Advertisements

Tag Archives: pets

A new year post on the actual day. Go me.

Happy new year, people of the interwebs! OK, so I missed New Year’s day for some of you. I know. I’m the worst at thinking in a timely fashion for other time zones. Please forgive me, other time zones. Here is a photo of Dumbcat looking pensive to make up for my transgression.

Hapey Noo Yere, peeple of bloge. I had a birfday this weeke adn am nowe fifeteene. In humaene yeers that is 76 yeers old. I shoulde reetire.

Hapey Noo Yere, peeple of bloge. I had a birfday this weeke adn am nowe fifeteene. In humaene yeers that is 76 yeers old. I shoulde reetire and get soceel securtee so Momee can stay homee and pet my furrs all the dayys.

A couple weeks ago at work, one of my most favorite coworkers (there are a lot of them…I kind of work with the best people in all the land) and I were talking about blogging. Here, I’ll give you our conversation. If he happens to read this (and I suppose he might, the internet’s a very small place sometimes), apologies in advance for stealing your words and putting them on the internets for all to read, one of my most favorite coworkers whose name I will not put on the blog because I’m about 99% sure it would embarrass the pants right off of you and I enjoy you so much I would never want to do that to you. Plus, also, workplace harassment, yo, I can’t be taking work-people’s pants off. I think there’s a seminar or something about that.

I seriously just snorted orange soda up my nose at this. This was NOT the image I went looking for, but look at the chick's face. It's like she's oblivious to the butt-groping. Or she's looking at a really funny kitten-GIF. Or maybe she just really likes the groping, I don't even know. Either way, it is my best thing of the day.

I seriously just snorted orange soda up my nose at this. This was NOT the image I went looking for, but look at the chick’s face. It’s like she’s oblivious to the butt-groping. Or she’s looking at a really funny kitten-GIF. Or maybe she just really likes the groping, I don’t even know. Either way, it is my best thing of the day.

Impressive Reporter Coworker: So I noticed the other day you’re a tweetaholic. You have over 20,000 tweets!
Me: Oh. Yeah. I used to tweet a lot. I don’t do that anymore.
IRC: Why?
Me: Oh, kind of a long story. I used to blog? And then tweet a lot, kind of in relation to that? I kind of fell out of practice.
IRC: You had a blog?
Me: Yeah. I kind of still do, I guess, but it just sits there.
IRC: What was it about?
Me: Um. Mostly me ranting about some things and making fun of other things? Also I talked about zoos a lot.

By the way, this happened a couple months ago in Syracuse. I like it because it looks like I Munchausen-by-Proxyed my penguin-baby and have gone cheerfully insane.

By the way, this happened a couple months ago in Syracuse. I like it because it looks like I Munchausen-by-proxyed my penguin-baby and have gone cheerfully insane.

IRC: And people would read it?
Me: Heh. Yeah. Lots of people would read it. I won some awards. And I met amazing people. And I went to Finland last year. Got to stay with people I met through blogging, actually. It was fantastic.
IRC: So…what happened?

And I didn’t have an answer for him. Not really.

What happened? Oh, I don’t know. Life, I guess. Andreas and I have spent copious amounts of time discussing that. Priorities change. Things change. People come in and out of your life. Moods rise and fall. Jobs come and go. I can most sincerely say that the person I was three and a half years ago when I started blogging isn’t the person I am now. I think back on that person and she seems like a complete stranger to me. It’s not that I’m embarrassed of her; it’s that I don’t know her at all, and I don’t know how I ever was her. I have a record that I was, I can look back on old posts and I know I wrote them, but as for remembering it, it’s kind of fuzzy. Too much water under the bridge.

So I’ve been doing a lot of thinking…and I realize there’s this itchy little part of me that wants to start writing again, and writing more. Otherwise I’m going to probably self-destruct.

I’m not juvenile enough to think resolutions ever stick. The first day of the year always seems so shiny and new, doesn’t it? Like you can accomplish anything. Like you have 365 days of newness (ooh, 366 this year, yeah?) to tackle and make your own. But I don’t know about you…but every resolution I’ve ever made has fizzled around February once you realize “oh, look, this shiny new year is very much like last year, what are the odds, yo.”

