OT: Great Cat Roundup of 1998
Question:
Right, and my friends think I’m nuts with a mere 6 (3 canine, 3 feline). — Debbie Cusick 322/248/147
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text -ROFL, ROFL, ROFL, ROFL!!!!! I thought my two furpeople were too much to handle! But thirty-seven?
Response:
CAT, Your tale just cracked me up! Sue
Response:
ROFL, ROFL, ROFL, ROFL!!!!! I thought my two furpeople were too much to handle! But thirty-seven? At least they’re a little happier with my diet now…although Blacquette P. Loudmouth likes beef much better than Amelia Earhart. Amelia favors prefers cheese. Both like tuna. And salmon. They like salmon more than I do, I think. —– "He’s no fun, he fell right over!" Firesign Theater Phil 297/277/200 Atkid since 7/20/98
Response:
Ohmigawd, this completely cracked me up! All of it! I really can’t imagine your life. I love cats and dogs (that’s about as far as my animal loving extends), but I can’t even imagine having so many! You’re remarkable. You’ve also found a remarkable vet (who is no doubt telling another version of this story!) Thanks for a wonderful story! Jen 198/167/123 P.S. Sorry to add a serious note, but I really want to warn people…Many houses have a space between the wall and the water heater (if the water heater is "backed" into a corner). That space can be a death trap for cats, because once they’ve gotten down there it’s usually impossible for them to get out (it’s too high to jump). It’s an easy enough problem to solve once one is aware of it. In article – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – For those of you having a bad day/week/month/year, here’s a little something that will hopefully give you a chuckle. (It’s always funnier when it’s happening to someone else, huh? <g) CAT The Great Cat Roundup of 1998 I know, I know. Roundups and rodeos usually involve horses and cattle. Trust me. Horses and cattle are easier. A bit of history: For those of you here in the ng who aren’t familiar with my lunacy, I currently have 37 cats. All indoor, all fixed, and all vaccinated–for distemper. However, NONE are vaccinated for rabies. Why vaccinate a cat for something it’s never going to be exposed to? Enter a City of Dallas Animal Control Officer, ostensibly doing a neighborhood canvas to "educate the population." (Color me paranoid, but I never trust government when they start talking about "educating" anybody. Besides, *I* could probably educate THEM about cats!) In any event, this officer peeks (yep, peeks! I wondered if I should have him cited for being a peeping Tom?) in my windows, counts my cats and comes up with 18 (he only *thought* he had an accurate total). He leaves me a warning, telling me that I’m in violation of a city ordinance that requires all cats and dogs to be registered. In order to register them, however, they must be vaccinated for rabies. Next call? My vet. After pleading and wheedling and cajoling, he agreed to make a house call. (Thank God for sympathetic vets.) He even agreed to bring along one of his vet techs to help out. The cats don’t have to be registered until November 4. This is only October 28. Plenty of time. Noooo problem. Piece of cake, right? Wrong. I start the day off by feeding the cats–mine in the kitchen, and any that wander through my yard and decide to stop for a snack, on the back porch. (Remember I said mine don’t go outside? Well, two of ‘em decided to make a liar out of me.) I opened the back door to fill up the bowls on the back porch, and Rascal and Sylvester caught sight of a squirrel (no, not me…the real kind with the fuzzy tail!) and off they went! One went east, the other west. Sylvester was easy–all you have to do to catch him is pitch him a straw or fake mouse and he plays fetch (I’ve thrown that stupid straw and mouse often enough); so as soon as the squirrel was out of sight, and Syl saw me with the straw, he was close enough to grab and toss back in the house. That left Rascal–who’d gone straight up the tree after the squirrel, and couldn’t figure out how to get back down. Now I’ve had enough modifications made to this old bod of mine that climbing trees is no longer an option, so I (sensibly, yes?) come back inside to grab a ladder. I fully expected the rest of the cats to be squabbling because they hadn’t had breakfast, but nooooo–they’re up in the window watching Rascal (with envy?) up in the tree! The squirrel has come down and is contentedly munching on peanuts retrieved from *his* feeder. (They don’t call me Ol’ MacDonald in the neighborhood for nothin’–if it has fur or feathers, I feed it.) Anyway, back to Rascal. Ladder in hand (and still in my nightgown), I go back outside, prop the ladder up against the tree, climb up and reach for the cat. Yep. You guessed it! Out of reach. So…I leave the ladder, step on the limb (fortunately, a LARGE one) and once more reach for the cat–only to watch him run right past me, light briefly on the windowsill, and jump to the porch–where he sits and munches contentedly. The