Still passing the open windows and falling down the stairs

My cat’s a jerk…

I’m sorry. Is it wrong to feel that way?

I may have mentioned before that I’m not exactly a cat person. The cats were obtained in the throws of my first really serious relationship, at age 22, with no thought to the future.

Somehow, when the ship sailed on the relationship, the cats were on the boat with me! But it was fine. I never had the tightest of bonds with them, but they were pleasant enough to have around and were always pretty low maintenance.

When I brought the dog home, I was so nervous that the cats would have aneurysms or, at the very least, never speak to me again. I was close on the aneurysms, at least with Sierra, but they eventually got over it. Actually, Sierra started to sort of worship the dog, with a twinkle of “she might eat me” in her eye.

We found a balance that worked and everyone seemed pretty content. Until Sierra died last year.

Now Nevada’s a jerk.

In her defense, I’m sure it has a lot to do with the time I spend at the Red Baron’s house, leaving her alone. It was never an issue when Sierra was there, but since I take the dog with me, there are times when Nevada is completely alone for several days at a time…for the first time in her life.

But even when I’m close to home for weeks in a row, she’s still a jerk! She screams at me and when I pet her, she gets so worked up that she bites me. She chases the dog around and screams at her, occasionally following it up with several slaps to the dog’s face.

And the dog is TERRIFIED. She’s now stopped eating; nothing yesterday and she wouldn’t even look at the canned food this morning. That’s like me walking away from a bowl full of chocolate mousse. Even in my most weakened condition, I can’t ignore the mousse.

I know this sounds crazy, but I think she’s a toxic force in my home. So what do I do? She’s 15 and I’m not so secretly hoping that she succumbs to old age in the not so distant future.

I can’t see sending her to a no-kill shelter with dozens of other cats…that would just make her more miserable. But it breaks my heart to think of putting her to sleep because she’s grumpy. Then I’m the jerk.

The only option I can think of is to find a good home for her, but people aren’t exactly going out of their way to track down old lady cats. Unless they already have 34 other cats, which brings us back to Nevada being more miserable.

Help. Help. Help.

Damage

How much damage could I have done in a week?

I’m guessing A LOT.

I haven’t weighed in for the past eight days. I’ve stopped tracking my calories. And I’ve ultimately stopped caring.

It started last Thursday with crepe night. I made savory crepes, stuffed with shredded chicken, broccoli, and mashed potatoes, smothered in cheese and creamy soup, and sweet crepes with Nutella and strawberry jam, sprinkled with sugar. Oh, my.

It rolled into Friday’s cupcake baking extravaganza for Saturday’s boot hockey event. Of course, there were quality control checks and The Baron and I each at 1-1/2 cupcakes that night, in addition to the crepe leftovers, both savory and sweet.

On Saturday morning, I made the puffed caramel corn and did plenty of quality control inspections on that, as well. I kept thinking that it was just nibbling and it would be okay because I’d be running my ass off during the game. It was more like I trotted my ass up and down the rink just enough to convince myself that I could then go in and eat everything that had been set out for the people who actually did work up an appetite.

I finally did get some actual exercise with an hour of snow shoeing on Sunday. Which was followed by yet more eating; shrimp scampi with linguine, roasted asparagus, and homemade heart shaped brownies dipped in melted chocolate for Valentine’s Day. Oh, and probably some cupcakes as we somehow left the boot hockey game with nearly a full dozen!

And then the sadness of the cat set in. By Monday, I pretty much knew that she was not going to bounce back and she would have to be put to sleep. So, I laid in bed scritching her behind her ears. And snacking. And scritching.

Tuesday’s appointment at the vet confirmed my fears and I spent the night in bed alone (couldn’t stand to have her near me while I was sobbing) eating. Dairy Queen blizzard, fish sandwich (those are the WORST), french fries…and, okay…cheese curds. I’m a massive blob of shame.

Last night was no better. Taco Bell. I want easy. I want my bed. I want my cat.

But I can’t continue on this way. I am bloated and uncomfortable. And I’ll be a complete mess on the edge by the time next Friday rolls around and I have to let her go. I need to take care of myself so I can take care of her at the end of her life.

I owe her at least that much after fourteen years.

So sad.

When they are tiny little kittens, and you are 22, no one stops you to take a moment to consider how much it will hurt when it is time to say good-bye.

Sierra, the stink face cat, my little squeaker, has a mass in her tummy.

We have to say good-bye a week from Friday.

I am so sad.

I may be a little on edge

This morning, as I staggered into the dark kitchen, something screeched past me at mach speed. I screamed and very nearly had a coronary, until I realized it was my 300 pound cat, Sierra. She must have thought I was making a move toward the food dish.

I managed to calm down and return to my morning routine of shuffling around and somehow managing to stretch the task of getting cleaned and dressed into a 90 minute production. I was ready to leave the house when I leaned over the bed to kiss mcfuzzy on the forehead, as I do every morning. As I was coming in for facial contact, he suddenly rolled over and moaned loudly. So, I did what any reasonable person would have done. I clutched my chest (literally) and let out a scream. In my defense, I did manage to keep the noise to a minimum. My body wanted to let out a blood-curdler, but my mind reeled it back just in the nick of time. I faked a little laugh, so he wouldn’t know that head explosion was imminent, and left the house.

I took a moment to collect myself before pulling out of the driveway because it’s difficult to drive when you’ve just had a brain hemorrhage. I got to work, settled in and forgot all about it. Until a few minutes ago when the nice co-worker reminded me that I’m a spaz by coming into my cube. How dare he come to my cube without warning me with a phone call first. Unheard of! How did I respond, you ask? With a shriek. Of course. Are you sensing a trend?

Today is a day that reminds me of my high school years when my mom enjoyed tormenting me in the morning. I would be brushing my teeth and wiping sleep boogies out of my eyes when she would come around the corner and give me a nice “BAH!” Seriously, mom, what the hell?

I can totally understand the urge she must have faced every morning. I was a prime target because I screamed every time and I never figured out how to shut the door. She was actually quite reasonable in only taking advantage of the situation every fourth morning.

Two eating disorders for the price of… Two. Or more.

Bulimia. Anorexia. Cats. Dogs.
Sierra eats to comfort herself. She then vomits to comfort herself. Siri may eat dog food every second or third day and rarely accepts biscuit treats.

I feel like I’m living with Nicole and Lindsay.

Things can only get better from here. My hope is that Siri will start to eat normally within the next few days. I also hope that Sierra can come to terms with Siri’s arrival so that she will not spend five minutes staring at the dog from across the room until she has worked herself into such a nervous condition that the only outlet is to hurl all over my living room. Listen cat, I’ve got this morning thing down to a science. I leave at 8:04 and arrive at my desk at 8:36. I haven’t spare minutes, not even seconds, to stop when I hear you retching around the corner.

This is one small house for two people with 150″ between them, two cats with 150 lbs. between them, and one dog with 150 looks that’ll make you feel tingly in ways that make you ask yourself some serious questions. There is no room for seriously abnormal behavior. I know it will get better and until it does, there’s always Cold Stone Germanchökolätekäke®. I’m not afraid of food.

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