Instead, I’m going to be kind to myself, and promise myself I’ll do things that are good for me – and writing’s good for me. So writing here? Good for me. Writing poetry, essays, maybe even some short fiction? Good for me. And it’s good for my mind, because I need it to stop being so itchy. An itchy mind never did anyone any good.

(Side note: I have an amazing job, and every now and then I get to write. I got to write part of an article – FOR THE ACTUAL PAPER! – a couple months ago, and then got asked to write a LONG article for one of our related publications. A three-page article about traveling to Albany and all the things you can do there. It’s not online yet – will be eventually, and then you can read it, if you’re so inclined – but long story short, I get to write for work. I also get to do our social media, copyedit, proofread, and sometimes there’s totally a STOP THE PRESSES! moment with late-breaking news which makes me jump around in my chair because I feel like I’m in a 40s film with very impressive fedoras. My coworkers are fantastic, because they’ve totally accepted me even though I’m the biggest goofball. And I can say, with 100% certainty, I’ve never had a job where I can be more myself, and where I’ve felt more immediately at home with the people, than this one. Ever. When you can completely dork out about something three days in and no one even bats an eye? You have won employment.)

Sometimes I like to imagine that I'm in "His Girl Friday" only there's a lot less sexism (and also a lot fewer typewriters, ashtrays, and, sadly, fedoras.)

Sometimes I like to imagine that I’m in “His Girl Friday” only there’s a lot less sexism (and also a lot fewer typewriters, ashtrays, and, sadly, fedoras.)

I’m kind of rambling, here.

Anyway: I have a couple of people I’m going to encourage to blog, and they’re going to, in turn, encourage ME to blog, this year, so we’re responsible to one another as well as being cheerleady. And this will, hopefully, stop the brain-itching and get me back writing and being creative.

Happy New Year, internets. I hope your 2014s weren’t as fraught with weirdness as mine was (and most people I know had a TERRIBLE 2014, what’s going on, 2014, why were you so cursed?) and your 2015 looks like 366 (or 365, sorry, people of other time zones, I really meant to do this earlier in the day but I was too busy painting a unicorn head to go over my new fireplace…YES THAT IS REALLY A THING I DID TODAY, WHY ARE YOU ASKING) new and shiny days of awesome that you can tackle and wrestle into submission and make yours, all yours.

This is my unicorn head that is hanging over my fireplace. I don't have a name for him yet, but I'm leaning toward Reginald von Sparklenstein.

This is my new unicorn head that is hanging over my fireplace. I don’t have a name for him yet, but I’m leaning toward Baron Reginald von Sparklenstein.

Much love to your shiny little new-year faces. *smooch*

Advertisements

Hapy Thankgivinge blog peeple from Dumbcat!

Hello to peeple of the blogge!

This is me! Dumbcatte!

This is me! Dumbcatte!

Momme sayed I could rite here twoday because she is travelng. She goed to visit my grandprnts for Thaynksgvng. That meens they are her momme and daddy, and also that when they visit us, they pet me on my head and maek me purr lots. I used to be afrayed of her dadde because he has lowd feet and also voyce, but the last tyme he was heere, I was braevecat and he petted me lots and I headbuttted him maeny tiems and he laffed. I did not even hied in the cubbord of pans and pots, and momme sayed I was a very goode boye and gave me many cuddels after they goed home. 

Momme says this is Thanksgivign. On Thankggivng we usually just eat turkeybird and watch a cartoon about a beegle that makes toast and popcoarn for some kids for dinner and momme says, “this is Charlie Brown Thanksgeeving, Dumbcatte” and I don’t know what that meens but this yeer momme is surprising her daddy and goang home at nighttime to say “surprise srprise I am visting” and I will miss her but she sayed “I will be hoam Fridaye Dumbcatte and will give you much treets and hugs” and I sayed “meow” because that is how Dumbcatts say “I loev you Mom mom momme and also I love treets.” 

This is the beegledog making tost and popcorns. I am a littel scared of beegledogs.

This is the beegledog making tost and popcorns. I am a littel scared of beegledogs.

