-Apple Jam on the way!), then went to the flea market in Madison and puttered around. We actually bought a lot more stuff at the Madison flea market than in Tennessee – and most of what we bought was books. I went in there telling Fred that I have plenty of books and didn’t need any more, and came out with four paperback.

Could be worse, I suppose.

It was a pretty relaxing weekend, all in all. I wish I had any idea what the hell we did on Saturday…

Oh! Lisa came to visit! She got to snuggle the True Bloods (who were perfectly friendly – I always worry, when we have fosters who most of the time only see us, whether they’ll be friendly to new people) and the Wonkas (who climbed all over her and chewed on her shoe laces), and we talked about cats.

We discussed Bessie, one of The Seven. She’s been at the pet store, unadopted, for a long time now. Fred and I had decided that when the first four True Bloods go to the pet store, I’d bring Bessie home with me to give her some rest and relaxation.

And THEN I got an email from the shelter manager last night letting me know that she’d finally been adopted!

YAY!

Saturday night we watched Forrest Gump. My god, I love that movie. There are so many parts that make me cry – when Jenny prays that god will make her a bird. When Forrest says “Why don’t you love me, Jen-nay?” and “I’m not a smart man… but I know what love is.”, then goes to stand on the porch. When Jenny tells Forrest that he’s a father, and his whole face changes, and he says “Is he smart or is he…” (Agh, I’m tearing up just THINKING about it right now!) When he’s talking to Jenny’s gravestone and he says “He’s so smart, Jenny” and then “I miss you, Jenny…”

There are not a lot of movies I can stand to watch over and over again, but Forrest Gump is one of them. I don’t think it’s possible for me to ever get tired of that movie.

While we were going up into Tennessee yesterday morning, Fred noticed a guy going into the gas station across from the light where we were sitting.

“Hey, that guy only has one leg,” he pointed out.

(Yes, I’m aware that it is SOOOOOOOO politically incorrect to notice that there’s only one leg, everyone is the same and deserves to be treated the same, and cry me a fucking river, okay? We weren’t mocking. We were NOTICING.)

“He needs one of Lieutenant Dan’s magic legs,” I said.

“I was just thinking that.”

The True Bloods are just the total rulers of the house lately, it seems. They allow Fred to put them in their room at bedtime (not without some complaints, mind you), but the instant they hear my feet hit the floor in the morning, they’re demanding to be let out. They’ve completely taken over my desk (Miz Poo does not appreciate this development), and they follow me from room to room. If they sense that I’m cleaning out the litter boxes, they come running in to wait for me to finish so that they can then climb into the litter boxes and befoul them anew.

(I’ve learned to scoop, go off to do something for a few minutes, and then go back and scoop again. Spoiled brats, is what they are.)

It’s hard to be too annoyed with them, though. They’re always happy to be snatched up for a snuggle and a kiss, and Hoyt and Terry crack me up with their complaints if they’re disturbed whilst sleeping.

You think Fred would notice if they just stayed here forever? I could shrug and say “I don’t know, there’s just no room at the pet store yet! I know, I know it’s been two years. Weird, huh?”

Speaking of Fred, Saturday morning he was sitting at his desk eating breakfast, and I was sitting at my desk eating breakfast, and then suddenly I heard a muffled scream coming from his direction. It turns out that Lafayette had leapt up and sunk his claws into Fred’s back (through his t-shirt) and then just hung there. And Fred had just taken a bite of his breakfast, so he couldn’t do anything but scream a wordless, muffled scream of pain.

“I would have expected a much higher-pitched scream,” I said to Fred, and then I laughed until I cried.

Hey, I couldn’t help it – something about that scream was HILARIOUS.

Sam, Hoyt and Bill, in the cat bed on my desk.

Smilin’ Hoyt.

Happy Sam.

Happy Hoyt.

The Wonkas have all gotten the knack of climbing up onto the kitty condo and onto the bed in the guest bedroom. So now I go into the room and lay down on the bed, and they all climb up on the bed and snuggle with me, and it is HEAVEN.

I sure do love those sweet little monkeys.

“I has a TOY and it is MINE.”

“Look, YOU. I want a bottle and I want it NOW, and if I’m still demanding a bottle when I’m six months old, you’d best HOP TO IT, you feel me?”

“Hey. HEY. If she gets a bottle, I get one too, right? RIGHT?”

“I am but a poor wee helpless kitten and I need a bottle to make me strong.”

The girls have learned the skill of climbing up my leg. They generally give up about the time they reach my knee, but I know the time is coming when they’re going to climb up all the way to my face. And then I will be in TROUBLE.

When I placed that pile of flour sack towels on top of the canning cabinet in the dining room, it was not my intention to leave the pile there. It was further not my intention for the cats to consider it a cozy place to lay. I’m guessing it doesn’t so much matter what I intended, but rather what the cats prefer. Here, Tommy’s keeping the towels warm for Stinkerbelle (who’s usually the cat laying there).

Previously
2008: No entry.
2007: Robyn, why do you use so goddamn many exclamation points?! It makes my eyes hurt.
2006: “Dude, that’s gross,” I said to Spot, who didn’t care and gave me a nasty look as I picked it up and threw it away.
2005: I hate those stupid tests. I always think I’m going to find out some deep, hidden truth about myself, and then I get “Oh! You should be an artist! You’re the artistic type!” Bah.
2004: No entry.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: TV talk.
2000: I’m about the laziest chick in the world, I think.
1999: Yeah. I’m a bitch.