A Case of the Vapors

Yeah I did have rather a bad weekend all things considered — one highlight: 6 hours at the dermatologist’s having two large cancerous growths carved out of my right shin; the bleeding stopped a day or two later — but at least on Monday the stock market cratered, destroying any chances I had of staying relatively employment-free any longer so screw my whole life’s plans, right?  Besides, I’d MUCH rather work for a pack of mutants than sit in the sun drinking beer.

“Mutants” is probably politically incorrect, if factually accurate.  I don’t mean short yellow bus material, I mean employers whose value systems make coyotes in heat seem friendly and balanced.

But leave that alone for now.  Just look at the following picture, which shows the effects of saline injections into the forehead, a growing (sorry) trend among Japanese youth with a yen (sorry again) for the mutant look.  Find more here.

Photos like this remind me how glad I am Guido and I have no kids, but we have cats (5 at present) and one very intense canine.  We’ve had other creatures as well, short-term; nothing as large as a goat or horse (although Guido would certainly like that), but all the usual wild critters and escaped house pets that find their way here.  Wounded birds, injured reptiles, washed-up left-handed relief pitchers, you name it.

One of the great joys of having animals is cleaning up the astonishing quantity of shit they produce.   We have a litter pan inside for the cats, but they prefer the great outdoors.  This requires us to patrol the lawn with plastic bags — the ones the newspapers arrive in: that means they serve two consecutive terms as shit wrappers — deftly picking it off the grass to which it gooily adheres.  Finding it, especially when the grass is high, is a challenge, particularly when vegetables were part of kitties’ last meal, or when the dry lawn is brown and covered with dead leaves as it’s been all year, but there are two reliable methods: look for swarming flies, and go barefoot.  I’m always barefoot, and I step in shit so often the dog worships my feet.

Our cats shit everywhere and no, they don’t bother burying it.  On Friday Guido and I spent a few hours on the roof covering with tarps an area we think is leaking.  On Sunday, following a downpour, we went up to inspect.  One of the cats had shit on the tarp.

Another delight cats provide is leaving dead, dying, or bleeding animals around for us to discover.  We have removed birds, rodents, lizards, possums, frogs, toads, and snakes from our cat’s mouths over the years, only to find them slaughtered a few days later.  Last week I encountered the pile of bones, beaks, and feathers they’d accumulated in a lair hidden under a fern.  Guido rescued a baby mouse the other day and tried to nurse it back to health; unsuccessfully, but not until she’d named it Purina.

Alfalfa, who is no longer with us, was famous for catching lizards and eating all but the heads which he’d leave around the house for us to find.  That’s an eye-opener when you’re slumped on the can, barely awake.  Ace, the warrior, once dragged home the remains of a dead rat still caught in an old-fashioned snap-trap.  He’d already chewed off the head, but figured there was more meat for dessert.  Good boy, Ace.  Give mommy a kiss.

Limping around barefoot on a post-surgical leg I managed to step in not one but two wet piles of poo I failed to detect, but to be fair, one was cat and the other dog.  Yes, I can tell the difference, by look, smell, and feel if not taste.  This is not what the doctor had in mind when he counseled sanitation for a problem-free recovery.  Guido promptly assigned blame to me for walking in the yard — why wasn’t I sitting in a chair, keeping my leg elevated, or in bed for chrissake whatsa matter f’you dumbass?

I take her point.  (Right between the eyes.)  Under the circumstances, she’s the one who had to scrub out the shit from between and under my toe rings before I could put my hooves on the sheets.  Usually I do it with a hose, looking for a feline to squirt.  But they’ve learned a thing or two about avoiding unpleasantness, even if I haven’t.

Oh, and did I mention I’m on antibiotics and can’t drink?  Shit.  SHIT!

All of a sudden, having saline injections into my forehead makes sense.  “Turning Japanese I think I’m turning Japanese I really think so…….”