cats inside have by now taken up posts at the screen, and are watching Rascal. I’m in a hurry to get down before (a) Rascal runs off, (b) I fall out of the damn tree and break my neck, or (c) both. In my haste (carelessness?) I hit the ladder with my foot. Any idea how ridiculous I felt watching it slide away from the tree and flop over on the patio. Me? Jump 7+ feet out of a tree onto concrete? Not in *this* lifetime. So there I sat. And sat. And sat. I finally caught the attention of one of my neighbors (who already thought I was nuts, and now she’s *sure* of it) with my yelling. Fortunately, she was nice enough to have her husband come to my aid. Finally, I’m out of the tree, Rascal’s back in the house, I still have some semblance of a voice left, and the cats got their breakfast–and it’s only a little after 1:00 p.m. Next on the agenda: a clean house. (Can’t have the vet walking into a messy house. I’m only slightly obsessive-compulsive. Contrary to what some of my friends think, I do NOT vacuum the back yard.) House is clean. Time to rest. Five whole minutes. (Vet’s not only sympathetic, he’s punctual, too.) Fortunately, I was right on schedule. (Yeah, I know–the first time in my life THAT’S ever happened!) By this time, the cats know **something** is up, and they’re hiding–or trying to. I’ve closed off the bedroom, so they can’t get under the bed. But that still leaves the office, the cat room, the kitchen, the dining room and the living room. Biggest problem is the cat room, where I have a cat walk–one foot deep, one foot from the ceiling, and all the way around the room. (To quote another one of my vets: "What idiot came up with THAT idea?") And ON the catwalk? Twenty-six of my little darlings–ears laid back, eyes narrowed, whiskers twitching. Nobody was happy. Nobody! List at hand, over the next 45 minutes (I couldn’t believe it was over that quick either), we chased (and caught and vaccinated) 35 cats–over furniture, under furniture, around furniture, behind washers, dryers, refrigerators (Now *there’s* an idea for a new invention: cat extraction equipment–to be affixed to every major appliance) and all around the cat walk. All done, everyone on the list checked off–except for Chaos. HE couldn’t be found. Anywhere. He wasn’t under anything, behind anything or on anything. After pulling the washer, dryer and fridge out one last time, we were just about to give up, when one silky black paw emerged from the cabinet over the fridge–and gave away his hiding place. Finished. At last. Doc signed the last of the certificates, and his vet tech gathered up all the used bottles and syringes. A quick goodnight, and they were on their way. 7:15 and it felt like midnight! Thank God this day only rolls around once a year. And For all you cat lovers wandering around out there in the ether with nothing to do, I’d like to take this opportunity to extend an open invitation to next year’s event. Why should *I* have all the fun? Mother always taught me to share. (Now where IS that bottle of valium? I know it was around here somewhere….Aw, to heck with it…chocolate works just as well….) (Say g’nite Gracie.) G’nite Gracie.
Response:
Help! Your story has me on the floor and I can’t get up! WHAT A SCREAM! I can only imagine the bedlam. Are you ever able to open a can of tuna?!? Thanks for telling your kitty tale (tail?). Ruth In article – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – For those of you having a bad day/week/month/year, here’s a little something that will hopefully give you a chuckle. (It’s always funnier when it’s happening to someone else, huh? <g) CAT The Great Cat Roundup of 1998 I know, I know. Roundups and rodeos usually involve horses and cattle. Trust me. Horses and cattle are easier. A bit of history: For those of you here in the ng who aren’t familiar with my lunacy, I currently have 37 cats. All indoor, all fixed, and all vaccinated–for distemper. However, NONE are vaccinated for rabies. Why vaccinate a cat for something it’s never going to be exposed to? Enter a City of Dallas Animal Control Officer, ostensibly doing a neighborhood canvas to "educate the population." (Color me paranoid, but I never trust government when they start talking about "educating" anybody. Besides, *I* could probably educate THEM about cats!) In any event, this officer peeks (yep, peeks! I wondered if I should have him cited for being a peeping Tom?) in my windows, counts my cats and comes up with 18 (he only *thought* he had an accurate total). He leaves me a warning, telling me that I’m in violation of a city ordinance that requires all cats and dogs to be registered. In order to register them, however, they must be vaccinated for rabies. Next call? My vet. After pleading and wheedling and cajoling, he agreed to make a house call. (Thank God for sympathetic vets.) He even agreed to bring along one of his vet techs to help out. The cats don’t have to be registered until November 4. This is only October 28. Plenty of time. Noooo