GetMEOWtahere! (Lynn Kerstan)

Cat capsule to earth. Take me home!

Lymond, Monsieur le Comte de Sevigny, as he insists on being called today, demanded the right to write this report. But Monday I had to clip his claws, so he cannot type. Nor do I believe he would accurately present the details if left to his own devices. Think of it this way. This is a collaboration without cooperation, although I promised to record his every word. When it comes to the truth of the matter, you must be the judge.

Lymond: Here begins my catalog of grievances. I’ll keep it brief. While I basked in morning sunlight on the cushioned window-seat, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, the Can-Opener crept up, towel in her paws, and wrapped it around me like a straightjacket. I wriggled to escape, but she’s remarkably strong when up to no good. Next thing I knew, she’d tossed me into the catafalque and sealed the lid.

LynnK: In fact, what occurred on Wednesday began Monday, when I stealthily emptied the carrier—which doubles as a storage container—and concealed it in my bedroom. The moment he sees the carrier, Lymond keeps himself well out of reach, so I must plan accordingly. Tuesday night, while he slept, I moved the carrier to the shower stall. The next morning, when it was nearing time to leave, I set it out, lid open, in the tiny bathroom. Then, towel in hand, I tried to scoop up the cat but found myself in a wrestling match. Knowing I had only one chance—if he scampered to the top of the cat tree, I’d never get him down—I risked flailing claws and bare teeth to secure him. To his credit, he fought clean and without doing me harm. Until we got to the bathroom and he spotted his destination, with all its awful implications. I set him inside the carrier, but before I could close the lid, he’d clambered out. I’ve fought these battles before, so the bathroom door was sealed. He’d nowhere to go except—Dum Dum Dum—to the vet’s.

-The desperate paw of a desperate cat.

Lymond: So much for “brief.” Yes, I struggled. Wouldn’t you? And not being the brightest Can-Opener in the drawer, she gave me another chance. Okay, I’ll give her points for being soft-hearted. She must have been seeing to my comfort when she made the mistake of opening the lid again. We were in the narrow vestibule when she set me down and went to retrieve my favorite soft coverlet, the very one I was sleeping on when catnapped. When I saw it again , I was ready for action. Sure enough, the moment the lid went up, out I scrambled. But she was ready for me, because I couldn’t get around or over the oversized catafalque carrier. A battle ensued. During it, something fell on top of her. But she got hold of me anyway and wrestled me back into prison.

LynnK: That’s fairly accurate. What fell was a wooden hat tree loaded with coats, hats, a bathing suit, and an umbrella. I have minor bruises. Now worried about making it to the appointment on time, I rushed to the car, stashed the cat on the front seat beside me, and set out for the veterinary hospital. Oh. He failed to mention that from the moment he first found himself inside the carrier, he began to howl, low in the throat, like a hound from hell. And continued to do so all the way to Point Loma, which is about fifteen minutes from where we live.

We are not amused.

Lymond: Some C-O’s just don’t appreciate protest songs. Let’s get to the bottom line here. I was abducted, confined, and transported to a foreign country (nearby neighborhood-LK). This is known as rendition. We watch a lot of political news around here. Clearly there is no Bill of Rights for felines, because everybody we met at the Chamber of Horrors (friendly pet clinic-LK) enabled this clearly illegal procedure. I certainly never signed a consent form. But all too soon, I was atop a metal table and a tall man in a white coat was asking questions in a soft, menacing (gentle-LK) voice.

LynnK: I’d brought Lymond in for an examination because he’s about to cross the line to senior citizen-cat. After my own year of serious illness, I wanted to make sure he was okay or deal with whatever might be wrong with him. He doesn’t visit the vet often enough, mostly because he finds the experience traumatic. Fortunately, he gets over it quickly.

See that demonic look in my eyes? The Vet doesn’t know what he’s messing with.

Lymond: Traumatic? That doesn’t begin to cover the truth. I was subjected to invasive procedures. (A lifting of the tail-LK). The opening of orifices. (Teeth were checked-LK). The tall man was feeling me up like a common alley cat. Worst of all, he put me on something called a scale and said I was four pounds overweight. I’m not fat! I’m pleasingly plump. But the C-O has already cut back on my feedings. Just because she’s lost weight doesn’t mean I have to follow suit. Like, she has practically no hair on her head and I have thick, dense fur. Does she expect me to shave it off in a gesture of sympathy?

