Barking Mad

I'm Pretty Sure I'm Going to Hell for This

Or, at the very least, the feline version of Hell, which, if you think about it, is probably pretty damn frightening!

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At least when I arrive down south, I know I'll be in good company.

 

Don't forget, during the entire month of October, to support the fight against breast cancer, Barking Mad is in the pink!  For every comment left on each post, we'll donate a certain amount to Susan G. Komen for the Cure®.  Read more about it here!

The Reason I'll be Making an Appointment With a Plastic Surgeon in the Morning

Yes, those are gloves on my hands.  I think I've mentioned I have pretty severe eczema, so bathing a cat requires me to don the smelly things.  Especially when bathing a shit-covered cat.

It's hard to imagine that 4lbs of soaking wet kitten can be lethal, deadly, and dangerous, but let me assure you, she is one hell of a pissed off pussy when given a bath.  I think I might need stitches!

Looking at my arms and chest, I don't really care how upset she is with me.  This will teach her not to roll around in her own crap when she can't get it unstuck from her bottom. 

Damn cat!



For some reason she's being pretty cuddly and rubbing against my legs and purring, loud enough to hear downstairs.  I don't trust her though.  I think she's plotting something.  And it wouldn't surprise me if Geronimo were in on it too, as a means of payback for this incident.

If you don't hear from me for a few days, send a rescue squad.  Or band-aids.  I'll probably require both.

A Note From One of the Feline Inmates Here at the Asylum

Dear Humans,

We might look cute and cuddly, soft and snuggly, but alas, we are highly effective and lethal killers capable of sending you mere walking bags of bald flesh running for your plastic surgeons.  Don't be fooled by the pretty exteriors.

A great injustice has been committed against us, the proud, regal inmates (and when I use that word, I mean it.  We are indeed inmates, locked in this plasterboard and timber box.  All the humans need now is to dress us in striped pajamas.), against myself in particular.  If they are willing to do this to me, what stands in the way of them dressing us like circus clowns and parading us for all the other fleshlings to gawk at?

The vet told my human mistress that I weighed too much for only being 7 months old.  I heartily contest this.  I am not fat!  I am merely fluffy!

Despite my protestations, the evildoer called "the vet" told my mistress to put me on a strict diet and to...WALK ME.

Yes, I hang my head in shame as I show you these pictures.  But I do so in the name of justice for felines everywhere!

I will not take this!

I will not take this standing...INDEED!

I will lower myself to that of the dog and roll in the dirt so that when my mistress takes me back inside I might jump upon her white suede sofa and rub myself all over it.

It was only after my mistress screamed and cried to her male partner, the one who speaks in a voice similar to the human who calls himself 007, about how filthy I was getting that he took pity on me and carried me, the way I should always be transported, back into the asylum.

Nay!  I will not be tethered again to that blue nylon hell-device.  I shall vomit upon it.  I will vomit in the path to the bathroom so that when you step into it on the way into the bathroom in the middle of the night you might feel my wrath.

Humans, heed my warning.  You shall be made to regret this most terrible trauma you have foisted upon me.

Expect it when you least expect it.

Geronimo

Another Mystery Solved

When I woke up this morning under gloomy skies and the plap plap plap of rain drops, I had an inkling it might be another interesting day here at the asylum.  I just wasn't sure whether it would be interesting in a good way or interesting in a frustrating way.  Turns out, so far anyhow - as it's only 11:45AM, that it's been a bit of both.

I sat down to enjoy a bowl of crispy hay shredded wheat and was immediately jolted away from my breakfast by screams of outrage from the Little Imp. I thought to myself, "Dear Lord, what now?"  Another scream from the Little Imp followed by, "Godiva, gimme it back, right now or you hafta haf a time out!" made me move a little faster.  

I need to backtrack here for a minute to explain a bit of this story that, if you don't have, the rest won't make any sense. 

Usually around mid-morning here at the asylum, the Little Imp has a snack which typically consists of either fruit and cheese or fruit and a little baggie of goldfish crackers.  Lately we have really been going through a lot of goldfish.  It's almost as if Imp inhales them before I even hand her the baggie.  Several times in the last few weeks she's come running to me, telling me that her crackers are all gone but that she didn't eat them.  I've asked her, "If you didn't eat them, where did they go?"  Sometimes she says she doesn't know, other times she blames the missing crackers on her imaginary BFF, Ali. The thing is, when I ask her to bring me the plastic baggie so I can give her a few more goldfish, she always says that she can't find it.  Searches for the wayward baggies have proved futile on my part.  I made Imp promise me she wasn't eating the baggies too, to which she replied, "Mumma, don't be silly!"  Eventually I'd just chalked the mystery of the missing plastic baggies right up there with that of the socks that go missing whilst doing laundry.