I am writng here twoday because momme sayed that on Thanskgivng you are supposd to write a bloggepost about what you are thankfulled for. I diden’t know what that meened so I asked the squirrle that’s been hanging out on our powrch. “SQUIRRLE!” I said in louwdvoice becuz he is behind a window, “SQUIRRLE WHAT IS THANKFULLED?” and Squirrle said “CHIRP SCOLD CHIRP!” because that is squrrle-talk and it meens “the things you feel lucky to have.” I like Squirrle, he has a tail I want to bYte and pounce on but Momme saes “no no Dumbcatte! You cannot go owtside because of running awaey and also it is cowld.” Momme knows about running awaye and also cowld because she gowes outsideplayces a lot! She is grownup laydee and weares a coat that is soft and smels like sheeps to me. She has to hang it in the clowset because or else I like to sleep on it and get furrs on it and she says “sigh sigh DUMBCATTE! You have mayde my gude wool coat all furrs!” 

Squirrle friend! Why is he alwaeys on our porche? Momme doesn't know why eithre.

Squirrle friend! Why is he alwaeys on our porche? Momme doesn’t know why eithre.

So with the help of Squirrle (THAYNK YOU SQUIRRLE I LIKE YOURE TAYLE TO BYTE IT) I thinked of things I am lucky to have and thankfulled for becuze it is Thaynksgving! Momme will be so prowd of me she will pet my tayle many timez and give me all the treetz! 

ONE. I AM THAYNKful for having many toews. Most cattes only have some toews but I haev ALL THE TOWES! Momme saeyz I am pollydactul and Moeme’s freynd from Britain Engaland Elayne sayz I am Hemmingway catte. All of my toes are good towes and I lyke to scratch things and Momme says “you have ruinede the cowch!” but she doesnot care really becauz this howse is catte frendly, she sayz. 

Do you think this catte is my brother or sistre? HELLO BROTHRE OR SISTRE!

Do you think this catte is my brother or sistre? HELLO BROTHRE OR SISTRE!

TWO. I em thankfull for treetz. They are deleceus. You shuld eet treetz! In my howse, we have treetz at nighttimez. I start to ask momme for them and she says “Not TIME, Dumbcatte!” but I donot know about TYME so I roll on the carpetstuff and then I say, “meiouw?” in a polyte voyce and she says, “it is treettime at EIGHT PEE EMM, Dumbcatte, and right now it is FIVE OH TWO pee emm!” and I donot know what that is means so I just keep asking in MORE and MOAR polyte voices and sometymes this maeks her scoope me up and kiss my bellee and say, “YOU ARE A BEGGAR, DUMBCATTE!” and then I have to get on the flore and lick my bellee furrs because they are messee now. Mommees make your furrs messy but you still love them. Then she gives me treetz and I run all arouwnd the room EETING The treetz and crunching and purring and she laughs and says, “you are liek a treet vacuum” and I eet and purr and crunch because SO GUDE! 

I like theese treetz! They crunch in my teeths.

I like theese treetz! They crunch in my teeths.

THUREE. I am thankfule for warm. Becuz when I was yungcatte, I lived on dirt and it was wintertymes. And it was cowld, and there was snowe. And I had to eat things that smeled badde. And peopel yelled at me and that was skary. And I hidded under a garaeg but it was stille cold and my tummy was hungury and I cut my foot on a sharup thing and it was owch. But in howse with Momme, there is warm! And also blaenkts, and cowches, and bed with Momme, and foods, and treetz, and a bird on a string that teeses me and makes me run all around and byte it and byte it and leep in the air until I am tired, that byrd is tricky and always gets awaye! 

There is that bird! How did it get on the blogge? TRIKCY!

There is that bird! How did it get on the blogge? TRIKCY!

FORE! I am thaynkfel for MOMME! Asweoihegw0hweg 

Please to excuse the cat I falled off the cowch becuz I was excitde. 

I will start over agayne! 

FOURE I AM THANKFUL FOR MOMME! 

This is my momme. I am not in this photo because I was sleepinge. Cats sleep a lot and more a lot.

This is my momme. I am not in this photo because I was sleepinge. Cats sleep a lot and more a lot.

