Meow… Oh my poor kitty-cat. (My for real cat.)

Ichi-ban (Number One) is a Norwegian Forest Cat. Here’s an image of a Norwegian Forest Cat:

Norwegian Forest Kitten.

Norwegian Forest Kitten.

Here’s Ichi:

Ichi.

Ichi.

Here’s a great video – Ichi to a tee.  He’s a beautiful, fluffy, tough, intelligent, healthy, long-lived cat. He has a mane in the winter which sheds out in the summer. He has long hair in his ears and pretty much wears mittens on all his feet.  Animal Planet, Norwegian Forest Cats.

Ichi is an exceptional cat with an exceptional story. But he’s also the reason I can’t sleep in my own bed:

Ichi sleeps on my pillows.

Ichi sleeps on my pillows.

Over the past couple years I’ve developed a cat allergy. Nothing major, just some asthma when I sleep with him. Every so often I sleep in the guest room to get away from the cat dander. Ichi has been a member of the family for 18 years. I don’t have the heart to exclude him from the family bed. So if I have to wash the sheets every other day and haul the quilt to the laundromat once a week? Small price to pay for a totally cool cat. True love…

 

 

 

How my husband pissed off the cat

and how the cat let him know about it.

Ichi-ban is totally into my husband.  He likes to sleep on his chest, rub his face on his chin, lick him, and he especially loves the way my husband scratches his ears.  He gets sixty seconds of ear scratching every night.

But right now Ichi is totally pissed off at my husband.  He refuses to let him scratch his ears.  In fact he refuses to acknowledge my husband’s existence.

Last night the weather was so bad it could have been the end of the world, but my husband didn’t let Ichi indoors before he came to bed.

Sure, Ichi could have used his cat door, but that’s beneath him.  Ichi is the boss of this household and he goes in and out the front door.  We are his tuna/door slaves.  Give me tuna.  Let me out the front door.  Let me in the front door.  Tuna/door slaves.

Here’s the skinny… When my husband opened the front door to let Ichi inside last night he couldn’t find him.  The cat wasn’t there.  So my husband sort of blew him off and came to bed.

At 5 a.m. I woke to the sound of something metal crashing against our fence and I realized not only was there a tempest outside, Ichi was not in our bed. I woke hubby up and asked him where Ichi was.  He said Ichi hadn’t been at the door when he went to let him in, so he left him outside.

“Guess I better go find him,” he said.

He went downstairs and opened the front door.  The cat blew in, meowing his displeasure.  He ran upstairs, jumped onto the bed, snuggled up on my chest, licked my face until he’d practically scraped my skin off– who needs micro dermabrasion when you have a cat– and completely ignored my husband.

At one point Ichi turned toward my husband, moved a paw in his direction, thought better of it and curled up under my chin.  When my husband reached over and tried to scratch his ears, Ichi pulled his head away, flattened his ears, hissed at him, and pressed even closer to me.

Yeah, he was pissed off big time.  We’ll see what happens tonight.  Unlike dogs, cats hold grudges and they have long memories.

I could sit around all day

wondering why in the hell my books sell or why in the hell they don’t sell and I’d never come up with an answer.

There is no answer.

Sometimes books sell.

Sometimes books don’t sell.

Some books sell better than other books.

Some books I might leave in an outhouse to be used as toilet paper sell like gangbusters while other glorious books languish, unread, unremembered, unsung, unsold.

I just received an online newspaper chock full of advice on how to increase my sales, promote my books, my person, my platform.

I swear if I read one more word about how to prostitute myself I’m going to… to… make some sort of empty threat.

Here’s what I have to say -

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.”

Which means – Saint Mary’s church in the hollow of the white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the church of Saint Tysilio of the red cave.

Because that makes more sense and it’s about as useful.  And I can work on my pronunciation.  Besides, I was there.

Thus I’m going to change the subject.

You know what’s really cute?  When my big bird, Tibby, eats her Frosted Flakes – now don’t go reporting me to the bird police – my little bird, Little Girl, cleans the crumbs from Tibby’s beak like a remora cleaning a shark.

Tibby likes to dip her Frosted Flakes in water first to soften up the sugar frosting.  She sucks all the sugar off, turning the flake around and around with her beak, and then she eats the flake.

She doesn’t like the low-sugar Frosted Flakes nor does she like generic.  It’s Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes or nothing.

Hey, what can one do?  She’s been eating Frosted Flakes since she was a baby and she’s healthy as a horse.

So, an Ichi-ban update.  Today we took the sling off and observed him to make certain he wouldn’t try to rip his staples out.  So far so good.  He’s still feeling pretty miserable.  Poor fellow.