As I was running down the hall to see what all the commotion was about, Godiva shot between my legs and had something in her mouth that she was trying to abscond with and not a moment later I almost ran smack dab into the Little Imp, chasing after the kitten.   I stopped the Little Imp in her tracks and asked her to tell me what on earth was going on?

"Mumma, G'diva gots my goldfish.  I gotta get 'em back! 'Scuse me please."

I turned around and sure enough, our littlest feline inmate here at the asylum was high-tailing it (pun completely intended!),  down the hallway and into the kitchen with stolen goldfish.  "Get her!" I yelled towards the Little Imp. 

Picture if you will, a 40 year old woman and a 3 year old little girl chasing after a 3lb kitten.  Godiva was bound and determined to keep her stolen loot! Someone was going to get hurt in this bizarre feline/human chase so I gave up. Once she darted underneath the coffee table I grabbed the nearest camera that was ready to shoot, which happened to be the point and shoot.  In other words, a camera not nearly fast enough to capture the feline pirate with her booty.  I did my best to try and get a couple of shots.

 

 

Trying to evade capture by jumping into a nearby paper bag...

 

Bound and determined to not give up her catch!

 

Eventually, after being swiped at when trying to take the goldfish away, the Little Imp agreed to just let Godiva have her goldfish.  Of course, once we'd stopped chasing her, Godiva gave up.  Of course she did!  It was no longer fun if the fat lady and the little girl weren't willing to make fools of themselves trying to run after a kitten the size of a shampoo bottle. 

Don't let her utter adorableness fool you...

 

 

...beneath that coco powder, fluffy beige fur, and blue-eyed exterior lies the heart of a thief!

So much for my bowl of shredded hay wheat!  Once the Little Imp had been given a fresh baggie of goldfish with implicit instruction to NOT SET IT DOWN ANYWHERE, I decided to return to my breakfast and was greeted by not so much a bowl of cereal as I was by a bowl of something that resembled mush. Did I mention I had poured the last of the milk over my breakfast?  

I wonder if the Little Imp would be willing to share her goldfish with me?

If Griffy Could Speak English...

...This is likely what you'd be reading had I handed the reigns of my blog over to Griffy.

ETA: Part I of this saga can be found here.

"Blog fodder.  That's all I am to this mere human who sits on her rotund behind and tap tap taps away at the keyboard.  Why else would she make me look so utterly ridiculous and turn me into the laughing stock of all the other feline inmates (and I do use the word "inmate" in all seriousness.), here at the Barking Mad Asylum?  No doubt if that barking lunatic, Casey, were still locked up here, he'd be having a field day with this one.  He was only a mere pup when she did this to me last year.

It was bad enough that I was condescended to at the torture chamber my humans call "the vets" and told that I would feel "oh so much better" and look "cutsie wootsie" with my new hair do. Barf!  I was forced to sleep and then my long and lustrous coat was all but ripped from my body.    To add insult to injury,  my human walked in to remove me from the torture chamber and proceeded to laugh hysterically when she saw me for the first time.  It was too much for regal dignity to handle.   I knew I must start plotting my revenge.

After being stuffed back into the dark, stuffy box and carried into a larger moving box on wheels (at least she gratefully turned on some cold air, I was all but suffocating in that damned box!), I decided to burst from my cramped confines and at least take my place in the box on wheels like a passenger rather than cargo.

I don't suppose she'll be using this again any time soon.

I made a slight error in judgement, for the box on wheels was already moving and I needed to secure myself so as not to go careening into the side of it, as my human most assuredly handles this wheeled box like a bat out of hell.  I positioned myself where she could not only see me in her looking glass, but where I could be sure she could hear my growls of discontent.  I was perched directly behind her and she was keenly aware of my presence, as she uttered several human words I have heard before when I leave her presents meant to let her know of my distaste for her actions.

When we arrived at the place my human calls "home", which I refer to as my holding cell, I could not wait to escape from the box on wheels.

I was feeling a bit peckish and stopped at a local eatery on the way into the house, to see about a quick bite.  Under the front steps there is a delightful little place where one can find chipmunks large and small, and the occasional mole.   As I approached the entrance to the dining establishment I could hear muffled giggles coming from my potential snacks.

Laugh now little chipmunks...later I'll be enjoying you with a side of grass.

Upon entering the asylum my younger sibling, Gracie sniffed me and then giggled.  Gracie darling, if you can't find your favorite stuffed mouse I suggest you look in the loo box.

