lookingforlissa

Escape your life for a little while — come play in mine.

Posts Tagged ‘Furry friends’

It smells like Bigfoot’s . . . unmentionables*

Posted by Lissa on September 8, 2010

Comment from yesterday’s harness post:

Sarah said

There’s a cat I wouldn’t be turning my back on for a while. :)

Funny you should say that . . .

***************************************************************

“Nine o’clock, Rajah.  Time to Skype your daddy!”

I scoop Rajah into my arms, sit down with him in my lap, and dial up Mike on the computer.  His picture pops up, I wave the cat’s paws at him, and we chat for all-of-ten-seconds before I smell . . . IT.

The pungent, nostril-curling reek wafts upwards in Waves of Stink.  It smells like a dead body marinated in vinegar and eaten — then pooped — by weasels. It smells like limburger cheese that has been out in the sun for ten days and then blended with Popov and kimchi.

Suspicious and full of dread, I lift Rajah’s hindquarter’s closer to my nose and sniff. The hair on the inside of my nostrils crumbles into ash.

“Auuuggghhhhh.  Love . . . he . . . ”

Mike has, of course, been watching the nose-twitching, the facial grimacing and The Fatal Sniff.

“Did he pee on himself?”

“Yep.”

I try to pay attention but The Smell isn’t going away.  In fact . . . I hesitatingly lift a forearm and gingerly sniff it.

“Auuuuggghhhh.  Love, it’s ON me. My forearm smells like cat pee.”

Isn’t that how your romantic conversations go?

*****************************************************************

We exchange I-love-you’s and hang up. I chase Rajah into the bathroom post-haste. Five minutes later his butt, tail and hind legs have been sink-scrubbed and towel-dried, my clothes are in the wash, my arms are soapy-clean and catnip has been medicinally administered. We live to fight another day!!

Rajah . . . . sweetie . . . please stop peeing on your feet.

KTHXBYE.

*It’s an Anchorman quote. Only the real line is a bit more obscene.

UPDATE: LOL, he didn’t actually pee *on* me.  He peed in the litter box. But he’s really dumb and sometimes he manages to pee on his own feet, or step in it while burying it, or whatever.  You don’t smell it until you pick him up and then it hits you over the head like a sledgehammer.

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Chickens — the non-counting thereof

Posted by Lissa on July 19, 2010

There’s just a possibility that we might be moving.

PROS: Warmer weather, cheaper property, lower cost-of-living, political climate more in tune with my current thinking (which includes more gun-friendly attitude), closer to Mike’s family

CONS: Farther away from family and friends, job-shopping for me (and oh, it’s a great economy for that, is it not???), moving (which is ALWAYS a horrific pain in the butt), more gun regulations (remember that once you get an A license here there are very few restrictions on where you can’t carry)

Mike flew to the potential Lissaville South on Thursday and I followed him Friday night.  We spent Saturday wandering around and trying to get a bead on the town.

How does one assess a possible hometown?

Well, you try to hit the hot spots.

First on our list was the library.  (No, not the one belonging to The World’s Most Dangerous Librarian.  A different one.) We don’t often go the library, except to vote — sorry, we’re all about Kindle books nowadays — but I feel like it offers a good feel for the locals.  A dirty, dinky library full of VC Andrews and no Twain would be worrisome.  In this case, a small but bright and clean library with a decent selection and perhaps twenty kids (with their parents) gave me good vibes.

Next on the list? The local animal shelter, of course!  (Bet you thought I was gonna say the gun range.  You did, didn’t you??  Mike checked one out the day before I got there, so we concentrated on Fiction and Furry Friends for my day about town.)  The local no-kill shelter was clean, welcoming, well-appointed and home to about fifty adorable cats.  At the Lissaville Shelter only volunteers can open cages; if a customer is interested in a particular cat we’ll put them together in a petting pen.  Here, though, we were allowed to open cages and cuddle.  So I spent the ten minutes of our visit wandering around with a mini-Rajah kitten cradled in my arms.  Purr!

