Up until a few months ago I could not stand cats. As far as I was concerned all they did was lay around, shit in a box, claw your furniture, and look bored. Once Gloria entered the picture I learned that, while the shitting in a box part is true, I had been very wrong about cats in general. She is full of personality and a source of constant entertainment. When she rolls onto her back, holds her bag of catnip between her front paws and paddles at it with her hind legs like she's riding an imaginary upside-down stationary bicycle I laugh so hard I give myself the hiccups. The Mister is as fond of her as I am, and not long ago he said that maybe we should consider getting another cat in the not-too-distant future.
When I found out there was a stray cat in Kathy T's neighborhood -- presumably dumped by someone who I will kick in the shins if I ever find them -- in need of a home I contacted her and said that if she was unable to find a good home to let me know before the cat ended up getting taken to the pound. She emailed me soon afterward and told me what a sweet, friendly cat she was and that she was desperately starved for attention and affection. Kathy had been unable to locate an owner and no one seemed able and/or willing to take care of the stray. Then she mentioned that one of the neighborhood kids had taken to kicking the cat. Add that punk to the list of people who I will be kicking in the shins. Anyway, when I read that I got a lump in my throat, called my husband, and asked if we could adopt her. I didn't expect too big a fight from him, but when he just said, "Sure!" I sat there for a minute and wondered how I'd gotten off so easy. That is reason #856 Why My Husband Is So Awesome.
So fast forward a few days and Maggie Survivor (middle name courtesy of Kathy T's very lovely and astute daughter) is settling in to the Sparkles household. She's eating a crap ton of food -- an unfortunate by-product being poo of Biblical proportions -- but at least you can no longer take one look at her and count her ribs.
Maggie and Gloria are two distinctly different cats. Gloria is the same type of girl I am. If she were a person she'd spend her time drinking beer, watching sports, and cussing. Maggie would be the type who would go shopping with her sorority sisters, have perfectly manicured and polished nails which match her cute purse and kicky sandals, and drink fruity blender drinks that tell all guys within a fifty foot radius that this chick cannot hold her liquor.
The differences between the two cats became even more apparent today when I took Maggie to the vet. When Gloria is forced to contend with needles and poking she lets out the occasional squeak but sits still and waits for the ordeal to end. When Maggie was faced with shots and examination there was howling and shrieking like I haven't heard since the last time I was unlucky enough to encounter a Joni Mitchell song on the radio.
I was hoping to learn that Maggie had already been spayed, but after her little belly was shaved and there was no sign of scarring or previous surgery my hopes were dashed. When Gloria was examined for the first time she sported a wicked scar that looked like a prison tattoo gone horribly wrong, leaving no doubt she'd already had her girlybits altered. Since Maggie had no such scar I assumed she was fully intact, but the vet said that there was a possibility she'd already been fixed even though there were no obvious scars. The only way to know for sure was to wait and see if Maggie went into heat. Ah, that's swell. If it sounds like there's a Joni Mitchell concert erupting in my kitchen I'll know for sure whether she's capable of having kittens. Until then I'll continue fashioning a cat-sized suit of castiron armor for her to wear any time she ventures outside.
Anyway, despite all the poo we are happy to welcome Maggie into the fold. She is a beautiful creature and I feel fortunate to have stumbled across her. She's had a hard life but is still trusting and full of love. I can learn a lot from her.
Now, on a completely unrelated note, in a previous post I referred to the hot pink family china. (No, that is not a euphemism.) Lynnster had a hard time visualizing the horror.
Oh, alright. The dishes are not as hideous as I probably made them sound. They are not antique Pepto-pink, which is good since I think I would find it difficult to eat Thanksgiving dinner off plates that only reminded me of diarrhea medication, although they are pinker than they appear in the photo.
The family china is one of the things belonging to my great-grandparents that I have inherited. The great-grands were, from what I understand, quite wealthy people who enjoyed buying a lot of expensive crap. Despite their Catholicism they only had one child -- my grandfather -- which may be attributable to the fact that my great-grandfather was in his 60s when he married my twenty-something great-grandmother. Woot! Rock on, Grampy!
Because of the small number of their descendants I have a lot of antiques in my possession. I wonder about their provenance, how they found their way into my family. And while I'd never sell any of these pieces the tightwad in me is very curious about their worth. This is why I sit transfixed and glassy-eyed, glued to the television every time an episode of Antiques Roadshow comes on. Well, either that or because I am a monumental dork. Take your pick.
