Tagged: dog

Grad school in memes.

Oh, internet. I have been trying to stay away from you. Waiting on grad school is officially one of the worst things ever. It’s right up there with people that talk with food in their mouths and getting a speeding ticket for going 6 miles over when you were just about to break, officer, you swear you were. 

I’ve just been sitting here on my computer refreshing my internet and my email over and over and over again. It’s like the least exciting video game you’ve ever played. I go on grad cafe and type the names of my various schools into the results search and just stare at the screen going WHY DID THAT PERSON HEAR BACK TWO DAYS AGO AND I HAVEN’T???!!??!?!?

I was planning on writing an elegant piece on gender politics, but I just refreshed my email 4 more times between these two paragraphs, so I think it’s in my best interest to leave that till Saturday and go find some where without internet to chill out and read Cloud Atlas or something.

Peace out, y’all. I’ll leave you with this pictures as a testament to my thoughts on applying to grad school:

I applied super casual like:

hnwcassandra bear

And then it sunk in like:

hnw cassandra dog pool

So now I feel:

hnw cassandra ostrich

But hopefully next week it’ll be like:

hnw cassandra baby

Phantom Cat

Ugh.

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.

Not pictured above- An accurate representation of my life.

Not Pictured – An accurate representation of my life.

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.

Rules-

The cat always loses.

Game Play-

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.

marmpissed

Not Pictured – Family fun.

Serves you right, poo cat.

Definitely a dog person.

My new year’s resolution this year is to stop hating my cat. This may sound overdramatic, but let me assure you, there is no love lost between me and good ole Marm.

This guy.

This guy.

We picked Marmaduke out at the SPCA during my freshman year of high-school. My parents tell me that I was begging them to let me get a cat at this stage of my life. I do not remember this and will staunchly and forever refute the validity of this claim. I do remember that Marm was in one of those single occupancy cells that they reserve for “troubled animals” and that the SPCA volunteers told us that he was a mouser of uncertain age, a tabby of some sort who was fully mature and could handle dogs. Unfortunately, only one of those statements ended up being true.

Our faithful golden retriever, Mackintosh, was seven or eight when we brought the cat home, and everyone held their breath when the two were introduced. Happily, they hit it off right away, and given that Mack was about as courageous as a bag of lettuce and Marmaduke was and remains completely apathetic about everything, the two somewhat complemented each other. They were fast friends for the next five years, until Mackintosh passed away in the summer of 2010.

BFFS.

BFFS.

That’s when the cat lost his shit.

There are people out there who would tell you that animals don’t grieve. Those people are wrong. Marmaduke had always been a somewhat surly, sedentary, snarky sort of fellow, prone to fighting with the neighbour’s cats and destroying our furniture, but after Mack peacefully passed away of old age on the floor of my bedroom, Marm’s temperament went south. He actively started picking fights with our two new puppies, Patti Mayonnaise and Dr. Pepper. He lost most of the teeth in his mouth one day, lord knows how. He began kicking the litter out of his clean litter box and going to the bathroom on the floor.

The worst part? I swear to you on my gigantic collection of nail polish that Marm thinks I had something to do with Mack’s death, because he has been systematically searching out my things and PEEING ON THEM to the extent that the door to my room is now closed at all times. This cat, who was never my best bud but who once deigned to sit on my lap and allowed me to scratch behind his ears, suddenly thinks that he’s the Dalek to my Doctor and everything I hold dear must be exterminated.

I realize I may seem like a psychotic cat abuser or crazy sociopath or something, but I have no idea how to enjoy even being in the presence of this creature any more. I am not stingy on the cat food he likes. I am not above slipping him a bit of tuna from the sushi plate. I even gave him an empty box for Christmas (he was nonplused). The cat remains hostile towards me and my things.

I need cat help, Internet. Any suggestions?

Update on the Cat, January 8th, 2013
Kitty Prozac, January 17th, 2013