Friday, May 1, 2009

Joys of Raising Kittens

So it's been a week since you all last heard from me. I'm still sick. No, it's not N1H1, just a runaway sinus infection that has moved to my chest. Coughing, sniffing, sneezing, blowing, throat clearing, all that gross jazz just to clear away the phlegm. I've even grossed myself out at times with the noises I've made, and that's hard to do. Plus, at one point, I'm pretty sure I quacked like a duck.

Now, if none of that made sense, blame the cough syrup. Yes, I got a lovely new prescription filled with codeine and life breezes right on by in a lovely hazy sort of fashion.

So, back to the title of the post. Life with two cats still in babyhood, and one almost-grownup cat, is... interesting, to say the least. I have found vomit in the weirdest places. Not to mention some of the things I have seen in that vomit. (Sorry, grossed myself out again.)

The sheer number of cat toys is about to push me out of my own home. And I hope the shredded look for furniture comes into vogue soon. Typically, as I'm stopping one from scratching the couch, one of the other two starts in on the chair. I started keeping their basket of cat toys nearby so I can wing one at them as they start scratching. But I think I'm sending mixed signals--scratch the couch, get a toy.

All during the night, the babies are active. They start to settle down to sleep, all cuddled up with me, but then they're right back up, moving around, laying back down, getting back up, etc. until I almost toss them off the bed in an effort to get some sleep. I wake up multiple times during the night with a cat butt in my face or someone sleeping on my neck with his whiskers tickling my face. And of course, if there's any kind of noise during the night, they come flying into the bedroom, fur and tail puffed out, and stand on my head so I know something's out there. Typically it's just the wind blowing the wind chimes. (I guess I could use them as a cheap alarm system.)

The babies have been banned from going into my bathroom now that Izzy was caught peeing in the closet--far away from any litter box. Sam still gets to go in there and sleep because it's the only place he can get any peace from them. This morning as I was getting ready for work, Izzy was crying on the other side of the door (actually, he sounded more like a ferret) and sticking his little tiny paw underneath the door in a bid for my sympathy. I almost gave in, but the fact that I have to clear out the closet floor and shampoo the carpet this weekend kept me strong.

Every morning I get out of bed wondering what destruction has befallen my house during the night. Stuff is usually knocked onto the floor, the couch cleared off, and the trash dug into. Most times I have to be wary of where I step. Like this morning, and I warn you, this actually made me toss cookies I haven't eaten yet! Save yourself, stop reading now, click on one of the blogs over in the sidebar and come back when this post is over.

Are you gone? Seriously, I am going to tell this story. This is your last chance!

You were warned. Here goes--I walked into the kitchen this morning, barefoot, and stepped on something not so much squishy, but not too firm, either. I looked down and saw what I thought was a furry fake mouse. Oh, how I wish it had been one of those little fake mice. Dear God, why couldn't it have been fake?? I thought it was, at first. I thought one of my little nincompoops had actually tried to eat a fake mouse and tossed it up. It was the exact same size as their toy mice. I know this because one was lying nearby.

I bent down to inspect it further.

Oh, Dear Lord in Heaven! I had trod upon the severed head of an actual mouse! Laying in my kitchen floor on my brand new rug from World Market! (I'll spare anyone unfortunate enough to still be reading this any description of the viscera that was still attached.) Usually I have a pretty strong stomach for stuff like that. I guess the phlegm has weakened more than my immune system. The rise of bile was immediate. I might have to burn the kitchen rug.

Once I pulled myself together, I picked the nasty little thing up and tossed it out into the backyard. And not one of the boys seemed upset that his plaything had left the building. (Dear Lord, please don't let it be back in the house when I get home!)

Okay, story's over. It's safe to return to this blog now.

But I have to say it wasn't until I got to work that I wondered where the rest of the mouse is. Blech!

1 comment:

  1. 1. I'm glad my boys are way past kittenhood.
    2. I'm glad my boys are front declawed. -I know many disagree with it, but I saved them from the shelters, gave them a place to lay their heads and if I happened to take their front claws from them in exchange for life and intact furniture, I don't think that's a bad deal.
    3. I'm glad my boys are indoor cats. The only shades of puke I see are food, fur, and a combo of food/fur.