Cats Vs Dogs

I never understood why parents hit their children until my current cat, Marvin, came into my life.

Aww, look at that face, the anime-large eyes, the little pink gumdrop nose... the only thing that's not pictured are his concentration-shattering howls of need. I am paying attention to him: this is awful. I am not paying attention to him: this is WORSE.

Now here's my dog, Smitty, calm and content in the knowledge that his is the best life. EVER. Food, companionship, more food for providing companionship: it's all great. His biggest concern was when the phone would ring, and he would vociferously defend his flock from the cordless menace. But now my parents have cellphones. The threat is over. It is time to rest, and sleep, and occasionally sigh.

My cat would prefer to continue meow-howling - meowling - forever. I bought a spray bottle and now his favourite game is to meow, wait for me to grab the bottle, then see if he can sprint faster than the spray. Guess what: he can.

So it would seem that I have a clear favourite in the eternal battle between cat and dog. Sweet, selfless dog, vs. selfish, possible mentally unstable cat. Dog is god.

Just as I was writing this post though, Marvin hopped up on the end of my bed and quietly watched me type. Every morning I wake up to find him spooning me, content to be dragged into my arms like a bag of cat parts and squeezed like a stuffed bear. His cuddly nature is the one thing that has stopped me from punting him out of the window on oh so many sleepless nights. I'm not a dog person, or a cat person, I'm an animal person. And I'm in desperate need of a really good lint brush.

RIP Pistache

Other things Pistache loved beside human affection: lying on a plate for no discernable reason.

My favourite foster cat, Pistache, had to be put down a few days ago. I guess I've truly become the crazy cat lady I had feared was my destiny, because the news has put me in a funk. The funk is incomprehensible to my friends and family. Pistache had nearly every disease known to cat, from FIV to a brief bout with ringworm. Of course, this didn't stop him from trying to force his physical affections onto any conveniently located human. He was remarkably affectionate. According to the shelter, where he once held the record of most obese inmate, he was rescued from a cat colony in Rosemont, circa 1999. I doubt he was born into that colony, because the call of the wild had long ago been put on mute to his ears. He once escaped from my apartment in Montreal, only to immediately enter the open door of the apartment next to mine. He couldn't even kill an ant. I saw him try. And then fail. But although I couldn't trust his skills as a mouser, he was just a big bag of unconditional, rather smelly, love. He would curl up beside me as I read a book, watch me type on my computer, and attempt to sleep on my collarbone as I watched The National.

Life events and an ill-timed move meant I never got to adopt him permanently, but he spent the last two years of his life perfectly content with a friend. And although she replaced me in his heart, nothing could ever push him out of mine. Because, though I've never met another cat who smelled so bad, I also haven't met one who loved so much.

Protagi-green: Parts 1 and 2

Just try and make me care about global warming, you bastards.

Sometime, between July and August, my social conscience came out of hibernation. Thus, I present to you Protagi-green: Slowly Greening Marty, or How to Get that Self-Righteous Glow (In Many Steps). Each week I'll try to make at least one change that will reduce my impact on the environment, and the wee cuddly beasties that live there.

Change 1: Ditching the Plastic Bags.

Plastic bags are the devil. There's really no way of getting around it, plastic bags choke the environment, take forever to degrade, and are just plain ugly. However, those bastards are useful. They're light but strong, you don't have to remember to pack enough when you go grocery shopping, and they can be used again as disposable lunch bags and as cat poo disposal units. And everyone is keen to give you some. If I don't have your hands on an item and are desperately stuffing it in your reusable bag, the eager bag jockeys will put it in a plastic bag. Even if the only thing you couldn't fit in your cloth bag... was a bag of milk. Which comes with its own bag. But I don't blame them. They get paid dick all, they have to impress the boss, and they could be made redundant at any time if my local Provigo decides to follow the discount route and cut the amenity of the bagger. And dropping a snotty "Thanks, but I prefer *sniff* that you use my re-usable bag instead, it's better for our precious environment." is not an option, because that makes you a dick. So, my solution is to eagerly toss them a bag, with a friendly "Here's some bags! Thanks!" and help put some of the stuff in. They seem cool with that, it doesn't make me sound like an enviro-dick, and I've really cute down on my plastic bag use. I even backpacked my liquor home from the SAQ.

So, what bags have I been using? I had my eye on these, but they don't deliver to Canada, and it seemed wasteful when I already had a bunch of perfect grocery bags kicking around anyway. So, I use one of my flowery totes made from some wacky plasticized floral print fabric, or that President's Choice bag obnoxious Galen Weston wanted me to buy, all good choices for grocery shopping. The benefit to having reusable bags is that they offer the shoulder-slinging option that plastic bags so sorely. I also have that Everlasting Bagstopper waiting for straps so that it can be stuffed in my backpack for those impromptu purchases. Unfortunately, I'm having some cash flow issues, and I think I'll just have to steal parts from the old clothes that weren't good enough to make it to Value Village. Thrifty and ecologically responsible... yes. But hardly pretty.

