Failing student excuses

Yes, this is basically how it goes.

Sunday Red-Boots Kittehs: 9/25/11

Clark E. Pie has claimed my stylish, nap-friendly red boots as his favorite new spot. Meanwhile, the silver-plated candlesticks in the background add haphazard elegance to the picture.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PIXIE & GUY!

Iz ur birfdai, Pixie & Guy!
Iz ur birfday, kthxbai!

(Photo from I Can Has Cheezburger, of course.)

Getting dressed with the Colonel

ME: You've got your underwear on inside-out.
COL: So? My fat ass and my pecker can't tell the difference.

Puffy Paws Kitty Haven: Please Help a Worthy Cause!

Recently, I found out about this wonderful shelter for FIV+ and other special-needs kitties. Puffy Paws Kitty Haven is located in Englewood, Florida, and provides end-of-life care for over 200 terminally ill and handicapped cats.

The folks at Puffy Paws are in desperate financial straits these days, and need $800 to pay their Florida Power & Light bill. Can you help? Every penny goes straight to food, litter, utilities, and veterinary care for the multitude of cats who would otherwise have nowhere to go. Even a small donation helps! I've sent my wee contribution along via PayPal.

You too can give a little by clicking here to go to their website. Thanks!

UPDATE, 9/22/2011: I just got an e-mail from Puffy Paws—they raised the money and paid their utility bill! Thank you, E&P readers! Your contributions made all the difference in the world to Puffy Paws and the 230 kitties in their care.

Fancy seeing YOU here!

As I refilled the chickens' food and water Monday evening, Lucky suddenly got very excited at something in the bushes between the chicken-pen fence and the neighbors' garage.

Not a big surprise; lots of critters wind up in that 24-inch-wide space, especially in the early evening. "Hush, Lucky," I said. "You don't need a possum, okay?" I didn't know what it was, but that was my educated guess.

But he wouldn't leave it alone, whatever it was. He stood at the corner of the fence and chicken pen, staring into the bushes and barking his fool head off. I finished up with the chickens, then cleared some sticks out of the yard and refilled his and Bella's water dish. He paid me no heed, and still barked at whatever lurked in the shadows. Crazy dog.

Ten minutes later, I went back into the chicken pen to deliver treats---this time, a few dry cat food kibbles and grated carrots. As I stood watching the birds nomnomnom their treats, I looked again into the dark, leafy area between the fence and garage. What the hell was Lucky still barking at?

Lo and behold! There was Skunk. Yes, that same kitteh who bit me almost two months ago as I tried to round her up for Small Town Cat Savers' "spay day." There she sat atop an old tire, staring daggers at me.

"Well, well! Fancy seeing YOU here!" I said sweetly as I walked slowly toward the fence.

"RrrrrrRRRRR!" Skunk replied. "Hccccchhhhhh!" Her eyes got huge as I approached, and her fur stood out all over.

I could only laugh. "You're still yourself, big girl!" She looked healthy and well-fed; I guessed she'd been eating the food I put out neat the shed and on the front porch. "Don't worry. I might be crazy, but I'm not stupid. I'm NOT going to pet you, cat. Not after what happened last time."

200K

Boo-Boo the Wonder Truck rolled past 200,000 miles yesterday afternoon. A member of the family since 1991, when my dad bought her for Pixie's 16th birthday, Boo-Boo is a faithful, sturdy companion...and the best $850 I ever spent.

Friday Busy-Week Kittehs: 9/16/11

Joy loves to snuggle with Mama. That's a lot easier now that all the books and papers are off the recliner. Isn't Joy's expression sweet? And isn't her crooked ear adorable?

Readers may remember Joy's urinary tract infection, and her subsequent week-long hospital stay, a few months back. When my bent-eared girl came home from Dr. Mike's, she smelled funny, and had lost her rank in the kitteh social order. So new/mean kitty Amber picked on Joy more than ever, which meant that Joy couldn't easily get to the litter box or water dish---both critical for any species recovering from a UTI. The best thing I've figured out so far is keeping Joy mostly sequestered in the guest room so she can use the potty without other cats interfering.

