Dang, It's Hot!

Nothing much happening with the Specks in Speckville these days. It is just too danged hot to do anything.

Temp at 5:45pm in the shade:



But it feels like:
Thank goodness the humidity is lower than normal or it would be even worse.

The animals are too hot to care about anything either. This squirrel is laid out at the base of the tree not too far off our front porch.

Cheezburger the Porch Cat knows the squirrel is there and is too hot to care. He has been laid out on the porch watching the squirrel about 15 minutes. He's too hot to bother about getting up and getting himself an easy squirrel snack.

The squirrel knows the cat is there and is too hot to care. He must figure becoming a squirrel snack may be a good alternative to suffering in the heat.

It is just too danged hot.

Tormenting the Cat

Because we are old and have no children, we entertain ourselves by tormenting the cat with hi-tech gadgetry.

Yes, we need to Get a Life.

The Squeeeeky Potty

Late last night I went stumbling into the bathroom half asleep in the semi-darkness. There's just enough light from a night light so that I don't run into anything. I check to be sure the seat is down because Hubby always leaves it up. (touch, touch, touch) Yep, it's OK, I'm good to go.

I sit down and I hear a squeeeeeeeeet! noise. I recognized the sound. It means the potty has developed a slow leak and the squeeeee noise is the tank topping off. "Dang!" I think to myself, "Gotta tell Hubby to fix that."

But usually sitting down doesn't make it squeeeee. That's odd. So I wiggle a little bit and it squeeeeeees again. Weird.

Then I felt a tickle on my right elbow. OK, wide awake now.

I turn to see whiskers poking out from behind me. It was Smudge the all-white kitty! She must have been standing on the back of the potty seat about to get a drink when I sat down and squished her against the lid. It was her making that squeeeeee noise.

She's the same white as the potty lid so I missed her in the gloom. I felt so guilty.

I squeeeed back at her as I jumped up all aghast. Why hadn't the silly kitty moved when she saw my big be-hind coming?!?

She didn't seem all that upset about being squished and didn't run away. She nonchalantly circled the rim, sniffed a bit, then went in for a drink. Of course the germy potty water tastes *much* better than the water in the sparkling clean kitty bowl. She drank and drank and drank and drank.

I felt pretty foolish after a while standing there with my undies around my ankles watching the cat drink from the toilet.

I finally hiked up the ol' Granny Pannies and went off to find a camera. Had to rummage around for a while to find it. Figured Smudge would be long gone by the time I got back, but oh no, she was still there lapping away. Took several pics.



As I sat there in the early morning darkness watching her I thought, "Man, the sacrifices we make for our kitties."

Stoopid cat.

And I still had to pee.

Next time I'll flip on the light.

Rainy Day Nuthin

A cold, drizzling rain was falling when I woke up this morning. Hubby yelled from the kitchen, "Do you want to skip sheetrocking today and stay home?" I yelled back, "More than life itself!"

So we flopped around in our PJs all day and watched West Wing and numerous episodes of Law & Order. We ate cold pizza for breakfast and warmed over pizza for supper. It was heavenly.

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Cheezburger the Porch Cat has decided he likes it inside better than outside. I won't allow him in until late at night after everyone else has gone to bed. He gets rambunctious with the old lady cats and I don't want them to have a heart attack due to his presence. Poor Chelsea is a rickety 16 years old and she just can't take the excitement.

Cheezburger stayed in all night last night and went outside this morning to eat breakfast. When he was finished he wanted right back in. I'm standing at the front door looking down at him with his nose glued to the storm door waiting for it to open. Hubby is piled up nearby with his coffee and the morning newspaper.

"Your cat wants back in," I say to Hubby.

"So let him in" he replies from behind the paper.

I ponder that a moment. Cheezburger has been in for eight hours or so and he has just eaten breakfast. He probably hasn't left the porch since it's raining. He probably needs to pee and poo and I don't want that happening in the house.

Looking down at the cat I ask, "Have you taken your morning poop somewhere???"

"Yep" replies Hubby very matter-of-factly from behind the sports section.

"Not you, the cat."

Sigh.

Don't old people inquire about each other's colonic activity? Geez. And why would I have included the 'somewhere' part if I was asking Hubby? That's a little more than disturbing. We only have one potty.

"Have you taken your morning poop somewhere Honey?"
"Yep."
"Where exactly?"

I wouldn't want to step in it or anything.


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Cheezburger still has the quick wits of an outside mouser and chases anything that moves. He was sitting on Hubby's desk when something up in the air caught his eye. He meowed that "I'm gonna eat that" meow and started pacing back and forth trying to figure out how to get to it. I couldn't see anything but guessed he had spied a bug up there somewhere. He continued to mewl and started to climb the bookcase.

Finally I figured out he was after the second hand on the wall clock! He worked at it quite a while, long enough for me to get a picture.