Momme is the best momme and at first I was scayred of her because I was scayred of all people, but then one day I sayed, I like this laydee because she gives me foods and her howse is warme and she lets me sleepe anywhere I want to sleepe and does not yell loudvoyce at me and she did not make me leeve the nice waerm howse so maybe she will not ever do that. So I sneeked out of under the bed with the dust that maked me sneeze and sneeze and I headbutted her fayce when she was sleeping and then I thought o no! She will be madtimes! But she was NOT madtimes and she just laffed and sayed “Dumbcat! Are we friends now?” and petted my furrs and I liked that so much and when she moved out of that howse I was skared! But she taked me with her! To another howse! Then she left that howse and took me to a NEW howse! She does never leave me behind because she is my Momme. And I sleep next to her fayce and she pets me until she falls asleep and sometimes I waek her up by jumping on her and she says “owch Dumbcate that is my spleene!” but it is ok. Because when someone is your Momme they aren’t really mad at you for jumping on their spleen or throwing up on the rug. They just clean it up and say “poor Dumbcatte how is your tummy. Pleese try to throw up on the tile next tieme, my little sweet poetatoe.” 

It is niec to have a mommee and I hope you all haev Momees or Dades, or maybe penguins, they are funnee, or mome says you can also have two mommees or daddees and that is ok and I say ok, who cares, as long as there is petting of Dumbcattes? Twiece the petting is ok with me! I am Dumbcatte! If Mommee marrys a boyperson someday he can pet my furre. I will let him. Do you think he will give me treetz? 

I want a pet pengiune, momme! This one is happey.

I want a pet pengiune, momme! This one is happey.

I am going to sleepe now because tomorrow momee will be home and I miss her and will sleepe on her bed now. I can get under her covers because she is not hear and will not know until she gets home and then she wOUld say “Dumbcatte who unmade the bed, was it a robber?” and I will say “mieouw!” which meenz “yes momme a bad robbere came in while you were gone and sleeped in your bedde it was not me, Dumbcatte!”

ROBBERS, MOMME, I TOLDED YOU!

ROBBERS, MOMME, I TOLDED YOU!

Happy day of turKeys to you all and also thankfulnesses and I hope you are all happeytimes. If you are not happeytimes you should get a pet like a cat or a dogge or a squirele or a penguin or a goat.

Oh, Momme sayz to tell you that SHE is thaenkful for haeving many good jobbes and her familee and her friendz that she lovez so much and for having a year that waz unprediktable and also wonderfulle, and for having all teh love in her lief, then she had teers in her eyez a littel so I headbuttde her and she laffed.

So, in summatione, you should get a pengiune pet.

LOVE DUMBCATTE

This is my authore photo like when you write a booke. I look verey seriuoustimes!

This is my authore photo like when you write a booke. I look verey seriuoustimes!


Evacuate all the schoolchildren…

Sometimes you feel really, really lucky.

Today at work, our on-call called in. We have an off-site on-call who checks in with us periodically, just to see if we’re still alive, if all the employees showed up for their shifts, if the place blew up in a random missile attack, etc. Today’s on-call was CAZ. That’s not her real name. We go by initials there. And strangely enough, those aren’t her initials, as she got married a few years ago. But her new last name doesn’t sound as good as saying “CAZ!” does. So those of us who’ve been there a while still call her CAZ. Yes. Yes, that’s a thing that happens at my part-time job. (I don’t go by my initials there, only because my initials don’t sound good if you say them. I’m just Amy. At one point, there were like five Amys but I outlasted them ALL. I would say “I win!” but I’ve been working at this place for eight and a half years so I don’t think that’s a win for anyone, as that means I haven’t had a true weekend for eight and a half years.)

“HELLO CAZ!” I said. And we chatted a little, because I do so like CAZ.

She warned me that one of the apartment complexes we answer for was on fire, so we would probably be getting a lot of calls on that account.

Which one? Oh, not a big deal, just the one where I live, that’s all.

ON FIRE.

“CAZ, do we know more about this fire? Like, what BUILDING is this fire in?” I said, in a freaked-out tone.

“Why? Oh, so we can tell callers what’s up when they call. GOOD IDEA!”

“No. Um. I live there?”

“Oh. CRAP. Um. Let me ask my husband. He saw it on Facebook. HUSBAND!” she yelled. It is one of CAZ’s more endearing qualities. She’s really loud. She’s an all-capser, if anyone is. “DID FACEBOOK TELL YOU WHAT BUILDING’S ON FIRE? He says no. Sorry!”

So all day at work, I was freaking merrily the hell out. I don’t hang with anyone in my complex so I wasn’t going to call anyone, and at one point we tried calling the front desk because callers were calling us all “NO ONE’S ANSWERING OVER THERE” but no one answered so I couldn’t even ask them what was up. I assume the front desk guy, who’s super-timid (he’s like a Dumbcat of a human) saw the fire and scurried away into his own personal pots-and-pans cupboard.

