the cat came back
Our cat is back.
Yes, THAT cat. The fat one. The fat orange one. The one that is still twenty-two pounds despite our best attempts at slimming him down. The cat which has racked up frequent flyer miles, having flown to Seattle and back this summer. The cat formerly known as Evil, that we have since renamed, "Buddy", because that is what he answers to. For some reason, both my roomate and Big Scary Mike referred to him as "Buddy", and it stuck - especially since the cat, being fat, kind of looks like the sort of good ol' boy that would be named Buddy.
Only now, instead of being at his temporary home in Pasadena, Buddy is here in Venice. Paul and I are going to Morro Bay for the weekend, and we didn't want to leave him all by himself, and my roomate Andrew missed him, and my roomate Nick (who we promised we would get rid of the cat) is out of town...so Paul brought the beast back Friday. The cat, and Andrew, have since been joyfully reunited.
Of course, when the cat got here, he was not in good shape. He had not only vomited, but suffered some issues at the other end as well. The smell was fearsome in its intensity. I'm used to cat crap by now, having had to deal with it for six months, but this was something more concentrated. It was all I could do to keep from throwing up myself as I opened the carrier, removed the filthy beast within, and plunked him down in my bathtub to wash him. Then, once he was clean (and wet, and doing the shake-paw thing they do when wet), I rinsed out the carrier, poured the filth into my toilet, and disinfected the insides with Lysol.
Buddy is now happily roosting on the arm of the black sofa, and shedding layers of fur wherever he goes. Sea-otters have 10,000 hairs per square inch, and he can give them a run for their money. He's forgotten the indignity of travel and washing, and settled into his old routines: sleeping, eating, and "muffining" outside of Andrew's door while he waits for his master to get up. Honestly, the cat thinks he's a dog where my roomate is concerned.
Still, I have to deal with this cat. I have to take him to the vet in the near future, to get him screened for kitty leukemia and kitty AIDS, because that is the requirement for any adoption program. I have to start spending Saturdays with him at the Pasadena Petco after that, hoping that someone will fall in love with him. And even so, it's unlikely I will be able to find him a good home before Canadian Thanksgiving weekend - and he will, again, be left on his own at Paul's, where he will crap under the desk to let us know how upset he is about being left alone.
But for now, I pet him when I go in and out of the kitchen, and scratch his chin, and listen to him purr, and tell him he's a good cat. He is a very lovable creature, after all. I absolutely adore him. For now, we're happy enough to have him home.
Yes, THAT cat. The fat one. The fat orange one. The one that is still twenty-two pounds despite our best attempts at slimming him down. The cat which has racked up frequent flyer miles, having flown to Seattle and back this summer. The cat formerly known as Evil, that we have since renamed, "Buddy", because that is what he answers to. For some reason, both my roomate and Big Scary Mike referred to him as "Buddy", and it stuck - especially since the cat, being fat, kind of looks like the sort of good ol' boy that would be named Buddy.
Only now, instead of being at his temporary home in Pasadena, Buddy is here in Venice. Paul and I are going to Morro Bay for the weekend, and we didn't want to leave him all by himself, and my roomate Andrew missed him, and my roomate Nick (who we promised we would get rid of the cat) is out of town...so Paul brought the beast back Friday. The cat, and Andrew, have since been joyfully reunited.
Of course, when the cat got here, he was not in good shape. He had not only vomited, but suffered some issues at the other end as well. The smell was fearsome in its intensity. I'm used to cat crap by now, having had to deal with it for six months, but this was something more concentrated. It was all I could do to keep from throwing up myself as I opened the carrier, removed the filthy beast within, and plunked him down in my bathtub to wash him. Then, once he was clean (and wet, and doing the shake-paw thing they do when wet), I rinsed out the carrier, poured the filth into my toilet, and disinfected the insides with Lysol.
Buddy is now happily roosting on the arm of the black sofa, and shedding layers of fur wherever he goes. Sea-otters have 10,000 hairs per square inch, and he can give them a run for their money. He's forgotten the indignity of travel and washing, and settled into his old routines: sleeping, eating, and "muffining" outside of Andrew's door while he waits for his master to get up. Honestly, the cat thinks he's a dog where my roomate is concerned.
Still, I have to deal with this cat. I have to take him to the vet in the near future, to get him screened for kitty leukemia and kitty AIDS, because that is the requirement for any adoption program. I have to start spending Saturdays with him at the Pasadena Petco after that, hoping that someone will fall in love with him. And even so, it's unlikely I will be able to find him a good home before Canadian Thanksgiving weekend - and he will, again, be left on his own at Paul's, where he will crap under the desk to let us know how upset he is about being left alone.
But for now, I pet him when I go in and out of the kitchen, and scratch his chin, and listen to him purr, and tell him he's a good cat. He is a very lovable creature, after all. I absolutely adore him. For now, we're happy enough to have him home.