Me at Aiming Low: The Humble Beginnings of a Tried and True Cat Lady

"The Humble Beginnings of a Tried and True Cat Lady":

I had killed many plants, goldfish, snails, and even a hamster, but I could not let this this kitten go, too. He had winnowed his way into my heart, and I was going to save his life.

That sounds way more saccharine than it really is.

In Which I Did Not Perform A Hysterectomy On My Cat With A Crochet Hook

This dead bird photo, which I took two days ago on the way home from work, is an apt representation of my present state:



I sent the following e-mail to the Palinode today:

I'm all dying over here. I just loaded up on Nyquil. Need more.
I'm wearing woolly socks and convalescing on the sofa. The non-peed on sofa.
If I could find my crochet hooks, Lula'd be uterus-less by now.

You just know that your day is not starting out well when the pain in your head has you dry-heaving over the toilet, and your cat, who you wish would finish being in heat already so you could go get her fixed, pees on one of the sofas in a fit of sexiness, and you realize you only have two Nyquil to last you the day, and then you run out of chocolate Cheerios.

This is how one finds oneself threatening one's cat's uterus with lost crochet hooks at ten in the morning and suffering from a monstrous headache just barely downsized from ginormous by a judiciously doled out and nearly gone supply of pharmaceuticals.

Just before I fell into an anxious sleep riddled with dreams of ugly design failures, I managed to cobble together four circles to create a splash page for myself, which has only taken me eight years to get together.

Ta da!



And now my be-socked feet and I are going to retreat back into our delightful haze of Nyquil and episodes of Thirtysomething on Netflix.



The End.

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PS. No crochet hooks will be used to extract any uteri in this household. I'm not good with gore. PETA can relax now.

PPS. Thankfully, the Palinode's ordering out for food, because I can no longer fend for myself. I languished on the couch for an hour this afternoon thinking how wonderful it would be to eat toast, because I could smell toast, and it smelled delicious. Oh, if only I could have toast. It turned out that I had actually put bread in the toaster and then forgotten about it.

Proof Of More Cats

It's sometimes hard to tell with this weblog if we have more than one cat or not, because I go on and on about Onion all the time, but we really do have more than one cat. In fact, we have THREE cats.

That's what happens when two people who love each other very much but don't want to make human babies and are minus a uterus still want to love little things. They adopt strays and steal kittens from bums.

This is our third and final kitty, Lula:



Part of the reason I write so much about Onion to the exclusion of all the others is that he is simply more photogenic than either Oskar or Lula. The other two are black, and they end up looking like miniature black holes in the middle of the floor or whatever piece of furniture is behind them.

Also, as you can tell by the blur, Lula never stops moving around.



This little photo shoot was extra fun, because she's in a bit of a heat right now, and so she was busy alternating between showing me her butt and keeping her eyes peeled for opportunities to slut it up with Onion.

Our Onion might be fixed, but he gives the girl a good going over when she needs it. It's like his post-testicles super power.



Our Lula: cute! slutty! vocal!