I kept thinking of Dumbcat. And all my things. I really like my things. And then Dumbcat again, who, the one time we had a fire at my old place, was SO SCARED. And my things. But mostly my Dumbcat. And I did my job, but I kept thinking, “Maybe you have no home to go to? Maybe the ENTIRE PLACE burned down. Maybe you have no more things or cat. Maybe you have your car and what you’re wearing. You have renter’s insurance, sure, but you can’t buy a lifetime’s worth of things. Or Dumbcat. Dumbcat is worth more than ALL the money.”

I drove home kind of crazily. Sorry, other people on the road. You were driving TOO SLOWLY. I wanted to know if I had a home.

I had a home.

(The building that burned, however, wasn’t far from mine. Only a few away. It’s a HUGE complex. Building after building after building.)

It was all over the news. 4 apartments burned. REALLY burned, too, not just a little singed or whatever.

HOLY HELL.

They don’t know how it started, only that it started in the top floor apartment and burned four of the places to a crisp. Like, nothing left. The Red Cross is helping the people without homes. I didn’t see anything when I drove in (the building that burned is past my driveway) but WHOO does it smell like smoke around here.

In news of “everything is an excuse for getting blasted,” my neighbors decided to have a “WE DIDN’T BURN UP!” party, and a gaggle of like ten of them got drunker and drunker in the parking lot. In-between my frantic pettings of Dumbcat (“OMG, my good, good boy, who isn’t dead, how much do I love you? SO MUCH. More than ALL THE THINGS. You are the BEST.” “MOM! This are the BEST PETTINGS!1!!! PURR PURR o no I falled off the cowch from hapinesss”) I peered at them like a creeper. Things got super-loud about three hours after I got home. One of the very classy partygoers decided it was time to BE VERY LOUD and SCREAM OBSCENITIES and BANG ON OTHER PEOPLE’S CARS (I was all, “Don’t you touch my car. Don’t you even. DON’T TOUCH IT” but he didn’t, I don’t think) and then I wandered off because other people’s insanity due to overimbibing got boring to me in the mid 90s but when I heard someone say “GET IN THE CAR DUDE WE GOTTA GO!” I peeked out and he sped off and there was a guy on the ground in a puddle of blood with a girl hovering over him all “You ok, buddy?” and the other partygoers were scurrying around cleaning up detritus because you could hear cop cars coming.

YAY! BAD BOYS BAD BOYS WHATCHU GONNA DO?

The cops showed up, and then an ambulance, and they took the Victim of the Fire Party away on one of those backboard thingies that you strap people to when they’ve had a spinal injury and then the lady who lives in that place went around apologizing to people for the ruckus and that was the end of that.

I just kept thinking of this:

OMG I am totally laughing so hard I can’t type properly right now sdohgoisgohsdogih.

So: all in all, it all worked out. I have a home. I have a DUMBCAT in the home. (Who doesn’t like the smoky smell; he’s all sniffing near the windows and making his sour-face and running off.) I feel very, very fortunate. (I feel terrible for the people who lost everything, though. Fires scare the bejeebers out of me. When I was little, I used to have panic attacks about our house going up in flames. Dad was all, “WE WOULD BE FINE I WOULD SAVE YOU” but we had to watch some terrible movie about fires in your home and I WAS SO SCARED so I was all, “DAD YOU COULD NOT SAVE ME FROM A WALL OF HUNGRY CHILD-EATING FLAMESSSSSS” and he just shook his head and walked away which I think is what happened with most of my childhood, to be honest.)

Tomorrow I am going on an adventure to meet the most lovely Bronwyn and her EQUALLY-LOVELY fella. I am excited. We will have an adventure of epic proportions! Or just eat dinner and talk and talk, but that can be totally adventurey if you’re meeting someone for the first time you’ve known for years on the interwebs.

Happy Sunday, everyone. May you all have a good thing happen that makes you realize you are very, very lucky to be alive and well and have what you do have in life.


And that, kiddos, is why we never, ever count our chickens.

Today there was a sadness. It’s a heart-hurty kind of day.

So this afternoon I was eating my lunch and playing around on Facebook (as I do) and saw this.

This is a cat that was available at one of our local shelters.

