Dinnertime Conversation Starters

The Toad came home from McWork tonight, grabbed a plate and began to eat dinner. He reached into his pocket (God alone knows why) and says,

"Why is there a french fry in my pocket?"

I should have named him Napolean.

BAD KITTY!

Having kittens. They're like kids--you never know what you're gonna get, personality-wise.

Well, Violet, is of course, VERY active, and very kittenish. Lately, even with stitches in her belly, she has been leaping and jumping and being generally crazy. Lovely.

Last week, I came home to find the upper kitchen cupboard open, and a chewed open baggie of treats on the floor of the living room. We've already experienced her obsession with the treats--bringing in a grocery bag with the foil pouch inside, and foolishly leaving it unattended is enough to cause her to go apeshit crazy in a plastic grocery bag. And tear, claw, and bite her way into the foil package.

Nothing is safe, anywhere--even top of the fridge is not Violet proof. She gets there, and rips down half of the stuff on the sides while she's at it.

Anyway, I wasn't going to totally blame her right away. I picked up everything and closed the cupboard. Then, while at the computer desk, I hear a noise--a sneaky, kittenish sort of noise. She's on the counter, popping the cupboard door. By the time I get there, she's gotten it open, and is inside, trying to get into the Chips Ahoy! cookies.

BAD KITTY!

Thursday, she was in that cupboard no less than 3 times in 2 hours. We came home after being gone for an hour, and discovered a kitchen that looked like starving raccoons had been at it--and no treats. Worried that she ate the plastic baggie, we begin searching. The Toad shows up to tell us HE had already cleaned it up once--and with the smartest idea he's hall all century, he put the baggie of treats in the truly kitten proof bread box.

That makes two places we know to be Violet proof: inside the bread box, and inside the oven.

In Addition

These are the babies we adopted last October. Chloe is the smaller one, on the left. Violet (aka Pig) on the right.

Both came to us with issues: both were very sick, even though the Humane Society chapter we adopted them from said they were healthy, and vet "checked." As near as we can figure, they paid a vet to look at them and say, "Yep. They're kittens."

Turns out, they were a two to three weeks younger than the 6 weeks the H. S. guesstimated. Chloe had jaundice so badly our vet (who was not the "vet checked" one) was surprised when she was still alive 2 weeks later. Violet, with her fuzzy, longer fur, had other issues that were remedied when My Sweetie played Momma Cat and helped keep her clean on a daily basis (it's not that gross, he slapped on rubber gloves and dunked her backside in warmish water 2x a day.)

Chloe, after almost 2 months of mediciation, perked up, then perked back down. She was anemic, too. She's still dreadfullly small, and thin, and not nearly as active as a kitten should be. Hell, we had a 14 year old cat that was more active than this. Chloe's big thing is that she would poop in the box, but not pee.

Recently, we got a medium sized dog kennel for Chloe to "live" in. Her box, food, water, and bed fit inside it. She's actually happier in there, and is now out and about again. With her box being basically 3 feet from her, she's stopped using the carpet as a potty, and comes out and wants to be around us. She's still not very social (and doesn't like being handled and petted too much) but she does come out to the kitchen to eat and follows us around some. She's all eyes and fairly pathetic to look at.

My Sweetie thinks it's bizarre that we have a kitten/cat in a crate. Chloe likes it, because when Violet is being Pig, we can shut the door and Pig can't pounce and bounce and abuse Chloe. I took this picture of them when Violet was being sweet, and had finished cleaning Chloe's ears. They snuggle up and are sisters, for sure.

When Chloe spent an afternoon at the vet's for an Xray and bloodwork (to maybe see if the problems were congenital without costing thousands of dollars in surgery) Violet was beside herself and missing Chloe. When Violet went to be spayed, and spent the night, Chloe was mewing and lonely, and actually wanted us to cuddle her and love her some.

Violet is definitely a live wire. She's gotten herself stuck behind the filing cabinet. It's a tight squeeze, and she didn't want to come out. She's tipped over shelves in our bedroom; she irritates the snot out of Scout, our remaining adult cat. She eats everything you put in front of her (and sometimes what you put in front of Chloe, too) and basically attacks me every chance she gets. She's even knocked pictures off the walls. God help us!

Violet's latest adventures involve the kitchen. I opened the 'fridge door and she got herself on top of it. Try shutting the door knowing that you're going to knock a kitten for a loop! With the nice weather, she discovered screens. You know what that means? Yes, she's hanging in the kitchen window.

She loves runnning water and has terrified the Howler by attacking through the shower curtain. (Otherwise, the Howler and Pig get along just fine.)

My Sweetie is in love with this demonic kitten. She's all fuzz and fluff, and has the bottle-brush tail to prove it. He's reponded to my calling Violet "Pig" by giving Chloe her own nickname: Slowy. I tell him it's cruel, and he tells me "Pig" is rude.

Through it all, the adult cat, Scout, has adopted her own defenses: she glares at us like she's a vulture (picture Snoopy doing his vulture imitation) and by a deep down growl.

Today the growl is pretty much non-stop, and Scout has, just moments ago, bounded across the house to bounce on the peacefully, sweetly sleeping Violet.

Oh, and as a final note: NEVER EVER EVER name an animal "Violet." What the animal hears is "violent" and then she proceeds to try to kill you.

Holy Crapola!

As always, I am utterly amazed at the self-centered, totally clueless behavior of some people...yes, at the Howler's school.

Yet again today, I watched this lanky bleach blonde slop her sleeping toddler over her shoulder and march across the afterschool crazy parking lot.

There are cars pulling in, and cars pulling out. She looks neither left nor right, and marches resolutely across the asphalt to the doors. A few mornings ago, she got out of her car and began rummaging under the drivers seat for something, looking around at the cars barely missing taking off her car door--and her ass--while her urchins unloaded.

It's like she has a death wish--or, an insurance policy that covers gross stupidity.

Famous Last Words...