Part 2: Green Mah Kitteh!

See that beast of a cat up there? That's what Pistache looks like. Pistache probably takes up a small country's worth of carbon emissions on his own. Because Herr Chubfat needs a special food, I can't really green his meals. He drinks tap water like the rest of us. What else am I supposed to do? Buy him locally-made, artisan-crafted, ecologically-sound ceramic food bowls? A bamboo litter box? Sometimes, things just go too far. So, my admission is that his litter box is a plastic behemoth from the local pet store, probably made in China. And his food bowls were from the Dollar Store, probably the product of some crazy lead-spewing Chinese factory. Because he's just crapping in the litter box, and any kind of nice bowls would be destroyed by my clumsiness. So, I can only green his litter. And thus we started to use Swheat Scoop. It isn't strip-mined from the earth, it still clumps, and it won't cause lung problems for my kitty. And Pistache surely doesn't need any more problems. Now, would looking into holistic pet dandruff fall under "taking it too far?" Pistache loves Kaffe Fasset socks.

Ouch.

The cat has dropped. Actually, more like thudded. This cat is huge. Pictures with household objects for scale (pens, Heinz ketchup bottle, medium pizza from 2 pour 1) to follow tomorrow.

What else dropped? My left leg, onto the ground, after my right ankle did a funky twist move in front of James McGill's tomb. Sure, I walked it off, and thought at most I had a pair of grass-stained pants and a mildly bruised ego. Instead, the mild pain in my right ankle became an intense pain, and now it's slightly discoloured and swollen. I think I tempted the Great Lever of Fate in my last post, when I mentioned my klutziness. Now, I can't even put weight on it, and have resorted to crawling around my apartment on all fours, or undignified hopping. Pray for a miraculous recovery tomorrow, so that I can attend my Film Studies class, taught by Nedward, and bake a cake.

At least Pistache is absolutely adorable. He's already out and socializing, and even managed to heave his girth up onto the couch for some TV-watching with Protagitron the Invalid. I'm also hoping that, if I can't walk, then this will be my excuse to get some much-needed knitting time in.

Tomorrow isn't Thursday!

It's Catday! Yep, tomorrow the roommate and I are off to pick up our new foster kitty, Pistache. He's apparently so large that he wouldn't be able to move around in a normal cage, and has to go to a foster home. We'll see if he can give Beast Cat Champ '07, Oliver, a run for his money. He also has FIV. Which means he'll fit in well with our household, where asthma, deadly peanut allergies and terminal klutziness run rampant. If he can survive the falling glass, that is.

We picked up supplies today, and this time we went right for the Jumbo-sized cat litter box. And, honestly, I think Katie was that such a purchase would be terribly damaging to any cat's psyche. It looks like the cat version of those bath fixtures designed for seniors. I also insisted on buying Swheat Scoop instead of conventional kitty litter, but more on that Saturday, when the first part of "Protagi-green: Getting that Pompous Asstwit Glow" drops.

Too Damn Hot.

I'm in a constant state of sweat right now. I'm convinced that, at the rate I must be losing fluids, my flesh must have the texture of freeze-dried beef. And it's even cooler than it has been for the past few days in Montreal. Too hot to knit, particularly anything mohair. Too hot to move. By Friday, my room mate and I were in a state of advanced crankiness. The RC cable for the DVD player still hadn't turned up, our house felt like a steam bath, and the fridge had reached that state of condiment-heavy emptiness, where it's either starvation or a mustard and PC Memories of Canton sauce saltine sandwich. So, we went for milkshakes at the mall, but that wasn't enough to lift our spirits. We had to pull out the big guns: the pet shop.

There were adorable puppies, and sweet little ginger kittens sleeping like little packages. And then there were the fluffy kittens. Five of the six were staring at the cooing customers all googly-eyed, looking like they had spawned from a Charmin commercial. The last one was conked out in front of the litterbox, and covered in poo. Poor choice of real estate, that. He promptly became our favourite. My roommate thought my suggestion of "HRH Krap Kitty" as a name would be damaging to his self-esteem, but she's also the one who refused to buy the "Jumbo" kitty litter box because she thought it would give Oliver body image issues. Silly Katie, cats can't understand English! Old Egyptian, maybe, but not English. We settled on Buster as a suitable name. Oh, Buster. Come live with us, and I promise fountains of shampoo, and to never, ever crap on you.