Lessons on How to Turn a Bathroom into a Movie Scene

Its been shamefully long since I last wrote. I don't even want to look at when my last post was for fear of wanting to stab myself in the eyeballs out of disbelief. I realize that this would be a poor choice of reactions considering how eyeballs really do help in proofreading. I may have to think of another alternative.

Because I have nothing better to write about, I figure I shall regale you with a tragic comedy of my day 2 Saturdays past. February 20 started off as most Saturdays, with a bit of sleeping in and relaxing. Sadly, that was not to last long. 4 days prior I had dropped off my little monster at the vet to be declawed and deballed. Its a terrible way to phrase it, perhaps, but true. My little man went in to have his manhood taken away and entered the world of androgyny. I hear its all the rage now. I mean, seriously, who needs a gender? Its the 21st century! (ok, for all of you who don't know me well, that was sarcasm)

One of his paws had been giving him problems, so the vet had kept him an extra 2 whole days. Now, considering how much that little former man impedes on my sleep, one would think this a blessing. However, the mommy in me felt horrible that he was as the nasty wasty vet and not home with his mother. I take much better care of him than anyone else can, after all.

So, to shorten a long, and rather disgusting, story, upon our arrival home, dear mommy opened the crate to discover that the nose curling stench that she smelled on the way home was not the normal vet smell that she thought, but a doozie of a poop. That now covered half of the crate and most of the backend of the little former man. Sweet mother of God.

The next hour or so was spent corralling the little beast in the bathtub, attempting to clean him while trying to be very cautious of his little paws and his... area.... *ahem* It was quite dreadful, as one might imagine. After cleaning off most of the crap (literally, crap), I decided that it would be a good idea to take the cone off. Now, I had instructions from the vet to not take the cone off, because he was likely to go after his stitches. However, his poor back end was drenched. Mommy= -1.

Worst idea ever. For future reference, if your vet tells you to leave the collar on, for the love of God, leave it on. The little former man ripped a stitch. And bled, and bled, and bled. On attempting to stop the bleeding with slight pressure, which I know must have hurt, he managed to blow a stitch in the other paw from all the struggling. Which then also bled, and bled, and bled. For hours. Now, I'm not talking a little blood. I'm talking he would shake his paw and a spray of blood would cover the cabinets. It was like something straight out of a bad slasher movie.

I waited, I think a rather reasonable amount of time, before completely freaking out and taking him to the little former mancat doctor, also known as the emergency vet. Never in my life did I think I would be taking my animal to the emergency room. However, after seeing a bathtub covered in blood, it was just more than I could handle. Plus, there's only so much of that stuff in something as small as a cat. In the back of my head, I was pretty certain that he was going to bleed out and die or something. Yes, I realize that that may have been a bit of a dramatic reaction. But, seriously, think slasher movie. There was alot of blood.

Anyway, the little former man recovered from his plight and bleeding wounds. Mommy, on the other hand, suffered from emotional trauma for the next 5 days. I believe that I am on the road to recovery as well. Its entirely possible that I may need some serious counseling. There may never be another declawed cat in my future. Ever.

How Oliver Found His Meow

I do believe that baby kitten meows are among the worst sounds in the world. My ears are currently bleeding from that very noise. Oliver has gotten somewhat better with his kitten-ness in terms of being calmer perhaps one half of one percent more often. This doesn't really equate to very much, but I'll take it.

His "growing up" also brought with it the maturation of a real live meow, rather than pathetic little squeak that use to emit from his little jaws. I actually felt bad for the poor sucker, what with not being able to really meow. I mean, isn't that part of being a cat? Its like the crowning glory of cathood, alot with a flowing tail. Considering I had one cat unable to meow, and another without a tail, things weren't looking so good in the household. Its rather tragic now that I think about it.

Well, silly me. Actually feeling sorry for the poor beast and his inability to meow. Whatever was I thinking? Clearly, I was not. About 2 weeks ago, Oliver found his meow. I rather wish he would loose it. Misplace it, perhaps. Even just forget he has it. Whatever the case may be, I would like it gone.

His naughtiness finds him locked out of the bedroom every night. He is not so much a fan of this situation. Being the pathetic little mancat that he is, he wants to snuggle and play with mommy at night when mommy is trying very hard to sleep. Mommy has to get up for work in the morning, unlike the little mancat. By the stroke of midnight, the little monster is oft romping around in the living room, being denied access to mommy's bedchambers. This was fine... until 2 weeks past.

The whole discovery of the meow has made the nightly ritual a bit more painful. Within 2 minutes of the door shutting, the meowing starts. And then continues... and continues. This typically last for at least 15 minutes. And then if I wake during the night, I hear it again. And then again in the morning. Its fun. Really. By fun, I mean its like raking screws across a chalkboard. Its enough to make one cringe. Not to mention the fact that I feel horrible because the poor little monster really just wants to snuggle and play with mommy.

I'm a mean, mean mommy.