Category Archives: nature hates me

And This is Why I Carry a Sword

I have a long and extremely fucked-up history of being plagued by random creatures, living and/or dead. It would take way too much work to fill you in on all the things, so I’ll just remind you that I probably brought this on myself because of that one time when I gave my mom dead hermit crabs for Christmas.
(If you just can’t help yourself, you can find most/all/at least some of that shit around here somewhere.)
Recently, a black cat showed up at our house. (Not Suzanne, for those of you who remember that psycho.) He just made himself right the fuck at home and irritated the shit out of me from the get-go. Then he started killing rodents, which were apparently also living in our yard. THIS ISN’T A FUCKING HOSTEL, ASSHOLES.
Anyway, his sadistic tendencies instantly ingratiated him with my husband, who would pet him and tell him how wonderful he was every time he produced a corpse. I, on the other hand, being a normal human being, would either scream and run or freeze and be trapped, depending on my proximity to his dead rat/squirrel/mouse/whatever he found to murder that day. Lately I’ve spent a lot of time crouched in a chair on the porch, whimpering, “GOOD KITTY NOOOOO GET IT THE HELL AWAY FROM ME OH MY GOD PLEASE STOP JUST GO!”
He loves to torment me with dead things, but he is absolutely joyful when his victim survives until he finds me. Then he can toss whatever it is up in the air while running around me in circles until I die.
So I migrated to the deck because it’s less accessible to my enemies.
I spend a lot of time out there at night, because I don’t sleep well and I haven’t quit smoking for the 6th time yet and at least it’s not heroin, okay? Fuck.
There are a lot of noises out in the woods, but mostly I just worry about squeaks or cat footsteps because the Murder Cat is one sneaky sonofabitch. I can tell the difference between a deer and a possum or a ninja by the sounds they make while blithely trespassing in my yard. (Ninjas sound like silence but when they jump it’s with purpose and cunning, unlike armadillos who can’t seem to control themselves and just leap into the air over any damn thing.)
Early one morning, around 3 o’clock, I heard the sounds of a fierce battle coming from under my trampoline. It sounded like a dragon fighting a goat, but a dragon would have trouble fitting under a trampoline and surely I’ve had enough goat issues to last a lifetime.
It should be a surprise to no one that I ran.
I woke up my husband and told him about the dragon/unicorn/goat fight going on 10 feet away from me and waited for him to be relieved that I escaped unscathed, but apparently 3 a.m. is too early for feelings and he sucks so he just stared at me like I was crazy.
The next time I went outside, there was a deer standing closer than usual to the house. (And they aren’t shy; they get pretty damn close anyway.) It stayed and stayed and stayed for days and days and days and I thought it loved me and wanted to be my pet forever, but then I realized it had a messed up leg and probably couldn’t leave because hobbling is hard in the woods. I guess.
So I forgot all about everything because that’s what I do, but then another time I heard something big-sounding in the yard in the middle of the night and I was in a really bad mood so I yelled, “GO AWAY I HATE YOU AND EVERYTHING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” Instead of being scared and running away because I am scary and wild animals are “more afraid of us than we are of them,” (this is a lie) it ran toward me. It sounded like thunder would sound if it had feet and was barreling towards me at a ridiculously high rate of speed. This was definitely not a unicorn. Dragons aren’t that fast, plus a dragon would probably just do that fire breathing thing because dragons don’t give a fuck about Fitbits or steps or whatever that weird counting shit is that people are doing these days.
It should be a surprise to no one that I ran.
I didn’t bother with my husband because he “seriously doubts” there was any kind of beast-fight in the yard and he doesn’t know shit about shit.
The very next day I miraculously remembered the events of the previous night, so naturally I decided that I was as good a tracker as the next guy who claimed to be able to track things because, fuck, I can read and I know stuff and also I have a sword. This was brilliant because these creatures don’t come out in the daylight (duh) and even if they did (it would be just my luck for that fucking goat/unicorn to be some kind of anomaly that does whatever the hell it wants, rules of the wild be damned) then I would just brace myself with the sword held out in front of me and let the creature impale itself. Like I said, brilliant.
I immediately found Large Piles of Animal Shit. (I told you I could track like a mofo.) I took pictures even though that meant I had to put down my sword for a minute, because bravery is one of the things I’m known for.
Googling “Dragon Poop, Unicorn Shit, and Goat Crap” cleared up exactly nothing about this mystery, but I did scar myself for life and now there’s a sticky note on my laptop that says, “Be wary of Googling feces.”
Anyway, eventually I found matching shit pictures and it wasn’t a unicorn or a goat or a dragon. IT WAS A WILD BOAR.
I know, right?!

