Know why this is cool, beyond the fact that Angeline is a terrific human being worthy of All Things Great? Because I'm her editor. So, yeah. Sweet.
THIS lustrous Brown Lazy Domestic (Felis Brownus Lazyus Domesticus) almost died this weekend:
Damn, isn't he gorgeous? Even if you're not a cat person (loser), you have to temporarily suspend your anti-feline sentiment and understand how friggin' awesome this cat is. He's going to be 14 in October. And he STILL LOOKS THIS GOOD. Forget nine lives -- Kovu has some special deal with the gods because he has been through the shit and still manages to come out sparkly and brown and oh-so-soft on the other end. He's California born, suffered through his share of LA summers, and has since lived in Southern Oregon and British Columbia. (You can imagine his first introduction to snow. And go figure how the hell he's dodged the coyotes who regularly pick off lesser neighborhood cats.) His adventures with us started on a shaky foot -- the weird whistling neighbor lady who gifted a mewling bundle of eight-week-old brown fluff didn't bother to tell us that he had ringworm (Tinea corporis), which, for the record, is NOT a worm. It's a fungus. And people can get it. Because we did. THANKS, PSYCHO WHISTLING NEIGHBOR LADY, for giving us a cat with a communicable disease.
After a month of quarantine in a tiny room in the garage, twice-daily pills shoved down his little kitten throat, and regular application of the stinkiest antifungal "lotion," he was cured. (If you spend any time in our house, you know that one of Kovu's many nicknames is Stinky. From this dark time in his wee life. Poor cat.)
And then, once recovered ... we learned The Truth. Kovu was meaner than hell. We had a tall IKEA cabinet in our bedroom, atop which I'd stored a few of my young daughter's oversized stuffed animals (stuffies, for our Canadian readers). Kovu would hide in between them, camouflaged, and wait for us to walk in, at which time he would launch himself from the 10' tall cabinet and embed his tiny kitten nails into your head. And then he'd eat whatever hair he could sink his milk teeth into. BASTARDO, seriously!
When Yaunna was ten, she heard Kovu fighting with a neighbor cat. Not thinking, she ran out to rescue him. Upon picking him up, he flayed her arm. Should've gotten stitches but the doc said no. Sweet little Yaunna still has nerve damage in the back of her hand from the holes rendered by Kovu's very adult fangs. (Dumb kid for picking up a warring cat, but we've had that lecture.) I tried to find the photo from that fateful day, but maybe it's best I can't. It's pretty gory.
Alas, he's all grown up now. No longer ventures out of doors, except on sunny days. Pretty sure he sees ghosts, and he will randomly start talking in the hallway and chasing his own tail, so I'm constantly asking him if he senses zombies or Republicans. (Same thing.) He is OBSESSED with those Temptations cookies and will sometimes come to me, while I sit at my desk, and embed his razor-sharp claws that he won't let me trim into the meat of my fleshy calf to say, "You. Woman. It's time for my cookies. Get thee to the cookie drawer." When he's not shredding my fat in pursuit of wholesome treats, he is otherwise known as the Ovary Warmer. Sometimes the Spleen Warmer. Because he effing SLEEPS ON ME. I've got a snoring husband on the left, and a freakish cat on my torso. It's safe for you to therefore assume that I am a woeful insomniac. But him's soooooo cute, how can I move hims?
|This sums up the hierarchy. Fat Beagle, YOU SHALL NOT PASS. Merrowww.|
I'm sorry for talking so much about my cat. I point and laugh at people who do this. But Kovu had a stomach thing that started last week, and by Friday night, as I was force-feeding him water through a dosing syringe. I thought he was on his last legs.
As of this morning, he is alive and taunting his much-larger Maine Coon brother, Eskimo. When I say, "Kovu, get the kitty," and he gets that glint in his eye, his whiskers twitch, and he goes in search of some kitty ass to kick, I know he's on the mend. Meee-owwww.
Thanks, Kovu, for living to see another day. You rock. Mommy loves you. Now come over here and keep my spleen warm.
In other news, I've started writing for this site:
They cover cool art/artists and designers, hot architecture, and stuff that inspires. Check it out when you get a chance. (I'm even on the About page now! So legit!)
For my other gig, LitStack, come August I'm going to be reviewing Chuck Wendig's NEWEST BOOK, Mockingbird, and interviewing him. AGAIN! OMIGOD SO STOKED. Total fangirl moment here. Only I have to think of shit to ask him. He's, like, a million times funnier than me. I can't even think of anything funny to say at this exact moment because I am awed by the mere thought of his funny. My funny has frozen, like a deer in the headlights. A drunk deer. Or maybe it's a deer on bath salts (so by default, he's from Florida), but if that were the case, the deer would chase you down and eat you. That would be weird. NO BATH SALTS FOR THE DEER.
My kids start summer school tomorrow. Well, the Young Lads do. Mean Mommy. But it's a cool option that the school district offers -- a 17-day preview of the coming grade. One's doing 6th grade math, the other 3rd grade reading/writing (because he's going to be a better writer than me very soon). And that means I GET THREE WHOLE HOURS A DAY without children whining at me about the fact that we're out of Froot Loops and chocolate milk again. Hey, I get hungry. Sue me.
The baby turned eight on Saturday. Which means I am getting old (because it's all about me). Here is a birthday collage Big Sister did to honor the little fella's special day.
|Omigod, he's eight. That means I'm 29.|
Happy birthday, PianoMan. We heart you.
Now someone write to me and tell me what they're doing this summer besides working. I need to live vicariously.
Xs and Os, lovelies ...