Rambo with a Vengeance

It has taken me a week to cool off in order to write this post. Last week it was that dreaded time of the year; time to take Gabby to the vet (aka invoke the spirit of Rambo Kitty for 20 terrifying minutes).

As per  usual, I scheduled Gabby’s appointment first. Seems to me it’s easier to get the problem child out of the way. So a few days before the appointment I got the carrier out of the closet to give the girls time to get used to it. Oh they knew what was coming. Poor Izzy hid all night the day I got it out. Meanwhile, here is what Gabby was doing when I got home from work on the day of the appointment:

That, my friends, is spite. To deliberately hurt, annoy, or offend. Gabby, Gabby, and Gabby. Catching her to put her in the crate wasn’t any trouble since she was happily smirking and laying right in front of it. But as soon as I picked her up she went from smirking to drop-and-slink in 2.5 seconds. Quick, shove the kitty in, remove paws from death grip on outside of crate, close door, ignore rude meowing and growling. Off we go. 

Of course, she does her best to pull and claw and bite her way through the crate door the entire car ride to the vet’s office. I realized later that this was the start of the pressure cooker, as each second ticked by she became more and more of a furious feline fury like hell hath no. Foreshadowing I think they call it. See, Mom? I did pay attention in English (sort of). 

When we arrive and walk in the waiting room, there’s a man standing there with his German Shepard puppy and his what looks to be 4 year old daughter. Now this little girl is one of those precocious children with no fear of strangers (or hissing, growling crates). She walks right up to the crate and starts asking me who is inside, what’s her name, oh I have a cat too her name is ____ (insert weird-obviously-chosen-by-a-child name here), and dear Lord she’s putting her hands through the slats in the crate. Hi there Dad, care to pay attention to your super cute little girl over here? She’s about to lose some fingers to Rambo Kitty’s kung fu karate chops. So finally they leave, hands intact, and they put us in a room. Here comes the fun part. Gabby has spent the last 20 minutes desperately trying to escape the plastic box prison, and now no amount of anything is going to get her out. Anything, that is, except me. I prepare myself for some resistance, and ready my ninja cat grabbing skills. I reach in, grab her by the scruff, and pull. Nothing happens. I grab a bigger handful and pull harder. Still nothing happens. This time I use my other hand to simultaneously move one paw at a time from blocking the doorway while pulling her scruff. We moved an inch. Finally I just had to go for it, pulling the scruff, moving paws, and dumping the crate towards the floor all at the same time. By the time she’s out I’m already sweating and the fur is a-flying. 

I try to calm her down from that tractor pull experience, and she’s emitting a steady stream of growls as she looks around the room. At the same time she’s clawing her way up and down my shoulders trying to figure out how to escape my ninja grip. Oh look, here comes the technician. Growling gets louder. Yes, hi, how are you, blah blah. Then she says “How’s Izzy doing today?” and I said, “oh honey, sorry but your day just got a lot worse. This is Gabby.” I swear you could see her face fall and her muscles tighten. Yes, my caution kitty is the one reserved as your last appointment of the day. You’re welcome. Anyway, we manage to get her weight (10.5lbs!) and it’s right back up to climbing my shoulder. Tech leaves, time to wait for the vet. Longest 5 minutes of.my.life. Rambo Kitty is so agitated at this point she is starting to make me a little nervous. Random hissing at me when I pet her (because she doesn’t realize it’s me) and whipping her head around to hiss AND growl in my face. Oh no she didn’t. After a stern talking to and possible mention of declawing, I’m happy to say that little display of agitation was not directed at my face again. 

Enter the vet. Always calm, always non-threatening. He knows she’s a caution kitty. We manage to pry her away from my chest and put her on the table to begin her exam. Now, all she was supposed to have at this visit was her rabies shot and annual exam. Want to place any bets on what she got? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Well let’s see… as soon as he had her on the table he had to scruff her, and she was trying her best to get her head around to bite a chunk out of his hand. So he decides to go ahead with the shot. Poor little vet tech has to scruff her now, and the vet reaches towards her rear to pinch some skin for the shot. Oh. My. Word. It’s like World War III started right there in that exam room. The minute he touched her back there she raised up on her hind legs, front paws swinging like Muhammad Ali out in front, and s-c-r-e-a-m-i-n-g her head off. Not once, but twice, because the first time we all jumped so much he let go of her and had to grab her again for the shot. Dogs were barking all over the building. Birds were evacuating nearby trees. Children in the park down the road were weeping. It was that tragic. Needless to say, I did not get charged for her annual exam because she didn’t get one. She showed her arse so much that he didn’t even attempt to examine her. He said “well, is she doing okay?” and I said yes; “okay, let’s just put her back in the crate.” This year’s grade? F is for FAILURE. Failure! I am so ashamed! This does not sit well with my Type A overachieving personality AT ALL. 

We get home and she pops out of the crate so excited like a cat who just caught Mighty Mouse. Rubbing against the crate, my leg, the table, the chairs, purring so loud I could hear her across the room. And then? She spends the entire next evening doing this:

Spite I tell you.

Stuck Like Glue

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.

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.

Kitty Copperfield

Most cats sleep during the day. In fact, most cats sleep probably 60% of the time. Anybody want to guess what my cats do during the day? Magic tricks. That's right, magic tricks. While I'm at work all day, there is all kinds of David Copperfield-ing going on at my house. How do I know this?

Exhibit A:

Notice anything missing? The tree skirt. And these two presents are in the exact same spot that they were when they were laying on the tree skirt. Which means, that my delinquent magician wanna-be's have mastered the art of pulling the tablecloth out from under the dishes, if you will. However...