This is one big honkin' cat by the way. He is all meat and muscle, so very unlike our little lightweight old lady housecats. If he gets between your feet it's like tripping on a cinderblock.

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Smirk.

It's Good to be The King

Mr. Pibb, our tomcat, has declared himself to be Alpha Male of the household, much to the chagrin of Hubby.

Pibb is the only male critter to ever live with us. All our doggies and kitties have been female. Hubby loves living with a bunch of females, his "girls" as he calls us. Yes, I'm included in that. He spoils us all rotten and we love all over him. He eats that up with a fork and spoon. Purrs all around. Hubby likes being king of his harem.

Well, Pibb has thrown down the gauntlet. He has decided he wants to be king and has challenged Hubby's sovereignty over the household.

The first show of dominance was Friday evening. Hubby was laying in bed reading when suddenly he bolted from the bedroom with Pibb at arm's length and a mortified look on his face. He unceremoniously dumped Pibb on the front porch.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" I asked.

"He was humping my leg!!!!" Hubby exclaimed, obviously all meshuganah.

"So what??? Why did you put him outside?"

"I didn't want cat spooge on my ankle."

(gales of laughter)

"Honey, I think Pibb just made you his bitch."

Hubby hung his head dejectedly, and I laughed and pointed. Hubby pouted for the remainder of the evening and Pibb was banished to the great outdoors.

Saturday Hubby was working at his computer. Pibb chirped at him then jumped in his lap. Pibb crawled on his shoulders, walked along the back of the chair, then started biting Hubby on the ear. Hubby interpreted this behavior as "Pet me NOW dammit!" so he got Pibb into his lap and started petting him. Pibb wriggled free down on the floor. Then Pibb repeated the same lap, shoulders, back, ear biting sequence. Hubby stood up and Pibb jumped into the chair and curled up for a nap. He didn't want pets, he wanted the chair.

Hubby looked down at Pibb just speechless. He couldn't believe he had just been reamed by a cat. He had that same mortified, pouting look. I once again laughed and pointed. Hubby hung his head and sulked off to retrieve a wooden dining table chair.

Hubby worked in that hard chair for the remainder of the afternoon while Pibb slept in the plush, ergonomically-designed computer chair. Much teasing and laughing ensued with Hubby looking gloomier and gloomier.

So this afternoon Hubby declared we were going shopping.

"Shopping??? For what???"

"A new office chair."



Now there are three chairs in our office: Mine, Hubby's and Pibb's.

Tonight Hubby looked down at Pibb napping in his old chair and said, "I hope you're happy now you damned cat."

Pibb just chirped and stretched, turned belly up, and poked his little pink tomcatness out at Hubby.

Yep, it's good to be the king.

Day 1,852 of My Captivity

Smudge doesn't understand why she isn't allowed outside. That nasty old interloping tomcat, Mr. Pibb, goes in and out this door at will. Why oh why can't she???

Smudge was the neighbor's cat actually. When they had a baby in the summer of 2002, Smudge was shooed outside permanently. She hung around on our porch through the summer and fall, all the while being abused by the other neighbor's cat Red Tom. She was very sweet and we lavished pets on her and protected her from Red Tom.

One freezing cold, wet, miserable night, Smudge decided indoors was where she wanted to be and our indoors was the only option available. She darted through our legs and past the dog and two behemoth indoor kitties. She went two laps around the house with the three resident critters hot on her heels. With one superkitty leap she went from the floor to the top of the laundry room cabinet, a distance of at least seven feet. How she managed that will forever remain a mystery since she was declawed and had nothing to grab with.

She remained on top of the laundry room cabinet for about two weeks. In the wee hours of the morning I would hear her thunk down onto the washing machine and to the floor. Eating rattles in the dogfood bowl, scratching noises in the litter box, another thunk up onto the washing machine, rustling noises as she rearranged things on the top of the cabinet, then silence. Thus was her daily existence.

I would climb on top of the washing machine and check on her from time to time. Satanic hisses would be the only greeting. Sheesh! What a grouch. What happened to the sweet kitty who hung around on the front porch???

The other critters knew she was up there but after a while they didn't pay her much notice. She eventually got lonely and wanted to be around us I guess, so she moved from the laundry room to a tall armoire in our bedroom. She would come down in the wee small hours of midnight to take care of necessities, but stayed up there throughout the day for about three weeks.

She mustered her courage one night and came down and slept next to Hubby's head. It took courage because the dog was curled up at Hubby's feet. After that she was Hubby's kitty, this little puff of a marshmallow with four feet and a tail.

We had gotten to know her as the sweet little kitty on the front porch. That was just an act. What we didn't realize was that she was almost feral and couldn't be handled. She was a biter. A BIG biter. If we tried to pick her up she became a yowling, spitting, biting, whirling dervish furball. I blame the biting defense on the de-clawing, but that's a rant for another day.