Next up? Farmer’s market! We didn’t try the barbecue, crepes or nuts — but I *wanted* to 🙂  I checked fruit and vegetable prices — which varied from reasonable to Holy Cow Awesome — and found the biggest and weirdest cantaloupes I’d ever seen:

Um, they don’t look like that at my local Stop ‘n’ Shop.  They also don’t cost a buck.  Mutant Cantaloupes, yay!!

We also spent a good portion of the day driving around and looking at houses-for-sale.  I went to my very first open house! As I wandered around opening closets and gaping over bathtubs, all I could think of was that scene from Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven.  You know the one — where Norma and her realtor friend barge into a house to get the jump on the RE/MAX folks, only it turns out the sign adverstised a HORSE for sale, not a HOUSE.  😉  Oh, and also? The Zillow.com app ROCKS. You can drive down a neighborhood and scan the houses for sale, zero in on one, and learn

– how many bedrooms/bath/sq feet
– how much they’re asking
– how much it sold for in the last go-round (even if that was fifteen years ago)
– how much similar houses sold for in the last few weeks

Living in the future is AWESOME.

We also checked the local mall.  For kittens.

Those darlings are a dead ringer for my poor little Jolie (RIP) and Rajah before he grew gargantuan!  There was also a leashed pit bull available for adoption — a beautiful copper-colored animal named Diamond, who was a perfect blend of goo, adoration and begging friendliness.  I enjoyed the reaction when a fawning couple asked after his breed and learned he was a pit bull.  Man, they’ve got such a bad rap — it just ain’t fair.  (And no, we didn’t go to the mall to adopt animals; it just so happened they had an adoption event going on at the local pet store.  I attract these things like you wouldn’t believe.)

Anyway.  It was a lovely visit and I’ve got a good feeling about this. I’ll keep y’all posted 🙂

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Speak softly, and carry a big . . . well, just speak softly

Posted by Lissa on April 12, 2010

Good morning all!  How was your weekend?  It’s Monday morning – fleh! – but I had a great weekend and I have a full mug of coffee sitting in front of me, so things could be a lot worse.

I did have one slight mishap yesterday, though; I kind of scared one of the nice women at the shelter.  MH has arthritis and asked for help opening a bottle of bleach.  I twisted the cap off for her, but the stupid little plastic “pull to open” tab defeated us both.

“I’ll go get a knife,” MH said.

“Oh it’s all right, I’ve got one,” I said, and pulled my folding knife out of my pocket.  It’s a very basic spring-loaded knife with the Marines logo.  I quickly stabbed through the plastic, yanked it off, wiped the knife on my pants and stuck it back in my pocket.

“Oh my god! She’s got a switchblade!” MH half-laughed, half-yelped.

“Oh, come on, it’s not a switchblade,” I corrected smilingly.  “It’s just a spring-loaded knife.”

“Better not bring that into Boston,” she warned me.

“Yeah I know, how stupid are those two-and-a-half inch rules?” I shook my head.

She didn’t shy away from me the rest of the morning, but somehow I don’t think MH would be interested in a range trip.

How was everybody’s weekend?  Oh, and does anyone near Lissaville need a kitty?

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Brisket = Food of the gods!

Posted by Lissa on March 11, 2010

Good morning all!  Did you know that brisket is super-powered?  No seriously!  You take a slab of meat roughly the size of your torso and, by a mysterious process of alchemy, transform it into meat gold.

Dr. Boyfriend diligently carved and trimmed and seasoned the beef on Friday night and tenderly laid it in the smoker.  By making the painful (but admirable!) choice of choosing food over sleep, he was able to tend it periodically through the night before popping it into the oven to finish at 200 degrees.  When it was finally ready to eat, I took a bite and my eyes rolled back in my head.  Flavorful, tender, savory, juicy meat-gold, y’all. I think I went into a food stupor and was unable to talk until I’d had two helpings.

