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 |  Because I am the most interesting person I know |
| I lead the most boring life. I have challenged myself to write about my life so that it seems interesting. |
I’ve been following the saga of the humane mouse traps over on "Invalid Item"  . Of course, I had to leave a lot of snide remarks about getting a cat, what great mousers my cats are, mice as cat toys, etc etc. After working a couple of nightshifts last week, I crept bleary eyed to my computer to check out the latest chapter in the Great Mouse Trap Caper only to find … you guessed it … a dead mouse under my computer desk. Karma is a bitch. |
| I love storms, just not on garbage day. A Nor’Easter blew into town unexpectedly on Monday. I noticed a lot of wind Sunday night. Actually, very early Monday morning. Those of us who work the nightshift have a different concept of time than other people. I didn’t consider the implications of the wind when I dragged my garbage can and bags of used cat litter to the curb before retiring to bed. It was when I woke up to the sounds of strong wind and garbage trucks that it finally dawned on me that this was going to be a problem. I peeked out my window and saw the lid to my garbage can merrily rolling down the street, blown by gusts of wind. I bolted out of bed and ran for the door, stopping only long enough to slip on my garden clogs. Picture if you will, a middle-aged woman with a serious case of bedhead, dashing down the street clad in blue garden clogs and bright red flannel pajamas dotted with penguins. I hate storms on garbage day. |
| Over at Special Kay's blog, "Invalid Item" , she mentions that her mother is writing a fictionalized account of her online dating experiences. It's definitely something that should be written as fiction. No one who hasn't tried it would ever believe the people you meet and the strange stuff that they say and do. But after pondering the subject for a while, I realized that my strangest date had nothing to do with online dating. It was the result of a fix-up: "Invalid Item" WARNING!! This story reveals my true self: an elitist snob. In my own defense, when I was dating, it was with the intention of getting married so I was seeking someone like myself. I do not hold my friends to the same standards. I have a wide and varied network of friends with all levels of education and careers. |
| The vet called this afternoon as I was leaving for work with the results of Furball’s urinalysis: no signs of infection. She didn’t say it, but that is bad news. I have to start feeding him “KD”. I assume that stands for “Kidney Disease”. After six weeks, he goes back for more bloodwork. If his kidney levels remain high or have gone higher, she wants to do a CT scan. She didn’t say so, but my research tells me that that is how PKD is diagnosed. Tomorrow, I have to stop by the vet’s office and pick up my first batch of KD. My cat food bills are about to go through the roof. |
| The Daily Flash Fiction contest had the following prompt for Halloween: Write a story about trick-or-treating gone horribly wrong.. My story is considerably longer than the allotted 300 words so I wasn't able to enter it. I'm entering it here for you to judge: "Invalid Item" |
| I’m afraid I have sad news for those of you who have been enjoying the adventures of the Fur Patrol. I took Furball to the vet today because he hasn’t been eating and has lost a considerable amount of weight. I’ve been jokingly calling him “Boney Cat”. I thought perhaps the fleas were too much for him. I was ready to do battle with the vet about changing his flea treatment since the Frontline has been ineffective. No battle was necessary. His x-rays were normal but his blood work showed that his kidneys have begun to fail. He is much too young for this. He celebrated his eighth birthday in September. We have another appointment on Thursday for urine tests. I have to leave him there for a few hours so the vet can collect a sample. I was happy to hear that because I have no clue how to make a cat pee in a cup. I was experiencing intense déjà vu all afternoon. When our first cat, Sneakers stopped eating and was x-rayed, it turned out to be kidney cancer. He was also young, having turned 9 six months before. I’m beginning to wonder if there is something in the water here. I have always filled the cats’ water bowls (and Sneakers also drank from the toilet like a dog) with tap water. Strangely enough, Bandit seems to have known that Furball was ill. Lately, wherever I’ve seen Furball, Bandit has been at his side, sleeping with him or gently grooming him. It’s as if Bandit has been trying to comfort him. I will keep you updated on his progress. |
| I’m looking for my muse. Have you seen it? I know that I have been neglecting it but I was under the impression that it was like my cats. The Fur Patrol keeps themselves amused until I sit down to watch TV. Then they hop up onto the couch and snuggle up next to me (Furball) and knead my belly (Rory). So I’ve been counting on my muse to stay busy until I sat down in front of the computer ready to write. But when I did, no muse appeared. Where do you suppose it went? Does anyone really know where muses go when we aren’t using them? Perhaps to the museum? Sorry, couldn’t resist. Is there some unwritten rule that if you ignore your muse for too long that it leaves you forever? If so, what exactly is the time limit? How long can you not use your muse until you lose it completely? Perhaps it’s for the best. I’m so worn out. I’m fighting battles on three fronts. My employer is refusing to move me to the dayshift despite the fact that I have the required doctor’s note and both federal and New Jersey laws say that they must. I’m unable to sell my house because of the worst housing market since … come to think of it, I don’t think it’s ever been this bad. So I am forced to live in a house I hate filled with terrible memories. Did I mention the pit bulls, gunfire and drunks wandering the street? Now I’m battling fleas. Both The Fur Patrol and the House from Hell are infested with fleas. For some reason, the fleas aren’t bothering me. Perhaps they have an agreement with my muse to boycott me? Is there a reason that all of my paragraphs are ending with questions? My vet suggested I call an exterminator. Bad idea. I had one of those conversations that comedians love to make fun of: Me: Hello? My house is infested with fleas. Do my cats and I need to be out of the house while you kill the fleas? Exterminator: You will need to be out of the house for 4 to 6 hours. Me: Are you nuts? Where