Category: The Cat

Dog sitting – The Mystery of the Unseen Cat.

I’m dog sitting, internet. Somewhere out in the not-quite-country of Where-I-Live, for a yoga student of mine.

Theoretically, there are two dogs and three cats in this house.

Including this champion.

Including this champion. His name is Flounder and he WUVS YOU.

I have been here for several hours, however, and am pretty sure that they made up a cat. Or possibly are haunted by a very convincing cat ghost.

I have obviously seen both of the dogs, because dogs are terrible at hide and seek. I currently have one cat in my lap, whose name is possibly Violet and possibly Rose and possibly who’s a good wittle kitten? (Hint – she is). I have located the cat that I was warned I would not see. That still leaves one cat.

If I do not find this cat by the time I go to bed, I will officially start panicking, but for now I will assume that it is doing cat things elsewhere.

(By the way, some people have accused me of disliking cats, because of the way that I write about my own cat, Marmaduke. This is false. I am thoroughly indifferent to cats. Some cats I actually enjoy, even. Besides, I saw Marm just last night and we had a pleasant interaction (in that I didn’t acknowledge his existence and he

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS. IT FOUND ME.

SUDDENLY, A CAT.

SUDDENLY, A CAT.

See? I like cats.

photo-2

My Grandmother is a Pirate.

Internet. If you read my blog post yesterday, you already know that I am in Canada visiting my grandparents.

Within the past 24 hours, an exciting development has occurred.

I have uncovered undeniable evidence that my Gran is, in fact, probably a pirate.

Let us examine the case.

Exhibit One – She Travels.

My Granny is a serious world traveller. Within the past few years, she’s been to China, Africa, Morocco, Italy, France and Ireland, among others. She’s been on scheduled trips and group trips and family trips and boat trips and bike trips and pretty much every kind of trip you could imagine, but she never goes to the same place twice.

Recently, however, she informed me that she loved Africa so much that she will be returning there in the fall as a supplement to a trip to Spain.

Africa?

You mean the home of the infamous Somalian pirates?

Africa, where offshore piracy is “OUT OF CONTROL”?

What could you possibly be doing in Africa, Gran, besides checking in on your pirate crew?

Coincidence?

I THINK NOT.

Exhibit Two – She Steals.

Last night, I was sitting innocently at the kitchen table drinking a glass of wine and reading an Issac Asimov novel when Mamma Mia and Grandmère came in with a gorgeous arrangement of white lilacs.

“Where did’st thou procure such sweet smelling florals?” I inquired, sipping delicately at my riesling.

“From the neighbour’s garden,” my dear Granny freely admitted.

Aka SHE STOLE THEM.

THESE WERE NOT PROCURED LEGALLY.

THESE WERE NOT PROCURED LEGALLY.

You know who else steals? Pirates. It’s pretty much in the job description.

Oh wait. It is literally the only job description.

pirate definition hnwcassandra

Exhibit Three – She Cheats. 

I have never played Mexican Train Dominos before tonight. Therefore, I do not know the official rules for Mexican Train Dominos. You may or may not know the rules of Mexican Train Dominos. It’s irrelevant to the story.

What I am, however, fairly confident of is that the rules of Mexican Train Dominos are not what Granny taught us tonight. It was something other. Some strange hybrid game where the rules seem to change every time Granny seemed to be losing.

You know who else cheats?

Pirates.

That’s why mutiny is a thing.

You can’t trust a pirate. It’s common sense 101. Why? Refer to Exhibit 2 – They Steal. Case in point? When my Papear ultimately won the game (he’s a silent but deadly competitor), it turned out I had to pay up a cent for every point left in my hand.

Paying money I didn’t wager?

THAT SEEMS PRETTY PIRATEY GRAN.

In conclusion:

My Gran is a pirate. There’s no point denying it. Mystery solved. Case closed.

Incidentally, this also explains how good she is at sailing.

My man cat is female?

Hey internet. There’s no Manuscript Mondays today. It’s been a weird one over here at hnw cassandra.

So remember my no good, fat ass, lazy jerk, Prozac addled MALE cat Marmaduke? Well, we took him back to the vet today just for a checkup, and we figured out why he’s been such a wreck recently.

