I think it is.
My stepfather, who “doesn’t like sweets,” does in fact like Angel Food Cake and Marshmallow Peeps.
He doesn’t like cats, either.
I think he’d like this one.
(Pimp and the Peep discovered via Wall o’ Fluff.)
Posts Tagged 'Cat'
Because the cat is determined that if she can’t be in someone’s lap, she’s going to take advantage of the warm air venting from our computers.
Part one in a most-likely infinite series of stories illustrating why I do, in fact, need adult supervision.*
We’ll start with the shower. When our old handheld showerhead died, we replaced it with one of these – a dual showerhead that has both a fixed showerhead and a handheld one, and a little switch on the side that you toggle to get water out of either one, or both.
Now we’ll move on to the cat. I took her in this morning for a checkup (she’s really fairly healthy, but she’s 17 years old, and she’s had some problems recently). She’s gained quite a bit of weight, which is good, but she’s got fleas and she’s anemic. Actually, she’s more anemic than she was when she was thinner. “That might have something to do with the fleas,” the doctor told me. “I hate to say this, but I think you’re going to have to bathe her.”
Schokie’s no stranger to baths. She had her first when she was a tiny kitten who’d never learned to groom herself properly and, as a result, smelled terrible. She doesn’t like them (though she does enjoy the warm water, as long as she doesn’t think about what you’re doing to her), but she puts up with them. When I got home from the vet, I took off my shoes, jeans and top, and climbed into the shower stall with the cat. She knew what was coming, and she tried to escape, but since she’s not strong enough to open the door, I left her to bang her head against the glass while I finished getting ready for her bath.
“It might be hard to keep my bra dry,” I thought, so I pulled it off and tossed it over the door, where it landed in the cat’s litterbox. I started giggling. “If it makes you feel any better, Schokie,” I said, “I just threw my bra into your catbox.” She wasn’t impressed. Then I flipped the switch on the showerhead through two clicks, pulled the handheld showerhead out of its bracket, turned on the water – and got hit in the face with a spray of cold, cold water.
Shit. One click. It should have been one click, if I only wanted water out of the handheld. There’s water pouring out of both showerheads, my underwear (which I’d left on, thinking I was just going to bathe the cat, and not myself) are soaked, there’s so much water in my eyes I can’t find the switch to toggle it back a click, and I’m laughing so hard it scared the cat, who’s huddled in a corner staring at me.
Still, at least I remembered to take my glasses off.
This time.
*I lie. This is would actually be Part II. Part I, however, wasn’t labeled as such at the time, so we’ll split the difference and call this Part I (and a half). You’ll find Part I (and no half) here.
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