I’m still sitting exactly where I was sitting when I wrote yesterday’s post. Actually, it’s only been about an hour and a half since I wrote yesterday’s post, and I’m sitting here trying to concentrate on researching local farms and creameries for my new job and this behemoth cat keeps interrupting me.
This cat technically has a name that is written down on the very comprehensive sheet of things-I-should-know, but it’s on the counter like 30 feet away from me and I am not devoted enough to the cause to go get it, so I’m calling it Simba.
Except it’s a girl? Lady Simba.
For those of you not keeping up with the rest of the class, I’m housesitting for five animals right now – two dogs and three cats. One cat is apparently a hermit – he is, as far as I know, still hiding in the closet (that’s not a metaphor, you child). The other two are something-to-do-with-flowers-name and Lady Simba.
Petunia (or Daffodil, or possibly Sunflower), is one of those cats with a normal sized body and teeny dwarf legs. Like a cat weiner dog. Or a cat hamster. Or a cat mini horse. Or like a cat with a normal body and tiny short legs.
Lady Simba might be a mutant. I can actually hear this cat stomping around in the other room. I have already been startled by this cat creeping around the corner to stare at me a shameful amount of times. It is so big. You guys. It’s like being in a house with a small dog that’s actually a cat.
I cannot get over it. I even texted Varenka about it.
Which seems silly.
UNTIL YOU LOOK AT THIS CAT.
Then you’re like danggggg Lady Simba!
Am I right? (Hint – I am.)
Hey internet. There’s no Manuscript Mondays today. It’s been a weird one over here at hnw cassandra.
He’s a she.
And she’s pregnant.
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.
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.
That’s a thing.
UPDATE- APRIL FOOLS!
I’m sick again, internet. I sound like a young Owen Wilson in scuba gear. It’s not cute. Yesterday’s complete lack of effort is probably a testament to how awful I feel, since after 43 blog posts I can crank out 500 words on cat poop and Justin Bieber without breaking a sweat. Yet I made a commitment to writing a blog post everyday, rain or shine or sickness, so here goes nothing.
Let’s talk about panic. Tis the season for taxes, internet, and I was going through stuff yesterday and I was absolutely shocked at how little I made between September and December in 2012. It was honestly pathetic. Granted, since then, I’ve started this blog, gotten promoted, started working more shifts and applied for another job, but I really haven’t changed my living situation dramatically since May 2012. I feel like I’m living in stasis in a weird way, whereas I want to keep pushing forward and moving and progressing. The weird thing is, once you’re out of school, “forward” motion changes from “do the same thing you’re doing till you graduate” to “you could literally do anything, but don’t fuck it up, you ignorant ponce”.
Enter panic mode. I was good at school. Not like, valedictorian of Harvard good, but pretty good. I like learning things. I like studying. I rewrote the introduction of my thesis for fun the other day. FUN.
I am not good at not being in school- or at least, not yet. I’m not a person who does well adjusting to change, especially if I have to change. I will grit my teeth and fight against change just out of principle. Usually the things I decide I don’t want in my life I end up loving. I really disliked yoga for a long time – now I teach it. I hated my alma mater when I first looked at schools – but I loved going there. Brussel sprouts? Now my favorite vegetable.
However, I don’t have anything to fight against now. I feel like I’m facing this void that I have to fill myself. Before I had limited options. I could take Art History at 12:15 on Tuesday or 3pm on Wednesday. Ta-da. Done. Now, it’s just starting to hit me that I could literally get in the car and drive to California and never come back, if I wanted. I could fly to Peru right now. I could take a crappy job at McDonalds or set myself on fire or rob a bank, and there is very little holding me back (save my bank account and my own limited sense of morality).
My cat and I play this game where I let him outside and he immediately wants to come back in.
I kind of feel like that. All my life I thought I was the kind of person who hated schedules. Now I crave structure. When I was in school, I wanted to be on break. Now I hang out in the local library reading about Pablo Neruda just for giggles.
I feel like every time I figure out my current situation, something changes. And I hate it.
I applied to grad school last year for graphic design, and I didn’t get in. This year, I applied to six different places for creative writing, and since the applications went in, I’ve been living in panic that I won’t get in anywhere. I feel like I’m not justified applying three years in a row. Getting denied two years in a row? That’s the world’s way of telling you you’re being a stupid git and to figure out Plan B.
Guess what, internet? I DON’T HAVE A PLAN B. I have nothing, nada, zip. I’ve been trying to figure out Plan B since last year when Grad School Take 1 backfired.
