Tag Archives: cats

Bunny Killer

The other day at the vet’s office, I ran into a woman I used to work with at a college. I was in line with my newly toothless dog* and she was at the register, waiting to check out.

“Oh, Amy? Amy my former colleague?” I asked, knowing full well that it was indeed Amy my former colleague.

“Hi…” she said HELLA tentatively, very clearly not remembering who I was.

“Amy!” I admonished. “I get that I’m 3.5 years older than the last time I saw you, and many, many pounds heavier, and my face has not quite held up to the past year’s emotions, but YA KNOW ME. I took photos of you for the alumni magazine! I endangered two of your children by taking them off-roading in a golf cart! I helped your husband, the staff farmer, wrangle sheeps!”

She still ain’t recognize me, but she tried to be friendly.

“Yes, right. How are you?” she asked.

“Great,” I answered. “The vet just pulled a bloody broken tooth out of me dog’s smelly head. What’s good with you?” As I asked, I noticed a very petite cat carrier at her feet and deduced there had to be a very petite cat within. I bent down and confirmed it.

“YOU’VE AN ADORABLE KITTEN!” I screamed.

“I do!” she nodded, now friendly for real. “Eight weeks old. She’s a bunny killer.”

Chico, my dog, was sniffing the cage and the kitten hissed at him. I pulled him back like, holy shit, that is a goddamn bunny killer in there. I’d never heard of such a thing.

(Note: Most of the previous dialogue was made up, but the following conversation is verbatim.)

“A bunny killer?” I asked. “That’s crazy! How many bunnies has she killed?”

Amy looked at me but didn’t respond, then turned back to the woman behind the counter to finish checking out. I waited a few moments for a lull in their exchange before continuing my interrogation.

“Like, full-grown bunnies or baby bunnies? How does she get to them?”

Again, Amy just looked at me. She seemed confused and I realized that I’d misunderstood her. I was acting as if it was a bad thing, this bunny-killing kitten of hers, but she and her husband were farmers. Bunnies were a nuisance in their world. They probably got this cat specifically to kill bunnies, so they could eat them or something.

“Oooh, did you get this cat specifically to kill bunnies?” I asked.

Again, she looked at me. At this point—maybe three minutes into my questioning—I could tell she definitely didn’t feel like talking about it. BUT THEN WHY BRING IT UP AT ALL, AMY?!?!?

“Wait, so, has she even killed any rabbits yet?” (This time I used “rabbits” instead of “bunnies,” to sound more professional.)

Finally, she answered me.  “You… you keep talking about killing bunnies. But all I said was ‘she’s an itty bitty kitten.’”

“OoOoOoOoOohhhhhhhhhhh,” I said, very embarrassed. “Yes, she is a small cat.”

She finished paying her bill and nodded goodbye and left.

*Here’s a picture of Chico’s mouth.

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Why you shouldn’t let me watch your cats/your home/anything you care about

My aunt Patsy, who lives in Florida, visited my family in RI a month or two ago. She spent most of her two days with us drinking wine, talking freaky about Tiki Barber and Spongebob, and hinting she’d like me to babysit her cats when she and my uncle Bob traveled to Ireland in November.

Patsy: Oh it’d be great if you’d babysit the kids when we go to Ireland. I’m so worried about my cat children. Niece of mine, I sure would appreciate it, niece.

Me: Aw heeeeeell nah. NEVA DAT!

Actually, I didn’t said, “NEVA DAT,” but I sure was thinking it. Nothing sounded less fun than going to Florida for more than a week, by myself, to scoop kitty litter and serve gelatinous, fishy stanking food to a couple of cats I’d never met. Still, I didn’t want to be a biz to Patsy, so I just didn’t respond whenever she brought the subject up. She’d ask if I’d watch her cats, I’d distract her with a picture of Tiki. She never got an answer out of me.

I later learned that Patsy named her black cat "Tiki." They have a special relationship.

About a month after Patsy visited, she e-mailed my mom to ask, again, if I’d watch her cats when she and her husband went to Ireland. This time, I gave it a little more thought. While the weather at home was getting shizzy, Florida would still be warm. I’d be kinda close to Miami, maybe I’d run into Rick Ross and he’d explain how to correctly use the phrase “NEVA DAT.” Plus, Patsy spelled my name “Ally” in the e-mail to my mom; she might not know me, but I was going to make damn sure her “kids” did. I accepted.