LynnK: Monsieur le Comte is decidedly porky (although beautiful in spite of it), and for his health’s sake, he will now be confined to Mature Adult Light cat food.
He was given a pill to immunize him against distemper, which is apparently easily transmitted even to an indoor cat. I was horrified to learn he has had a tapeworm (apparently transmitted from fleas, which were quickly gone when a dose of Advantage demolished them). A pill took care of the tapeworm. The vet recommended, and I approved, a complete blood work-up to check for a great risk to older cats—kidney disease. We’ll have the results next week. And the good news? Abyssinians are notoriously prone to gingivitis, but Lymond’s teeth are healthy and virtually free of tartar.

Revenge is a dish best served with Vet fingers.

Lymond: The C-O left out the part when a stranger carried me (with difficulty, I proudly add) to another room where the Man in the White Coat stuck me with needles and stuffed pills down my throat. You can only imagine how awful it was, considering they wouldn’t even let the C-O witness it. When we got home and I was finally let loose, I went to the top my cat tree to recover from the indignities inflicted on me.

LynnK: Again, the cat omitted his attempts to escape the vet clinic people. All three who had occasion to deal with him commented, breathlessly, about how strong (and scared) he was. They also understood that he did not unsheathe his claws or do them any damage. He could certainly have made trouble if he wasn’t, at heart, a sweetie-pie.

And I think Le Comte de Sevigny has forgiven me. On the way home, he didn’t howl the howl of a be-helled feline. Instead, he meowed. Loudly. Keep in mind, he’s rarely vocal. After a time, I started meowing back, imitating his tone and volume. When I started changing the tone, he mimicked me. I went higher, he went higher. I went lower or softer or both, he did the same. Ping-pong meows. We’d done the same a couple times before, in similar circumstances, and I interpret it as a sign of forgiveness.

Lymond: Humbug! I was sucking up. Wouldn’t you? She’s the Can-Opener. Without her, no nibbles. Besides, I feel fine now. Let bygones be bygones . . . until the next vet visit.

Meantime, I see a shaft of sunlight. Time for a nap.

Things I Like (Lymond de Sevigny)

A nap.







My cat tree, my pillow, my blankie, and my sun.







My throne.







See. I'm not always complaining!

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

Lazy June afternoon. All is well. I rule my world.





What do you mean, Claw Clipping?
On a Sunday?

That's just wrong.





Make no mistake about it, Can Opener.
My weapons may be temporarily dulled, but not my wits.

I will have my revenge!

Re-Entry (LynnK)

After nearly three months in a world not my own, I seem to be returning to earth. I’m hoping so, anyway. And like the space capsules I’m old enough to remember, I landed in the water.

Since early March, I’ve scarcely gone anywhere or done anything. Singing wasn’t painful, so I managed to rehearse and perform in a concert last Saturday night. Once a week, I staggered out for groceries and other essential errands. Otherwise, I had all the mobility of a cave drawing.

Until Monday, when I wrestled my too, too solid flesh into a bathing suit and dragged myself to water aerobics. The long stretch of virtual immobility (not much room to move in a 500-sq-ft apartment) had packed on at least fifteen pounds, and unlike my skin, my clothes won’t stretch to accommodate them. I needed exercise. Baaaad.

Krissie, another fan of water aerobics, can testify to the benefits. Even a body in pain can move freely and without undue stress in the water. But she lives a long distance from the nearest pool, and the winter in Vermont is frigid. I have no such problem, the heated pool being a mile away and winter temperatures plunging to, oh, the high 50's. Even so, I can’t bear what is, for me, the intolerable cold of a Coronado winter. I hadn’t done aerobics since October.

Nearly all the Aqua-Naughties were there, ostensibly glad to see me again, and there was lots of joking around. I did more moving in one hour than I’d done in months. Muscles that must have thought themselves retired for life were suddenly performing frog leaps, cross-country, pendulums, roly-polies, and sinkers.