At her one and only trip to the vet they had to bind her in a fishing catch net to immobilize her for shots. The vet, me, and Smudge decided that's all the vetting she would ever need in her lifetime. She needs brushing but that ain't a-gonna happen. She gets all matted and lumpy during shedding season. To dose her with flea goop requires sneaking up on her while she is asleep then applying said goop with lightning speed. I still end up with bloody scratches and bite marks.

It took about three years before we could pick her up without her biting a big plug out of us. She is still a grouch, but can show a few milliseconds of sweetness. She will lay on Hubby's chest while he's watching TV, but three strokes on the head and a skritch under the chin is all she will tolerate. After that we have learned to LEAVE HER BE. Any touching below the neck will be rewarded with a fang-sinking bite.

I don't know what Smudge's life was like before she came to live with us but it must have been pretty bad. All the animals I've ever had in my life were strays, throw-aways, or abused train wrecks. A little love, food and patience will usually turn the worst attitude into a sweet, loving, snugly pet. Not so with Smudge. She may be permanently damaged goods, but she is ours, for better or worse, and we love our little grouch dearly. And we aren't letting her out the door.

Daddy's Home!

Each day when Hubby comes home from The Daily Grind, I stop what I am doing, run to the door, and greet him happy squeals of "Daddy's Home! Daddy's Home!" He gets a big hug and some sugars. The cats and the dog join in the commotion making all kinds of happy critter noises. It is the highlight of his day and ours. This has been our routine for as long as I can remember. Yes, we call each other "Mommy" and "Daddy" even though all our "children" have fur.

I started the "Daddy's Home!" routine after a conversation with my father. He told me how he never felt as though anyone cared whether he came home or not. He related a story about how he had returned a day early from a two-week trip. (I actually remember this incident.) He opened the door with a bright smile and said, "Hi honey, I'm home!" Mom looked at him rather annoyed and replied, "What are you doing home early???" His smile faded and he stammered that he finished up sooner than expected and they let him go home early. His shoulders sagged as he dragged his suitcase into the house. Mom turned and went back to what she was doing. That was one helluva welcome home.

As I thought about it more, nobody ever greeted him with a smile or a hug; not me, not Mom, not my sisters. I can understand why he felt that way. Poor man, it's a wonder he ever came home at all.

I decided right then that I would not be the wife my mother was. I will greet my hubby at the door with a smile and a hug whether I feel like it or not, whether he's coming home from work, returning from a round of golf, or after running errands for a few hours. I do this because I *am* happy he came home. The world is a big, ugly place with evil forces that can keep my baby from me. One day he may not come home ever again.

I also figure that if I don't welcome him home, some other female surely will....and I'm not talkin' about one with paws.

A Really Bad Day

Our doggie was having trouble breathing. She sounded as if she was drowning because of all the fluid in her lungs. When we called out the vet at 2:00 a.m., I knew what he was going to say. The time had come.

She had been fighting congestive heart failure for several months. Pills three times a day, weight loss, dull coat, coughing, lethargy. It was obvious she didn't feel good, but she tried to be cheerful.

We went to the vet every two weeks whether she needed to or not. I wanted them to see how she was progressing. She was at the maximum dosage on her meds. Last Thursday the vet said there was nothing more that could be done. Keep her happy, keep her quiet, and bring her in if she was having trouble breathing.

I thought we might be able to squeak by another couple of months, but one week later we were making the call. She was in obvious distress and had to have intervention. The vet said it was her time. We signed the papers, said our goodbyes, and held her while she went to sleep for the final time.

We buried her the next day under the Bridal Wreath bush in the backyard.

We loved you very much baby girl. You were a good doggie.

Harching up Hairballs

whulka, whulka, whulll.... whulka, whulka, whulll....

Wait on it, there's always three, here it comes, the Big Finish...

whulka, whulka, WHUUUULLLL.....

This is the sound the kitties make as they harch up a hairball in the early morning darkness, somewhere within a ten-foot radius of my head.

Note to self: Watch your step when you get up in the morning.

Ugh.

People ask what I do as a Domestic Goddess. There it is. I clean up whulka, whulka, whulll two or three times a day. Sometimes I don't find it for a day or two, or I miss the third in the series. It is ever so pleasant to find those crusty little surprises behind the furniture.

Sometimes I miss the corporate world. Fewer cleaning products were involved.

New Digital Camera

Woo Hoo! I finally have a digital camera with a viewfinder so I can actually SEE what I'm taking a picture of. The view screen on my old pocket-sized point-n-shoot was so small I had no idea if I had the camera pointed in the direction of my subject. I'm getting too old and bi-focaled to be peering at a tiny opening at arm's length.

The new camera is a Canon Power Shot S3 IS. It has a 12X zoom so I can get in tight on faces from a distance. Nobody wants a camera six inches from their nose, but those are the photos I want. I can now stand back and let the camera get in their personal space instead of me.

I finally got the picture of my puppy I've been trying to take for so long.