only-not-a-bear

Seriously, I mean, there was a bear here recently (truth) and there’s this humongous coyote with absolutely no fear of automobiles and I think it’s because he’s actually a wolf (werewolf, duh, that’s obviously why it’s not scared of cars and I don’t know why people don’t just listen to me). But even though I know all this, a wild boar still seemed a little unlikely. Nevertheless, I employed my sweet-ass wildlife tracking abilities, albeit from my car because hello, I’m not insane and I’m not fucking with a boar. Driving slowly down the road I decided, based on absolutely nothing, that the boar lived in an overhang near the shit piles.
Armed with my poop pictures, I felt like I had enough evidence of Wild Hog Activity to tell everyone I knew that there was Definitely Absolutely Without a Doubt a mean pig living in my woods. There was skepticism because people are dumb and maybe because my first theory (dragon/unicorn/goat) was a little off.

BUT THEN.

My son revealed that while riding a 4-wheeler he saw approximately 10 baby pigs. (Fucksake, they’re called piglets have you never seen Winnie the Pooh?)
Boom. Wild boar. Go fuck yourself. I know things.
(I did not ask him if he saw them before or after he wrecked the 4-wheeler and sustained a serious concussion.) (I know it was serious because on the way to the ER he told me I smelled good and that’s the first nice thing he’s said to me in 13 years and he’s 14 now.)
We needed to do something immediately, because I can handle a lot of things (no I cannot) but not a feral-ass pig. Especially one with piglets (boarlets?) because then they are vicious motherfuckers. (I already knew this from my research, but also, my daughter decided to be super helpful and, while at a wildlife conservation place, she told the Animal Police about my sword plan without mentioning the fucking sword, but they said it was A-Okay, which is good because what the fuck child, do you want me to go to jail?
Because my body is a bitch and never lets me do anything fun, I had a migraine and was not available to help track this animal. So of course they didn’t find it. Hello? Who knows what they’re doing here, me and my sword or you with your “hunting experience?”
That’s what I thought.
It’s been weeks since there’s been any suspicious activity, so I guess the beast-pig realized that I was no regular human, but a mighty swordswoman and dangerous adversary, and made the logical choice Not to Fuck with Me.

Or it was just a lame-ass wandering farm pig. BUT HOW LIKELY IS THAT?

 

 


Oh. Deer.

When I was born, my family lived here, in rural Arkansas. Shortly after that, my Dad joined the Army and away we went. I spent around 9-10 years on Army bases, then we moved back home when I was in the 5th grade. This is important to note, in light of what I’m about to tell you.

I’m not against hunting; I’ve just never really been interested in it. There were no “youth hunts” on Army bases.

The first post-hunted deer (I’m trying to save your sensibilities here, people) I saw was in the back of my uncle’s truck, and I was about nine. I cried. I petted its nose, and whispered prayers and apologies, and wouldn’t speak to anyone the rest of the day. (I TOLD you guys, I’ve ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THIS.)

I didn’t come in contact with another deer until I was about 17. This time I was running in the dark and ran INTO the carcass of the deer, which was hanging from a tree in our yard. I feel like that’s something you really ought to mention to people. “Hey, there’s a giant dead thing with horns around back.” Or something.

Anyway. So I’m not a complete moron about guns. I like to target shoot. (I am good.) (Well, I’m okay.) (I’m not terrible, jeez!) I just don’t really even think about deer season except to tell the kids to wear orange if they go in the woods.

Well. I know that my 13-year-old hunts and fishes with his dad and grandparents at their place. Long as he’s safe, have at it, right? They know what they’re doing, my son loves it, so it’s cool.

Then last weekend I got a Very Excited call from my son–he’d shot his first deer. I was really proud of him and it was awesome to hear the story of his amazing shot and how much fun he’d had. It really was. It’s always great to see him joyous and happy. Then I hear, “You better get ready for a lot of deer meat headed your way ha ha ha.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

To me, this meant, “I hope you have room in your freezer for a few prepackaged select cuts of deer meat.”

