Tag - Our Crazy Cats

Home Decorating Tip

Plain porcelain bathroom sinks are so uninspired.

So we decided to spruce things up with a cat-filled sink!  PETA be damned.  (Tip:  The sink accessory does not appreciate it when you wash your hands.  Or brush your teeth.  Or try to use the sink in any way.  Definitely more fashion over function.)

The Birthday Boy

I use the term “boy” loosely because Matty turns the big 1-0 today.  Which is pretty old in kitty years, sort of like turning 30 in Hollywood.  Okay, maybe not THAT old, but no spring chicken, that’s for sure.

I couldn’t resist posting this picture of Matty sitting next to the “Time Out” stool I won in a random contest.  I assume you’re supposed to use the stool to make your toddler think about why he shouldn’t draw on grandma’s walls with poop again — unless it’s the other grandma’s — or to discipline husbands who put empty milk cartons back in the fridge; however, in MY household, Matty is the most deserving of time-outs.  Pretty much every day.  We all know why.  Because it’s his birthday, I will not mention his dirty habit except to note that a punishment “stool” is oh-so-apropos.

This is one of the only shots I was able to get of Matty next to the seat because he wanted to rub around my legs, desperate to be picked up.  This cat does not like to sit on people’s laps, but he is more than content to let us carry him around ALL DAY LONG.  Like dead weight.  No small feat, considering he weighs more than a small dump truck.  Carrying a load of James Gandolfinis.

Matty and Marcy share the same father — THAT cat was a total ho’ bag/playa — and Marcy’s birth mother, Leah, ended up nursing and taking care of Matty in his formative weeks because his mama was not a fan of being a parent, to the point of hissing at her own offspring.  Can’t blame her.  Having a ton of kids hanging from your teats when all you want to do is catch the latest “Dr. Phil” cannot be fun.

Mr. Candy was apprehensive when I declared I wanted a second cat, as he assumed that two would quickly snowball into thirty, with cats hanging from our chandeliers and whatnot.  I assured him that was just ridiculous; we didn’t even have a chandelier.

The breeder (yes, yes, we used a breeder, but will likely use a shelter in the future, so stop giving me that look!) grudgingly parted with Matty; he was the most handsome of all of her litters and, this being L.A. and all, she had visions of him eventually starring as the lead in “E.R.”  I convinced her that was just ridiculous; “E.R.” couldn’t possibly last more than a couple more seasons.  (Ah, well, what did I know?)

Baby Matty!  Now you see how Mr. Candy got suckered in.  Again.

Happy Birthday, Matty.  You may be a turd.  But you’re our turd.

Hugs, kisses and heaping bowls of Meow Mix,

Mom

Nine Years

Birthday Girl

Marcy turns nine years old today.  Our Cinco de Mayo girl.  That’s appropriate considering how many parties she’s helped host in her lifetime.

The first thing I did when I came to Los Angeles, a city where I knew no one at the time, was get a cat.  I had grown up with cats and, having lived with roommates in New York City and then in a dorm at graduate school, had been unable to get one of my own.  Until now.

“But I’m allergic!” cried Mr. Candy, my then-fiancé who was still in business school at the University of Chicago.  I swear he even punctuated his plea with a sneeze.  Apparently, just the thought of a cat caused a reaction.   Yes!  His allergies were THAT strong.

“Oh no,” I sympathized.  “I guess you’re going to have to stock up on tissues.”

It’s my sensitivity that made Mr. Candy fall for me, I think.

I strode into the breeder’s house armed with only one hard-and-fast criterion:  I wanted a male kitten.  Males were more laid-back, I believed, PLUS I did not want the responsibility of spaying a female.  Do you know what they do to those poor girls, what with the ovaries and the uterus and whatnot?  Just saying the medical term for it is painful:  Ovariohysterectomy.  Painful, right?  Gets stuck in your throat, kind of like one of Marcy’s countless hairballs.  Ovariohysterectomy.  Uh-uh.  Couldn’t do it.

“We just had a big litter.  A few of the boys are over here,” explained the helpful and kind breeder, Lisa.

I sat on the floor with the kittens — little fluffballs, all of them — and started to reach for one of the boys when a certain fluffball with a spot on her nose walked right up to me, climbed on my lap and promptly wrapped herself around my arm.  I was a goner.

“She’s really playful.  The first one at my side every morning,” said Lisa.

My heart dropped a little.

“‘She’…?”

“Yes.”

The fluffball nuzzled my arm some more.  Oh, she was working me.  HARD.

“I’ll take her.”

I hadn’t planned on taking one home that night, so I didn’t have my checkbook, a kitty carrier, nada.

“You can pay me later,” Lisa shrugged, handing me a box containing my spotted fluffball.  “Enjoy!”

I left the breeder’s house that night with my first real friend in Los Angeles:  Marcy.  I named her after my favorite TV sitcom producer and inspiration, Marcy Carsey — a woman whose name may actually be more silly-sounding than my own.

And enjoy Marcy, I have.  We have, I should say, because Mr. Candy ended up being the biggest sucker of all and, as it turns out, not allergic to long-haired cats.  Miraculously, he no longer sneezes when I say “cat” either!  HEALED!  The makers of Claritin should bottle his “miracle cure.”  Really.

(RAISING A MARGARITA:)  Here’s to nine years of Marcy snuggling on my lap as I comb her.  Nine years of walking her on a leash out in the courtyard — and her purring the moment she sees the leash.  To the anal-retentive girl who takes such care in covering her poop, we’ve gone through several presidential administrations by the time she’s finished — and who disgustedly covers her brother’s messes for him, too.  To the cat who affectionately nestled herself beside my baby bump and became intensely depressed when I actually had the baby and she took Marcy’s long-standing place on my lap.  To the cat who now follows Miss Skye everywhere… and still plays with the energy of a sprightly fluffball who’s all head.  To the cat who’s given me even more laughs than her namesake.

Here’s to nine more, Miss Marcy.  Cheers!

P.S. — You don’t look a day over five.  Must be those Catox injections!  (Such an L.A. kitty.)

Our Kids

As soon as the cats realized Miss Skye was contained in her Bumbo, and unable to use their tails as a pull-toy, they simultaneously took their back-up spots behind her as if they’d been doing this all their lives.

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