ACK! Hairballs and Beautiful Big Babes

Bill the Cat ACK!

My terrific tuchas was seated, preparing to start in on this blog. Today’s diatribe had been pondered and expanded in the dark, humorous and still functioning portion of my neo-cortex.  Suddenly from behind came the dreaded, soul stealing, inspiration killing sound of… HORK.
It was Lizzie Borden, known deranged Queen of Inbred Persian Catdom, spewing forth hairball goodness. On the bedspread. The new beige bedspread.

This morning I’d decided to write a piece on body image. Specifically the obsession with impossibly thin women and men. Such a post it was to be! Complete with Fabulous Fotos of Fine-Ass Fatties, the beauty of individuality, sexy attire for all bodies and finally words of encouragement, help and empowerment.

Apparently it wasn’t meant happen. After hauling the bedspread down to the basement I couldn’t stop laughing.
The basement furnace (circa 1928) is where I incinerate the junk mail,  Jehovah’s Witnesses religious pamphlets and occasional census taker forms. After staring at the furnace the bedspread was dumped into the washing machine.

We’ll give the beauty and pain post another go tomorrow.
Remember: When life gives you cat vomit make cat vomit milk shakes!*

~Miss R

*Note: This flavor no longer endorsed to bring the boys to your yard

Currently listening:
House: Original Television Soundtrack

An Open Letter From Lizzie Borden

Lizzie Borden

Cat or Supreme Being Of All I Observe? I am Lizzie Borden. You decide

They call me a Persian, a Rescue, a Rockstar, a shedding layabout doing nothing but causing a twice weekly house vacuum and a butt-shave every few months. Seems another appellation is litter ass. Whatever the hell that means. Oh, my Feline Fineness has also been referred to as Kitten Cat-ccitore, Queen of the Food Puking, Inbred Psycho Kitty and Jesus Christ Get Out From Under My Feet. I take these as the compliments they are meant to be.

Thanks to my Bast-given opposable dew claws the following news may be disseminated via type and Internet. Hey, Queen of Purrshah here.

Let me meow to you about my exclusion from holiday festivities, lack of combing, and owner dereliction  Due to said ‘companion’  (yeah right) Rachael, over the Christmas weekend, days preceding and day following.

1. Left me alone with Roomie James. Not that it’s a bad thing, but he’s allergic to my gorgeous fur. Plus he will NOT allow me in his room.

2. Miss R claims she attended several parties Christmas Eve. One of which happens to be my former abode. Appalling lack of tact.

3. Noticed a considerable weight gain after Miss R returned. Did I gain the weight? Hell no. Fucking Cat Chow. How much of that crap would you eat?

4. As far as I can tell she probably took a hotel room and watched endless re-runs of Law and Order. And ate Wombie Wine Gums. Claims some guy from the Great White North sent her a few bags. Think his name is Pete.  Seems like her style.

5. She claims she got ‘laid’ while absent for four days. Clearly she stated ‘lied.’ Haven’t seen a man anywhere near her in three years, except for her roomie. Cool ‘FUD Allergic Guy’ Doesn’t Count. He is family. He Gives me treats. Miss R? Good for a free meal, and the bedspread on which I shed, purr – for the 5 hours of 24 that I deign to awaken –  and spread cat litter joy. Off my ass fur.

6. The bitch finally makes it home and immediately stepped in my holiday gift to her: Christmas ribbon festooned puke piles. She yelled at me. Cretinous Human!

7. When my companion returned she was also weighed down with Ham and Beans, Corn Bread, a Breadmaker and a Nook. Have no idea what the Nook is but I do enjoy sleeping on it.

8. Miss R (Petting Girl) disavows any knowledge of cat litter scooping. Were not for James (Allergic Guy) and her trip back one day to pet me, love me and promise to be back soon, I would have died. Seriously, who wants to die in the bathroom? Forever stuck in sand and waste material.

Truly all I can announce is Piss Off. If I were an un-neutered male I’d do just that. Being a spayed female tends to suck at the entire Ease Of Pissing thing.

Will give her points on her return: Miss R did feed me treats after the yelling incident. Stil, if not for James (aka Allergic Guy) I would have changed the locks.
Somehow.
If I could bulk up from 5 pounds and drag a chair.

Hope this helps to explain my Life With Miss R. Do NOT trust her. She likes Wine Gums, Chocolate, and still misses a good stiff martini. She is fretful about DOGS. Heard her muttering about two she had previously owned. Wait.
What is Dog?

Miss R here: Lizzifer has been banished to the living room, my bedroom and kitchen and condemned to a life of Cat Chow and tidbits. She is a liar, freak of nature and cheats at poker.

She cunningly upchucks on any rug in the house. Having hard wood floors this is a feat. She is clearly fucking with me.

Currently available for adoption: Must like small piles of vomit, cat litter all over the house, disposal of yesterday’s dry food because it is stale, and opposable dew claws.
NO DOGS.

Glad I caught this before she hit send.

Oh hell.

My Cat Lizzie Borden may be Bi-Polar

Lizzoe Borden and Phil Spector

Lizzie Borden comparing Hair styles with Phil

Oh certainly we all anthropomorphize our pets, but diagnosing them with our human mental illnesses? This takes a seriously neurotic pet owner.

