I Put A Hit Out On My Cat

photo (5)It’s not funny, but it’s true. Little Bit is sick and she isn’t getting better. It’s time. Our regular vet, who’s awesome, gave me the name of another vet (I’m calling her Dr. Catvorkian to protect her identity.) who’ll come to our home to put her down. I don’t want the last thing Bit sees to be green clinic walls. I want her to die in the brown chair where she likes to sleep by the big window looking into the back yard. So, I sent the emails and it’s all arranged. I put a hit out on my cat.

I know what day and what time she’s going to die, which seems so crazy and surreal I can’t even explain. I can’t believe I just arranged for my cat’s death. It feels criminal, like I’m totally doing something against the laws of nature. It’s even harder now for me to imagine how people put out hits on other people! If I seem to be making light of the situation, I guess maybe I am – or at least I’m trying to. It’s how I cope. Inappropriate humor. It’s my friend.

In reality,  I can barely breathe. I’m a snotty mess. In fact, it’s all I can do to write this small post to let you know where I am and why I don’t feel like writing much these days. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll keep updating the Facebook page, so you can keep in touch there if you like, but, in the meantime, please don’t forget my little blog.

Hey, Mike and Shanna, You’re Going to Have the Best Wedding EVER!

As you probably recall, my friend, Mike, is getting married in a couple of weeks. Remember, I don’t like getting dressed up? I have to buy clothes? Blah, blah, blah, blah…

Well, my old friend, the Universe, knows I’ve been in the middle of a craptastic poopstorm the past couple of weeks and it’s decided to cut me some slack. Thank you, Universe. I needed a little light at the end of the tunnel! So, not only am I ready for my TSA cavity search, a trip to Atlanta, and, yes, even putting on fancy clothes, I’M REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO IT! Well, maybe not the cavity search, but that’s what I get for mentioning 9/11 in that first post… What’s more, I just know this is going to be the best wedding EVER! How do I know this? I found a super cute dress that I can’t wait to wear…  AND IT DOESN’T REQUIRE SPANX! If that’s not a good omen, I don’t know what is!

Look out Atlanta (and Mike and Shanna)! Ed and I are coming!

Color My September Photography Challenge – Week Two Blue

It’s time for week 2 of the Rowdy Fairy: Colour My September – Photography Challenge. This week’s color is BLUE. Without further ado, I give you my first 3 photos, once again taken on the go. Last week, I kind of thought the “on the go” thing was a little bit of a cop-out. This week, I think my opinion has changed. I’m more aware of what’s going on around me. My eyes are open and I’m always looking for interesting angles, colors, or subjects to shoot. Interestingly, this week, I’ve noticed I don’t see a lot of the color blue in everyday life, other than the sky, of course. Blue is challenging me more than red did last week. So, I’m not leaving it at 3 photos. There will be a part 2 later in the week. Until then…

PicMonkey Collage

Running From the Zombie Apocalypse

What's Up with ThisUnfortunately, the bag of Ultimate Cheese Puffs didn’t yield more suggestively shaped snack foods. Sorry, Dan, I looked really hard for the Virgin Mary, or anything controversial, but all I found was cheese puffs. Tasty, yummy cheese puffs. Ed found some ducks and some ram horns, but, honestly, I think he was stretching.

What I did find was this. Look at the picture from from the bag. Am I the only one who thinks the boy looks like he’s running from a zombie apocalypse while the rest of his family cavorts happily through a field of wild flowers? Why wouldn’t the little punk tell his family about the zombies? Does he want them to get eaten? This is the stuff I think about. Welcome to my world.

When to Say When

Well, life bit the shit out of me on Friday. I was riding a wave of happiness into the weekend. I had silly, immature plans for a bag of cheese puffs sending me into fits of giggles when I left the office on Friday, but I was sobbing uncontrollably and blowing snot bubbles by the time I pulled into my driveway that evening. It’s funny how things can turn on a dime like that.

I think I’ve mentioned somewhere in here or on Facebook that Little Bit, our 14 year old stoner kitty, has a bum liver. I’ve known this for a while, but she’s been doing really well with the medicine the vet prescribes and, honestly, I believe in living in denial whenever possible. Friday I took her in for a follow-up and the vet gave me a reality check, along with a brochure on END OF LIFE PLANNING FOR YOUR PET. Needless to say, any plans for blogging about penis-shaped snack foods got shelved.

Little Bit spent the weekend lying in the sun, eating whatever (and I mean WHATEVER) she wanted, and getting lots of love. Rupert’s pretty sure he’s being punished for something. He just can’t figure out what. I can tell Little Bit still doesn’t feel well. The medicine is helping, but it’s not going to fix her up like it has in the past. This really, really sucks. How do I know when to say when?Bit

 

Color My September Photography Challenge Week One

I’m participating in Rowdy Fairy’s Photography Challenge – Color (Colour) My September! Week One is all about red. Since I’ve been on the go, by photos were all taken with my butt planted firmly in the driver seat of my trusted FJ Cruiser! Hope you like them!

Color My September Red

Take My Liver, Please. Seriously, Take It.

There’s no joke here. I have a young friend whose father is dying of liver failure. He’s on the transplant list, but time is running out. As a newbie blogger one of the first things you learn is that you need a call to action. Well, this may be the most important call to action I ever write and, if it’s the only effective call to action I ever write, I’ll die a happy woman.