Yellow Jacket Report – more in the yard than ever before.  I take my life in my hands every time I walk to the car.  Why don’t they just die off already?

Even though it’s hot out, I wear heavy jeans, a t-shirt, a thick under-armor shirt over the t-shirt and a black hoodie with the hood up and pulled down over my face and the sleeves pulled down over my hands.  It’s sick.  Someone is going to mistake me for a mugger.

You know, some days…  Going stir crazy stuck in the house.

 

A Comedy of Errors.

I almost typed Eros.  Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice.

So see if you can follow my convoluted logic…

I can’t go outside during the daylight hours because:

I don’t even want to talk about it.  You already know the answer.

I went to the allergy clinic on Wednesday.  They can’t start anti-venom (yes venom) injections until my lung function improves because I messed up my lung function when I caught whooping cough a few years ago.  Exposure to whooping cough was not my fault and it’s a long boring story.

The doctor and nurses at the allergy clinic started me on inhaled corticosteroids twice a day plus a rescue inhaler similar to albuterol.  Unbelievable!  I have to test my Peak Flow twice a day. If I can’t get my Peak Flow over 400 points the allergist will not give me the twice-weekly anti-venom injections because of my increased risk of death.  Of course not getting the anti-venom injections leaves me with a certain risk of death from yellowjackets.

Can you see me tearing my hair out just now at this catch 22?

Speaking of catch 22′s… Today we brought the cat home from the hospital wearing the cone of shame in order to keep him from ripping out the staples stuck in his left shoulder after surgery for an abscess which resulted from an injury which could have been treated while we were in Wales if the tech had actually given the doctor my instructions for an examination and my written permission for any necessary treatment when I left the cat there in the first place.  Talk about your run-on sentences.  So frustrated!

What’s the first thing the cat did when he got home?  Ran under my bed and knocked off the cone of shame.  Thus I had to don ye olde thinking cap and invent something which somebody who works in the field of veterinary medicine should have invented long ago – a cut up sock sling.  Someone explain to me why, after all these years of veterinary medicine, we are still resorting to the cone of shame, which increases stress, anxiety and discomfort in both the wearer and the pet owner.

So I took a pair of my daughter’s short running socks, cut them in half, saving the cuff section, wrapped each in Kinesio (flexible) Tape, created a nonstick sling out of the same tape, inserted the cat’s front legs into the socks, stuck the sling over his shoulders and secured the sling to each sock with more tape.  Voila!

Poor Ichi was desperate to go outside but hey, guess what, catch 22! He has to be watched and I can’t go outside during the daylight hours because of the stupid damn should-be-incinerated scourge of yellow jackets!  So my husband, who thank god is working from home today, has been assigned cat observation duty.

Meanwhile Jake is distraught over his little buddy’s distress, although he thinks the cone of shame makes a great chase toy.  However the good news is hubby just reported to me that the cat is resting comfortably near the jasmine, with his sling intact.

Welcome to my Weird Weekend.

 

 

 

Because Kat said so!

My friend, author Katalina Leon, advised me to take this down time to dream up a few more stories and set some priorities.  Done and done.  Well…sorta.

Don’t you think the cat’s eyes look like Kat’s?  I think so.

Anyway, what have I managed to come up with, aside from one more weird ass near death experience?

Just before the respiratory shit happened, I saw my deceased cat, Kitty, which was pretty crazy.  I never, ever thought of Kitty as a cat, she was more of a paranormal shapeshifter who could speak English even when in cat form.  She jumped onto my bed just before I began having trouble breathing.  When I felt a cat climb onto my lap, I uncovered an eye to look, and there was Kitty in all her tiny orange splendor.  She looked, well, she looked exactly like Kitty.  Guess the sighting confirms my suspicion that she never left us.

I also learned, later that night, that I will never again, unless under extreme duress (again), willingly be injected with a drug cocktail of Decadron, Ativan and Dilaudid.  Man-oh-man, did I have some major freaky nightmares!

But I did listen to Kat and I took some time to consider my options – I mean, aside from listening to basketball games, I had nothing but time, right?  I’ll be putting my house in order over the next few weeks, start the new blog schedule, and focus on promises made.

Thanks so much to Lex Valentine for acting as blog-manager while I was blind – even though my eyes will be irritated for another week or so, I really am seeing so incredibly well now.  It’s kind of amazing.

Oh, Beauty and the Feast got a mention here on Tuesday:  Sweet Vernal Zephyr. And Pushing Her Boundaries has appeared on Amazon.  In print, no less!  Yum!

Thanks for all your thoughts, special messages, and good wishes – I know you’ve got my back and believe me…you ever need me, you can drop me a line.