There are several things I do know. I can’t remain in stasis working two part-time jobs forever, no matter how much I love working them, and certainly not if I’m not raking in enough to support myself. I don’t think I could stay in my parent’s house for another year – if the shame wouldn’t kill me, the cat would (he’s plotting something, I swear).
I think I might be having a mid-life crisis. At 23. How sad.
If you have any sincere advice, internet, let me know.
I promised myself I wouldn’t write another cat post until at least Thursday, but I was sitting here in the office trying to think of what to write and Marmaduke came in and made a really smelly deposit in the litter box (we put a litter box in the office so that he would stop peeing in my room. He didn’t.). Going to the bathroom whenever I sit down at the desk seems to be his new favorite activity after staring at me when I sleep and plotting my demise.
Anyways, he came in and had a poo, and I had to clean it up and the dusty litter settlement was flying up everywhere and got all over and then I was washing my face off because it was all on my glasses and all I could think about was that the memory of my litter-face was absolutely going to ruin the next experience of romance face-touching I had. Even though, let’s be honest, given my impressive and persistent state of singledom these past many months, a romantic face-touching encounter is not likely to occur soon. Yet I digress.
So now I’m sitting here trying to write or at least start my blog post for tomorrow and all I can think about it my smelly-poo-life-ruining-Prozac-taking asshole of a cat and how much I wish that my parents had gotten me a goldfish when I (according to them) asked for a cat those many years ago, because goldfish are too stupid be be depressed and I never would have had to shovel its dirty poo because they only live for about 2 days anyways.
In an effort to start liking my cat (which is not going well especially after tonight’s litter face incident), I decided to start trying to play with the thing. However, it’s been somewhat rough going because a) he’s clinically depressed and hates everything and b) he’s never really been into “playing” beyond hitting my dogs in the face and trying to suffocate various family members under his fat lumpy ass. However, I have succeeded in invented a game for cats which Marm and I both enjoy.
Well, I enjoy playing it, at any rate. Close enough.
The game is called Phantom Cat.
You will need-
– A cat.
– A hiding place.
– A terrible sense of humor.
The cat always loses.
1. Wait until your cat is sleeping or resting peacefully.
2. Hide nearby. Make sure he doesn’t see you hiding. This can be as simple as getting up on the table in the dining room or as complicated as painting yourself in the same pattern as your wallpaper.
3. Meow loudly until he wakes up. Continue to meow as he wakes up and starts to look around for the “phantom cat”.
4. When he figures it out, tell him it was the dog.
Serves you right, poo cat.
So one of my New Year’s resolutions was to fall back in love with my cat, Marmaduke. I have been trying really hard to do this. It is an uphill battle. It does not help that my parents don’t like him either and that he’s quite possibly a sociopath.
I’ve taken to calling him Meowmix because friends give each other nicknames and I thought I would try to encourage a light, familiar sort of relationship. He doesn’t respond to it, but then again, he doesn’t respond to his actual name either.
We had a positive interaction the other day I thought I might share. I gave him a piece of steak and scratched him behind the ears and he quite tenderly sunk his claws into my leg and tried to chew my hand off. I mean, he did lose all of his teeth somehow (I’m still a little clueless on that front) so it was more of a furious gumming. But there was almost a glint of love in his cold, calculating, hate filled gaze.
I even put a little extra food in his bowl the other day and he thanked me by drooling into my sneakers. I though he might be hungry because he was stealing dog food pellets out of Pepper’s dish, but later I found it on the floor across the room, so I think Marm was just trying to make it slightly less convenient for my pup to eat dinner.
I’ve talked about my least favorite animal in the house already, Marmaduke, but I haven’t told you you about the stars of the show yet. I have three pets total- Marmaduke, who I’ve talked about in great length, Patty Mayonnaise, and Dr. Pepper. Dr. Pepper’s name is technically Peppermint so together the two dogs are Peppermint Patty, but I categorically refuse to refer to them in that way. Honestly, I generally refer to them as “D’awwwwww” and “Who’s a good boy you areeeee”.
Patty is slightly older then Pepper- we got her about a year before we got him. She’s now almost three. They are technically half siblings from the same breed / family as our old dog Mackintosh.
They are Alaskan Goldens, which means they are bred as sled dogs and they are about mini horse sized. This does not make them as smart as mini horses. I think between the two of them, they could maybe figure out “sit”. On a good day.
Fun facts- Patty is terrified of heights. Peppermint is pretty convinced that the cat is a chew toy. They’re both pretty awesome pillows.