Geronimo and Godvia were most annoying.  Godiva has deemed my once gorgeous tail, her new favorite toy.

One of the other female humans, upon hearing my return, made her way upstairs and one can only interpret that look on her face to mean that she thinks I am now disgraceful.

Go ahead and laugh humans.  Make yourselves roll on the floor with giggles and chuckles.  For it is I who will ultimately have the last laugh."

_____________________________

Yes, Griffy has kept good to his word and left me a little "present" this morning next to my bed.   I wasn't really surprised as he does this whenever he gets pissed off at one of us.  Our vet said it's not at all uncommon for cats to make themselves vomit in retaliation for a perceived wrong.  Over the years, Griffy has become quite proficient at this.  

I will admit to being a little taken aback when I initially saw him after his Lion Cut.  Last year they didn't give him "leg warmers", only little "booties" on his paws were left.  He still had the ridiculous poof at the end of his tail though.  If I'm being totally honest, I do tend to think he looks a bit silly...sort of like a feline fashionista who would not appear completely out of line walking down the streets of NYC's fashion district...on a leash.  And yes, I agree with Megawatt that he looks like a bobble head, or that he's got the wrong head on his body.   OK OK...he does indeed look like a feline version of Mr. Potato head.

I would have posted this last night but it seems the entire animal world (locally anyhow) is out to get us.  I don't know if Griffy sent out some sort of SOS in animal code, but one side of our home was sprayed by a skunk and we spent the better part of the evening and wee hours of this morning trying to keep from being asphyxiated by the stench that was slowly but surely making it's way through the house.

After last night, I wouldn't be surprised if PETA showed up on my doorstep.
 

Not a Good Day to be a Cat Here at the Asylum

I suppose, an alternate title for this post could have been "Lion Cut Day - 2009 Edition" but seeing as how the fur was literally flying around here this morning, I thought the one I went with was pretty apropos.

It's been roughly 18 months since the last time Griffy and Gracie, our two Maine Coons, received their first "Lion Cuts" which was necessitated by horrific matting.  No matter how often we brushed them, their fur would matte, creating huge knots all over their bodies.  We weren't sure whether we were going to give them Lion Cuts again this year because earlier we'd discovered the FURminator and for a brief time here at the asylum, all was well and the fur wasn't flying quite as badly as it had been, and the birds outside were happy to receive the offings from our FURminator sessions to line their nests with.

Then we went and acquired Geronimo, our Ragdoll kitten,  and a few weeks later, Godiva and well, all hell broke loose.  The kittens (although as HUGE as Geronimo is getting, one would have a hard time believing he's only 5 months old!)  LOVE to "groom" Griffy and in doing so, chew on the fur around his neck and on his belly and in spite of FURminating him on a regular basis, he has once again developed mattes from Hell.  So we've decided to just have him shaved again, which is really what a Lion Cut is all about.

I discovered that lardass Griffy no longer fits (Gee, he only weighs 22lbs!) into our soft-sided cat-carrier so he had to deign to be carried in a cardboard cat-carrier.  Oh the inhumanity of it all...made worse by two kittens teasing and batting at him, from the outside!

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I very nearly almost didn't get his fat head shoved back in the box, and once I did, by the sounds of the howls and CATerwauling coming from the box, you'd have thought I was taking him to the nearest deep-water pond to drown him.  Such a drama queen king!

Gracie eventually came out from under the rock she perpetually lives under to see what all the commotion was about, and she and Geronimo watched things from the safety of the ledge in the front room, lest I dare try to stuff either one of them into a box and take them to God only knows where.

Gracie m'dear, you are correct!  Your turn is comin' up next week!

Right about now Griffy is enjoying a nice comfy twilight-sleep while all his nasty mattes (I have a feeling I am spelling that incorrectly.), are taken care of and the three other walking flea bags fur-babies are hiding.

Here was His Majesty at 6AM this morning, BEFORE.  For obvious reasons, I have no need to dust my end tables.

Check back late this afternoon/early this evening and I'll post an AFTER shot.  Well, I will take one provided he doesn't maim me for doing this to him.  He can be a bit testy at times, especially of late as I have chastised him, repeatedly, for bringing me "gifts" in the form of stunned chipmunks, a headless mole, two squirrels and an opposum baby which very nearly gave me a heart attack!

Part II is here.

The New Furbeastie Needs a Name!

We've been calling her 'Lil Bit just because she is the tiniest thing ever.

The Little Imp calls her "Princess Ouch" because when she climbs Mt. Imp, she does so with all claws extended. 

