A Warning

“Dear” Mike’s Cat:

Please be advised that up to this point I have been exceedingly forgiving of your poor attitude and refusal to be a player on Team Geer.  It is now four o’clock in the morning and, although you have let me sleep an extra two hours this morning, I feel compelled to inform you that my position on the Humane Society is rapidly swinging to a dangerous end of the spectrum.  What once sounded cruel and heartless is now sownding more and more like the appropriate response to your terroristic behavior.

Please allow me to explain something to you:  I sleep poorly to begin with.  I have a beach ball strapped to my abdomen.  I am a stomach sleeper.  It is not fun to wake up realizing that I’ve rolled onto my beach ball and that the human beings inside my beach ball are probably being deprived of oxygen.  Therefore, when I happen to have a good night, and find myself still dreaming at two, three, or four in the morning, I would like it to stay that way.  I would not like to wake up to the sound of your deep-throated howling.

At what could you possibly feel frustrated?  The dynamics of my entire househould were thrown into upheval the moment you entered.  Everything, everything, in this house revolves around you, oh feline queen of all that is dramatic.  Verily, verily, you are without a doubt, the most blatant example of everything about a cat that makes people not like cats.  You are the reason that I – who love cats dearly – can understand why some people don’t.

You scratch my walls.  You scratch my couch.  You scratch my cats.  The only things you don’t scratch are me and my husband which, it is my belief, is true only due to the fact that you are just smart enough to realize that, were you to scratch one of the bipedal creatures you consider your staff, you would find yourself (to borrow and adapt a phrase from one of the greatest skits of all time) in a burlap sack down by the river.

You refuse to allow any of the other cats in the house, who all got along reasonably well before your arrival, near you.  You sit behind the futon in the living room or in front of the mirror in the dining room, dolling out the stink eye as if you are somehow better than everyone else.  You have an attitude about you that reeks of condescension.  Were you human, you would take the form of an emo teenager.  You would probably cut yourself superficially, not due to a legitimate psychological issue with which I would be able to empathize, but due to your own patholocial narcissism, which would merely annoy me.

We are about to have twin human babies in this house.  I would like them to eventually sleep through the night.  In order to do that, they will need you to cease this outrageous rending of the peace and quiet of the household.  I have hitherto been, in my opinion, exceedingly forgiving of the many faults I find in your personality – even with new and greater faults emerging almost daily.  My patience and forgiveness were tested most recently, almost to their breaking point, three weeks ago when you ate an entire tray full of vegetable seedlings, I can only assume, as an act of willful defiance.  A statement that you have no regard for the rules of good behavior that ought to dictate the behavior of even the most antisocial feline.  Believe me when I say that I understand feline personality, and I embrace it.  Sometimes I wish I could emulate the casual aloofness that your kind is so well known for and exemplify it in my own lifestyle.  But you, Cat, are proving unmanageable.

Surely you must know that when humans lose too much sleep they tend to become cranky.  You must also be aware, regardless of the fact that you act foolish, that our possession of opposable thumbs puts us at a distinct advantage over you.  Were you to have evolved with an ability to manipulate your surroundings sufficiently it might be us renting rooms from you.  Sadly for you, this is not the case.  My soft heart is calcifying daily, and at a more and more rapid speed.  You are in dangerous territory and I feel compelled to warn you what awaits if you persist in this truly senseless behavior.

Instead of lounging in front of a wall heater, striking fear into my walls, couch, and other cats, you may find yourself crouched at the door of a steel cage with your litterbox located only inches from your food bowl.  Instead of striking fear into the hearts of the other cats that surround you – now crowded around you rather than hovering nervously a few feet away – you will be the object of all of their hatred, both righteous and displaced.  You will still howl nightly, but rather than being greeted by your father or myself coming down the stairs to placate you, you will find yourself howling yourself hoarse until morning, when someone will come to feed you kibble that is far, far below the standard you’ve come to expect.  And no one – please believe me when I say this – no one is going to adopt you.  Ever.

I urge you to modify your behavior to bring yourself within the scope of acceptability.  I can only take so much.


The Woman Who’s Running This Show

Author’s Note:  This really needs some heavy editing, but I felt compelled to publicly declare the conflict and then attempt more rest.  Line edits will come later.

Just Sharing

I am having a bad morning.  Arguments with the domestic partner.  A cat – his cat – who’s eaten the seedlings I was lovingly nursing to life, that I might feed our small family homegrown peas, zucchini, cucumbers, spinach, and red peppers this summer.  Now the oil-and-water combination of guilt at having told him he was being a “prick” and indignation at the knowledge that he, perhaps, wasn’t being a full-on prick, but that he was acting like a giant, hairy man-baby.  Progesterone.  Progesterone flooding my brain like rum, but so so much less fun.  Making me unsure whether my indignation is on solid ground.  Whether I’m actually indignant at all.  Or maybe just pregnant.  Prowling a blog written by a girl I went to high school with who, like all the girls I went to high school with, seems to have her shit so much more together than I do.  Her blog led me to this.  And I wanted to share it.  It made me think of my OB.

I have to sign a waiver stating that I want my tubes tied after I deliver our twins.  That I understand that it’s permanent.  That I really, really want it done.  Then I have to wait 30 days.  If I were to go into labor prior to my 30 days being up – an entirely possible scenario, given that twins often come early and I’m into my 8th month – my OB would be legally obligated to leave my tubes intact.  My insurance will be cut off almost immediately upon delivery, because my husband makes too much money for me to have medicaid if I’m not a surrogate for a uterine parasite or two.  I will not be allowed, then to have my tubes tied.

Except that my OB is fabulous and understands that it’s “absurd” for him to treat me based on the moral position of the State of Pennsylvania rather than on my own wishes.  Hearing that from him was a truly empowering experience. I’ve never, ever had a doctor make me feel as though what I wanted was priority one.  I’m pretty sure none of them up to this point could even have told me my own name without consulting my chart.  In fact, the fat shit practitioner I’ve blogged about previously has actually called me by the wrong name – and had the wrong patient chart pulled up at the beginning of our meeting – twice now.  So…my confidence in doctors is shaky at best.

But doctors like this one, like mine, give me the warm fuzzies.  As a woman, I find the idea that any doctor would feel any different both discouraging and frightening.