I got to her house in Fort Lauderdale last Monday. I was greeted with pee on the bed, two litter boxes filled to the brim with cat business, and random nuggets of throw up and poop around the house. After nearly 12 hours of traveling, I spent the next 60 minutes cleaning up cat nasties.

And I’ve since spent the past week cleaning up cat nasties. As I mentioned in my last post, Patsy’s cats, Tiki and Eli, are disgusting assholes. They’re mean, they’re poopy, and they’re demanding. They’re like dumb babies, except evil and barely cute. And they made me miss the birth of a real baby — a smart and nice and super adorable one — my nephew Tyson.

Can't wait to meet this little dude

And Patsy’s not even paying me well for my cat services! Besides the flight, she left me $80 for food/gas for nine days — about $8/day, an opened bag of Whoppers and Milk Duds, and two gifts she described as “crap I’ll throw away if you don’t take 🙂 — keep if you want!”

For a love of America and patriotism

I can tell she put a lot of thought into this gift

One good thing about my trip is my aunt and uncle don’t live together during the week. Patsy lives in Fort Lauderdale, while my uncle has a condo in the Keys. He left me directions and a set of keys to his place, and I decided to go there last Friday. I packed up an overnight bag, left the bastards some extra cat food, grabbed a fluffy white towel out of Patsy’s secret stash (she left out two threadbare ones fa me), and went down to the Keys.

My mood improved as soon as I got there. My uncle’s place was bright and clean and had a bombass ocean view. The beach was a five minute walk away, the pool was right across the parking lot, and there was even a bike I could use! I was deliriously happy.

No, furreal, I was delirious with happiness. At least that’s how I justify the dumbassness of what I did next.

When I walked into the kitchen, I noticed a handwritten note on the counter. On it, there were detailed instructions on how to water the plants. The two big potted plants got 2/3 a large container of water, the small one got 1/2 a large container, and the fern in the sink got a “good soaking” from the faucet. At the bottom of the note, it said “Plants watered Nov. 3 – Bill.”

I assumed that meant my uncle Bill wanted the plants watered on November 3rd. So, when I looked at my watch and saw it was already November 4th, I got to watering right away. As I filled up container after container of water, I thought about the note a little bit more. Bill didn’t even know for sure that I was going to come here — what if I never did, and his plants died of lack of water? Would that be my fault? He’d never mentioned it! Imagine if I’d accidentally killed them!

I didn’t give it any more thought; at least, not until I finished watering, walked to the bathroom to change, and stepped into a huge puddle. When I looked for the source of the water, I saw it was running out from the edge of one of the big potted plants. It was overflowing out the butt.

In fact, it turns out every plant I watered was overflowing out the butt. Water was all over the counter, all over the floor, all over everything. Somehow, the overflowing water from the fern plant even clogged the sink. Within ten minutes of being at my uncle Bill’s, every surface of his perfect little condo was underwater.

Starting with the counter, I grabbed paper towels to soak up what I could. At the same time, I picked up my uncle’s note to re-read the instructions — had I given them too much water? I hadn’t, I’d done all the right amounts… but a day before, so had Bill. If you remember from earlier, my uncle’s name is actually Bob. I realized “Bill” wasn’t my uncle, but someone my uncle Bob had asked to come over to water his plants; the “Hi Bill” at the top confirmed it. So, not only had I dumped a shizload of water all over my uncle’s condo, but I’d overwatered and probably murdered all of his plants, too.

Knowing I’d effed up pretty seriously, I wanted to fix it as quick as I could. I started looking in the closets for something to sop up the water on the floor with — dish towels, regular towels, whatever — but I couldn’t find anything. Other than a few hotel-style-folded, fancy towels in the bathroom, there was nothing. I grabbed the white towel I’d brought from my aunt’s and threw it down to soak up the floor water. Then, I got to ladling the water out of the clogged sink and into one of Bob’s frozen beer mugs. When I was done with that, I grabbed the soaking towel and draped it over the porch railing to dry.

Apparently, the air in the Keys is made out of pure dirt. When I took Patsy’s towel off the railing, it was filthy, and not from the floor. I meant to take a picture of it before I washed it, but I forgot. It’s okay though, cause this is what it came out of the washer looking like:

A little dirty

A lot dirty. I ain't care -- you can tell by my cute face

Now I need some advice — throw the towel away or try to explain?

Also, pee in the kitty litter box before I leave so my aunt has to clean it out, or not?

JK JK NEVA DAT!

…maybe?