With the exception of the crazy cat lady (or man – this IS the 2000′s)  a person doesn’t usually consider the mental health status of Fido or Fluffy.

Pets are family. Family that can on occasion smell rather badly, roll around in feces, bring  home dead rodents to share  as a snack and puke unidentifiable chunks on your best carpet. Or, if it’s already been a particularly hideous day for you, perhaps hurl into your slipper. Although, I dare any of you to find a human family member that has not done the same things. We just don’t over-analyze the mental status of  said family member. Normally we just wonder ‘What the in the hell were they drinking? And how did they make it back to their own home?”

Okay, getting to the point. Really.

Tell a vet that your pet is, let’s say, listless.  The vet will usually find a physical reason. Luckily for my family our vets have been about 95.5% correct or at least close enough to get a an identifiable diagnosis. Sometimes it’s been sad, but it’s usually been correct. The usual diagnosis with a new pet?
“That will be $100.00 Mrs.Badcrumble”.

Now suppose you have a new vet and you take in your newly acquired  ‘rescue’ cat. The rescue employee  (in my case a pushy customer who ran a Persian Rescue) has told you that said feline has been spayed, is declawed and is 8 years old. Perfect! I wanted a rescue animal. A cat with little chance of adoption, of finding a person to love it (in this case because the cat was middle-aged and not a kitten). I knew just how kitty felt.

You ‘meet’ the available kitty and she it is not only adorable but loves to be held and purrs incessantly. Your cold black heart melts and home she goes. The next day you make an appointment with a veterinarian. After the initial examination, by your new vet, you are informed that everything you’ve been told about this animal is false. Except that it is, in fact, a cat.

And very sick with the typical upper respiratory illness that strays seem to ALL have. You have the feline leukemia test done, get the vaccinations, purchase the medications, medicate the cat -and we all know how much fun pilling an animal is!-  then hope the pathetic fuzzball doesn’t croak.
In fact the vet recommended putting the cat down as I’m not yet attached to it and the little beastie is so ill.
And by the way, this is why the cat didn’t mind being held, was totally mellow and was continually purring. She was about to fucking die. Guess deciding against Med School wasn’t such a bad idea.
Anyway, me, being a moron, said no to the doc’s suggestion of the Kevorkian route.
“That will be $350.00 Mrs. Badcrumble.”

A few years go by and Lizzie Borden had been perfectly healthy. My daughter had named her when she was 11. The daughter not the cat. The cat was actually about a year old. Certainly not 8.
But on occasion Lizzie exhibited signs of howling, blindly running about the house, jumping over furniture and meowing CONSTANTLY in the open window. This is just bizarre – especially since it’s a breed well-known for complete disinterest in anything. Except shedding and laying on your lap. Oh, and horking up hairballs.

Lizzie is a Tortie Persian.
Since I’d been told that Lizzie was not spayed I just figured that during these times she was in heat. She was an indoor cat so a litter of kittens was unlikely, I was on disability by this point (read: dirt poor), and had put off the spaying.

The years go by, she has her check-ups and shots every year, each time:
“That will be $100.00 Mrs.Badcrumble.”

Finally we move to a place with a large backyard but French Doors leading outside. No screen to keep the cat in. So I get some cash together and decide to have her spayed so she can go outside and do Persian cat things. Like stare at birdies. And shed.
She’s too inbred to hunt or even leap. She climbs up the side of the couch to have a seat. Seriously, she’s not all that bright. She is sweet though, purrs 24/7 (at least THAT stayed the same when the whole death diagnosis had cleared up) and digs me. And other people. Except kids.
Maybe she’s not that gorked.

So I take her to the vet to renew all of her shots, plus some new ones, and have her spayed.
Uhhhhm,ah, er…a second time. Yep. She actually had been spayed previously.
“That will be $100.00 Mrs.Badcrumble…you idiot.”

Oh wait! THIS is the point:
Naturally the seemingly bizarre behavior continued at odd intervals. Which got me thinking…

Our animal friends get cancer, urinary tract infections, osteoporosis, and a variety of every other known disease known to humankind. Then why the hell not mental illness?!

I’ve opened the handy DSM here by the bed and have diagnosed Lizzie Borden….
Lizzie Borden the Cat is a….. Rapid Cycling Bi-polar !

Hell, think of the money I’ve saved on veterinary or medical school and instead simply those spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on my own psychiatrists. And the old DSM my dad left to me.

She purrs virtually 24/7 (even in her sleep) disappears for long lengths at a time when she dreams of biting children (who doesn’t?), and barely eats. Lucky bitch. If she’d use her opposable dew claws for painting the house instead of cheating at poker a lot more would get done around here when she cycles.

My personal diagnosis (me not the cat) is Bi-Polar with Dysphoric Mania. A cross I bare stoically with proper medication…and G&Ts. I won’t paint the fucking house either. Wrong mania.

Gonna keep her away from my meds but damn, I would change places in a heart-beat.

What I’d give to run around the house howling, naked, losing weight by not eating and swatting at children with my claws out. All with the windows open!
Legally I mean.

~Miss R

-I’d like to thank Fishrobber for the inspiration on this one-

-I’d like to hit myself hit myself over the head with a pointy object for creating the crappy Lizzie/Phil Photoshop pic-