I believe I’m destined to be forced into wearing a rather gaudy accessory, one which promises to be exceptionally unflattering. Especially when I’m wearing a dress and heels. Wait, who am I kidding? That scenario only happens at weddings and funerals. But I digress…
What’s this accessory I’m referring to? A neck brace, that’s what. Now don’t get me wrong. I didn’t fall over the doggie gate (again) and wrench my pencil neck. No, it’s much worse; it seems my cat Tippi prefers to sleep across said neck every night, as opposed to snoozing in one of many pet beds spread about the house.
It’s my fault. I’m a big push-over, unwilling to insist my cat slumber on a body part impervious to suffocation. Owning a cat weighing the equivalent of a 10 lb. sack of sugar draped across one’s windpipe, is not exactly conducive to a restful night’s sleep. Consequently, I have a rather annoying neck kink.
Remember a few weeks back when I blogged about my cat, Tippi, who had a major personality change? (When a Cat Loves a Woman.) Being a tortie, she can be a bit of a bitch if you want to know the truth. Now don’t get me wrong; she’s a good bitch. Tippi holds her own among my 7 other pets and she’s the tiniest of them all, so it’s essential she not be a pushover.
Tippi probably weighs 7 lbs soaking wet, although she’s never soaking wet. Since I value my life, I’d never give a tortie a bath. Do you think I’m an idiot? That’s a rhetorical question but I suspect you were quick to answer. Still, my 7 lb. kitty has absolutely no fear and I just love that about her.
You should see Tippi in action. My cat, Fat Jack, who causes all kinds of mayhem by frequently pouncing on my other two felines, Savannah and Oliver, always gives a wide berth when strolling by Tippi. And he’s twice her size. She scares the bejeebers out of him…just another thing I love about her.
Why he’s called Fat Jack
A while back I was blogging once a month about things I find ridiculous. And let me tell you, I find LOTS of things ridiculous. So I had to give the posts different titles. After all, I couldn’t exactly title them all, Don’t Be Ridiculous. Well, I guess I could. But I didn’t. (Click on the title to read that posting.)
Now don’t get me wrong. You may think I’m shamelessly promoting those past postings, urging you through not-so-subliminal suggestions to click away, thereby increasing my readership. How dare you think that! Would I do that to you? Well friends, as a matter of fact, yes.
Anyway, some of those ridiculous posts, so to speak, are Are You Kidding Me? and That’s Ridiculous, Chapter 4, to name a couple. Hey, I warned you I find the ridiculous in many places. But since I haven’t complained in a while concerning this topic, it’s about time I did again, don’t you think? Continue reading
As you may know if you’re a faithful reader of my blog, I became The Bitch at my tennis club a month or so ago. If this is news to you, check out my post, Don’t Mess With Me. Don’t worry, I’ll wait while you read it. Okay, all finished? Now that’s you’re all caught up, let’s proceed, shall we? Anyway, since my recent crowning, I’ve not had occasion to rinse and repeat. That is, not until last week.
Something I’ve learned during my years on earth is that there are double standards. When a woman stands up for herself, she’s a bitch. When a man does, he’s assertive. But now that I have a reputation of sorts, I’m branching out. I’m riding this bitch-thing like a surfer on a really rad wave. Is that the correct terminology? I’ve never surfed so I’m just guessing here.
Trapping feral cats for sterilization means encountering something different each day. It’s the fun aspect of this work. Now don’t get me wrong; that doesn’t mean it’s one big party. On the contrary. The list of unpleasantness is long, but I’ll refrain from boring you with most of that.
Needless to say, working with Marin Friends of Ferals has its moments…I’ve broken my finger, been bitten through my knuckle by a kitten barely bigger than my hand, been saturated with poison oak and nearly lost the tip of my pinky from another bite. Scrapes and bruises come with the territory from efforts to spay and neuter feral community cats, yet I love what I do. But as it turns out, love hurts.
One joy of the job includes meeting new people and traveling to places in Marin County (and beyond) where I don’t often venture. For instance, last week a family in Sebastopol contacted us wanting 4 ferals for rodent control on their 5-acre spread. Continue reading