Unrelated Side Note

I was home most all of yesterday save about an hour mid-afternoon, and I learned a few things about my cats:

1. I am not the only one offended by the stench of Diesel’s gas. It is, after all, 50% of the reason he got his name. Emily is also highly offended.
2. When I’m home all day, it must mean play time!
3. Oh, you won’t play with me? Okay, I’m going to knock this pen cup over and then scatter pens all over the house.
4. Oh, you are trying to study? How about I just sit riiiiiiiiight here, and then hiss at you when you push me aside.
5. Hey! Look at me! I’m on the counter! Hey! Over here! Look! Look! Look! I’m somewhere I’m not supposed to be!
6. I don’t know what that noise was or why there’s water all over the rug.
7. I left you a REALLY BIG present on the bathroom rug.
8. Was that the treat bag? No? Well, I’m going to go cough up a hairball now.
9. When is daddy coming home? (I swear they actually ask this because when we are both home, one of us has time to play)
10. My gas is worse than ever! Come snuggle with me on the couch.

But then, at night, when they curl up in bed and start purring and they are all warm and soft and snuggly … all is forgiven. The cuteness saves them, really.

I’m taking a break from my real estate blithering to bring you this:

At 7:04 this morning, I heard a commotion downstairs and thought, “Oh, that’s just Diesel getting into something.”

More commotion, sounding like breaking commotion, followed by cries of terror and panic and destruction. I ran downstairs to see Diesel lying on his side with his head stuck under the laundry nook bi-fold door. He was flailing and panicking, pushing his paws against the door, crying, so I ran down to calm him down, “Shh, shh, stop pulling. It’s okay, little guy. I’m going to get you out but I need you to calm down so I can assess the situation.”

He was really and truly fucked, I mean stuck, and I found myself not quite sure how to get him out. I imagine he was trying to crawl under the closed door, realized he wasn’t going to fit, and when he tried to back out got his head stuck and pulled the door open trying to get away.

My first instinct was to call for help so I hollered up to Matt, “Hey, I could use your help down here. Diesel got his head caught in the laundry room door,” and then set about trying to figure it out.

I noticed the rug was stuck under there as well, so I slid that out first, using calm words, while Matt called down from the balcony, “What’s going on down there?”

Trying to wiggle Diesel free, I called back “Diesel is stuck, and I could really use some help down here. I can’t get him out. Come on.” In the meantime, Diesel is starting to wiggle and panic again and he’s panting so I said, “Fuck it,” and heaved up on the door, not caring if I broke it off the hinge, and managed to barely slide Diesel out, who immediately sat up, shook his head, and ran up to the landing as Matt arrived saying, “Stuck where? He’s sitting right here.”

“Yeah, well, I think I broke the bi-fold door getting him out so you’ll have to look into that. He was really stuck, honey.” Turns out, I didn’t break the door. In hindsight, I realized I probably could have slid him out underneath the door by wigging his neck (skinny part) into the gap between the floor and the door but my first thought was “Do what it takes to get him out.”

Matt and Diesel went upstairs and I followed them. When I got to the kitchen, Matt was holding a still frightened Diesel and I inspected his face and head to make sure he didn’t suffer any injuries. Poor little guy was still wide-eyed and mildly terrified but purring his ass off. Matt said, “I don’t think he’s the brightest in the bunch,” and put Diesel on the floor, who immediately rolled onto his side for belly rubs.

“Well, at least he’s the cutest.”

Ten minutes later, he was terrorizing his sister and jumping on the kitchen counter. I’d say the trauma didn’t last for long.

Tomorrow, I feed Diesel his last can of kitten food. I might shed a tear while I’m scooping that stinky mess out of the can because on Friday I will feed him adult food and he will officially be a cat.

He’s grown so much since he’s been with us but he still has boundless energy; a cute, young face; and tremendously long, skinny legs. I don’t want him to grow old, ever. I want him to be my little Peter Pan, my sprightly boy of mischief who never grows up and never dies.

Twice, we’ve thought we’ve lost Sam for long periods of time. It’s a horrible feeling to think you’ve lost a kitty, just horrible.

Well, the other day, I found her most secret spot. The place she goes when she doesn’t want anyone to find her. It’s now the first place we check when we are counting kitties after house showings and she’s there every time.

She ripped a hole in the boxspring batting on the guest room bed, and crawls into it, curling into a ball. Brilliant? Absolutely! How many times have we looked under the bed and not seen her there when she’s been there the entire time? Countless. Endless. The Mistress of Hiding.

I discovered her spot when I was putting a couple of storage containers back under the bed and was met with resistance.

“What the …?”