The hubby calls her, "Ouch-dammit-get-off-of-my-face-it's-2AM-in-the-bloody-morning!"  Yeah, she kinda isn't real sure about the snore monster that comes out of his face every night.  She thought that attacking it might get rid of it.  I could have told her that I'd already tried that and it doesn't work!

I'm seriously thinking of calling her Ping Pong the Crack Kitty because of the way she and Geronimo ping pong off of the bed, the walls, our legs, our faces, our bed, the wall again, our faces again...ALL DAMN NIGHT LONG.  Yeah, it occurred to me, at 2:30AM, that cats are pretty nocturnal.

I tried kicking Geronimo out of our bedroom last night in order to get the two of them to settle the hell down, but he either went into the Little Imp's room and crawled under her bed and started pathetically mewling into the baby monitor (which the speaker for it sits next to MY side of the bed, of course) - I AM NOT KIDDING, or he sat at our door and stuck his paws underneath the door as far as they would go, and 'Lil Bit and Geronimo meowed back and forth to each other and played patty-cake underneath the door, driving me completely, batshit insane.  Then they started mewling at one another, in true Romeo and Juliet style and I'd had enough.  I kicked her out of the bedroom as well. 

By 4:30 she was crying so loudly outside our door that I took pity on her and made sure that Geronimo was sound asleep and let her back into the bedroom, shut the door and climbed into bed with her.  After a few more facial attacks and then trying to convince her that making a nest out of my hair (I already accomplish that on my own, thankyouverymuch!), was not in her best interest, she finally settled under my chin and purred herself to sleep.  Then she got up, went over and pestered the hubby for a while then again with the purring and finally settling into the crook of his arm.

So, before we end up giving our newest furry inmate at the Barking Mad Asylum a totally inappropriate name, help us choose one.  So far, of all the comments left on yesterday's post, "Godiva" seem to be in the lead.  The other contenders are listed in the poll below!

 

4

I have no idea what we're going to name her...

Gretta...?

Godiva...?



Despite having not a clue as to what her name should be, she is, definitely ours!  She's making herself quite comfy and endearing herself to everyone, most especially Geronimo, who I think has found his mocha coloured soul-mate!

Yep, she's cute as hell and I think I'm going to give up on drapes and other window-coverings at this point because with two kittens in the house, they'll be in tatters and shreds in no time.

Oh and yes, I am in fact keenly aware that we now have FOUR feline inmates now.

Welcome to the asylum, little girl-kitty with no name...yet!

Ouch! That Damned Cat - Part II

It's almost summer-time here in Maine and along with that come fresh Maine strawberries.  Whilst I would much rather be blogging about these...

...and what happens when you leave them sitting in the colander on the counter, unnattended; namely this...

...alas, I can not.

Why?

Well, it's really quite simple. 

You see, I recently bought a pair of pants that have dangly tassels on the sides of the leg openings at the bottom.  They're cute.  Yes indeed, fat girl pants can be cute and these are the cat's meow...literally.  Little did I know that they not only are they cute, but would lead me to yell obscenities at the top of my lungs and shed tears of pain whilst trying to find something to stop the profuse bleeding from several tiny puncture wounds on my legs.

It seems Geronimo thinks that I am choosing my clothing with him in mind, and being that I am a huge idiot at times, I'd have to agree...although I bought these without giving any mind to the prowling, fur-covered-blue-eyed-5lb Ninja who lurks among us.

Ouch dammit!



Would you just look that those dangly bits of skin as the beast sinks his teeth into my meaty ham hocks legs!



Look at the dagger-like claws of the evil little shit, covered in fur and rolled in cuteness.



Don't be fooled or sucked in by those blue eyes. Oh no.  For behind those blue eyes lurks the heart of a killer...a killer sinking his claws into my legs, with a mind for destruction and blood!

Lots of blood.

My legs are now sporting no less than 22 tiny pieces of loo-roll stuck to them in an attempt to stave off the flow of blood from the puncture wounds.  I look like I tried to shave my legs with a 50 year old rusty razor.

Sure, I'd love to be regaling you all with tales of the Little Imp filching strawberries whilst she thought her mommy wasn't looking (alas, I was, and the camera has the evidence of her deeds!), or even tattling on her new penchant for telling people she's going to "skateboard to hell."  Don't ask me where she picked that up from because I have no idea...the same way I have no idea how on earth, after only hearing the theme song from HBO's True Blood, ONCE, she now knows it by heart and takes great joy in watching the blood drain from my face as she belts out the last line of the tune that goes, "....I wanna do bad things with youuuuuuu." 