When I found out there was a stray cat in Kathy T's neighborhood -- presumably dumped by someone who I will kick in the shins if I ever find them -- in need of a home I contacted her and said that if she was unable to find a good home to let me know before the cat ended up getting taken to the pound. She emailed me soon afterward and told me what a sweet, friendly cat she was and that she was desperately starved for attention and affection. Kathy had been unable to locate an owner and no one seemed able and/or willing to take care of the stray. Then she mentioned that one of the neighborhood kids had taken to kicking the cat. Add that punk to the list of people who I will be kicking in the shins. Anyway, when I read that I got a lump in my throat, called my husband, and asked if we could adopt her. I didn't expect too big a fight from him, but when he just said, "Sure!" I sat there for a minute and wondered how I'd gotten off so easy. That is reason #856 Why My Husband Is So Awesome.
So fast forward a few days and Maggie Survivor (middle name courtesy of Kathy T's very lovely and astute daughter) is settling in to the Sparkles household. She's eating a crap ton of food -- an unfortunate by-product being poo of Biblical proportions -- but at least you can no longer take one look at her and count her ribs.
Maggie and Gloria are two distinctly different cats. Gloria is the same type of girl I am. If she were a person she'd spend her time drinking beer, watching sports, and cussing. Maggie would be the type who would go shopping with her sorority sisters, have perfectly manicured and polished nails which match her cute purse and kicky sandals, and drink fruity blender drinks that tell all guys within a fifty foot radius that this chick cannot hold her liquor.
The differences between the two cats became even more apparent today when I took Maggie to the vet. When Gloria is forced to contend with needles and poking she lets out the occasional squeak but sits still and waits for the ordeal to end. When Maggie was faced with shots and examination there was howling and shrieking like I haven't heard since the last time I was unlucky enough to encounter a Joni Mitchell song on the radio.
I was hoping to learn that Maggie had already been spayed, but after her little belly was shaved and there was no sign of scarring or previous surgery my hopes were dashed. When Gloria was examined for the first time she sported a wicked scar that looked like a prison tattoo gone horribly wrong, leaving no doubt she'd already had her girlybits altered. Since Maggie had no such scar I assumed she was fully intact, but the vet said that there was a possibility she'd already been fixed even though there were no obvious scars. The only way to know for sure was to wait and see if Maggie went into heat. Ah, that's swell. If it sounds like there's a Joni Mitchell concert erupting in my kitchen I'll know for sure whether she's capable of having kittens. Until then I'll continue fashioning a cat-sized suit of castiron armor for her to wear any time she ventures outside.
Anyway, despite all the poo we are happy to welcome Maggie into the fold. She is a beautiful creature and I feel fortunate to have stumbled across her. She's had a hard life but is still trusting and full of love. I can learn a lot from her.
Now, on a completely unrelated note, in a previous post I referred to the hot pink family china. (No, that is not a euphemism.) Lynnster had a hard time visualizing the horror.
Oh, alright. The dishes are not as hideous as I probably made them sound. They are not antique Pepto-pink, which is good since I think I would find it difficult to eat Thanksgiving dinner off plates that only reminded me of diarrhea medication, although they are pinker than they appear in the photo.
The family china is one of the things belonging to my great-grandparents that I have inherited. The great-grands were, from what I understand, quite wealthy people who enjoyed buying a lot of expensive crap. Despite their Catholicism they only had one child -- my grandfather -- which may be attributable to the fact that my great-grandfather was in his 60s when he married my twenty-something great-grandmother. Woot! Rock on, Grampy!
Because of the small number of their descendants I have a lot of antiques in my possession. I wonder about their provenance, how they found their way into my family. And while I'd never sell any of these pieces the tightwad in me is very curious about their worth. This is why I sit transfixed and glassy-eyed, glued to the television every time an episode of Antiques Roadshow comes on. Well, either that or because I am a monumental dork. Take your pick.
2 Comments:
Your post is beautifully written, funny, and made my mother-in-law smile. Now THAT, my friend, is a real accomplishment. LOVE the name Maggie! Thank you again for your generosity in taking her in.
Heh. I was going to write my response in a post because I couldn't comment earlier this week, but now that I can comment, I'll just comment!
The thought of antique hot pink dishes was definitely freaking me out, but now that I've seen 'em, the dishes aren't too bad. God knows I love pink (i.e., my blog) but those are a little too flowery for me, but they're not horrific by any means. Yeah, if you were in the U.K., I think those would be a fantastic player for Cash in the Attic on BBC America. I wonder how much they would get at an antique auction? I don't think I'd sell those on eBay or at any just "general" auction.
Maggie seems terrific (and in fact I have a black & white Maggie running around here somewhere)! I'm VERY relieved you took her in because if I hadn't inherited a kitten when I had my car wreck a few weeks ago, I'm not sure I would have been able to say no to Maggie. Looks to me like she got the perfect home, though! Y'all have fun! :)
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