While this has been great for Joy's health, it's also meant that we don't get to spend a lot of time together. I still can't bring myself to make Amber an indoor/outdoor cat, and I don't know how else to deal with her being so aggressive toward Joy other than keeping Joy safe in the back room most of the time. So every day, I bring sweet 12-year-old Joy into the den, where we either sit in the recliner and cuddle, or she sits behind my butt in the computer chair. Joy's a snuggler who, in my sister's words, "takes the phrase 'lap kitty' to a whole new level."

Wut yu want?

I'z bout 2 nomnomnom mai toez. Maek it kwik.

How old is that in alarm-clock years?

Since 1988, I've had the same alarm clock. My dad decided one day that I needed my own alarm clock, and out of the blue brought home this cute little model. I still recall how odd it was that he'd gone to the trouble of choosing a clock for me, but not for my sister. If Daddy bought one of us a gift just for the heck of it, he always did so for the other. "Umm...thanks?" I probably said as I took the new clock upstairs to set it up.

Some people are alert and cheerful from the moment their alarms ring. (They're also delusional, these shiny happy morning people, but that's a rant for another post.) Others, such as the Colonel, rarely need to use an alarm. Whether due to their years in the military, on a farm, or doing shift work, Their body clocks are set to "ring" at around the same time every morning; some can "set" themselves to wake up a little earlier or later, if need be. And the majority of people, from what I understand, may not eagerly await the first gronk! gronk! gronk! of their alarm clocks, but within half an hour or so are awake enough to roll out of bed and make themselves a cup of coffee.

And then there are people like me, a very small percentage of the population, for whom waking up is the most difficult part of their entire day. I don't mean that we slap the alarm clock a time or two. I don't mean that we're groggy for a little bit but quickly get rolling. The monstrous difficulty I'm talking about borders on disabling—especially when you consider how much of our lives after kindergarten takes place at eight-o'goddamn-clock in the morning.

I've been this way as long as I can remember. When we were kids on summer vacation, I would yell and throw things at my sister when she tried to wake me up before I was ready. Pixie has long been a morning person, though never the type to spout platitudes and Cheshire Cat-like smiles. Often, Pixie just wants to share her excitement about the brand-new day, just as she did back then.

Regardless of her good intentions—or anyone else's—sleep was all I wanted. Back then, neither I nor anyone else understood that my extreme grogginess in the morning, and my inability to fall asleep before midnight, wasn't a function of sloth, apathy, rebellion, or latent criminality. Although now that I think about it, in my dad's family, not getting up at the ass-crack of dawn like all the other lemmings still IS considered a sin. (And they wonder why Pixie and I disowned them.)

No, we didn't know back then of the neurological hardwiring that makes ADHD people different from others. "Sorry" or "lazy" or "needs an ass-whipping" was what people called those whose brains and bodies require three or four hours of slapping the alarm clock just to roll out of bed and be semi-conscious until noon or 1:00pm. It's pretty obvious when I look back, but at the time nobody knew. And if they had known, I'm sure some would've stuck to "lazy" or "unmotivated" to sum me up.

It's because of the miracle that is ADHD medication that I'm now able to wake up after only an hour or so of alarm-slapping, instead of the previous two to four hours. It keeps me calm, focused, and productive—all of which I could rarely sustain for more than a few days before my diagnosis. The meds make it possible for me to awaken early and get things done, even though I don't think I'll ever be enthusiastic about doing so.

Which brings me back to my 23-year-old alarm clock. It's older than many of my students; it can drive, vote, drink, and enlist in the military. Nearly every day since I was 14, I've awakened to the same startling wonnnnk-wonnnnk-wonnnnk and hit the same snooze button to catch just a few more Zs. This clock has called many places home: our house in Boogerville; various college dorm rooms; my apartment in Athens; my two apartments in Small Town; the Happy Kitten Cottage. It has seen people and kittehs come and go; it has seen me through a dozen job changes and a thousand crises. Chances are that Daddy didn't expect it to last very long; after all, I could be hateful and violent in the morning.

