Tamsin is out for a bedroom visit. She's preening herself in the sun, a little raggedy grey bird with big eyes, and I feel guilty, because I need to clip her wings, but I don't want to disturb our nice little quiet cuddle. Tomorrow, I think. (It has never gotten to be tomorrow, not in the last six months.)

I slept last night, largely due to being totally spent after not sleeping well on Friday night, going for an unexpectedly long nature walk on Saturday, and being so filled with misplaced emotion on Saturday night that I was vibrating, and couldn't even lose myself in someone else's head. (I have a lot of heads to choose from, lately. So many that I worry that I'm not getting into all of them properly.) But last night I slept, and I dreamed about trees and psychics in spaceships (not psychic spaceships), and I woke up on time for a change and didn't have to rush through brushing my teeth.

Time to pop out somewhere to write, or unwind with a little pineapple and muuuurder. We'll figure out which in a few minutes, I guess!
I took the last of my fish, three healthy black skirt tetras, up to Wally's this afternoon to turrn them over. Everything else in the tank had died, starting several months back with the sudden demise of all my neons, and culminating in the death of everything but the black skirts and the corey from a run of ich. Honestly, the black skirts were almost 7 years old- I wasn't really figuring they'd live much longer. But they did. And they did. And they just kept living. Faced with the choice of re-establishing the tank, or finding them somewhere else to be, I chose the latter.

Te upshot of this is, if anyone local would like a 30 gallon tank in good nick, including filters, heater, gravel, and some flourishing plants, drop me a comment and you're welcome to come pick it up. Otherwise, it's going up on Craigslist later this week.
I swear, we really do let him out of his box. But he's so CUTE with his little lambikins!

Still on the hunt for names, APPARENTLY. *siiiiigh*

an_sceal: (Bemused)
This weekend was wonderful. So relaxing, so fun, and Mr. and Mrs. E are just about the nicest people on the face of the planet.

Also, their yard is pretty much wall-to-wall kittens. Everywhere you look, there is another kitten. If not a kitten, one of the adult cats. They have a feral colony on their property, one that they are trying to keep from growing by capturing and fixing as many of the kittens and adults as possible. However, at $300 a pop, since none of the local vets will give them a discount, that's a not inconsiderable task. We are trying to find some vets here in NoVA who might work with them, especially since they are perfectly content to feed and look after the colony- they just don't want hundreds and hundreds of cats inbreeding for generations.

We came home with a few more freckles, some amazing locally produced feta, two tubs of blackberries that we picked this morning, and a kitten.

Whoops.

Meet (the cat I am lobbying to be named) Francis. (He couldn't pull off Gerard, and I kind of vaguely despise the name Quintin, which was offered in place of Quitten, and a Claire-ism. Also rejected were Wobbles, and Shortbus.)



He's about 6 weeks old, TINY like a pixie, and we are 99.9% sure he has cerebellar hypoplasia. (First link to an article, second to a YouTube vid of a cat who has it.)

I believe Malcolm will rally to the challenge of having a little brother with even special-er needs than he does. Also, I suspect that having someone younger than him to play with might actually mellow him out a little. Of course, that will come once Frankie has been cleared by the vet, and is a little more able to deal with the big scary inside world we have abducted him to.

And hey, if you're interested in some beautiful kittens (all of whom are very healthy, Frank is the only one who has issues), drop me a line. Mr. E would be THRILLED to box up an assortment for you.
Pete Wentz gets a new puppy. Why can't I have one? I am way more responsible, what with not ever having knocked up a Simpson sister.



Not that this is aimed at any[livejournal.com profile] hdstanleyone in parti[livejournal.com profile] hdstanleycular.

(Actually, it's mostly not. But...OMG, PUPPY!)
Dear Malcolm,

I appreciate that you are a very ritualistic little fellow. Dinner must be NOW, just so, always the same time. People coming home early, or gods forbid, being home on days they are not normally, throws you right on your fuzzy little ear. I get this. However, some things are universal. You are NOT allowed to scratch the shit out of my couch, even though it's a Friday and I am doing something other than gazing adoringly at your stinky little cat butt. You are STILL not allowed to eat my spinning fiber, or lay down on my laptop, or stick your paw in the turtle tank, or chase Sara, or any of the other seemingly ENDLESS things that you are doing to make sure that I know that it's Friday, and I'm not supposed to be home yet.

YOU ARE DRIVING MAMA NUTS AND SHE IS ABOUT TO RUN AWAY FROM HOME. Who will open your can tonight THEN, huh?

Think about it, before you trot into the room dragging my BFL/silk roving in a soggy train behind you. You are pushing my last button right now.

Also, note to self- order some SoftPaws.

Grrrr.

Dec. 23rd, 2007 12:24 am
Anybody have any suggestions for stopping a cat who constantly pees on the bed? Normally she's locked out off my room (for just this reason, the little bitch), but with all the in-and-out traffic of us being home, I guess she got in somehow. I would like to make my bed (and the others in the house, since it isn't just a problem with mine) FAR less attractive to her.

Okay, really, what I want to do is toss her ass outside overnight, but...not really. She's such a sweet cat, except for this damn peeing problem. I can't decide if it's a dominance thing between she and the other female, or if she just occasionally decides, in that little pea-brain of hers, "Oh! Time to piss on the unwashable furniture again!"