But I can't, all because of that damned cat!
 

That Damned Cat!

It's been roughly six weeks since we brought home the newest inmate to the Barking Mad Asylum.  Geronimo is most assuredly cute and cuddly, of that fact you'll get no argument from me.  

Oh sure, we had a lot to relearn about having a new kitten around the house in those first few weeks after bringing the little shit gorgeous darling home.  But what we had forgotten from our youths (both the hubby and I were raised around kittens and cats.  Our homes were never without a feline presence.), we soon recalled and we made certain adjustments to our day to day lives in those first few weeks...adjustments like looking under the furniture before walking past it to avoid having our ankles and feet attacked by sharp claws and teeth which necessitated a trip to the Emergency Room, or wearing clothing to bed to avoid having certain dangly bits being made into cat toys in the middle of the night, which also might necessitate a trip to the Emergency Room followed by visits to a plastic surgeon.

When people have asked me what it's like having a new kitten in the house I have taken to replying, "It's a lot like having a toddler with claws who has delusions of being a sniper, or a ninja, or maybe even both!"

However, it's incredibly hard to stay annoyed with such utter cuteness...

...That is, until he pulled this brilliant stunt late one night whilst the hubby was away on business.

When I wasn't paying any attention, he somehow managed to get his furry ass stuck up on top of the damned pot rack.   This was a problem.  It was after my bedtime.  And, I am not tall.  Not even close.  I'm all of 5'5".  The ladder was out in a locked shed, a shed to which I had no clue where the key was and I was not going to get up on my BRAND NEW GRANITE COUNTERS in order to get the damned cat off of the pot rack. 

So what did I do?

I tweeted the entire thing.  Oh yes I did!  If you follow me on Twitter you can go back and look through my updates and read the entire saga for yourself, unless you weren't already out there laughing your virtual asses off at me over the entire melodrama.

It took an hour and a can of tuna, but he eventually jumped down and we all lived happily ever after.

Except, this isn't a Disney fairy tale and my life doesn't roll like that.

Monday I was getting dressed and I assumed (first mistake) that the damned cat  Geronimo was asleep on my bed.  So I grabbed a bra and began the chore of putting it on.  If you are asking yourself why putting a bra on is a "chore", let me explain.  

When the breast fairy visited me whilst I was a pre-teen she packed a bag and intended on staying for a while.  She took a holiday when visiting me and as a result of that, I am overly well-endowed in the breast department.  Add several years, 5 breast-feeding kids, severe weight gains and losses and now I am endowed with two breasts that resemble deflating weather balloons rather than symbols of womanhood and sexiness.  They tend to point to the polar south at all times so having a bra of the industrial type is important.  You don't just slap these kinds of bras on.  There is a process involved.  You bend over and wiggle the girls into the cups then wiggle some more for optimal placement.  Then, when you think your nipples are pointing in the direction they should be and not towards your toes, then and only then you can stand up and fasten that sucker.

As I was bending over and wiggling the girls into place I can only decsribe what happened next like something out of a horror movie.  I was quite certain that Satan himself had reached up through the depths of hell and had attached his evil claws to my boobs and was trying to pull me through the gates of the underworld by my nipples.   The problem was, he wouldn't finish the job.  The devil just hung by my breasts and swung back and forth.  I looked down and discovered it wasn't Satan at all but a fluffy white kitten with big blue eyes and his claws were stuck to my bra and hooked into the breasts behind the thick white industrial fabric. Geronimo apparently thought that my swinging boobs were awesome toys and decided to take a swipe at them.

When I stood up, Geronimo hung on for dear life and came up with me thereby digging his claws in deeper which then caused me to scream louder than fuckall. 

I must have looked insane, standing there in my bra and panties with a kitten stuck to my boobs!  

Every movement caused intense pain and the whole time the damned cat just hung there, stuck on my boobs like some bizarre fur covered parasite.  What was I to do?

I side-stepped towards my bed and leaned over and began the process of unhooking the claws of doom from my flesh and then my bra.   Once that was taken care of, I kid you not, I filled up our lobster boiling pot and soaked my poor, assaulted boobs in ice water in order to stop the bleeding and hopefully halt the swelling that never fails to happen when that damned cat gets his claws into me.   And then I  prayed that no one came home and saw me leaning over the counter, clothed only in panties, with my boobs floating in the lobster pot.


P.S... I apologize for any mental anguish or trauma that the image of me soaking my boobs in the lobster pot may have caused.  But believe me, my pain was greater than anything you may be suffering at the moment.