Seriously, people. The Cats? They don't know how good they have it. Yet they remain hateful, hateful felines.
I was feeling rather Santa-like and giving and loving and Cat Lady-ish yesterday, so I splurged just a tad on my Fur Family. Just last week I got them a condo litterbox. Not so much because I thought they'd appreciate three walls, a swinging door and a ceiling over their potty place, but mostly because I was tired of them missing the box and pissing over the edge. With that came 40 pounds of cat litter. On SALE.
It took them a minute to figure out what the Hell it was and why I rid them of their toilet tub that allowed them the freedom to whiz wherever they deemed necessary, especially if it meant onto the floor, because aim? It's something they don't have. But they've since caught the drift and can now dispose their waste in privacy.
Yesterday I bought Chicken a new, red collar. Her previous collar, which was four years old, which adds up to, like, 40 years in Cat Years, was frayed and disheveled. She looked like the poor kid in school whose parents couldn't afford to buy her a new pair of shoes so she wore the pair picked up at a garage sale with duct tape around the soles to keep them together. My cat WILL NOT be the poor kid in school. Surprisingly, Chicken took to the new collar quite well. And she's rather fashionable. One point for Chicken. Harley remains at zero points because she still climbs walls.
I purchased both Harley and Chicken catnip toys, as well. Because there's nothing funnier than Cats Who Are High. Chicken, who has the poise and restraint of an uppity substitute teacher with a bun in her hair, bifocals across the bridge of her nose and a turtleneck, rolls across the floor, drooling with glee all over her new toy. Sprawled out, realizing for the first time what life would be like as a drug addict. High Harley is much of the same as Not High Harley. Still growling. Still climbing walls. Only high this time.
But the most exciting purchase of the day was their own personal cave. A cat bed, equipped with a pillow, walls and a ball dangling from the ceiling. Considering Chicken's brooding techniques, and Harley's need for sanctuary, I thought a cozy cave of a bed would be perfect. You can hide, sleep AND play, all in one place.
And then I found out The Cats are hateful and ungrateful. Not even after getting them high on catnip would they venture into that bed. Harley, Oh Satan, Herself, actually GROWLED at me. GROWLED, people. That's, like, biting the hand that feeds you. I let you LIVE, Harley, and you scoff at my offering. Chicken stuck her head into the entrance, haphazardly, which excited me, but then I realized she was only trying to reach the catnip toy I hid in there as a ploy that obviously did not work in the way I planned.
This is some good shit, man, she likely thought to herself once she successfully removed the toy, all WITHOUT having to actually get into the bed.
I man-handled, I hid toys, I considered trapping them inside the bed, but no. They weren't having it. Because, apparently, they'd rather sprawl out across the dirty, cold, hardwood floor before they nuzzle their way into the comfort of the Cat Cave.
In addition, Wilbur the tree died and was given a proper burial last week. Mostly, I tipped his pot over and ripped him out into the Dumpster, but really, that's proper for a dead tree. Right? I've also attempted some revival efforts on Gerard the aloe plant, because he's looking pretty weak. THANKS TO HARLEY, WHO IS EVIL AND TRIED TO ASSASSINATE HIM. Scoff. But Wilbur has been replaced by some sort of cactus character I have yet to name. It will come to me soon, and I'll be sure to let you know. I also have two bamboo stalks, also yet to be named.
Are you taking notes on my life, here? This is what I do for a living: NOT do the dishes, bribe my cats into loving me, which totally doesn't work, and name plants, which will likely die because Krista Can't Take Care Of Plants, which likely doesn't speak well of future parenting skills.