Kitty, Kitty, Where Art Thou?
/I am a pet lover. I grew up in the city, in a house always filled with an assortment of cats, dogs, birds, bunnies and other small rodents. My parents let us children have a menagerie of animals to call our own. My childhood is filled with memories from raising (or ignoring) these small animals and I always vowed that when I had children, my kids would know the same joys and irritations.
Owning pets builds character, right?
My husband is not a pet lover. He's a farmer. To him, the only reason to have animals is if they serve a purpose. If you have a dog it's because you have cattle. If you have cats, it's because you have a barn filled with mice. If you have cows it's because you need milk or beef. The only good animal, in his mind, is one that does something other than scratch up your furniture or poop on your lawn.
Boo is most decidedly not a pet lover.
Which has led to some wee marital woes.
Especially when your tiny yappy dog has puppies on your pillow in the middle of the night.
Bygones, I say. I found home for all the puppies.
But cats, cats are the bane of my husband's existence. He loathes cats. Oh sure, he likes a good barn cat, but only when they are in an actual barn and preferably if there is a dead mouse in it's mouth.
If my husband could change one thing about me, it would be my affinity for small useless animals that purr.
Last spring, when I came home from spending three weeks in hospital with the Jumbster to discover a cat had given birth on my bed (only weeks after the dog had) he was less than pleased. Even if it did provide some entertaining blog fodder.
He shook his fist at the sky, growled at the cats, lectured me once more on why cats shouldn't be in the house and then gathered up cat and kittens and shoved them outside.
I'm fairly certain you could hear my kids and my hearts breaking from a mile away. My husband, however, has a heart of stone.
Kitty hater.
Since that episode, much to my husband's chagrin, not only has my dog given birth to another round of puppies on our bed, (Bob Barker is not beating down my door to be president of my fan club,) our cat snuck (and by snuck I mean I opened the front door and welcomed her in) gave birth to a new litter of love. On the couch. As my children watched.
It was science, yo. A learning experience. I call that some good parenting.
He calls it bad wife-ing.
Not only did one cat have a little of kittens on the very couch he likes to sprawl out on when he's home, but another cat snuck into our closet and had a litter of kittens in our bedroom closet just days later. (I'm innocent on that one. I swear! I didn't even know that cat was pregnant let alone welcoming life next to my very expensive leather pumps.)
You may say my husband's head has exploded. Eight times over. Because that's how many kittens I currently have running around my house.
Luckily for them (and for me) Boo has been mostly absent since their birth and has been unable to punt them into the great outdoors like he keeps threatening to.
Right now, as I type this, I have ten cats roaming my halls alongside my sweet sweet doggies. It's a real love fest I tell ya.
Or it was up until a week ago. Suddenly, the kittens are no longer contained to their dark quarters. They are mobile and curious and under foot. I've got kittens every where.
I've got kittens on the couch.
I've got kittens in the window.
Kittens on my shoe.
Kittens in my shoe.
Kittens on papers.
Kittens in plants.
Heck, I've got kittens hiding under blankets, on beds, on chairs, in the dirty clothes, in the clean clothes, I've got kittens everywhere.
If there isn't one pile of kittens here,
there are piles of kittens there.
I've got kittens playing,
kittens dancing,
and let's face it, kittens laughing at me, every where I turn.
I got so annoyed with kitties all up in my grill, *I* punted them all outside.
Except they all just huddled outside the front door looking so darn pathetic while they sat there and shivered, I let them all back in.
So I'm back to kitties everywhere. They're even in Jumby's hair for crying out loud.
It's a good thing my husband is out of town. Otherwise I'm sure he'd punt me.
I know I need to put my big girl panties on and find homes for all my cats because let's face it, I'm one meow short of being crowned the crazy cat lady of the county.
But I'm weak. I mean, who doesn't love a puddy tat?
I mean, other than my husband, who says while he likes a good pu$$y just as much as the next man, he just prefers the type that don't meow.
Beggars can't be choosers, I keep telling him.
We pu$$ies need to stick together.