I reached under, saw the batting hanging low, gave it a squeeze, and it moved. Sam Bug! Oh fractious day! She still hides there, and knows that we aren’t going to bother her. It’s just a gentle squeeze followed by a soft, “Hi, Sam Bug,” and we go on our merry way.

I’m glad she has a nice place to hide. I’m glad we found her place to save panic and anxiety. Right, and with that, I’m off to a cookout!

After the painters left, I put on my gym clothes because I was determined to get in a workout. As I was getting ready to leave Matt said, “Hey, have you seen Sam? Emmy and Diesel are out and about but I haven’t been able to find Sam.”

Panic. We looked everywhere. Under everything. In teams. Separately. We opened a can of wet food. No Sam. We opened a can of tuna. No Sam.

While Matt continued the search inside, I went outside to look for her, and the neighborhood seemed huge. I saw it through her eyes and it was terrifying. I walked everywhere, hoping she would meow when she heard my voice. I tried not to cry. It was 92 degrees and just awful. I was cursing Matt for not shutting the cats in a room while we had a crew of workers in the house.

I spent 30 minutes wandering the ‘hood before I accepted that she was either gone or she would come back when she got hungry. I walked home. I opened the door. I burst into tears. I walked upstairs to find Matt and Sam was sitting at the top of the steps, blinking at me.

I burst into tears of relief and cried out, “Where the bloody fucking hell were you? Oh Sam, for criminy’s sake!” She just looked at me like she had done no wrong. I told Matt never NEVER are we letting any workers into our home without securing our cat’s safety ever again. I can’t feel that way. This is the second time in a month I thought I’d lost Sam. I don’t want third time to be a charm.

Diesel has a habit of leaving us a present on the rug outside of the litterboxes when he deems the litter boxes too full. We were okay with that. In fact, we deserve it because those boxes can get full rather quickly because Diesel is a poop making machine! I swear he puts out the same volume as our other kitties combined.

The first time Diesel pooped outside of the box, my conversation with Matt went like this. In fact, the second, third, fourth, fifth … you get my drift:

No, you can’t buy a third box. It’s too much.

No. It’s ridiculous. I will keep up on it. Every day.

Well, he skipped not only yesterday but today. Diesel retaliated by not only pooping but URINATING on the rug. I was very upset about this and MORTIFIED that Ron, our Orkin Man, went into the room in that state, so I went straight the hell out after work and bought another litter box, dammit. And I set that bitch up and Diesel went right on in and marked his territory.

Our plan for handling the litter boxes once we go to market is to wrap two of them in big, black trash bags and store them in the shed out back. A single box will be okay during a work day as long as it is clean, and Matt and I both work/play/run errands close enough to home that if we have a viewing emergency, we can run home and scoop/tuck them away.

I have to make another run to the dump on Saturday. Have some junk in our shed that needs to get tossed. Then, I think we are ready for our stager to come in and get this place set up so we can go, go, go!

Diesel is eight pounds of furry, maniacal madness. He’s a terror and a joy all at the same time. He’s finally stopped getting up in my dinner but will steal off my plate when I’m not in the room. He likes when I hold him belly up so he can streeeeetch out. I love him. He’s been a great addition to our family and every day I’m so pleased he’s the one we brought home.

Emily has been super snuggly at night, but runs from me when I try to pick her up. She hordes sunlight. She gives me doe eyes on a regular basis. She has a new favorite box and she rests her chin on the edge waiting for me to give her chin rubs. She’s curled up against my arm right now.

Sam. What can I say about Sam? She’s still moody. She has Diesel in check. She’s taken to sitting on my lap at breakfast time. She hates everyone, except for Matt between the hours of 9:50 and 10:04. She’s her own cat-a recluse, a hermit, a marathon sleeper. She has bad nails and dandruff, yet she’s the prettiest cat in the house.

This morning, I threw a ball across the room for Diesel. He promptly batted it under the couch and reached his paw under to retrieve it, failed, and laid on the carpet looking very sad.

Matt walked over, lifted up the couch, and I swatted the ball across the room and said, “I remember when Diesel stole a piece of bacon off the counter and slipped underneath this couch to eat it. I was amazed because it’s a two-inch clearance and he just went right under there and all I heard was crunch, crunch, crunch.”

Then Diesel came flying back across the room and swatted the ball under the hope chest we use as a coffee table, banged his head trying to go after it, and then looked up at us. Matt said, “He was able to get under there just last week.”

“Yeah, and a month ago he was taking naps in a SoniCare toothbrush box.” We both stood there for a moment, looking at him when kitty let out a disgusted meow and Matt reached under the chest, swatted the ball into the kitchen and we both laughed as we watched legs go skittering across the floor as Diesel threw his tail around in circles trying to maintain some sense of control before he crashed into the wall.

Sigh, they grow up so fast but but aren’t I the lucky one?