Exhibit B:

Here is the tree skirt and the rest of the presents. Obviously they have not completely mastered the trick, as these are strewn across the living room floor.


Oh boy, what will tomorrow bring?! I just can't stand the excitement.

Gabby the Tree Killer

I was just thinking yesterday how I didn't have much to write about this Christmas. So far the kitties have been so well behaved as far as the tree and decorations go.

Last night I put together my small Christmas tree that I keep in my bedroom. I had it in the living room while I was decorating it and just left it there until I got ready for bed. Gabby even decided to take a nap beneath the twinkle lights:

Apparently, she doesn't feel the same in the light of day. I came home from work today to find this on the floor of my bedroom:

Not only that, but she went exploring on top of my entertainment center in my bedroom and knocked over the vase of flowers that sit up there. She hung out there for a while too, judging by the paw prints in the dust (okay, I need to clean, so sue me).

I'm not even dragging Izzie's name into this because I know she didn't do it. My nosy, do-as-I-damn-well-please, large and in charge Gabby is written all over this. When I walked in the room she ran right over to the tree, rubbing against it and pawing at the ornaments as if to say 'look Ma! A mess I made just for you'.

Cat for sale.

Medicine FAIL

I am very behind on my blog posts, and I have much to catch up on from this summer. But first I simply have to post about what just happened to my Gabby girl.

Gabby has been into everything tonight. I got a big shipment of stuff that I ordered from my Celebrating Home party, so there was much exploring of boxes and paper and plastic. Not 30 seconds after I set out my new vase (with fake grass and lights in it) by the fireplace she was swatting and chewing. She got sprayed with the water bottle 4 times in about 5 minutes. Finally she gave up (plus I moved the vase to the mantle).

Well a little while later I hear her getting sick behind the couch. Nothing to be grossed out about, cats swallow a lot of fur and sometimes they throw up. So this time she threw up a LOT because she had just eaten. I was feeling a little bad for her, what with fussing at her and squirting her most of the night. I decided to try and give her some of the hairball medicine I bought for them. The last time (and only other time) I tried to give this to them it did not go well. My last cat, Rosie, loved the stuff and looked forward to her "treat" every night. These two hooligans? Heck no. They can't stand it. But I thought hey, I'll try again with Gabby because she's the good one. So I put a little bit on my finger and pick her up so she can lick it off. She gets a tiny bit and starts throwing her head back and doing her best to get it out of her mouth. At this point I realize I have about a half a second before she bolts and I get scratched because I'm holding her. So I try to quickly put the medicine on the outside of her mouth so she'll have to lick it off. Yeah... she moved. And I missed. I sort of "drop" her and she jumps down, her head all cockeyed. I look closer and I totally got the medicine all over her cheek right below her eye. Oops!

Gabby walks away, still cockeyed. Every couple of steps she stops and licks her lips, turning her head to the side (imagine someone trying to bite their ear). I am uncontrollably laughing at this point and can do nothing to help her. I get a wet paper towel so I can attempt to wipe it off. Meanwhile I notice that somehow it has gotten on my shirt and all over both arms. Add to that a generous layer of cat fur and I'm rockin' my very own Gabby sweater.

Gabby wants no part of this "help" that I want to give her, so I end up chasing her into my bedroom and then I take her into the bathroom (aka torture chamber). I bend down on top of her, using my weight to hold her, and try to wipe her face. She flips backward and starts climbing me like a tree. Oh hell no. We are not doing this again. Been there done that and have the scars to prove it! I get all mama cat on her, holding her by the scruff and eventually get her face clean. She is meowing and howling the entire time, you would think I was torturing her rather than wiping her face. We finish, I let her go, and survey the damage. In addition to my Gabby sweater there's also holes in my t-shirt. Oh well, at least it's an old one.

All of this just because she got sick and I tried to give her medicine. Never again! The label on that medicine tube mocks me, saying things like "just place a drop on their paw and they will lick it off" (no, Izzy will wipe her paw on the carpet to get it off) and "just place a drop on their nose and they will lick it off" (no, Gabby will freak out, you will almost get it in her eye, and you'll end up wearing a kitty sweater of fur). Sigh.

Kitty Door Part 3

I am happy to report that the girls have been using their new kitty door for more than 3 weeks now! Meaning, the closet door is shut and their only access to the room is through the kitty door! Go girls!

Who says you can't train cats? I beg to differ. I am to cats what Cesar Millan is to dogs; although I get paid a lot less. 

It has to be said that I have the smartest cats in my neighborhood, if not the whole town. To think that I had almost given up on them, and they proved me wrong! Not that they get all the credit; I did train them after all. 

Animal Planet, I'm available for a meeting to pitch ideas for my new show, Kelly's Cats. Have your people call my people. 

TLC, see above... you're branching out lately and I'm sure we could work some animal shows into your network. 

I am so proud of you Gabby and Izzy! 

I am so giving you an A+ in kitty door training! 

I am so..... full of it. 

Truth? They are using the kitty door because it is door-less. I took the plastic swinging door off and they have been using it ever since. Now it is a super fun how-fast-can-I-run-through-it kitty tunnel and no longer a super scary hole with swinging-door-of-death. Seriously. I could not make this up. 

Sigh. Oh well, I guess I can't complain as long as they are using it, right?? In the meantime, I found this funny clip that SO reminds me of my life when Izzy joined me and Gabs. Let's just say Gabs didn't practice her 'welcome to your new home' nice manners. Imagine that. 

Simon's Cat in 'Double Trouble'