Who, exactly, does he look like?

OMG IT IS DUMBCAT’S THINNER YOUNGER TWIN!!!!

OK, so I had about ten minutes to make a very important decision (because I had to get back to work.) I was not planning to get another cat. The last great cat experiment did not turn out well. And poor Dumbcat. He WANTS a friend, but he’s so timid. (I also love having two cats, but his feelings are more important than mine.)

But this was Dumbcat’s TWIN. And listen, Lynx Point Siamese cats? They’re not something you see every day. Also? He was a polydactyl. He had extra toes. JUST LIKE DUMBCAT. And his name was VERY similar to Dumbcat’s really real name; enough so that it was spooky, actually. I wouldn’t even have to change his name. He’d fit in just fine (assuming he liked me, and I liked him, and he and Dumbcat got along, and such.)

I’m not the most impulsive human. But look at that face.

Yeah. I was gone. I was smitten.

I called the shelter. Yes, he was still there; yes, they were open; no, they couldn’t hold him, but they had very little traffic today, why didn’t I come in around 3:45, he’d still be there. I could bring him home today, actually. Neutered. All ready to go. Yup yup yup.

I jetted back into work. Scared my boss with “OMG THE BOSS! There is a CAT-RELATED-EMERGENCY can I leave early?” After she was talked down from thinking my cat had perhaps called me while I was on my lunch break (what, it might happen, he has thumbs) and said he was dying or something, and I explained the situation, she was very understanding (I have a wonderful boss, who is also my friend, and she is a bigger cat-lover than I am.)

All systems go. I had butterflies upon butterflies. Butterflies all up in my butterflies.

You see this isn’t going to end well, right? I started this on a down-note. I spoiled you before you began. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.

I went down the scariest little roads on my way there. (WTF, GPS, seriously? There HAD to be a less circuitous and less-likely-to-get-me-killed-by-yeti way to get to that shelter.) I ran in. The lady at the desk was all, “Go on back! He’s around the corner in the cat-room!”

I ran in.

His cage was empty.

I stood in front of it for a minute. This didn’t compute. She’d JUST SAID he was there.

There were two viewing rooms in the cat room. I peeked in them.

There he was. Up against the glass. He saw me and walked to the glass. And bashed into it with his face. In a very Dumbcat-like-way.

The two women in there ignored me. I knocked on the glass. They were both wearing scrubs; I assumed they were employees.

Amy: making an ass out of YOU and ME for almost 40 years now.

“I’m here for him,” I said.

They smiled and one said, “Did you fill out an application?”

“Not yet!” I said. “He’s mine – don’t give him to anyone else, ok?”

She nodded. “She has dibs!” she laughed.

I went out. I filled out the application. And halfway through, the lady at the desk said:

“Oh, someone else is taking that cat you want, by the way. You don’t need to finish filling out that application, if you don’t want to.”

I stopped. I got very cold. I looked at her.

“No, I…I told the employees back there I was here for him. I…”

“One of those people is an adopter. She got here a few minutes before you did. She decided she wants him.”

“They’re not both employees?”

“Nope.”

“But…one of them told me to fill this out? One of them said I had dibs?”

(But did she? Or was she saying the OTHER chick had dibs, and I misunderstood? What the hell was going on at this shelter of chicanery?)

The woman at the desk shook her head. “I mean, you can go back and see what’s going on, but it’s a done deal, I think.”

I went back to the cat room. The two women were now playing with OTHER cats. My boy was in his cage. He looked at me with his wise blue eyes, which were ever-so-slightly crossed. I thought about taking his cage card and going up front and lying and saying, “She said I could have him.”

Because he was mine, right? I came all this way. Wasn’t he mine? He was meine Wassermelone, right?

I’m not the devil. I couldn’t.

I went to the visiting area again. The same two women looked at me. I knocked and opened the door a little. The one who apparently WASN’T an employee (was just, randomly, wearing scrubs? What a calvacade of errors this place was, or maybe I was) looked up, annoyed.

“I’m sorry. Are you planning on taking the Siamese? I…I’m here for him, they told me he’d be here, I’m so hoping…it would mean so much…”

“Yes. Most likely. I am DECIDING. THANK YOU,” she said. And made that dismissive tut-noise. And looked at me pityingly.