(We didn’t starve Friday night, mind you; we feasted on pork loin.  And remember, I don’t usually like pork; I have very poor luck having it retain even a drop of moisture.  Apparently the secret is to pan-sear it all over in a cast-iron skillet and then pop the skillet directly into the oven.  I think it might have been finished on the stovetop too?  Supremely moist and tender!)

Elektra Blu was MOST helpful, offering to dispose of any unwanted bits and pieces.  (Well, she also offered to dispose of the whole damn thing, but she had very good food-manners; she begged less than my cat does, and without the little vocalized “Mew!”s.  Which is good, ’cause that would have been weird.)

Shoothouse Barbie was kind enough to let me feed her the first night to cement my identity as a member of the pack.  Sooooo cute — you get the cup of food and walk over to her dish, then instruct her to sit.  The first time she sat for me, she did so with her nose in her bowl; I sternly “Hey!“d her and she sat bolt upright.  Then you pour the food in the dish and she has to wait until you say “Okay!”  Even though she’d barely known me for a couple of hours she obeyed.  Such a good puppy!  Such good doggie manners!  Which is a good thing, because I fear my ideas of pet enrichment may be rubbing off on SB . . .

"Save me, Obe-Dog Kanobe, you're my only hope!"

I fell just a little in love with this puppy.  I mean, she was SUCH a sweetie!  She loves attention and occasionally “pets” you with her paw and gives hugs by snuggling her head between your legs and — well, just LOOK at her!

Shoothouse Barbie and Dr. Boyfriend are fabulous hosts, by the way.  They fed us gourmet food until we lolled around in gluttonous stupor and let me walk the dog and even put a pitcher of water and two clean glasses in our room and were just the most thoughtful and polite folks ever.  And oh, the conversations we had!  Everything from chemistry to engagement rings to puppies and kitties to family to politics to the caliber wars to meth dens to AR-15 triggers to spin classes and gym mixes to the proper composition of a breakfast taco to digital cameras to crock pot recipes to retirement savings to cargo pants to Johnny Depp to dove hunting to lots of other stuff.

So, the friends (furry and otherwise) and food component of this mini-vacation were an A-plus.  Tomorrow — our trip to the range!

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Today’s must-read

Posted by Lissa on February 2, 2010

A window into a life very different than mine, and a damn-fine tribute to two great dogs.  Read #1.  Then read #2.  Go on, now.

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Otherwise known as a timberdoodle

Posted by Lissa on October 27, 2009

This . . . is a woodcock in its natural habitat:

800px-American_Woodcock_Scolopax_minor

THIS . . . is a woodcock in a most un-natural habitat.  Said habitat being the sidewalk outside my office, after having crashed into the glass.

Sidewalk woodcock

I stood by the poor thing for a good forty-five minutes waiting for animal control to show up.  It didn’t move at all until right before the guy got there.  When it did move, it suddenly flapped its wings and darted across the sidewalk . . . to smash into the glass, this time at floor-level.

*sigh*

Yes, I considered whacking it on the head or (as someone recommended) wringing its neck.  I didn’t because

A) I wasn’t sure it was internally damaged; if it were only stunned, it could be healed.  (The fact that woodcocks have a moveable beak makes me hope it was bleeding from the beak, not internally.)

B) I was too scared that I’d just hurt it, instead of mercy-killing it.

Anyway, the Animal Control guy popped it in a cardboard box and carried it off.  I asked him if they’d just euthanize it, or try to fix it; he said he’d leave it at the vet and thought it would probably be okay.

By the way . . . you’d be AMAZED how many people walk without looking where their frickin’ feet are going.  I stood there for forty-five minutes because otherwise that poor thing would have been punted like a soccer ball twenty times over.

(No, I was not tempted to take it home for Rajah to play with.  Wild birds often have lice, you know!)

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Happy Caturday: Deer-watching edition

Posted by Lissa on August 29, 2009

Lissa:  “That’s funny, Mike.  I looked out the window and for a second I thought I saw a deer.  See that patch of brush, looks like a head attached to a body?”

Mike (looking out window):  “Um, Lissa, there’s a real deer out there!”

