The State of the Household

It's Sunday afternoon, what has been described as the long, dark teatime of the soul, by Douglas Adams, rest his twisted, brilliant soul.

Sara is napping, Colin released to go play video games at last, and Charles is watching the football championship game. One of them. Who cares which one. I am barricaded in the kitchen with both pets and the computer. How cozy.

So, Diana, how are things in the recently enfurred household of Piffle?

Well, just jim-swimmin-dandy, thanks for asking.

"Really?" you ask.

Ah. Truth?

Well.

Hm.

Mad-kitty, it seems, thinks she is a dog, which includes drinking out of the dog's dish, which is a large dog's dish, seeing that the dog (if she makes it to big-dog-hood), will be a big dog. As a very small cat, she can only accomplish this by balancing on a single hind leg, her belly and front paws dangling over the edge of the dish, remaining leg hanging in the air. Now, she has her own small bowl of pristine (as it is changed a few times a day and she never drinks out of it) water, it seems that she actually prefers the water with chunks of saliva and dogfood floating in it. She also tries to cop the dog's food (kibble that is about the size of her petite kitty mouth) and sleeps in the dog's crate.

The dog is fine with all this as it makes kitty easy to ambush. Maybe ambush is not the proper term as ambushes are generally quiet and the dog thumps loudly as she careens across the tile floor, but, still, it is the best term I can think of.

If the pup finds Mad-kitty in her crate, she thumps down beside her, companionable paw over her, and then encloses kit's head in her mouth. Muffled "mraow"ing ensues and someone hollers, "Molly! Stop eating the kitty". Molly, looking surprised that we would misinterpret such an obvously neighborly gesture, opens up and kitty goes off in a huff. Molly gets out, as the only reason she ever wants in there is to torment the cat. The cat then goes right back in and the whole thing replays. Over. And. Over.

I am not making this up.

Clearly the cat wants to be chewed. We rarely intervene anymore.

We sigh a lot.

Her fur, in a strip from the back of her head to her tail, is matted, shiny, and encrusted with bits of dog food, as well.

Sigh.

Outside of that, well, she is still quite the gassy little 2 pounds of fur. As she is also quite the cuddly little thing, she also doesn't merely fart in your general direction, but in your face. It did get much better after the first de-worming and a bit better after the second one, but it looks as though a change of diet is in order. If she keeps up with the dog envy, though, we may need to change the dog's food, too. Drag.

She is also hell on plants. It is proof of how fond of her I am that she is still with us. An orchid I bought on a whim for $10 four years ago and debated tossing as it failed every attempt for me to get it to bloom again, (yes!) is finally putting out buds! I have moved it from my "keep out all you with small hands" cat-magnet of a sunny loft, to the dining room table, in an effort to enjoy these potential blossoms which will dangle beguilingly from the stem. I also didn't fail to notice that there was some potting soil on the table, trailing off from the only other plant not up in the loft, a toddler lemon tree. I think I will have to find another hiding place.

Yes, I know. You can't hide things from cats. I should just put it by the dog's dish, smear it in dog drool and be done with it.

She is very good with the kids, though, and even lets Sara tuck her in with a blanket and a stuffed dog. (No wonder the cat has a complex.)

And now, we turn to Molly pup. Or "Maul-y" as we have re-named her. Damn but she is the mouthy, chewy, one. We are making progress just this last week, though, as she has diminished her gnawing of our body parts and clothing from a conservative estimate of 4,089 times an hour to a mere 576 times an hour. That's a full order of magnitude, man! She also barks. Loudly. And often. And there is no doubt as to what she is saying, you stupid person, you. She, of course thinks she is a human. Her English vocabulary is getting rather good and includes "NO!", "Molly", "come", "treat", "down", "upstairs", "downstairs", "outta there", "inside", and "Leave. The kitty. Alone." The large spray bottle of water with a pinch of vinegar is also satisfyingly helpful in getting one's point across. At this juncture, just taking the bottle out and standing with it in your hand mellows her the hell out. This, of course, proves that she knows she is being naughty.

We almost took her back 3 times, but each time it was in the evening and by the time morning rolled around, we reconsidered the cute little fuzzball. She really is cute. And huge. At her 10 week check-up she was a bit over 20 lbs. We're guessing she will top out at around 100 lbs.

At 12 weeks old, she is now watching everyone who walks along the road with a suspicious stare. WTF? She's a baby! Emma didn't start that until she was a year and a half. Maia, our militant alpha female, did around 6 months.

Sigh.

So, that is where we are. Gnawed, farted on, bemused. But we all are trying.

Or "Oh, so very trying", as my Mum would say.

And then we roll the eyes. And buy yet another chew toy.

It is getting better. Slowly but surely, better.

Molly would also like you to know that she is very happy that the snow has returned, as you can see by the pictures. Much more fun to romp in snow. You can get it impacted in your sinuses and then sneeze big, snowy boogers all over the cat-dog.