He’s a she.

And she’s pregnant.

Yeah.

My fat man cat is pregnant.

Technically, my fat man cat is a hermaphrodite and he’s pregnant.

Don’t even act like you can’t believe I didn’t figured that one out on my own. How much time have you spent poking around a cat’s sex bits?

That’s what I thought.

hnwcassandra cat

This guy.

Which of course explains the mood swings, the teeth loss, the weird appetite, and the peeing.

I live next to a house that used to belong to a woman with a whole bunch of cats who passed away in the fall, and since she vacated the premise, Marm has been sneaking over there a whole lot. She used to take care of strays and I guess they are still hanging around the property and whatnot. So I guess our cat met a few friends over there.

Obviously, the moral of the story here is to not take your animals to a vet that is a) run by vet students who b) can’t tell WHETHER A CAT IS MALE OR FEMALE OR BOTH.

But yeah. Apparently he’s really, really pregnant.

So.

That’s a thing.

Sigh.

UPDATE- APRIL FOOLS!

Marm went bonkers.

I think my cat has freaking lost it. Like, really, really lost it. Like, he’s entered his happy place and his mental capacities have fluttered away lost it.

I caught him staring at the wall the other day. Not out the door or anything, he was literally sitting and staring at the wall. I went to my room for twenty minutes or so and came back downstairs and he was still there. I’m kicking myself for not having my phone on me to take a picture, but I swear on Matthew McConaughey’s rippling sixpack that it really happened.

Varenka has confirmed this suspicion that my cat has gone loco bananas.  She came over on Tuesday evening after our studio’s crazy yoga dance party (which I’ll tell y’all about in more detail on Tuesday, but guys it was so amazing) for our pity party and we spent a solid five minutes watching my cat, who was draped across an armchair in the most uncomfortable looking position ever, lick the air. Not his nose, which dogs do with astonishing regularity. No. The air. Like a snake does.

And then he just sat there like this for an hour.

And then he just sat there like this for an hour.

I realize I casually skipped over the fact that Varenka and I planned and attended something called a pity party, which is our new term for making mojitos in our pajamas and watching Doctor Who and not discussing all of the distressing happenings in our lives. This is partially because I wanted to get the bit out about the cat first, and partially because I’ve been avoiding mentioning that I didnt get in to grad school this year.

And that’s all we shall say on that subject.

Anyways, so my cat has gone nutters and I’m pretty sure he dragged my precious baby boy down the rabbit hole with him because as I previously mentioned, Pepper PEED on me twice last week. He flipped over on his back for tummy rubs and peed right on my leg with the kind of accuracy that human males never achieve (if the average fraternity bathroom is anything to go by). I can only assume that the cat offered him his body weight in Beggin’ Strips for the dirty deed, because my smoodlywoodle wouldn’t do that to me unprovoked.

Patty Mayonnaise seems to be above picking sides at the moment, as always providing proof that girls of any species are smarter than boys.

The Disney Power Hour aka the Roof Peeing Adventure.

I realized I’ve written posts about a lot of the “worsts”. Worst dates, worser worst dates, terrible birthdays, my asshole cat being a douche, all that jazz. Today I’m going to shake it up and give you a best. Or, if not a best, at least a very, very good.

It was my friend’s 24 on Friday, and we had one of the Best Nights Ever.

Let’s call him Eric Bana.

Eric Bana lives in an apartment in a massage school that used to be a mental hospital. It’s very castle-y looking, with all these crazy spires and towers and whatnot, and it smells like shea butter and eucalyptus.I’d never been there before, so I got pretty lost driving out to this place. It’s out on a hill on a pretty hard-to-find road. It’s totally the coolest apartment I’ve ever been to, is what I’m saying.

I get there and Eric Bana promptly announces that we’re going to do a Disney song power hour with Genny Cream. I’d never done a power hour before, so this was a new and exciting thing for me. It also turns out that I am a disturbingly spot on jukebox for Disney lyrics. Eric Bana and I absolutely sang around to almost every song. It was pretty beautiful. The gang had a very touching moment to “I Will Show You the World”.