No, it wasn’t the patch I was looking at.  That was definitely inanimate plant life.  But Bambi was out there, invisible from my view from the couch, nomming on some greenery.

Bambi in Charlotte

His apartment is in Charlotte, by the way.  It really is.  It’s just that his (tiny little) balcony is at the tail-end of the complex and overlooks a big ol’ forest.  (That, y’know, is the real sound of a Southerner.  It’s not the y’all’s, it’s the big ol’s.  Mike is already making fun of me; as soon as I cross the Mason-Dixon my drawl comes back.)

Rajah says:

Rajah lazerz

Happy Caturday!

UPDATE:  Rajah would make this sound while nomming his Bambi Stew:

Thanks Mike!

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IT’S COMIN’ RIGHT FOR US!!!

Posted by Lissa on August 20, 2009

Since everyone else is doing it . . .

Squirrel gun!

Chickens and squirrels get along just fine!

Get 'im, Rajah!!

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Food chain – ur doin it wrong

Posted by Lissa on June 9, 2009

Stupid leopard.  Cute though!

The thing eating the food - It's a food

Reminds me of this:

Fud

(h/t Best of the Web)

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The devil we knew . . . (BONUS: Kitty video!)

Posted by Lissa on June 1, 2009

. . . was better than the one we didn’t.

Until recently, the Kitty Den was run by Pretty Good Management, Inc., and its main face was the woman who worked the office.  Petite, blond and perky, we quickly christened her Rental Barbie for her spunky personality, her gushing friendliness, and her absolute inability to do any math problem more complicated than 2 + 2 = 4.  (I can’t tell you how many times we had to rework the fee schedule for the apartment, but I could probably count the fist-marks in the wall behind our desk to figure it out.)  We didn’t dislike her, but we were occasionally quite frustrated with her penchant for arriving late and leaving early; if she left before we got home we couldn’t get our packages.  WANT PACKAGES!      

Anyway, Pretty Good Management, Inc. was let go rather abruptly – at least as far as they notified us – and they’ve now hired Other Management Company, LLC.  We were quite hopeful that the new office guru would, y’know, actually show up on time and stay till six.  

Verily, how bitter is the dashing of hopes.

Rental Ice Queen (Rental IQ, for short) is not Rental Barbie.  That is, she is not spunky, she is not friendly, and she most certainly does not gush.  Her modus operandi is instead to act as if she is constantly doing us favors by answering the bloody phone.  Oh, and staying until six?  Forget it – they’ve cut back office hours till five PM.  Seeing as how neither Mike nor I get home till 5:45, we politely inquired how to get our grubby little paws on our packages. 

Oh, we’ll have them delivered to your apartment just inside the door, no problem.

Uh-huh. 

Version 2: Oh, we’ll have them delivered to your apartment just inside the door,  no problem.  Unless there are a lot or they’re heavy, in which case we’ll tell the maintenance guy to call you for assistance after the office closes.  He won’t call you, of course, and then we’ll act like you’re being ridiculously demanding and unreasonable when you call us the next day and ask for your sh*t.

Ri-ight.

Version 3: Oh, we’ll have them delivered to your apartment just inside the door, no problem, assuming that you call us in the office and specifically ask us to deliver them to your apartment.  Never mind that we know you never get home before five, or that we previously promised a standard operating procedure of apartment delivery.  And you can’t leave instructions in advance.  Nope, we’ll just stick a package key in your mailbox so when you get home you’ll know that a package was delivered.  And that you can’t have it till tomorrow.  If you’re lucky.  Bite me, suckas!  Nyah-nyah!!

That b*tch Rental IQ!

Sigh.  Version 4:  And by the way, we don’t like to answer our phone.  So good luck with that.

I swear, if I didn’t have an adorable kitten with which to distract myself, I’d be pissed or something.

P.S.  The experienced kitten-baiter will always clip the subject’s claws before attempting a stunt like this.  Also, she will wear pants of some thick material such as denim.  And red toe nails are ALWAYS a good idea.

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