am I supposed to go with three cats for 4 to 6 hours? Exterminator: Everything must be off the floors. Me: Are you nuts? I live in a TINY cape. There is no storage space. That’s why everything is on the floors. Exterminator: That includes the floors in the closets. Me: Are you nuts? Where am I supposed to put all of that stuff? That’s why it’s in the closets. Exterminator: Can’t you put it in bags and pile them on the couch? Me: Are you nuts? I have a TINY couch because I live in a TINY cape. There’s no way I can pile luggage, vacuum, good china, garden toolbag, sewing machine, weights, yoga mat, boots and a shoe collection that rivals Imelda Marcos’ on my TINY couch. Nor do I want to. Exterminator: All of the floors, including the closets must be swept and mopped. Me: Are you nuts? I can barely get out of bed in the morning! Exterminator: I can have someone over there tomorrow. Me: Are you nuts? So the negotiations continue with my employer, people continue to look at but not buy my house and The Fur Patrol continues to scratch. Seriously, if you see my muse could you tell it that I really miss it? |
| I put my house on the market last May. Long story why. Suffice it to say that I am selling because I want to, not because I have to. After about a hundred people tramped through my house, I finally have my first offer. For a few thousand more than I paid for it 15 years ago. Totally ridiculous. Someone please tell this fool that I am selling my house, not giving it away. |
| Furball seems to be scratching less. Maybe I'm finally getting ahead of the fleas? |
| Unable to handle the normal ups and downs of life, I feel myself slipping back into the Pit of Despair. Just as I reach the edge of the pit, daylight tantalizingly close, life throws me a curveball and I slip back into the darkness. The Fur Patrol has fleas. How, might you ask, do cats who never venture outside acquire fleas? I’m bringing them into the house. When the summer-long heat wave ended and we got some much needed rain, I had to start mowing my lawn again. Now my house and my cats are infested with fleas. I’m not sure of the source. Perhaps the 5 or 6 dogs next door who bark incessantly? Or maybe it’s the Pit Bulls across the street. I’m sorry. You will never convince me that Pit Bulls make good pets. They were bred to be fighting dogs. It’s instinctive. It’s what they do. Like Border Collies who have been bred to herd. Have you ever seen one? It’s hilarious. A Border Collie herds anything in sight. Children, animals, poultry. They can’t help it. It’s in their genes. Like fighting is in the genes of Pit Bulls. The previous owners of the house across the street had a little yappy dog so they fenced in their yard with an inexpensive chain-link fence. The new owners have two full-grown Pit Bulls. They throw themselves against the fence in a frenzy every time someone walking their dog saunters by the house. It’s just a matter of time before the dogs get over or, more likely, through the not terribly sturdy fence. There are a lot of children living and playing on my street. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. Maybe it’s my age or my upbringing, but I always think of Pit Bulls as ghetto dogs. Used by drug dealers to keep the competition at bay or by frightened people to keep the local mayhem at bay. Lately I’ve been feeling like I live in the ghetto. I spent one Saturday night cowering on the floor as gun fire rang out in the street in front of my house. And then there are the drunks who weave their way up and down the street in broad daylight, waving their half-empty liquor bottles and singing at the top of their lungs. Believe it or not, I live in suburban New Jersey. But today I’m writing about fleas not sociology. The vet sold me Frontline. Frontline for Cats. It’s not as strong as Frontline for Dogs. It may even have a slightly different formulation. The problem is that, unlike the version for dogs, it’s not dispensed by weight. There is one dosage: cat. The normal cat weighs under 10 pounds. Not a single member of the Fur Patrol weighs that little. Poor Furball is bearing the brunt of the flea infestation. At 22 pounds and just slightly smaller than a Cocker Spaniel, the Frontline keeps the fleas off of his head and neck but the rest of his body is flea heaven. His heavy coat, originally meant to keep his ancestors warm through frigid Maine winters, is the perfect breeding ground for fleas. He is constantly biting, scratching and licking his body to get at the pests that are torturing him. All of which has resulted in bald patches. I’ve tried to help with the flea comb, but he hates it and bites me. Nevertheless, I persist, patiently combing his thick fur only stopping long enough to deposit the harvested fleas in a plastic container with a tight fitting lid. After I have thoroughly combed him twice (except his belly, that’s off limits apparently), I am bleeding badly from numerous bites. I slap on a few band aids and repeat the process again the following night. I don’t use chemicals in my war against the fleas. What would I do with three cats while I bombed the house? I can’t take them for a drive because I don’t want fleas in my car. I can’t take them for a walk because none of them are trained to a leash. And can you imagine the Pit Bulls’ reaction if I strolled out of the house with three cats in tow? I would like to at least bomb my basement. It’s almost empty and the Fur Patrol’s favorite hiding place when potential buyers come to look at the house. But I can’t use chemicals there either. There is no door to keep the chemicals in the basement and the cats out of it. Cleanliness is next to Godliness in the war against fleas. Everything must be vacuumed or scrubbed regularly. Vacuum cleaner bags should be sealed in a plastic garbage bag after every use. Now throw in Clinical Depression which makes daily showers a chore and you can get an idea of what I’m up against. I’m not a great housekeeper in the best of times. In my current depressed state, I am defeated before I even begin. If I vacuum once a week, it’s a lot. The other day, I cleaned my bathroom (one of Furball’s favorite spots) for the first time in a couple of months. Hence my reason for sliding back into depression once more. I can’t deal with the fleas. I can’t deal with living in a neighborhood that is degenerating into chaos. I can’t deal with a real estate market that is dead and preventing me from selling my house and moving to a neighborhood free of Pit Bulls, guns and drunks wandering the street. And fleas. |
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