And we think WE have it tough?

Few appreciate the trials of the typical house cat, what with all those lofty expectations and deadlines and such. We humans can't understand the pressures of the Kitty Do list.

Take Zimba-Saurus Rex for example...

According to the feline bylaws to which he must adhere, Zimba is obligated to trip his human ten times per day to meet his quota. He must explore every inch of the house like it's an exciting new territory, as if he hasn't lived at his present domicile for the last eight years. In the course of said exploration, he must push his face through every cobweb he finds, as befits his status of 'permanent kitten.' As required by his local union, Zimba will sit in the sink in anticipation of the faucet being turned on (under the guideline that fresh water is best). Because he doesn't wish to be ousted from his fraternity, Zimba will play with every shoestring, drawstring or baggie tie within the span of his particular universe. Having obtained the moniker of a dinosaur for his feats of great destruction, Zimba must live up to his name by, even when approaching double digit age, decimating everything not nailed down and a handful of things that are.

And, as a survival tactic, he must do all things both dangerous and annoying while appearing to be - and here I quote the manual - too cute to kill. It works.

Because I come home from a looooong day of paid slavery and lo... the lamp has leapt to the floor, the speaker wires have been chewed clean through, the food dish is upended (to the dog's benefit), the pillows lie shredded and every pile of anything is scattered.

At least the cobwebs have been cleared. They all reside on his face. But it's difficult to skin the beast, shove a stick down his throat and rotate him over a fire because self-preservation kicks in and he summons, for want of a better word, cuteness. Behold...

The Dates That Matter-ish

It's either a sign of spinsterhood or muddled near-middle age when today is a memorable day in the mental calendar in my head.

I struggle mightily to maintain a clear record of birthdays in my family. Having eight nieces and nephews is a challenge worthy of Einstein's impressive brain. Even my own birthday has been known to sneak up on me (which has NOTHING to do with the fact that additional digits are less welcome... much). But, this is the ultimate sign that a cat chick can become a crazy ol' cat lady with the speed of one simple memory skill;

Today is Zazu's fifteenth birthday.

The moment my rebellious eyes opened this morning, I congratulated him on another year of life, hand-feeding him treats at six am (because I'm dedicated) and serving up exquisite moist food for dinner (not that I've sampled it to know its quality). I remembered, before the sun rose no less, that today was meaningful. Zazu himself opted not to weigh in on his advanced age. Or mine, as forgetting dates is now part of the daily cycle.

Of course, April Fool's Day isn't difficult to remember when your cat is the feline equivalent of Cujo. The day was made for him. Look Zaedah, here's an eight week old, sweet and fluffy bundle of kitten joy...

AAAAHHHHHH.... who bites and scratches and hisses and has been known to take on giant dogs without flinching a whisker. Yes, April Fools indeed. The miracle is not that he's still healthy, but that he hasn't eaten me alive yet. Nonetheless, Happy Birthday Zazu. You may be sinister but I wouldn't change a thing.

Trippin' ain't just for hippies...

Some mornings, it's tough to wake up.
Some mornings, it's tougher afterward.

Here's a rundown of a typical post-snooze saga as played by myself (in the unfortunate lead) and my supporting cast (strewn about the stage).

Exit bed - trip over snoring 70 pound ZaedahDog for whom getting up is like being drafted.
Head to closet - cut off by Zazu, who only wants affection when I have other plans for my hands.
Leave room - kick 'black cat in the dark' Zorro who, in general, sees this as quality cuddling.
Shower time - fall over bubble lovin' Zimba who insists on drinking out of every running faucet.
Breakfast - sloppily dodge as Reuben climbs up leg in an effort to secure love regardless of pain to human.
Walk through living room - stumble around Bugg and Stitch, who believe we all paid good money to see them... you know... boink.
Check water bowls - Collide with massive Willow, a German shepherd who is convinced she's the size of a newborn lightning bug.
Feed the maniacs - perform webble wobble dance as the herd comes running like divas at a Gucci giveaway.
Search for seating - only to find it's all be taken...

The unmentioned animals (oh yes, there are more) are patient stagehands waiting until the dust settles from the multiple collisions before making their daily debut. Needless to say, I am a canvas of bumps, bruises and occasional contusions, painted fresh everyday by artists plotting their masterpiece of carnage!

Cat Hoarder Test

Apparently, I am one of gazillions that has become interested, shocked and occasionally appalled by A & E's new show, Hoarders. Here we feast on folks with minor trash disposal issues, credit card love and enough food storage to carry one through the Apocalypse. But yesterday I saw one that made me ponder my own household collection...

Cats.

Sure, we've seen feline adoptions gone mad on Animal Cops too and many head shakes ensued. But the 71 year old woman on yesterday's program was a prime example of too much love and no good counting skills. When questions, Shirley put her cat population at 20-25. If only. As law enforcement began the task of rounding up the brood, the final tally was 75 cats, a host of them dead. And she had no idea! What kind of scent can rampage through a house that can successfully mask the smell of rotting corpses?

My roommate and I have often said that anyone entering our home would likely think we were on the cusp of hoarding. But I have devised a way to judge our proclivity by the hoarding standard. It's quite simple... if you can answer (correctly) how many cats you have, you might not be a hoarder. Especially, in my opinion. if the number is still a single digit.

We have eight. We know their names, birthdays, quirks, manner of arrival and can accurately run down their varied medical conditions and vet visits. And, in fairness, we are two households combined and one of the critters is a foster cat. There. I feel much better. So here's to Zazu, Zimba, Zorro, Bugg, Reuben, Stitch, Pudge and Montana!