I am owned by a cat. Those of you who know me well know Checkers, The Kibble Wrangler, is my world.
Yes, I am a crazy cat lady.
Love me, love the cat. It’s a package deal.
Now that we’ve established that, realize that she can do little wrong. This will become evident as this story progresses.
My sister, Chickenbone, used to always ask, “How can you have a cat? There’s that whole stinky litter box that needs to be scooped all the time, there’s the barfing on the carpet. All that’s just gross.” (I retorted with some quip about children and diapers. I do not have kids. She now has a cat/litter box and a kid/diapers. I win.)
Yes, kitty poop is gross, as is the occasional cling-on (poo stuck to butt fur), but it’s so inconsequential when compared to the unconditional love she gives.
MY. WORLD., People.
This post is in honor of her approaching 16th birthday. Happy Birthday Checkers, from the interwebs! (Yup, she gets gifts and special treats on her birthday just like I do. Mine is coming before hers. Feel free to send gifts to both of us. My email address in on my About page. She wants a big cat tree. I want a tropical vacation.)
On with the cat-ass-trophe…
It was a little before Christmas and I was making yarn cat toys for her, and all of the other cats that own various members of my family. Checkers, ever helpful, was quite interested in the yarn that was wiggling around as I made toys. Not wanting needing a furry helper pulling on the other end of my yarn craft project, I snipped off a long length of yarn and gave it to her to play with.
She was very happy with her piece of yarn, playing quietly around the living room while I continued making the toys in peace uninterrupted.
When I’d finished, I began cleaning up. She was sitting in front of her piece of yarn, looking quite pleased. I thought the piece of yarn looked a bit shorter, but I couldn’t remember exactly how much I had given her so I dismissed it.
I lived in a cute little “U” shaped cottage-style 1930’s house at the time. The carpeted living room and the carpeted hall to the two bedrooms formed the arms of the “U” and were joined in the middle by a kitchen. On top of the linoleum, in front of the sink, there was a small kitchen mat.
You are probably wondering why I’m telling you about the floor coverings. This is not to impress you with the fact I live in a carpeted shoebox, no. The reason will become evident very soon. Remember the floor coverings.
The day after making the yarn cat toys, I’m talking on the phone to my super-hot-model-actress friend Stacey. (Take a moment to check out her hotness, but come back.)
Are you back? I’m sure I just lost half the men.
Standing in the living room while talking to Stacey, I look up to see Checkers doing the boot-scoot (boot-scoot, defined: dragging her butt on the carpet while scooting herself forward using her front legs. You’ve all seen dogs to this.). I looked up just as she rounds the corner from the carpeted hallway into the kitchen. Once she hit the linoleum in the kitchen, realizing she was no longer getting good “traction”, she veered slightly to the right to boot-scoot across the kitchen mat in front of the sink and continued towards me in the living room.
I yell into the phone, “Stacey, the cat…. I’ll call you back!” and hang up as she starts to ask “Wha…?”.
It was a fairly small house, and she’s a VERY FAST boot-scooter. Checkers had made it about two feet onto the living room carpet when I snatched her up. I turn her around to view the back end that has been so generously leaving a long, brown line on my beige carpet and kitchen mat…
Guess what? The piece of yarn I’d given her the day before WAS longer than what I’d seen left on the floor. She had eaten about 6 inches of it.
And guess where that 6 inches of yarn was now?
Yup. Half in, half out.
Of course, I took care of it, and I will spare you the gross details. I’m thoughtful that way.
No more string, string-like things, shoelaces, skinny ribbons, etc. allowed in the house. Ever.
I scrubbed the carpet. You can come over now. (I’ve also moved since then.)
Remember: Love me, love the kitty.
And don’t forget our birthdays.