But for a cheap electronic item made in China over two decades ago, the little clock has shown remarkable longevity. It's lasted for so long that its once-cream-colored plastic case has slowly changed to butterscotch yellow. Its lines and greenish-yellow digital display whisper "late 1980s" just as my grandmother's mint-green Big Ben alarm clock shouted "late 1950s." Even though I'll never be the type to hear it and say, "Hallelujah! It's time to get up," I'm grateful that it's been with me all these years. It's an everyday item, but special because of how hard my dad would laugh if he could see me still waking up to it at the age of 37.

One way that veterinarians estimate a dog's age is by multiplying each year of the dog's life times seven. This unassuming little alarm clock is 23 years old in people years. How old does that make it in alarm-clock years?

Friday OOOF! Kittehs: 9/9/11

What a week! Thank goodness it's finally over. If this crazy pace keeps up---and so far, nothing indicates that it won't---I'll have to rename my home the Busy Kitten Cottage. Whew! Can't I sit down for a minute before the next life-or-death-important task?

Even Clark E. Pie feels like a wrung-out dishrag. But after he lay in that first position a while, he recovered enough to roll over on his side and snooze. That furry smile totally makes my day.

Pie? Wake up, big boy. Mama's got to put sheets on the bed. C'mon, Pie. Clarky? [deep sigh] It can wait. Guess I'll just take a snooze with my big tabby kitteh.

Fall in the air, kitties in the house

Thanks to Tropical Storm Lee (or what was left of it), we finally got some nice, steady rain in Small Town. Whew!

Last week's high temps reached into the mid-90s, so you can imagine my surprise this morning when I stepped onto the front porch in my usual summer-weight nightgown to feed the kitties. EEEK! 59 degrees and rainy feels COLD! But surprisingly, the outdoor kittehs haven't welcomed cool weather. You'd figure they'd be all kinds of sprawled out, since today's high was only 63.

Oh, the felinity! So many cats trying to get indoors and out of the cold, wet weather! For just $1 a day, you can make a difference in the lives of kittehs who know a sucker when they see one. Make your check payable to Starving & Freezing Kitty Foundation, 123 Cottage Street, Small Town, GA.

Mm-hmm, sure. The riblets stick out so badly on these poor, malnourished HKC cats. Top to bottom: Kamakura (first two), Martha Ann (aka Squirrel, #3), and Smokey (aka Flowmaster, #4) very rarely stay inside all night. In the last photo, all three share the bed with Clark as a pair of glowing eyes watches from the living room. The shadowy body looks like Hobo, though if I didn't know any better I'd say it's the ghost of my sister's late, great Madeleine.

Labor Day Chicken Monday: 9/5/11

Ummmm...chickens?

What are you doing outside the coop at 10:00 at night? I mean, I know it's cool out, but shouldn't you be safe inside? You know, heads under wings, perched on roosts, et cetera? Why are you walking around clucking when it's dark out?

This is what all the commotion's about? Little part-Siamese Emmylou on the chicken-house roof? With her one little cream-dipped paw?

The chickens are easily twice her size, but they still think this little kitteh is fierce. All righty, then.

Overheard at a funeral

B: Who's that talking up there now?
A: You don't recognize her?
B: Uh-uh.
A: That's Barbara.
B: Barbara?
A: Gene's first wife. Lives in the trailer over on—
B: [gasps] No way!
C: Yes way!
B: Damn. She sure has aged.
A: More like "put on 50 pounds."

*******

Preacher: So she asked that everyone be allowed to stand at the graveside, family and friends, and everyone who wanted to could stand up and say one thing about her, good OR bad. ...
C: Aww, that's sweet.
B: No, it ain't.
C: Why not?
B: [points] First up is Jeffrey, with Amber in the on-deck circle...
A: Shit. We're gonna be here all day.

*******

A: Your grandma just looooved to talk.
B: Yep. So it's fittin' how she died: eyes closed, mouth open.

*******

A: When your mama and daddy pass on, what's your brother gonna do?
B: Without.

Friday Contented Kittehs: 9/2/11

Clark E. Pie looked so peaceful and happy the other morning, and as I snapped these photos I could hear his fierce purring. That's my sweet, cuddly, large-and-in-charge boy!