PLEASE REGISTER TO BECOME AN ORGAN DONOR TODAY, NOW, RIGHT THIS MINUTE.  VISIT DONATE LIFE TEXAS FOR MORE INFORMATION.

We don’t need our organs after we die. Worms don’t need our organs after we die. Donate the stuff that still works to people that need and can use them.

This post is a little different for me, but right is right. It is our duty as decent human beings help each other out whenever we can. Please lift up the spirit of Robert Gomez and his family in whatever way you personally do that, whether it’s through prayer, meditation, silent reflection or even by spreading the word about registering to become an organ donor.

UPDATE: GOOD NEWS! ROBERT GOT A LIVER! HE’S IN SURGERY AS I TYPE. PLEASE KEEP HIM AND HIS FAMILY IN YOUR PRAYERS! HE’S NOT OUT OF THE WOODS, YET. AND GET IF YOU HAVEN’T REGISTERED TO DONATE, PLEASE DO IT NOW.

The Sleepover is OVER!

I think Bixby and Rupert have had enough together time for this visit. What do you think?

1

 

2

 

3

 

I think the party’s over. I can’t judge. I’ve seen a few family get togethers end pretty much this way. I guess that makes it official. Bixby is more like real family than foster! Look out Christmas. Here we come!

The End of Summer

There’s no labor on Labor Day, chickens (said in my best Big Edie from Grey Gardens impersonation, which isn’t very good except I do the crazy part REALLY well!) I’m not sure why I thought of that, except maybe that’s where the crazy comes in. Just a couple of thoughts to leave you with today as you do whatever it is you do on Labor Day in your world…

Labor Day marks the “official” end of summer, whatever that means. I heard that on the radio, so I’m not sure how official that really is. Since our kid is, basically, grown and out of school, summer is, sadly, just another season around the Begin in the Middle house. This summer, however, saw quite a few changes worth noting. Ed started a new job. Oliver ended a relationship and discovered being a single 20 year-old is pretty freaking awesome. I started writing – and much to my mother’s horror – continued my childhood habit of telling everything I know and I’m having a blast doing it! I can’t wait to see what the fall has in store for us.

I’ll be back in a day or two with more good stuff. Enjoy your holiday. In the meantime, catch up on past posts. If you like what you see here, tell all your friends, especially the ones that owe you favors or money.

Don’t forget to subscribe to receive future posts by email. You have to confirm your subscription to actually receive those posts! So, check  your email and reply to the confirmation request from yours truly if you want to make a crazy blogger very, very happy.

A Rupert By Any Other Name Would Smell Like Pee

imageI think I’ve said it before, but shaking a fist at the Universe and proclaiming, “I will never…,” is usually the quickest way to get the Universe to sit up and take notice of you. Don’t ever do it. It pisses the Universe off. No matter what the Universe might be working on at that precise moment, it will stop to remind you just who’s in charge. Spoiler alert: IT’S NOT YOU!

Just a week or so ago, when slapped in the face by my rapid decent into crazy pet lady status, I shook my fist and shouted to the heavens, “I will not write about my animals again for a LOONG, LOONG time!”

I am duly chastised, Universe.

A while back a friend of mine asked if it upsets me when dogs we foster, and who we name, are re-named by their new families after being adopted. She suggested the topic would make a great post. I thought it was a great question, but I wasn’t sure there was a post in it. Recently, however, I was inspired while walking Rupert. Dog pee inspired me. Don’t judge. I’ll explain in due course.

The answer to the question, by the way, is no – and yes.

I’m human. I love my fosters. I don’t give them super stupid names that I hate. I give them awesomely amazing names that I can’t imagine anyone wanting to change. On the other hand, when you make the commitment to love, cherish, provide for, protect, honor, and, one day hold a dog in your arms as it breathes its last breath, you earn the right and deserve the honor of naming that animal. It’s pretty simple, really.

How does this apply to Rupert? Well, Ed wanted to call a dog – any dog – Rupert from the day we decided to try fostering. He tried to name or, in Buddy’s case, re-name, every dog that came through our door Rupert. Not particularly fond of the name, I resisted. So, when I plucked a scraggly, ugly little Chihuahua off the street a couple of months ago, I let Ed call him Rupert. The truth is I didn’t want to waste the name Norman, the next name on my list of awesomely cute dog names, on that particular dog. Sad and shallow, but true. It never crossed my mind THAT would be the dog we ended up keeping! [This is an example of Karma and the Universe working together to teach me a lesson. Note to self: The Universe knows when you’re being a sneaky, little bitch. It has Karma’s number on speed dial.]

I don’t want to turn Ed into some kind of saintly figure, mostly because I have to live with him after I post this, but he does have his moments. When we decided Ru was staying, Ed offered to let me change his name. Pretty amazing, huh? Ed FINALLY got to call a dog Rupert, a name he obviously loved, but he was willing let me change it because he knew I didn’t really like the name. Well, I’m shallow and sneaky and bitchy, BUT I play by the rules. When Ed agreed to keep Rupert, he made the commitment that gave him the right to name our dog. Rupert it was and Rupert is stayed.

And how does all this apply to pee? Well, Rupert is all of about 6 inches tall. It’s an unfortunate fact of anatomy that makes it nearly impossible for him to pee without getting it all over himself. He just can’t help it. So, when I was walking Rupert the other night it hit me. It doesn’t really matter what our dog’s name is because [wait for it]…

a Rupert by any other name would smell like pee.