And I walked up front and stood by the front desk because if I walked out without her deciding and she chose otherwise, what an asshole I’d be.

And a few minutes later, the front desk lady was all “HE’S ADOPTED” and that was that. No “I’m sorry” or “we really should have told you to come sooner” or “we’re sorry, we would have held him for you” or SOMETHING.

I sad-Charlie-Browned to the car. Where I wept. And cussed. And then wept some more.

I know. I KNOW. All things are meant to be, and blah blah blah, and it probably wasn’t the right TIME, or the right PLACE, and listen. I believe in all of that just as much as anyone you know. I really, really do. I live by that as much as I can.

But oh. Oh, I so wanted him. So very, very much. Because someday, Dumbcat will no longer be here. And this cat was two. And had a good long life to live. And I imagined him being Dumbcat’s younger friend, and making Dumbcat happy in his older years, and then having a cat when (shh, I don’t like to think about this) Dumbcat is no longer here to make me laugh every day.

So I cried in my car. Because some dismissive girl who got to the shelter just before me got him. And will she appreciate him like I would? I don’t know. Maybe. All I know is, she called him “she” three times while I was gathering up my things. And he’s a HE. So that’s a worry.

Then I went shopping to make the hurt stop, but only found ONE SHIRT so that didn’t help. And then my cable broke. And I got some shitty news. So it was a snowballing day of badness, and I’m going to take a cool shower and go to bed early because effffff.

Dumbcat waiting for me at home and wanting to be especially cuddly was nice, though. I told him about his long-lost brother. He just purred and headbutted my spleen.

I don’t want another cat. I want another DUMBCAT. Or, at least, one that looks enough like him that when that inevitable day comes that he is no longer headbutting my spleen, the hurt won’t devastate me as much as it might.

(Shush, I know there’s only one Dumbcat, let me have my fantasy, ok? OK. Great.)

So, if any of you are out and about in the world and see a homeless Dumbcat, and he’s looking for a home…you let me know. I’m totally willing to travel. Just promise me he’ll be there when I show up, ok? I don’t like crying in the car. It makes my glasses all fog up.

This one would be good. He looks sufficiently freaked-out enough to join my household.

This one would be good. He looks sufficiently freaked-out enough to join my household.


Even if they’d eat my whole face off, I totally still want one.

One of the (many) reasons I like talking to Andreas is that he constantly amazes me with all the things he knows. (And he just thinks they’re nothing. “Oh, I know this totally AMAZING THING! Eh, I’m sure everyone knows that, though.”) He’s always telling me new things in email, but where I REALLY get to learn the new things is when I get to talk to him with my face.

I very much enjoy talking to Andreas with my face. It is, by far, one of my favorite things about modern technology. Not only does it make me feel like I’m living in Jetsons-times, but also I miss Andreas and it is so nice to actually SEE him when I’m talking to him. I get very hand-wavy and happy and he makes me laugh and laugh but also we totally talk about serious things because I’m not ALWAYS a goofball and also, sometimes I get to see his adorable kiddos, and make them smile even though I’m sure they think I’m the crazy lady who lives in the computer and speaks gibberish.

I got to talk to Andreas for THREE WHOLE HOURS this past weekend! Until the very wee hours. Well, MY wee hours. Not the wee hours in the land of the Finns. Damn time zones, anyway. Why can’t my people all live right here in my town? Better still, right here in my HOUSE, which would be the most handy for chatting?

Among a million billion other awesome things that were discussed, Andreas taught me about an animal I didn’t know existed.

RACCOON DOGS!

I don’t even remember how it came up. He said something about raccoon dogs (I think that they were in his country?) and I was all, “That isn’t a thing. Raccoon dogs! That’s not REAL.” And he said, “It is SO real!” and promptly sent me a link to raccoon dogs, which do, indeed, exist.

“Can I have one?” I asked.

“No. They are wild. They’re not pets.”

“They would eat my face?”

“No. Probably they’d just run away.”

“LIKE DUMBCAT!”

This one's very much like Dumbcat. 'cause he's chunky.

This one’s very much like Dumbcat. ’cause he’s chunky.

Raccoon dogs are real things, but we don’t have them here in Merka. They aren’t raccoons. They’re more like dogs. Or foxes. They just LOOK like raccoons. And people hunt them for their fur, which is sadtimes. I mean, seriously. LOOK AT RACCOON DOG PUPS!

