The Iron Paws of Turd

Janeane, I know what you mean!! That hilarious bit about the shit being a tangible metaphor for life has suddenly turned into a nightmarish reality for me. Except I’m not talking about dogs but a cat who has single-pawedly imprisoned me in an endless cycle of poopy scooping. Chimney, who I am hereby dubbing Warden Lard-ass, has me handcuffed and gagged on a no-parole sentence to do his bidding and cleaning the mounds of joy he manages to excrete on a daily basis. Just let me know when to start donning a black-and-white striped shirt with the letter P emblazoned on the back and I’ll hop to.

In the meantime, Warden Lard-ass continues to grow a Friskies belly whilst ravaging my once peaceful and stench-free living quarters. That’s one other thing. The fact that only his belly is bloated and his face remains thin to a point where he has assumed the shape of a lightbulb remains a mystery to me. Maybe he should get dewormed.

In any case, I’m including this short clip to give me something to commiserate with. We inmates gotta stick together.

 

Intruder Alert!

 

Finally! After patiently waiting for him to go through his usual shenanigans, I managed to take a picture of Chimney as he was about to fall asleep.

He may seem like he’s dying in the photo. He’s not. This is the rare lull before the full-fledged hurricane that usually ensues after the Energizer batteries are recharged by a short nap.

Because of this, I am seriously rethinking ever having any kids of my own. I don’t think my nerves were built to withstand the ruckus.

 

Invasion Of The Fur Person

How’s this for a personal ad: Single, half-white, somewhat morose-looking female in her mid-twenties. Lives alone (most of the time anyway) in a two bedroom apartment…with a cat. Enticing eh?

Yes, you read it right. I, through no fault of my own, am the reluctant new ”human” of a three month old Siamese kitten who seems to have been force-fed a bagfull of 9 volt Energizer batteries by his previous owners. The fuzzball just won’t stop running all over the place. And if he’s not busy chasing imaginary bugs around the living room, he bites my big toe.

Thanks to him, the entire dynamic of my daily routine has been twisted into who-knows-what. For one, going in and out of the front door has turned into a covert operation that requires both cunning and speed. My kitchen reeks of kitty litter stench. Plus I have to keep an eye out lest he bites into the electrical wiring and fries himself into a crisp.

And what be the little fuzzball’s name you ask? The truth is, we don’t know. When I first got the text message informing me of this great life changing event, I thought I’d name him Midnight. Then I saw him and realized he was too riotous to be given such an earnest sounding name. Then we thought we’d name him Bangs after the kitten I had growing up. But then again Bangs “the First” got run over by a truck. Too portentous. For a few days we called him Scraps. That is until the Post-it Queen vetoed it. Apparently there exists an unspoken rule that pets should have names ending in “Y” as it makes it easier to prolong the last syllable when you’re losing your patience. Makes sense.

So for now his name is Chimney. Because his extremities are considerably darker than the rest of his body, he looks like he just finished cleaning one. Or the bottom of a pot, depending on what part of the world you’re in. 

I have a feeling it might change still. I’m not too worried. It’s not like he responds to any of these appellations anyhow. Still we need something decent to label him with or we shall have to resort to calling him some inane epithet like “Mimeow”. I’m open to suggestions.

In the meantime, I’m off to scoop up the poop. Fun.