So 60 shots of Genny later (61 because I did I double shot to The Aristocats because that movie is my JAM) someone decides that we needed to go up to the roof. Elaboration- the boys wanted to pee off of the roof, because they were drunk and boys are gross and have a weird desire to pee on everything. So we go up this crazy spiral staircase thing with all these creepy little empty side rooms that were once used for mental hospital purposes and I’m starting to feel like I’m on Ghost Adventures or some shit. Eric Bana’s good friend and roommate Ryan Gosling is leading this tour and he keeps pointing out the window and telling me about parts of the building he has climbed up and peed on, like he’s an OCD squirrel with the bladder of a hyperactive French Bulldog.

Eventually we get to the top of the building and go out on the highest tower, where there’s a plane landing light and all sorts of cool weather gadgets, and we are easily 6 stories up, and Ryan Gosling climbs out onto this skinny little ledge outside the barrier and has a wee, and all the boys agree this this is an optimal peeing spot, because, I reiterate, boys are gross.

Then we went back downstairs and Eric Bana and I had a fake lightsaber fight and we all went downtown and spoke in really badly affected British accents for like an hour and drank Jameo-ginger and everything was wonderful forever.

Tada.

Of course the next morning I was terribly hungover and The Cat decided to creep under my bed and meow really loudly for an HOUR while power farting, and I really just wanted to be miserable and hide under the covers but the room smelled like a dung beetle’s family reunion.

I hate that cat.

My cat’s a crappy valentine.

I am single.

(I do not offer this tidbit of information as a pro or a con, merely as an incontestable fact.)

As a consequence of my singularity, I do not have a smoodley-poo of my very own to snoogly-woogly this Valentine’s day, so I anticipate that today will be unspectacular. I do not, however, have an amazing spectrum of Valentine’s days to live up to. Of the four that were worth remembering, I was broken up with, went on a Anti-date with a platonic man friend (who turned out to be not-so-platonic after all), was very, very sick and had to cancel my fancy dinner, and had margaritas and chips with my (ex) boyfriend. Although I was sent a very nice dozen of roses once from a long-distance friend once.

Awwwwww. Thanks Hubs.

Awwwwww. Thanks Hubs.

To those few who got a little upset that one of my ex-boyfriends broke up with me on Valentine’s day, I should tell you a few things. First of all, it was my freshman year of high school. Secondly, we dated from January 20th, 8:32pm, 2008, to February 14th, 11:59pm, 2008, which is such a short time period it may not even count. Thirdly, I looked like this:

Suddenly I realized why I spent so much of high school single.

Suddenly I realize why I spent so much of high school single.

God I love this photo so much. I look like Mufasa’s preppy Chola cousin pre-makeup. Note the absolute sincerity of my gazebelieved in this look.

But I digress.

In light of my recent attempt to befriend my cat, I decided to extend the olive branch to Marmaduke in the form of an invitation. Specifically, the invitation to be my Valentine. I figured since I’d be spending the night solo, Marm and I could catch up on some quality kitty time.

As if he could sense that I was looking for him, the Cat has been curiously MIA this week. Perhaps because I haven’t been in the office as much. Perhaps he has a secret lair somewhere where he’s plotting the hostile takeover of my room. I don’t know or particularly care. As far as I know, the cat food is still disappearing from the bowl, which means he’s still alive. Probably.

I finally caught him lurking outside my door on Tuesday. He saw me and started making a noise that I imagine was a re-enactment of the gurgling dying breath of the last dinosaur on Earth. To shut him up I lifted him up to my bed. I think he stopped whining out of pure shock, since the last time I let him on my bed was the middle of the summer when he peed on it. Twice.

I explained to the cat that this was my Valentine’s gift to him and that his Valentine’s gift to me would be to not pee on my things. He made this face.

Pure joy?

Pure joy?

He did not pee on my bed (yet). Tada.

That’s about it. In retrospect, I really didn’t know what I thought was going to happen. Maybe that the sun would come out and unicorns would appear from the ground like daisies and everything would be perfect forever.

Meh.

PS- I really did try to take a more attractive picture of Marm… but that’s kind of just how his face looks.