Last year around the end of summer my Dad put some glue strips/traps in my garage. I had told him there were lizards in my garage and this was the solution to the problem. I really never saw them but they used my steps as their bathroom. I guess we put them out too late in the season because we never caught anything except crickets and a few random bugs, and then I sort of forgot about them; basically ignored them for the last 6 months. There was still one strip laying on the top step leading up to the door into the house, and there it has been untouched for the last 6 months.
Well.
Today I got home from work and pulled into the garage like any other day. Got out of the car, walked around the back of the car, and started towards the steps before I stopped short. There was a lizard on the glue strip. Oh no! Poor little lizard! This is inhumane! Ew, Ew, Ew. I crept up to the step (as well as one can creep with an air cast on one foot) secretly hoping he was already dead. I needed to check and see if he was dead; he was only halfway stuck to the glue, just the front half of his body. So I blew on him and... nothing. So I picked up my good foot and nudged the strip ever so slightly and BAM the lower half of his body swung around and got stuck on the glue. And I screamed a little. Now I've figured out that he's not dead, and I'm the reason he's more stuck on the glue. I decide I can't deal with this so I just go in the house muttering "ew, ew, ew".
About an hour later I need to leave again to head to town. I'm going to take the trash can out to the road because tomorrow morning is trash pick up, so I decide I will throw the glue strip in the trash can. Otherwise I will have to look at him every time go in and out of the house. I put my big girl britches on and mentally prepare myself to "just deal with it". I decided to "check" him again to see if he was still alive, so I used my good foot like last time and nudged the strip just a bit. In the process I lose my balance because I am standing on the leg with the air cast, and end up putting a lot of my foot on the glue strip as I fall toward the step.
Freak out!
My foot is stuck to the glue!
AND THERE IS A LIZARD ATTACHED!
I hobble a couple of steps and decide this is not so bad, just make my way over to the trash can and I won't have to really touch him for that long at all. About halfway there I lose my balance again, and when my foot comes down I lose the strip and it lands upside down. And the lizard's one foot that is not on the glue is wiggling. Not twitching, not shaking, but wiggling; like, I'm stuck on this glue trap and my one free foot is going to save me kind of wiggling. Enough of this; I reach down and grab it, say "I'm sorry" about 10 times and toss him in the trash can.
I immediately feel remorse. What have I done to Larry! (Yes, in this brief moment of shame I named the lizard)
Not only was he dying a slow death on my step where he at least had a view of the garage, now I have tossed him like garbage into a dark hole, then wheeled him out to the street! God said thou shalt not kill and I have murdered this lizard! That's it. No more glue strips. I much prefer more humane methods like those mouse traps that cut off their heads guillotine style.
Boy I sure hope he's dead before Brett comes to empty the trash tomorrow morning.
And to make matters worse, I can NOT get that Sugarland song "Stuck like Glue" out of my head.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Rambo Kitty Returns
Well, today was take-Gabby-to-the-vet day. A day full of anxiety, anticipation, fear... and for Gabby it's probably worse. I started the day by taking out the carrier and leaving it out in the living room. This way there would be no surprises when I got home. Poor Izzy ran and hid, wouldn't even come out for her treat this morning, thinking it was for her. Don't worry Izzy, you have another week before it's your turn.
The day started off pretty good, and I even managed to leave on time for work. As I'm driving through Durham, I check my email at a stoplight. My wireless pops up and asks if I want to join the secure network "FBI Surveillance Van". Hmmm. Really? I hope that is someone's idea of a joke... otherwise we might need to work on our undercover basics. Then, a few miles later, I'm regularly cruising along when all of a sudden I see it in the road; a Triple F. If you don't remember the significance of the FFF, you can read about it here. There it was, in the road about 3 feet away from the curb, ready to meet me trunk-to-bumper. Been there, done that. Let's just say my swerving skills have greatly improved. And let's not even talk about the fact that it is the end of January and someone is just now throwing out their Christmas tree. Come on, people.
Moving on. Went to work, meetings, meetings, meetings... work, work, work... then it's time to come and collect the problem child. I am home just long enough to change clothes and grab the kitty, no extra time to spare. Of course she's waiting for me in the bedroom, rather than greeting me at the door, because she knows something is coming. I put her in the carrier and head out the door. Poor Izzy is hiding again just hoping it's not for her.
The car ride is only 15 minutes to the vet but it seems like a lot longer with Rambo kitty next to you getting warmed up. To say that Gabby does not like to be confined is an understatement; it's like it is crushing her very soul to be cooped up or isolated in any way. She's meowing incessantly and strategically testing different parts of the crate door with her teeth and paws for a way out. You know, like in Jurassic Park when they talk about the Raptors and how smart they are because they never attack the electric fence at the same place twice, because they are testing it for weaknesses... Ok, so it's not really like that at all, but somehow my brain made the correlation. Anyway, we arrive and check in, and go immediately into a room (shameless plug: I love my vet. I am never there more than 15 minutes). Thus begins the battle between me and the pissed off feline who refuses to come out of the crate (that she was SO adamant to escape from 5 minutes ago).
Each time I swear it gets harder and harder to get her out. There are no Ninja skills that make this any easier. Usually I end up grabbing her by the scruff in some way and sort of just pulllllling her out, meanwhile removing her paws from their positions bracing the doorway. Today, I pulled... and pulled... and pulled. She was still not out. So, I sort of just dipped the crate towards the floor so that gravity could help me out, and out she came (heh, points for me!). My celebration of this victory was quickly overshadowed by the realization that now pissed off kitty was inches away from escaping on the floor; not so great. In a split second I grabbed her, the whole time imagining the terror I just saved this office from if she got out of this room... Rambo kitty running from room to room, hissing and swatting her kung fu karate chops and turning small pups into lunch meat... I shudder at the thought.