**Note: I know, I know, I do have to get the cats spayed and neutered. Both dogs have already been fixed, so to speak. The cats are next up once everyone is done nursing. The kittens will find homes, so no worries there. But the fact you are all such diligent pet owners totally rocks.***
Owning pets builds character, right?
My husband is not a pet lover. He's a farmer. To him, the only reason to have animals is if they serve a purpose. If you have a dog it's because you have cattle. If you have cats, it's because you have a barn filled with mice. If you have cows it's because you need milk or beef. The only good animal, in his mind, is one that does something other than scratch up your furniture or poop on your lawn.
Boo is most decidedly not a pet lover.
Which has led to some wee marital woes.
Especially when your tiny yappy dog has puppies on your pillow in the middle of the night.
Bygones, I say. I found home for all the puppies.
But cats, cats are the bane of my husband's existence. He loathes cats. Oh sure, he likes a good barn cat, but only when they are in an actual barn and preferably if there is a dead mouse in it's mouth.
If my husband could change one thing about me, it would be my affinity for small useless animals that purr.
Last spring, when I came home from spending three weeks in hospital with the Jumbster to discover a cat had given birth on my bed (only weeks after the dog had) he was less than pleased. Even if it did provide some entertaining blog fodder.
He shook his fist at the sky, growled at the cats, lectured me once more on why cats shouldn't be in the house and then gathered up cat and kittens and shoved them outside.
I'm fairly certain you could hear my kids and my hearts breaking from a mile away. My husband, however, has a heart of stone.
Kitty hater.
Since that episode, much to my husband's chagrin, not only has my dog given birth to another round of puppies on our bed, (Bob Barker is not beating down my door to be president of my fan club,) our cat snuck (and by snuck I mean I opened the front door and welcomed her in) gave birth to a new litter of love. On the couch. As my children watched.
It was science, yo. A learning experience. I call that some good parenting.
He calls it bad wife-ing.
Not only did one cat have a little of kittens on the very couch he likes to sprawl out on when he's home, but another cat snuck into our closet and had a litter of kittens in our bedroom closet just days later. (I'm innocent on that one. I swear! I didn't even know that cat was pregnant let alone welcoming life next to my very expensive leather pumps.)
You may say my husband's head has exploded. Eight times over. Because that's how many kittens I currently have running around my house.
Luckily for them (and for me) Boo has been mostly absent since their birth and has been unable to punt them into the great outdoors like he keeps threatening to.
Right now, as I type this, I have ten cats roaming my halls alongside my sweet sweet doggies. It's a real love fest I tell ya.
Or it was up until a week ago. Suddenly, the kittens are no longer contained to their dark quarters. They are mobile and curious and under foot. I've got kittens every where.
I've got kittens on the couch.
I've got kittens in the window.
Kittens on my shoe.
Kittens in my shoe.
Kittens on papers.
Kittens in plants.
Heck, I've got kittens hiding under blankets, on beds, on chairs, in the dirty clothes, in the clean clothes, I've got kittens everywhere.
If there isn't one pile of kittens here,
there are piles of kittens there.
I've got kittens playing,
kittens dancing,
and let's face it, kittens laughing at me, every where I turn.
I got so annoyed with kitties all up in my grill, *I* punted them all outside.
Except they all just huddled outside the front door looking so darn pathetic while they sat there and shivered, I let them all back in.
So I'm back to kitties everywhere. They're even in Jumby's hair for crying out loud.
It's a good thing my husband is out of town. Otherwise I'm sure he'd punt me.
I know I need to put my big girl panties on and find homes for all my cats because let's face it, I'm one meow short of being crowned the crazy cat lady of the county.
But I'm weak. I mean, who doesn't love a puddy tat?
I mean, other than my husband, who says while he likes a good pu$$y just as much as the next man, he just prefers the type that don't meow.
Beggars can't be choosers, I keep telling him.
We pu$$ies need to stick together.
**Note: I know, I know, I do have to get the cats spayed and neutered. Both dogs have already been fixed, so to speak. The cats are next up once everyone is done nursing. The kittens will find homes, so no worries there. But the fact you are all such diligent pet owners totally rocks.***