On Tuesday, I started paying the price for my exertions. Every part of my body was protesting the pain. Who knew hair could hurt?! But Wednesday I went back, and yesterday I hurt even more.

Nonetheless, I’ll be there again tonight. This pain, unlike the agony produced by the damnable Shingles, is productive. And I’m weary of being the helpless victim of a mean-spirited virus. Outa my way, herpes zoster. I have things to do.

I’m also feeling miserably self-absorbed, which I detest. So many of my friends are dealing with serious problems involving the people they most love–husbands, children, grandchildren, brothers and sisters and parents–where I have only my own pain to grieve about. Not that I haven’t been through the other, excepting offspring, of which I have none. Now I have only a cat, who is doing just fine.

But resentful, from time to time, whenever I clip his claws or clean his ears. Not because of those things, though. He mourns, without exactly being aware of it, the loss of the treat that always used to follow these assaults on his person.

Anyssinians have a tendency to develop gingivitis, and to help combat it, I rewarded him (directly after claw-clipping, etc.) with what looked something like a small rawhide chew stick given to dogs. These ones taste like chicken–I’m taking the package’s word for that–and are fully digestible. The cat liked them a lot. After demolishing one, he’d stretch out like a pasha and give his ragged claws a manicure.


So naturally, about three years ago, the pet stores stopped carrying the chewies. I tried every place in town, pretty much. There was a similar product, someone told me, that I could order on-line. But by the time they added enormous shipping and handling charges, a package cost three times its regular price. I do supply premium cat food, Petromalt, teeth-brushing, and the like, but I couldn’t bring myself to pay extortion rates for pig-in-a-poke chewies.

This only became an issue once a month, when the cat permitted me to groom him and then waited with a hopeful expression for his reward. My explanations cut no mustard with him. He’d proceed to the kitchen cabinet where the treasure had formerly been stored and sit there looking from it to me. Me to it. It to me.

Then he'd go to his favorite perch and fix his gaze on me with the unmistakable message of an aggrieved Abycat:

"Ah, Lynn, you are a great disappointment to me.”

Eventually, in the way of cats, he forgot. And so it went for a couple of years, with him enduring the indignities of claw-clipping and ear-cleaning without any reward except petting, of which he gets plenty anyway.

Then . . . a miracle. Yesterday I ventured out for long-postponed errands, moving with all the grace of Robbie the Robot, and at Petco, I found NuBone chewy thingies! Not the same brand or appearance, but they seem designed for the same purposes.

Will the cat like them? Give me a look of tolerant approval? I dunno. They’re still in the car, which I had to park a long way away. By the time I hauled in the perishables, I was knackered.

He senses something, though. The vibration of impending treats has perked up his ears. He’s fixing me with one of his “get-to-it” looks. Something wonderful this way comes.

And I’m having the same experience. Slowly but steadily, I’m starting to feel better. I have a fun trip in July to look forward to. If not for the (semi)-rigorous dieting and exercise between now and then, I might be positively cheerful.

Really, I ought to fulfill ineffable cat-longings by going out into the night and retrieving chewies from the car. And I would, if I had the vaguest notion where it was parked.

The spirit is willing, the body is semi-functional, but the mind is still lost in space.

She's Baaaack (LynnK)

Well, sorta. Not altogether and full-force, but then, I’m rarely all together and hardly ever forceful. These days, my standards are not high.

It’s amazing, really, how much energy and strength leaches away after two virtually motionless months. Doing a load of laundry yesterday put me out of breath. A trip to the grocery story is akin to invading a small, hostile country. Tonight I walked to choir practice, maybe half a mile each way on level ground, and by the time I got home, I felt as if I’d crossed the Nefud desert.

But the pain is much, much less now, and I no longer have to spend sleepless nights sitting upright in a chair gazing blankly at the TV screen. The plumbing is working, for a change. And except for the Infinity Construction Project next door, no one is building or repairing anything in my immediate vicinity.

My standard for happiness has definitely hit rock bottom. Slight mobility, only moderate pain, and a growing belief that the Shingles viruses are about done with me. Huzzah!

My brain is not quite so fuzzy now, or so I fancy. I no longer spend agonizing days and sleepless nights exploring mindless stuff on the Internets. But you would not believe what’s going on out there. Or what managed to catch my faltering attention.