So I said, “Ha ha ha, well, okay, but I can’t eat it and I don’t know how to cook it, so send instructions! Ha ha ha!”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Then I get a text as they are on their way to bring Thing 2 home.

His Gram: “A lot of meat & the head coming your way. The head needs to be hung up high in a tree. I’m sorry, he wanted to bring it home!”

Me: Oh shit.

Her: “The meat needs to soak in plain water overnight & then packaged & frozen then I will find you a couple delish recipes.”

Me: OH SHIT.

Her: *laughing her ass off* SORRY! Who knew he would get one?! HAHAHAHAHAHA *laughs forever.*

Me: Oh…shit.

So, at this point, my main concern is that my husband isn’t home, it’s dark, and there is a HEAD on its way here that I am going to have to somehow, someway, get up a tree.

To prepare for this, I put on my boots and paced, thinking furiously. I came up with zero ideas. None.

20151116_201208

Maybe because I have the wrong kind of boots?

Anyway.

They got there and my son was all, “LOOK! LOOK AT THIS! DO YOU WANT TO TOUCH HIS TONGUE?”

And I was all, “That’s so awesome pleasepleasegetitawayfromme.”

Then they were like, “So, do you have any rope?” and I was like, “OH! Good idea! Yeah! Rope!” Then I ran in the house, did a few circles chanting “rope, rope, rope” and then went back outside to do the same thing out there.

Thankfully, Thing 2’s Papa is a Good, Good Man and he found something that would work AND found a tree (not the tree by where I drink my coffee, THANK YOU SO MUCH) and he and my son hung the thing up. I basically just stood there, wringing my hands and nervous talking.

THEN comes the transfer of the meat. Thing 2’s Gram was snickering at me. SNICKERING at me! It was a loving snicker, but a snicker nonetheless.

They have a big plastic tub, presumably full of meat. When I saw it, my eyes lit up. I had visions of never opening that tub. Then she said these horrible words: “I need to take this with me.”

Shit.

We trooped into the kitchen for the big reveal. My son started pulling meat out of the sack like he was some sort of, fuck, I don’t know, a hunter I guess.

Once the sink was full of meat and my son was done shoving body parts in my face and his grandma was almost done laughing, I received my instructions for the next day. How To Package The Meat.

The following morning I was dismayed to find the deer still in the sink. There are no such creatures as Deer Fairies, in case you were wondering. I prepared myself for the job ahead.

By “prepared myself” I mean “looked everywhere and found nothing in which to wrap this meat.”

I had to improvise. In my defense, I WAS NOT READY FOR A….I don’t even know what this is called. I’ve got A LOT of learning to do before the zombie apocalypse, I’ll tell you that.

Anyway. So I used three coats of plastic wrap, two of wax paper, and then wrapped it all in duct tape. Seemed legit to me.

Because he told me it was a tenderloin. I think.
Because he told me it was a tenderloin. I think.
20151109_092453
Big Fatty Thing.
Possibly a butt.
Possibly a butt.
Really Big Thing
Really Big Thing.

I really want my son to be happy, and if he likes to hunt and fish, that’s great.

But I’m making a rule RIGHT NOW that I am not ever, ever, EVER duct taping a deer’s ass again.

Ever.


It’s Slug Season! Yes, that’s a thing.

Slug Season is a thing.

This is not a slug. This is a snake looking in my window. But if you think I’m going hunting for pictures of slugs, you don’t know me very well.

In honor of Slug Season (that’s a thing. A thing I just made up), I decided to revamp this post from a million years ago.

We have a large wooden deck on the back of our house. We also have a drainage problem. And a slug problem. I’m not positive these things are all related, because I’m not a fucking scientist, but I suspect they are.

A few days ago I went out and saw a big fat gross slug on the deck.

Me: Ewww! Did you see that thing?

Husband: No, what?

Me: THE GIANT SLUG RIGHT THERE!

Him: Shit, is that why my shoe is so sticky?

Me:..

Him: *He heads back inside*

Me: Watch ou—

Him: SHIT!

Yes, the big idiot stepped on it again. Then presumably tracked slime all over the house, I don’t know.

So this story is about four years old, right after we moved into this house.

I woke up early and first thing let the dogs out. I’m lazy, so instead of turning on a light or possibly paying attention to what I was doing, I just stuck my hand out in the dark to get the water bowl.

I didn’t look at it until I realized that my hand felt….slimy. My only defense is that I hadn’t had coffee yet. And that I am an idiot.

There. Were. Baby. Slugs. On. Me. MANY TINY SLUGS TOUCHING ME. TOUCHING ME!

This was when everything started to get a little blurry.

The dish was no longer in the house, so I can only assume I threw it.

My robe was in the hall floor.  I vaguely remember ripping it off and sprinting into the kitchen while my ever-so-helpful husband just stared.

He says he thinks I was gagging.  I really couldn’t say.

I do know that while I was in the kitchen scrubbing vigorously at my gooey hands (OMG, I might barf and this was like 4 years ago) he widened his stupid eyes and pointed at my back.

I very rapidly became naked and then equally rapidly became violent, once I realized he was a lying shit.

After I felt relatively clean, I calmed down to a state of shock, just staring blankly and mourning my lost innocence.

Him: *trying not to laugh, but not trying very fucking hard*

Me:.

Husband: *snicker snort* So. What are you doing to do with your robe? *innocent face*

Me:.

Him: You just going to leave your shit laying there in the floor so all those slugs can just wander off all over the house?”

Me: *glares the glare of a thousand deaths*

Husband: *does not die or even be mildly injured*

He was clearly not concerned about my safety, sanity, or aversion to animated slime.

Me: Obviously the only logical thing to do is burn the robe.

Him: I KNEW you would say that. It’s not a fucking vampire, Stephanie.  You don’t have to cut its head off, burn it, and bury it wrapped in chains.

Hmmph.  I guess it’s just as well I didn’t tell him my whole  plan, which was to burn the robe and then the front porch.

This is war, motherfucker.  My perimeter has been breached. 


In Search of Biohazard Suit, Good Condition.

I live in the wilds of the Ozark Mountains. To get to my house you have to travel over five miles of pitted, rutted, washed-out, tire-slashing dirt road. That’s after you’ve made the 50 mile journey from the nearest town that boasts a stoplight.

I like the seclusion. I like the beauty of the woods and the mountains. I like the silence and the wide open sky at night. I like to hear the frogs in the pond and the coyotes in the woods.

I like to be able to wander around my yard dressed like a hobo or a hooker and not worry that people will see me. I like to be able to puke outside when I’m sick because I don’t approve of putting my face close to a toilet. I like to turn my music up really loud and sing even louder.

I even like watching the wildlife. From a distance.

I do not like any living creature to be in my house without my express invitation.

© Copyright  Abactus and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

© Copyright Abactus and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Tolerable Inside The House:

1. My kids.

2. My husband.

3. My cat.

4. My ferret (although he’s pushing his luck).

Tolerable Outside The House:

1. Birds.

2. Deer.

3. Cows.

4. Horses.

5. Squirrels (although those sneaky bastards bear watching).

6. Anything else that doesn’t try to come in my house.

INTOLERABLE IN MY HOUSE:

1. Your kids.

2. Probably your husband.

3. Maybe you, depending.

4. Snakes.

5. Scorpions.

6. Slimy things I can’t think of the name? Right, slugs.

7. Spiders.

8. Mice.

9. Birds.

 

That last list may actually be longer.

You probably think I’m overreacting.

I’m thinking that houses just aren’t built like they used to be.

Obviously, I’ve written about my horror upon encountering uninvited guests. I’m beginning to think this is some kind of hang-up of mine; like arachnophobia, only it’s all-living-thingophobia. Or something.

Anyway, yesterday I was getting ready to take a bath. My bathroom has a walk-in closet, so while the water was running, I was looking for something that might fit me.

I found a big plastic tub (sealed, mind you) labeled “summer clothes.” I was thrilled to find some shorts that looked like they would work, but I wanted to be sure before I washed them, so I tried them on and looked in the floor length mirror.

They were a little tight, but I was confident that with hard work and a healthy diet luck they’d be fitting better in no time.

I was smiling at myself in the mirror when I saw it.

It crawled out of the waistband of the shorts and down the front as I stared, paralyzed in horror.

It had gone the length of the shorts and was headed toward my bare leg when I finally sprang into action.

By “sprang into action” I mean “threw my hands up in the air, screamed, jumped around frantically, and ripped the shorts off.”

I saw it scamper under the bathroom door and into my bedroom, which I COULD NOT ALLOW. I threw the door open, grabbed the first thing to hand (black Converse), and began tearing my room apart to find the dirty creep who sneaked into my pants.

I didn’t catch him insomuch as he caught himself. In his haste to escape the swift justice of my Chuck Taylor, he ran right onto a glue trap.

Which was when I stood up, triumphantly wielding my shoe of destruction, and realized that I was standing directly in front of the large, wide open windows in my bedroom. Completely naked.

 

Have you ever experienced anything sneaking into your pants? *she says with a completely straight face.*

Do you live in a bubble or wish you did? Are you like me or do you keep creepy-crawlies as pets? *shudders*

 

 


Free Birth Control

Alternate title: Top 5 Disgusting Things That Have Happened in the Last 24 Hours

So, I love my family to pieces, I really do.

But they are so gross. It’s unbelievable, really.

Here are the top 5 disgusting things I’ve had to deal with in just the last 24 hours.

1. Lunch boxes. I don’t know how these kids can destroy a lunchbox like this, but here is what greeted me last night when I went to make lunches:

A nice banana-chocolate pudding surprise.

A nice banana-chocolate pudding surprise.

2. My daughter hardcore blew her nose into her own hair. It was a sight to behold and I wish I had thought to take a picture because I totally would’ve shared that with you.

3. My cat just ran over acres of hardwood flooring to puke on a calendar that is for some reason laying in the floor. I actually learned something from this, and that is that I can lay any random piece of shit I don’t care about in the floor and as long as it looks like something I do care about, my cat will puke on it rather than the floor. I had thought she was purposefully puking on my carpet, but now I see that anything she thinks I love will do just fine.

I blocked it out because I love you.

I blocked it out because I love you.

4.  I went outside because I wasn’t ready to clean up cat puke and this was the first thing I saw:

A dog. Licking his penis. At 7 a.m. And it's not even my dog.

A dog. Licking his penis. At 7 a.m. And it’s not even my dog.

5. This morning Thing 3 was blowing her nose again, this time thankfully with a tissue, but each time she blew she would wipe up her nose instead of wiping like any normal person would. So she was getting snot all over her face. I felt like I had done enough in the snot department last night when I spent 30 minutes trying to wash boogers out of her hair, so I tried to tell her the right way to wipe. This led to many tears and much more snot. Not exactly what I was going for.

I thought my house was messy yesterday, and I knew it smelled like I was raising a herd of gerbils, but at least it wasn’t covered in snot and cat puke and chocolate pudding. Ah, motherhood. I can’t wait till they get home from school. Maybe someone will shit on me and really round out my day.

Do you think they are trying to break me? (They obviously don’t realize who they are dealing with.) Do your kids/pets test your mettle in the most horrific ways they can think of? Is this your dog?


5 Reasons Nature Hates Me

I will fuck you up.

I will fuck you up.

I’ve always had weird experiences with animals, probably because when I was a child I caused the inadvertent death of 5 baby mice.

We found them in a nest in one of my mom’s sweaters. I took great pains to place them gently into a matchbox filled with Easter grass. I spoke to them softly and I made them as comfortable as I could. Then I walked outside and very respectfully buried them alive.

What the ever loving fuck? I know. I don’t get it either. It wasn’t until much later that my mother casually pointed out that I was a killer. The entire time I thought of myself as this noble, kind little girl, giving the poor, motherless mice a dignified funeral. It would’ve been perfect, had the little fuckers been dead first.

I’ve never actually thought about the source of the enmity between me and the natural world. But now that I look back, it’s clear that I brought this upon myself.

Shit. I just remembered that I may have caused the drowning death of two hamsters. Fuck. No wonder my adult life has been plagued with snakes and goats.

Moving on.

I don’t think I accidentally injured, maimed, or outright killed any other pets until I was an adult.

Hold on, I need to go make sure my pets/children have food. And water. And air. Jesus.

You know, I started writing this to hopefully amuse some of you. Little did I know that I was going to delve into my past and learn that statistically I should probably be a serial killer. Let’s all take a moment to be thankful that I’ve always lacked ambition.

Okay, so there was the Year of the Goat. I’m not sure if this kind of goat-mayhem goes on in everyone’s life and they just don’t talk about it…or maybe it’s just me. Then there was the snake infestation which, by the way, is still ongoing. In light of my earlier revelations concerning my predilection for accidental murder, I think it’s safe to say that these snakes have been sent to destroy me.

Fuck.

I killed a bird too.

But really, it was the bird’s fault. I didn’t have my windows down on purpose so the little feathered fuck could fly in and smack against the back glass. I also had no idea what was happening as I drove down the road and suddenly my entire car was full of feathers. I don’t think this one is on me. The fact that I stopped at Sonic and gently removed the bird from my car with a pair of drumsticks ought to clear my name, I think. Maybe that bird woke up later and ordered some fries. Or maybe it was already dead and the people at Sonic still talk about the girl driving around with musical instruments and dead animals. Who knows.

Do you know anyone this lacking in common sense? Am I the only one Mother Nature has put a hit out on?

 


Safety First

Husband: Don’t go outside, there’s a big copperhead on the porch.

Me: I’ve got a big stick.

Him: No wonder the house is such a mess.

Me: ?

Him: That’s a broom.

So there was this giant snake on our porch, and by giant I mean a normal-sized snake, but it was venomous and it crept right up behind the husband. We are a little freaked out, especially since we don’t know where it is now.

Then this morning some shit happened and I ended up having to walk down the dirt road to get home, about a mile or so, and somehow I ended up with a pen in my hand. No idea.

Please disregard my hair.

Please disregard my hair.

But I was a little lot nervous about the snake and of course bears and coyotes and stuff so I was glad I had the pen. Because I’d just write them a polite note and ask them not to kill me, please. Or give them an autograph right in the eyeball. I don’t know. But it made me feel a bit better.

Now I’m home safe and sound and I’ve got the doors locked so the snake can’t get in. Because we all know how well that works.

 


Between Allergies and Tracy, I’m Super Pissed.

I’ve talked before about my miserable meat allergy. Lately it has seemed to be getting better and I started to let my guard down. Last night it attacked in full force, and if I’d thought I could make it to the ER without shitting my pants, I would’ve gone.

We ate dinner at a family restaurant where we’ve eaten tons of times before. I ordered mashed potatoes and gravy. I’m thinking the gravy was the culprit – maybe cooked with sausage or bacon grease. Who knows.

mashed potatoes

Anyway, we weren’t even home yet before my stomach starting cramping horribly. I was squirming all over the seat, holding my poor belly, and yelling at my husband to hurry up.

He very calmly pointed out that he was going as fast as he could and I very irately pointed out that that wasn’t nearly fast enough. I was dying, HELLO?

We made it to my grandma’s house, which is only about a mile from my own, when I couldn’t wait any longer. I told him to pull over and let me out. I ran barefooted into the house and curled up in a ball of misery on her bathroom floor. I’m sure they thought I was crazy.

My mom showed up and I didn’t even care that she barged in on me in the bathroom, because I just knew the pain was going to kill me.

After throwing up and doing some other disgusting business, the pain kept on. Then I turned bright red from my head to my toes. My skin burned like I was on fire and anywhere I was touched hurt. It was like all my nerve endings were on the outside of my skin. I was freezing, but couldn’t stand for anything to touch me. I was swelling up, but not having trouble breathing. I took Benadryl and prayed and cried and prayed.

You know something bad is happening when you find yourself laying naked on the bathroom floor crying and it’s not even your bathroom.

I comforted myself by telling a story in my head of how heroic I was in overcoming this deadly allergy and the medal I would get once I survived. But then my daydream took a turn for the worse because they gave my medal to someone named Tracy. It was bullshit. It was also my daydream, so I don’t even know how that happened. That bitch Tracy needs to get her own fantasy.

So I guess that kind of gives you an idea of my state of mind during an allergic reaction. I rip all my clothes off and moan and have delusions. Good thing we at least made it to my grandma’s, because doing all that in the restaurant might have been awkward.

Do you have any weird allergies? When you’re really sick, do you make up stories to entertain yourself? Do you know this Tracy?


Free Kitten

Suzanne

Suzanne

Twelve weeks old, all black, long-haired, female kitten. This kitten is perfect for people who have an aversion to window treatments or a distaste for shower curtains.

She is helpful in the kitchen, leaving no crumbs in the floor and she will even clear the table after dinner.

She is litter box trained and has regular bathroom habits; like clockwork, 5 seconds after the litter box is cleaned, she will refill it for you.

She trims plants to keep them at an acceptable and healthy height of approximately one inch above the dirt and fertilizes them frequently.

Suzanne chases bugs and other enemies and lets nothing get in the way of her goals. She is task oriented and very determined.

This kitten communicates well and often, both verbally and with use of handy retractable claws. She prefers to sleep the majority of the day so she can be on duty all night. She will let you know promptly if there is a problem needing your attention, such as an intruder (flying or crawling) or if one bite has been taken out of her food bowl.

Suzanne would be a credit to a household with children. She is a highly trained, attentive babysitter and can corral the tamest to the wildest of children, using different tactics. For more timid children, Suzanne will simply walk past them causing them to shriek in terror and run away. Mothers will know this is a highly desirable outcome. For children who are braver and/or not very intelligent, Suzanne will pretend to be a baby and will submit to stroller rides and rocking, to a point. Once she has them where she wants them, she will then leap from the baby carriage and run the children in circles until they collapse from exhaustion, trapped within the destruction they have created.

Suzanne the kitten would make a wonderful addition to any family who has adequate insurance coverage.


Meet Suzanne Aka Crazy Eyes

I accidentally adopted a cat who is a psychopathic asshole.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Let me tell you how this travesty occurred.

I’ve been in the market for a new kitty for some time. For various reasons, each time I thought I’d found one, it fell through. You’d think kittens were gold the way I couldn’t get my greedy, ready-to-pet hands on one.

Finally, an animal shelter only 50 miles away posted on Facebook that they were “overflowing” with kitties.  I was ecstatic. They only wanted a bag of cat food in exchange for one kitten, spayed or neutered. I called them to verify this outrageous claim and was assured it was true.

They did not mention the ridiculous hoops you have to jump through in order to adopt a pet from a shelter.

My first stop was a pet store to get the aforementioned cat food and also stock up on other pet supplies and kitten needs. While I was there, I met a vaguely rough looking little black furball who was there visiting from another shelter. Though I liked her persistent attitude, I had a plan and I was determined to stick to it.

After getting lost and driving in circles for approximately 45 minutes, I finally found the shelter. They eagerly took my cat food and let me play with the kittens, but when I inquired about taking home a demure little grey lady, they informed me that I needed my other pets vaccination records, a letter from my veterinarian, and my left pinky toe to make the transaction complete.

I was heartbroken.

On my way home I decided to take another look at the kitties at the pet store on the off chance that their rules weren’t as rigorous and they had one who liked me.

As I walked into the store, the shelter people were putting her in a carrier. I held her and petted her and she crawled up around my neck like a cat scarf. I concluded that it was meant to be. Fate had led me to her, in Fate’s usual fucked up, roundabout way.

These shelter people were eager to find homes for their cats, and even tried to get me to take more than one. You’re welcome, Husband. I left with one cuddly kitty in a box, excited to share her sweetness with my family.

I was a little concerned that she did look rough – kind of like an alley cat, but she curled so sweetly around my neck that I decided it was because she had led a rough kitty life and in her new home she would no doubt thrive.

This is a crazy cat scarf.

This is a crazy cat scarf.

I had no idea that she would thrive at the expense of the rest of us. Now that we are home, she has shown her true colors.

She is a complete nutcase. She has terrible gas and farts in my lap with impunity.

I cannot write or draw or sew or do anything with my hands without being attacked.

She chews on me as if I were a piece of beef jerky.

Jesus Christ, Cat.

Jesus Christ, Cat.

She will NOT stay off the table, and she has cowed my other cat completely.  Suzanne eats first, she shits first, and she has first choice of napping area.

Crazy Eyes has taken over our home. Even my husband can’t stand against her, and every morning I find her sleeping on his face. I try to teach her right from wrong, but she refuses to learn. She chews on cords.  She sneezes in my face. She walks on wet paint and my computer keyboard. She ate the letter “d” off my laptop.

I flick water on her when she gets on the table and that seemed to work for awhile, but now when I do it, she just licks it off and goes about her business. On the table.

I think she knows I’m writing this because right now she is curled in my lap like the sweetest little thing you ever saw. She hasn’t bitten me once since I started typing. She may be reading my thoughts.

sleepy kitty, get out of my head

sleepy kitty, get out of my head

 

 


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