The very nice technician comes in to get her weight, and we somehow manage to pry her claws out of my shoulder long enough to put her on the table. I can't blame her really, I mean I never enjoy finding out how much I weigh. And again, we forego getting her temperature. Smart move lady, if you want to keep your fingers. I sit back down with her to calm her down while we wait for the vet. She's pretty calm and actually only hisses at me once while I'm petting her. And in comes the doc, vet-tastic man that he is. I pry her away from me once again so that he can examine her. Cue the arse-showing kitty. She howls, she growls, and I'm pretty sure she snorted or something at one point. Then when he's done, he bends down eye level to talk to her. Oh please, you were doing so well, why would you literally stare the lion in the face after you've poked her with a stick?? I don't have veterinary insurance that will pay for your prosthetic face and I'm pretty sure you need your eyeballs to do your job, oh please please please Gabby don't kill him. Luckily, she doesn't. But she does warn him pretty good when he puts her back in the crate. As he goes to close the door, she busts out the kung fu karate chops in true Rambo kitty fashion and explodes rapid fire paw smack downs on the door while he's trying to lock it. Arse. Showing.
So, what's the grade for this year's visit? I'm going to have to go with C+ again. We are not where I'd like to be and certainly my OCD-need-for-perfection self is not happy with anything less than an A, but everyone survived with all of their appendages intact and no blood was drawn. That's a success in my book. Plus, he said that her weight had been pretty stable over the last few years, she was maintaining the same weight within a few ounces, and this was a very good thing. Ah! An 'A' in something!
At least one of us is good at weight management.
The day started off pretty good, and I even managed to leave on time for work. As I'm driving through Durham, I check my email at a stoplight. My wireless pops up and asks if I want to join the secure network "FBI Surveillance Van". Hmmm. Really? I hope that is someone's idea of a joke... otherwise we might need to work on our undercover basics. Then, a few miles later, I'm regularly cruising along when all of a sudden I see it in the road; a Triple F. If you don't remember the significance of the FFF, you can read about it here. There it was, in the road about 3 feet away from the curb, ready to meet me trunk-to-bumper. Been there, done that. Let's just say my swerving skills have greatly improved. And let's not even talk about the fact that it is the end of January and someone is just now throwing out their Christmas tree. Come on, people.
Moving on. Went to work, meetings, meetings, meetings... work, work, work... then it's time to come and collect the problem child. I am home just long enough to change clothes and grab the kitty, no extra time to spare. Of course she's waiting for me in the bedroom, rather than greeting me at the door, because she knows something is coming. I put her in the carrier and head out the door. Poor Izzy is hiding again just hoping it's not for her.
The car ride is only 15 minutes to the vet but it seems like a lot longer with Rambo kitty next to you getting warmed up. To say that Gabby does not like to be confined is an understatement; it's like it is crushing her very soul to be cooped up or isolated in any way. She's meowing incessantly and strategically testing different parts of the crate door with her teeth and paws for a way out. You know, like in Jurassic Park when they talk about the Raptors and how smart they are because they never attack the electric fence at the same place twice, because they are testing it for weaknesses... Ok, so it's not really like that at all, but somehow my brain made the correlation. Anyway, we arrive and check in, and go immediately into a room (shameless plug: I love my vet. I am never there more than 15 minutes). Thus begins the battle between me and the pissed off feline who refuses to come out of the crate (that she was SO adamant to escape from 5 minutes ago).
Each time I swear it gets harder and harder to get her out. There are no Ninja skills that make this any easier. Usually I end up grabbing her by the scruff in some way and sort of just pulllllling her out, meanwhile removing her paws from their positions bracing the doorway. Today, I pulled... and pulled... and pulled. She was still not out. So, I sort of just dipped the crate towards the floor so that gravity could help me out, and out she came (heh, points for me!). My celebration of this victory was quickly overshadowed by the realization that now pissed off kitty was inches away from escaping on the floor; not so great. In a split second I grabbed her, the whole time imagining the terror I just saved this office from if she got out of this room... Rambo kitty running from room to room, hissing and swatting her kung fu karate chops and turning small pups into lunch meat... I shudder at the thought.
The very nice technician comes in to get her weight, and we somehow manage to pry her claws out of my shoulder long enough to put her on the table. I can't blame her really, I mean I never enjoy finding out how much I weigh. And again, we forego getting her temperature. Smart move lady, if you want to keep your fingers. I sit back down with her to calm her down while we wait for the vet. She's pretty calm and actually only hisses at me once while I'm petting her. And in comes the doc, vet-tastic man that he is. I pry her away from me once again so that he can examine her. Cue the arse-showing kitty. She howls, she growls, and I'm pretty sure she snorted or something at one point. Then when he's done, he bends down eye level to talk to her. Oh please, you were doing so well, why would you literally stare the lion in the face after you've poked her with a stick?? I don't have veterinary insurance that will pay for your prosthetic face and I'm pretty sure you need your eyeballs to do your job, oh please please please Gabby don't kill him. Luckily, she doesn't. But she does warn him pretty good when he puts her back in the crate. As he goes to close the door, she busts out the kung fu karate chops in true Rambo kitty fashion and explodes rapid fire paw smack downs on the door while he's trying to lock it. Arse. Showing.
So, what's the grade for this year's visit? I'm going to have to go with C+ again. We are not where I'd like to be and certainly my OCD-need-for-perfection self is not happy with anything less than an A, but everyone survived with all of their appendages intact and no blood was drawn. That's a success in my book. Plus, he said that her weight had been pretty stable over the last few years, she was maintaining the same weight within a few ounces, and this was a very good thing. Ah! An 'A' in something!
At least one of us is good at weight management.
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