The Truth...

A dog's diary:
7 am - Oh boy! A walk! My favorite!
8 am - Oh boy! Dog food! My favorite!
9 am - Oh boy! The kids! My favorite!
Noon - Oh boy! The yard! My favorite!
2 pm - Oh boy! A car ride! My favorite!
3 pm - Oh boy! The kids! My favorite!
4 pm - Oh boy! Playing ball! My favorite!
6 pm - Oh boy! Welcome home Mom! My favorite!
7 pm - Oh boy! Welcome home Dad! My favorite!
8 pm - Oh boy! Dog food! My favorite!
9 pm - Oh boy! Tummy rubs on the couch! My favorite!
11 pm - Oh boy! Sleeping in my people's bed! My favorite!

The cat's diary:
Day 183 of my captivity... My captors continued to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from clawing the furniture.
Tomorrow I may eat another house plant. Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded - must try this at the top of the stairs.
In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair - must try this on their bed.
Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear in their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was. Hmmm, not working according to plan.
There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the food. More important, I overheard that my confinement was due to my powers of inducing "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.
I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird, on the other hand, has got to be an informant and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room, his safety is assured. But I can wait; it is only a matter of time.

My heart...

Is a little sore this morning, bunnies…
You know I took Taxi to the vet yesterday after work- but apart from a slight fever he was fine. She gave him a “blanket”, long acting antibiotic to catch anything that may be starting and said to watch him and try and tempt him to eat. He seemed a lot more himself after that, and he was good as gold at the vet. As they don’t go outside, it’s highly unlikely that Taxi has caught any of the serious cat illnesses so he should be fine.
Then later in the evening, I went to my bedroom for my nightly snuggle with the old man.

Grampa Scratchy has lived in my bedroom since I adopted him two and a half years ago- he made it his space and I usually close the door as Taxi gives him no peace.
When I found him, his eyes were runny, he drooled, he was filthy, he was slightly incontinent, he was skin and bone, one tooth was broken off and he was covered in scars. He’s old enough to have grey fur ticked through his dark fur! He actually has a scratch scar on his eyeball! Hence his name.

He then spent 10 days with the vet getting doctored and fed and I was hoping someone would take him as I already had two furbabies at home. But the vet told me when he examined him that he was at least 10 years old, if not older, so I figured the chances of someone adopting him were slim to none- so when the vet said he could no longer keep him and was going to send him to the SPCA, I gave in and took him home.

He has been my snuggle-cat. He loves to be held and stroked and scratched and cuddled where Taxi and Greebo don’t like it too much. He spent two weeks locked in my room, away from the other boys, and after that I opened the door.

But this old man wasn’t having any of it with these two young upstarts who kept trying to tell him they ran the joint. He and Taxi fought like mad- and still do- and Greebo just pretends he doesn’t exist.

Since he moved in, proper diet and regular brushing and doctoring his eyes made sure his coat became thick and shiny again and his eyes were shiny, and he was lively- though he wasn’t much into playing- he would jump up and greet me when I went into the room. Occasionally he’d just stay where he was and wait for me to come to him, and I indulged him, being the old man he is- he deserves the respect, teehee! I would just reach under the bed or the chest of drawers and stroke him a little and leave him to his snoozing.

So I thought nothing of it when he stayed under my bed the last coupla days.

But last night- his bowl was still full of pellets. At his age, the old boy lives to eat and to sleep, so for his bowl still to be full from the morning is very unusual! And he didn’t respond to my calls at all.

I reached under the bed when I found him and the smell of wee hit me.

Now my nose doesn’t work very well at all- it’s almost permanently blocked, so my not smelling it sooner was no surprise.

I pulled him out from under the bed, gently, and he didn’t make a sound. He resisted- he was still alive (stop panicking bunnies) but I had thought the worst- of course.

But I think his time has come.

His eyes were all gummed up again and he is incontinent again. And he’s not eating… I cleaned his eyes and tried to clean him up a little but he wasn’t at all happy with that, so I just left him lie and I stroked him and scratched him, he liked that. Then I made him a comfy pozzy on my bed where he likes to lie- but as soon as I got up he went in under the bed again.

I have decided to take him to the vet tonight after work.

I knew he wouldn’t be with me very long, but he crept into my heart very quickly and made himself at home.

I was fine with everything until I called Glugs this morning to tell him. Then I started…

Oh boy.

A Cat Story

We've all had trouble with our animals, but I don't think anyone can top this one:

Calling in sick to work makes me uncomfortable. No matter how legitimate my excuse, I always get the feeling that my boss thinks I'm lying.

On one recent occasion, I had a valid reason but lied anyway, because the truth was just too darned humiliating. I simply mentioned that I had sustained a head injury, and I hoped I would feel up to coming in the next day. By then, I reasoned, I could think up a doozy to explain the bandage on the top of my head. The accident occurred mainly because I had given in to my wife's wishes to adopt a cute little kitty.

Initially, the new acquisition was no problem.

Then one morning, I was taking my shower after breakfast when I heard my wife, Deb, call out to me from the kitchen.

"Honey! The garbage disposal is dead again. Please come reset it."

"You know where the button is," I protested through the shower pitter-patter and steam. "Reset it yourself!"

"But I'm scared!" she persisted. "What if it starts going and sucks me in?"

There was a meaningful pause and then, "C'mon, it'll only take you a second."

So out I came, dripping wet and butt naked, hoping that my silent outraged nudity would make a statement about how I perceived her behaviour as extremely cowardly.

Sighing loudly, I squatted down and stuck my head under the sink to find the button. It is the last action I remember performing.

It struck without warning, and without any respect to my circumstances. No, it wasn't the hexed disposal, drawing me into its gnashing metal teeth. It was our new kitty, who discovered the fascinating dangling objects she spied hanging between my legs. She had been poised around the corner and stalked me as I reached under the sink. And, at the precise moment when I was most vulnerable, she leapt at the toys I unwittingly offered and snagged them with her needle-like claws. I lost all rational thought to control orderly bodily movements, blindly rising at a violent rate of speed, with the full weight of a kitten hanging from my masculine region.

Wild animals are sometimes faced with a "fight or flight" syndrome. Men, in this predicament, choose only the "flight" option. I know this from experience. I was fleeing straight up into the air when the sink and cabinet bluntly and forcefully impeded my ascent. The impact knocked me out cold.

When I awoke, my wife and the paramedics stood over me.

Now there are not many things in this life worse than finding oneself lying on the kitchen floor butt naked in front of a group of "been-there, done-that" paramedics.

Even worse, having been fully briefed by my wife, the paramedics were all snorting loudly as they tried to conduct their work, all the while trying to suppress their hysterical laughter......and not succeeding.

Somehow I lived through it all. A few days later I finally made it back in to the office, where colleagues tried to coax an explanation out of me about my head injury. I kept silent, claiming it was too painful to talk about, which it was.

"What's the matter?" They all asked, "Cat got your tongue?"

If they only knew!

~~wish i could take credit... this story was emailed to me- i'd seen it before but i have no idea where it comes from!