ZOMG!

ZOMG!

You don’t need to be fur-hunting something that looks like this. LOOK AT THESE FACES! I especially like the one on the right. He looks shocked and awed, but also peppy.

This one is SMILING. He wants to be my PET.

This one is SMILING. He wants to be my PET.

I know Andreas says I can’t have a raccoon dog for a pet because they’re not pets and he’s very practical, but everyone ALSO said Helper Mule didn’t like people, and we all know how THAT turned out. Helper Mule and I became the best of friends! When I left, I’m quite sure that Helper Mule was very sad. He seemed to be watching me leave in a very sad, mulish way. (Dad saw Helper Mule’s owner yesterday. “How is my MULE?” I asked. “I don’t know. Still alive, I suppose. At least, I didn’t hear otherwise. And I would assume if that damn mule had died, it’d come up in conversation,” Dad replied grumpily.)

Well, Andreas, you’re very practical, so I’ll take your word for it (even though it breaks my heart) that I can’t have a raccoon dog. HOWEVER, I have found this TOTALLY SAFE THING, so can I have this?

What do you get if you breed a domestic cat…

Like this handsome bugger RIGHT HERE...

Like this handsome bugger RIGHT HERE…

…with a beautiful, beautiful serval?

"Mom I don't want to haev baybeezz  with this cat she skeerz me," says Dumbcat.

“Mom I don’t want to haev baybeezz with this cat she skeerz me,” says Dumbcat.

YOU GET A SAVANNAH CAT!

They are beautiful and smart and loyal like dogs but also big. Look!

SO TALL! SO LONG!

SO TALL! SO LONG!

I WANT ONE!

I WANT ONE!

LOOK WHEN THEY ARE KITTENS!!!

OMG CAN YOU EVEN. I CANNOT. I CANNOT EVEN.

OMG CAN YOU EVEN. I CANNOT. I CANNOT EVEN.

But if I can’t have one of THESE cats, I found ANOTHER cat that is JUST AS GOOD.

A pixie bob!

Pixie bobs are supposedly descended from cats and bobcats who had some illicit sort of mountaintop love affair or something. I don’t even care about secret lovers, I just love this cat. He has a Dumbcat tail!

And tufty ears!

And this one looks like he wants to hide in the pots-and-pans cupboard! LIKE DUMBCAT!

This one looks like it needs antidepressants!

This one loves his owner SO MUCH!

They are not much bigger than normal cats.

ANDREAS CAN I HAVE A CAT THAT LOOKS LIKE A BOBCAT OR A SERVAL?

I tried to find out how much they cost but none of the breeder sites would list prices which makes me think I can’t afford them. When a store doesn’t list the price, you can’t afford it. That’s a Dad-rule.

Dammit. I so wanted a bobcat-cat. Or a serval-cat.

Oh, well. I have a Dumbcat-cat. That’ll have to do, I suppose.

You don't need a faency-catte, Mom. I em good enuf. I cuddel your legg while you write on the glowey tappy box. I em a goode boye!

You don’t need a faency-catte, Mom. I em good enuf. I cuddel your legg while you write on the glowey tappy box. I em a goode boye!

(VERY IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: in case anyone wasn’t aware, as I always seem to get at least one person who’s all “OMG THAT’S SO IRRESPONSIBLE!” – please do not get your cats – or dogs – from breeders if you can help it. THIS POST IS IN JEST. There are wonderful animals that need homes at your local shelter; many of which will get put to sleep if they are not adopted, because space is at a premium. I say this as someone who, for two years, had to put down animal after animal while she worked at the Humane Society. There are not only wonderful mixed-breeds at your local shelter, there are purebreds. There are purebreds ALL THE DAMN TIME. Sometimes even with papers, because their owners have turned them in! So if you feel you can’t live without a purebred, check out your local shelter first, please. You might find your next family member right there, on death row – and it might not even be the one you went in for. Neither of my past two cats were the cats I went in looking for – and, actually, when Dumbcat crossed my path, I wasn’t even LOOKING for a new pet. He just showed up and I realized I couldn’t live without his cheerful, beautiful idiocy in my life. So, yes. The pixie bob and the Savannah cat are gorgeous, and if one fell from the sky into my life, I would happily take it. But always check out your local shelter first, please!)


%d bloggers like this: