(no subject)
Life, it is SO TRAGIC when you are a Mojo Kitten.
First off, Mojo has gone back into heat, but (thankfully) she is FINALLY more than four pounds of cat, so I can get her spayed with minimal hassle, expense, and risk. Apparently the difference between four pounds of cat and five pounds of cat is substantial enough when it comes to anaesthesia titration that it cuts the risk *and* the cost substantially. Why she's still a five-pound cat at a year and a half is beyond me, because she eats and runs and plays and sleeps like a normal cat, just smaller. I had the same problem with Silkie, who took two years to get to the six pounds the vet wanted her to be. I swear, I feed these animals. They have food sitting right out there for the eating ALL THE TIME.
At any rate, she's been wandering the house yowling plaintively for the last week or so, when she's not sleeping directly on me. She kicked out of this round and I've got a call in to her vet to schedule her procedure, but it's left her a little codependent and lonely. So, when I got home last night she was SO GLAD to see me. We had hug and snuggle time, and there were purrs for everybody.
Until, that is, I remembered that it was Flea Goo day. Mojo Kitten, like most cats, hates her Flea Goo. There was leaping and flailing and profanity until finally I got most of it poured out onto her neck. She retired to sulk under the altar and sigh her emokitty sighs. A little later, Jonathan said, "Hey, isn't that a wasp she's got?"
Sure enough, she was chasing a wasp around the room, batting it out of the air and trying to catch it between her paws. It was a little the worse for wear, enabling me to snag it with a paper towel (it stung through two layers of the paper towel trying to get at me, but I'd folded it four layers thick) and deposit it in the Great Watery Bug Grave. As one might expect, Taking Away Mojo's Bug is a sin second only to Bathtime and Flea Goo. She returned to her under-altar sulking, with a withering glance to say "You're not even my REAL MOM. I hate you. Someday you will be sorry for this."
She didn't even come out for bedtime, so I tucked in to sleep without the usual kitten sleeping precisely in the middle of my side of the bed. Somewhere around 5:40 I awoke to a crash and scrambling. The crash appears to have been a cardinal hitting the closed window next to the open one where Mojo likes to sleep. The scrambling was a hasty feline retreat to the space under the computer desk in the living room. As I watched, the cardinal shook off its haze in the loquat tree, then flew over to the balcony to look in. It fluttered a little until Mojo ventured to the sliding glass door, then *PECKED* right at kitty face-level. More leaping and scrambling. I yelled, "Hey there, leave her alone! Pick on someone your own size."
I swear that bird glared malevolently at me. I returned to bed, and Mojo tucked herself safely between my knees as I dozed back off.
Just over an hour later, I awoke to "Thunk...thunk...thunk..." Blearily heading back into the living room, I saw that the cardinal was still waiting there, at face level, pecking the door every ten or fifteen seconds. I looked down to find the Mighty Huntress cowering bravely behind my ankles, and saw a chance to redeem myself. I wandered over to the window, hunkered down to bird-level, and wiggled my opposable thumbs at the bird. He pointedly ignored me.
"Listen, you little Red Menace," I said, as he continued to peck insolently at my door. "You're probably the baddest cardinal in your tree, I'll give you that. But you're just about a handful of crunchy little bird bones, and you're messing with my cat. You take your fluffy little door-pecking pointy-headed Communist self, and you hie on outta here. I don't want to see you here again, and if I do, we're going to play a little game called Fluffy Red Birds Make Good Kitty Toys, you hear me? May I point out my opposable thumbs, my pointy canines, and my forward-facing binocular predator eyes?. And the fact that I am several hundred times larger than your quarter-pound self? Think carefully, Pinko."
The bird regarded me carefully for a minute, then flew away faking nonchalance. I turned around to find Mojo regarding me with worshipful adoration.
This adoration lasted approximately two minutes, at which point she stuck her head in the sink while I was brushing my teeth and got an earful of toothpaste spit.
*sigh*
I love you all.
First off, Mojo has gone back into heat, but (thankfully) she is FINALLY more than four pounds of cat, so I can get her spayed with minimal hassle, expense, and risk. Apparently the difference between four pounds of cat and five pounds of cat is substantial enough when it comes to anaesthesia titration that it cuts the risk *and* the cost substantially. Why she's still a five-pound cat at a year and a half is beyond me, because she eats and runs and plays and sleeps like a normal cat, just smaller. I had the same problem with Silkie, who took two years to get to the six pounds the vet wanted her to be. I swear, I feed these animals. They have food sitting right out there for the eating ALL THE TIME.
At any rate, she's been wandering the house yowling plaintively for the last week or so, when she's not sleeping directly on me. She kicked out of this round and I've got a call in to her vet to schedule her procedure, but it's left her a little codependent and lonely. So, when I got home last night she was SO GLAD to see me. We had hug and snuggle time, and there were purrs for everybody.
Until, that is, I remembered that it was Flea Goo day. Mojo Kitten, like most cats, hates her Flea Goo. There was leaping and flailing and profanity until finally I got most of it poured out onto her neck. She retired to sulk under the altar and sigh her emokitty sighs. A little later, Jonathan said, "Hey, isn't that a wasp she's got?"
Sure enough, she was chasing a wasp around the room, batting it out of the air and trying to catch it between her paws. It was a little the worse for wear, enabling me to snag it with a paper towel (it stung through two layers of the paper towel trying to get at me, but I'd folded it four layers thick) and deposit it in the Great Watery Bug Grave. As one might expect, Taking Away Mojo's Bug is a sin second only to Bathtime and Flea Goo. She returned to her under-altar sulking, with a withering glance to say "You're not even my REAL MOM. I hate you. Someday you will be sorry for this."
She didn't even come out for bedtime, so I tucked in to sleep without the usual kitten sleeping precisely in the middle of my side of the bed. Somewhere around 5:40 I awoke to a crash and scrambling. The crash appears to have been a cardinal hitting the closed window next to the open one where Mojo likes to sleep. The scrambling was a hasty feline retreat to the space under the computer desk in the living room. As I watched, the cardinal shook off its haze in the loquat tree, then flew over to the balcony to look in. It fluttered a little until Mojo ventured to the sliding glass door, then *PECKED* right at kitty face-level. More leaping and scrambling. I yelled, "Hey there, leave her alone! Pick on someone your own size."
I swear that bird glared malevolently at me. I returned to bed, and Mojo tucked herself safely between my knees as I dozed back off.
Just over an hour later, I awoke to "Thunk...thunk...thunk..." Blearily heading back into the living room, I saw that the cardinal was still waiting there, at face level, pecking the door every ten or fifteen seconds. I looked down to find the Mighty Huntress cowering bravely behind my ankles, and saw a chance to redeem myself. I wandered over to the window, hunkered down to bird-level, and wiggled my opposable thumbs at the bird. He pointedly ignored me.
"Listen, you little Red Menace," I said, as he continued to peck insolently at my door. "You're probably the baddest cardinal in your tree, I'll give you that. But you're just about a handful of crunchy little bird bones, and you're messing with my cat. You take your fluffy little door-pecking pointy-headed Communist self, and you hie on outta here. I don't want to see you here again, and if I do, we're going to play a little game called Fluffy Red Birds Make Good Kitty Toys, you hear me? May I point out my opposable thumbs, my pointy canines, and my forward-facing binocular predator eyes?. And the fact that I am several hundred times larger than your quarter-pound self? Think carefully, Pinko."
The bird regarded me carefully for a minute, then flew away faking nonchalance. I turned around to find Mojo regarding me with worshipful adoration.
This adoration lasted approximately two minutes, at which point she stuck her head in the sink while I was brushing my teeth and got an earful of toothpaste spit.
*sigh*
I love you all.