Also, it would be nice, if just once, I could discover this BEFORE I am tired and ready for bed. Because of course, now that I've sprayed, cleaned, changed the sheets, etc., I'm not tired anymore.
Zoe: Meow. Meowmeow. *pokes me with her paw*
Me: Yes, you're adorable, go away. *pets her absently*
Zoe: *pats my face with her paw, as if checking to see if I am okay*
Me: No, seriously, go AWAY. I am watching a Very Important interview, and I have it on good authority that Frank Iero is about to do something adorkable.
Zoe: *patently does not care about my current obsession* *Is, perhaps, a fan of The Academy Is...*
Mal: *has random spasmodic freakout involving running across my lap three times, throwing himself off the back of the other couch onto the kitchen table, sliding across the table because it has a tablecloth on it, bouncing himself off the sliding glass doors, and then coming back to lay across my keyboard with his butt hiked up juuuuust high enough to obscure Frank's face*
Me: Riiight...so it's feeding time? Can't you guys like, live off your tails all winter? I swear I read that somewhere.
Zoe: *patpatpat* *licks my hair*
Me: *pauses interview in the midst of Frank's hyena laughter* Fine. But I'm giving you the food you don't like.
Zoe: *waddles to kitchen, displaying that there is NO food she does not like*

--- 5 minutes later ---

Sara: *stares icily* *quietly loathes* *plots my demise*
Me: You're my favourite, you know. You hate me so much that you refuse to touch me, which means you never sit in my lap while I'm trying to do something.
Sara: *huffs and wanders away to find one of my shoes to puke in*

----

I know that cats have that "now" and "never" mindset, but good GODS. My cats? They are NOT in need of extra food. There are no less than 3 bowls of dry kibble down at any given time, plus people food that "falls". Yet every single night, they try to move dinner time half an hour earlier. And you think, "oh, fine, it can't hurt", and then the next time, they want it half an hour before THAT.

Yes. It's amazing but true. My cats can tell time, but they can't tell the difference between the bathtub and a litter box.
My dog, Scamp (or Caesar, depending on whether you asked my sister or not...), died last weekend.  He was an airedale/german shepherd mix, rescued from the Keaau Humane Society during the first week I volunteered there.  I was 10. 

Scamp was nearly 17, had lost much of his sight and more than a few teeth, but he was still a sweetheart who wanted nothing more in the world than to curl up at your feet and know he was loved.  It killed me to have to leave my pets behind when I moved to Virginia, especially knowing that my sister had taken Random, my cat, to the shelter, but there was just no way I could bring them with me.  I know he was taken care of, but I wish I'd been there to say goodbye. 

I'm not terribly sad, not crying sad, just a little wistful because I didn't get to spend the last years of his life with him.  I'm sure he's crossed the Rainbow Bridge, but I'll miss him when I'm in Arizona next time.
I love animals.  I would never abuse one.  Please keep that in mind when you read the following:

I am going to MURDER these fucking cats if they don't SETTLE DOWN.  All.  Fucking.  Night.  Oh my gods, I want to scream and throw things at them.  I realize that they are cats, and that they are -retarded- cats at that, but Jesus tapdancing Christ, I have NEVER met two more annoying animals in my life.  EVER.  I have shared space with MANY cats, including several who actively did NOT like me and tended to show it in aggressive, often violent ways.  Some days I can't imagine anything more wonderful that dropping these two fucking cats off at the pound and running away screaming in the other direction.  They are both SO STUPID.  I just want to tear my hair out.

Alas, I'm stuck with them.  I'll just have to deal with it until my room(!) is constructed, and I can declare it a cat-free zone.
I do not need to buy any Manos del Uraguay.  I do not need to do this, because I am a spinner, and I can make it. 

But the -colours-!  The richness of them gets me every time.  In fact, the very first skein of "special" yarn I ever bought was Manos, dyed in a way that made me think of irises.  I couldn't even knit yet. 

So I bought some anyway.  I'm calling it birthday yarn, and making knitty's Voodoo armwarmers out of it, and I shall be happy.  I also bought some deep pine Lamb's Pride worsted to swatch (I'm swatching!  I feel like a real grown-up knitter now!) for a kind of sweatery pattern I've been doodling.  Today I drew it out, and now I need to get some measurements and dive into the research and development phase of this project. 

*siiiigh*  I just heard a chinchilla knock over a food bowl downstairs.  And we JUST filled them.  Bad, BAD chinnies!  Perhaps they know that we visited guinea pig babies at the shelter this evening, and spoke ill of them to the shelter staff.  Sharp hearing, those chinchillas.  Or maybe they're just messing with my head.  Again.  I'll go down there, and I'll get the Cute Little Chin Look(tm)- tail curled up, eyes bright, nose twitching through the bars, and, as always, paw held out through the cage bars to accept any raisins that just happen to fall into it.  They will make me feel guilty for ever thinking they could do something like knock their food over deliberately.  Why, the very thought of it just makes a poor chinnie feel a little ill!  And I'll refill it.  And 90 seconds after I come upstairs, they will push it off the shelf again, just to watch it fall.  (It's a lot like shotting someone just to watch them die.) 

Oh, I can hear you now, you funny people who would say "Well, why not put the dish on the floor of the cage?"  I hear you, and I laugh!  Because chinchillas would never do something so disgusting as eat FOOD off the FLOOR of their cage!  How gauche!  That you would even suggest it simply proves to them that you know nothing of their delicate and winsome ways.  Next you'll be accusing them of pooping everywhere!  Everywhere.  (Aside- I once found a chinchilla pellet of the post-digestive variety in my purse.  I have no clue how it got there.)

No, there is a Way to do things.  We feed them.  They knock the bowl over.  We feed them again.  They poop.  It's the circle of cage-cleaning, and it moves us all.  The part I find sad is that I have apparently been paralyzed by some sort of cute tractor beam.  I am sucked in every time. 

The fuzzy ones rule me. 

C'mon.  How could you say no to that face?

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