For example, I’ve been trying to teach myself Lolcat. It’s a language, sort of,
for cats if they bothered to talk, which appears to have originated at the website I Can Has Cheezburger?
http://icanhascheezburger.com/
I’d previously enjoyed the pictures and captions there, like this example.




But I hadn’t realized that a sort of cult (like Star Trek fans who learn to speak Klingon) had grown up around the cat-lingo. And now, on a Wiki site, lolcat fans are busy translating . . . wait for it . . .
the Bible.
Lolcatbible.com

Yup. It probably takes a warped sense of humor, which I was born with, to get a kick out of this. And with about 2/3rds of the work accomplished, I expect all the good Bible sections are taken. But if I have a recurrence of the pain, which has happened a couple times since I started improving, I may put my hand to a psalm or something. Lymond would be so proud.



Lik I carz!







Nah. Truth is, I’m having withdrawal pains. Feeling lousy makes even useless silliness shine like diamonds. It helped me through a bad time. Besides, I’m drawn to lolcat because, unlike every foreign language on the planet, it might just be easy enough for me to learn.

I can practically hear Pat Potter all the way from Memphis ordering me to get a grip and get back to work on something useful. Okaaay, girlfriend. Will do.

But meantime, for those of you not in a mood to work at this moment, here’s the lolcat version of a familiar biblical passage. In lolcat, it’s all about bad spelling. Oh, and God is Ceiling Cat.

Ceiling Cat iz mai sheprd (which is funni if u knowz teh joek about herdin catz LOL.)
He givz me evrithin I need.
He letz me sleeps in teh sunni spot
an haz liek nice waterz r ovar thar.
He makez mai soul happi
an maeks sure I go teh riet wai for him. Liek thru teh cat flap insted of out teh opin windo LOL.
I iz in teh valli of dogz, fearin no pooch,
bcz Ceiling Cat iz besied me rubbin' mah ears, an it maek me so kumfy.
He letz me sit at teh taebl evn when peepl who duzint liek me iz watchn.
He givz me a flea baff an so much gooshy fud it runz out of mai bowl LOL.
Niec things an luck wil chase me evrydai
an I wil liv in teh Ceiling Cats houz forevr.

May you all live safe, well-fed, and blessed forever by Ceiling Cat. Srsly!

Cat Scan (Lymond de Sevigny)

Two sun-cycles ago, when I saw the Can-Opener pack a bag and arrange for someone to feed me, I knew something was up. Still not sure what, though. She went to see the vet, I think, but he sent her home again. That's good for me.

He gave her medicine, too. It's supposed to stop the hurting, but it makes her throw up. See, I'm not the only one barfs on the carpet! So she's not moving a lot, which makes for a lot of lap time for me. And she's a little cranky, but that might relate to something called "doing taxes."

She also got to catch up on Battlestar Gallactica, which was too loud for my taste. I'm a Jane Austen fan. Oh, and what does "frack" mean?

Anyhow. Looks like what Lynn's got will pass in a few weeks, so not to worry. She will be just fine. That's what she tells me, anyway. Like I worry about anything!

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

What's this?! The Can-Opener has posted a picture of another cat?!


When she headed out for the Wild Animal Park, I knew there'd be trouble.





Apparently size does matter.







This is one of his consorts. He has at least two. The swine! And within a couple of weeks, they produced seven cubs. The trollops!





Humpf! If not for an ill-fated visit to the vet, I would have been a Wild One too. Sired kittens. Been a contender!


Oh, well. I yam what I yam.

As are we all.

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

King of All I Survey.
This is my "Feed Me" stare. But the Can-Opener has got her nose buried in a book. Where are your priorities?!

Deep Thought:
I am, therefore I am.

Leftover turkey for lunch. Again.
Tryptophan.
Naptime.

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

It's almost Halloween. Bring me treats.





Peel me a mouse.







And thereby hangs a tale.

Sunday Cat Blogging (Lymond de Sevigny)

Crabby mood today. Lynn fed me regular Fancy Feast. Hmph! Clearly I am a "premium" cat.



Oh, woe is me.
Sulking in my tent.