problem. Piece of cake, right? Wrong. I start the day off by feeding the cats–mine in the kitchen, and any that wander through my yard and decide to stop for a snack, on the back porch. (Remember I said mine don’t go outside? Well, two of ‘em decided to make a liar out of me.) I opened the back door to fill up the bowls on the back porch, and Rascal and Sylvester caught sight of a squirrel (no, not me…the real kind with the fuzzy tail!) and off they went! One went east, the other west. Sylvester was easy–all you have to do to catch him is pitch him a straw or fake mouse and he plays fetch (I’ve thrown that stupid straw and mouse often enough); so as soon as the squirrel was out of sight, and Syl saw me with the straw, he was close enough to grab and toss back in the house. That left Rascal–who’d gone straight up the tree after the squirrel, and couldn’t figure out how to get back down. Now I’ve had enough modifications made to this old bod of mine that climbing trees is no longer an option, so I (sensibly, yes?) come back inside to grab a ladder. I fully expected the rest of the cats to be squabbling because they hadn’t had breakfast, but nooooo–they’re up in the window watching Rascal (with envy?) up in the tree! The squirrel has come down and is contentedly munching on peanuts retrieved from *his* feeder. (They don’t call me Ol’ MacDonald in the neighborhood for nothin’–if it has fur or feathers, I feed it.) Anyway, back to Rascal. Ladder in hand (and still in my nightgown), I go back outside, prop the ladder up against the tree, climb up and reach for the cat. Yep. You guessed it! Out of reach. So…I leave the ladder, step on the limb (fortunately, a LARGE one) and once more reach for the cat–only to watch him run right past me, light briefly on the windowsill, and jump to the porch–where he sits and munches contentedly. The cats inside have by now taken up posts at the screen, and are watching Rascal. I’m in a hurry to get down before (a) Rascal runs off, (b) I fall out of the damn tree and break my neck, or (c) both. In my haste (carelessness?) I hit the ladder with my foot. Any idea how ridiculous I felt watching it slide away from the tree and flop over on the patio. Me? Jump 7+ feet out of a tree onto concrete? Not in *this* lifetime. So there I sat. And sat. And sat. I finally caught the attention of one of my neighbors (who already thought I was nuts, and now she’s *sure* of it) with my yelling. Fortunately, she was nice enough to have her husband come to my aid. Finally, I’m out of the tree, Rascal’s back in the house, I still have some semblance of a voice left, and the cats got their breakfast–and it’s only a little after 1:00 p.m. Next on the agenda: a clean house. (Can’t have the vet walking into a messy house. I’m only slightly obsessive-compulsive. Contrary to what some of my friends think, I do NOT vacuum the back yard.) House is clean. Time to rest. Five whole minutes. (Vet’s not only sympathetic, he’s punctual, too.) Fortunately, I was right on schedule. (Yeah, I know–the first time in my life THAT’S ever happened!) By this time, the cats know **something** is up, and they’re hiding–or trying to. I’ve closed off the bedroom, so they can’t get under the bed. But that still leaves the office, the cat room, the kitchen, the dining room and the living room. Biggest problem is the cat room, where I have a cat walk–one foot deep, one foot from the ceiling, and all the way around the room. (To quote another one of my vets: "What idiot came up with THAT idea?") And ON the catwalk? Twenty-six of my little darlings–ears laid back, eyes narrowed, whiskers twitching. Nobody was happy. Nobody! List at hand, over the next 45 minutes (I couldn’t believe it was over that quick either), we chased (and caught and vaccinated) 35 cats–over furniture, under furniture, around furniture, behind washers, dryers, refrigerators (Now *there’s* an idea for a new invention: cat extraction equipment–to be affixed to every major appliance) and all around the cat walk. All done, everyone on the list checked off–except for Chaos. HE couldn’t be found. Anywhere. He wasn’t under anything, behind anything or on anything. After pulling the washer, dryer and fridge out one last time, we were just about to give up, when one silky black paw emerged from the cabinet over the fridge–and gave away his hiding place. Finished. At last. Doc signed the last of the certificates, and his vet tech gathered up all the used bottles and syringes. A quick goodnight, and they were on their way. 7:15 and it felt like midnight! Thank God this day only rolls around once a year. And For all you cat lovers wandering around out there in the ether with nothing to do, I’d like to take this opportunity to extend an open invitation to next year’s event. Why should *I* have all the fun? Mother always taught me to share. (Now where IS that bottle of valium? I know it was around here somewhere….Aw, to heck with it…chocolate works just as well….) (Say g’nite Gracie.) G’nite Gracie.
