Building a Home with Meow Meows

 
Welp, it’s official. I finalized my adoption of Meow Meows* yesterday, so I guess I’m a cat-dad now. Cripes, I hate that term!

I think there’s something about pet ownership that immediately makes you talk like you’ve never had a meaningful relationship with any living creature that wasn’t embroidered on a sweater. Like, I don’t know if you can actually read what’s in that one-page description of my cat in that photo up there, but it actually uses the line “Holier than Meow” as shorthand for the cat’s personality… and it expects me to accept that, like, “Oh, yeah, that’s a thing normal people say.”

I don’t get all the cutesy-wutesy nonsense that surrounds cat ownership. There’s not one aspect of my cat’s behavior that makes me want to dress him in a fluffy sweater and call him “Snookums” through pouted lips. When I see Meow Meows, I immediately start to wonder which corner of my house he decided to throw up in this time. Cats are disgusting.

Plus, I know my cat has zero regard for my well-being. Meow Meows is always there, at three in the morning, right when I’m in the middle of my most restful sleep. He comes traipsing into my room and slaps me right in the face. “Wake up!” he shouts. “I need my Meow Mix!”

Actually, it’s worse than that, cuz Meow Meows isn’t declawed. So that slap in the face is more like a shank… or a… shiv. Yeah. Every morning, at three A.M., I get stabbed in the eyeball because my little meowster is out of num nums. What a jerk!

Don’t ask me how I got to be so fond of the little monster, but here we are. Most meaningful commitment I’ve ever made to another living being. My life is dysfunctional.
*Yeah, I’m keeping the name. It’s not like I ever actually call him that, anyway.

On Love and Poop

So once upon a time, back when I was working as a receptionist in a doctor’s office and really bitter about the whole thing, I was asked to return a call from a patient and give them some bad news from their doctor.  Not bad news like, “You’re going to die next week,” but like “Since you’ve not followed up as instructed, the doctor will no longer be writing prescriptions for your medications.”

No lie – at the time, I was ticked off.  I’d already spoken to the individual before, and I knew what their response would be.  I was not in the mood to face that kind of anger at the moment. So, as one does when they feel the world is dumb, I went to Facebook.  I said something like “Success is being able to take responsibility for your own actions.  Failure is having to apologize for someone else.”

Yeah, at the time, I thought that sounded pretty smart.  After all, I was, like, twenty-five.  I knew what was up.  To me, the idea of success was totally tied in to how many messes you had to clean up.  The more you cleaned up, the less successful you were.

At least, that’s what I thought until I got a cat.*

  
If you’ve ever had a cat, one of the first things you learned to do was to clean out the litter box every day, because the alternative to NOT cleaning out the litter box was… unpleasant.  After all, it’s not like the cat can clean out its own box.  That requires opposable thumbs, and every time I try to staple thumbs on my cat, it just runs away.

Sometimes, sadly, there are messes we can’t clean up ourselves.  At the time, we really wish/hope for someone else to come along, give us a cookie, and say, “Naw, you sit this one out.  I got this.”

And if that’s what we want from other people, I guess we should be willing to clean up some messes that aren’t our own, from time to time.

I still wish those doctors would call their cranky patients themselves, though.

*Note:  In no way is my every post from here on out going to mention my cat.  I’m not frequenting THAT part of the Internet!

Braddy’s Foster Kitty

  
So I’ve got a friend who works for the Humane Society, and she told me about this little guy, who’s been in the shelter for seven months and is in danger of being put down. She knew I was looking for a cat and asked if I’d be willing to adopt. So, yeah, here’s my new roommate.

His name is Meow Meows.

I never met his previous owners, but judging from how they named him, I have no choice but to assume they are terrible people.

Ironically, Meow Meows doesn’t really even meow much. He’s just got this weak little voice, barely a hiccup of a meow. I bet he was, like, a monk in a previous life. Or maybe Teller.

I’m only fostering Meow Meows for now. If he likes the place, I’ll go ahead and adopt him. And when I do, I’m changing his name, cuz that name is the worst.

Some names I’m considering:

  • Mjolnir
  • Ernest Hemingway
  • Trogdor
  • Stormaggedon
  • Jelly Beans
  • Nyarlothep
  • The Dashing Captain Whiskers
  • Lucky, the Pizza Dog
  • Kevin

Whatever his name winds up being is largely irrelevant, cuz I’m just gonna call him “kitty” most of the time. However, if I ever use the term “fur baby,” feel free to slap me in the face.

My Squatter

I’m pretty sure there’s a cat living in my garage.

At least, I’m pretty sure it’s a cat.  It’s not my cat – I’ve never owned a pet, though I’ve often thought it would be nice.  For the most part, my new squatter is a quiet neighbor.  I wouldn’t even know she was there, except for the little tufts of hair she leaves lying around.  However, every now and again, I get little notes from her.  Usually, on the windshield of my car.  Right after it rains.

  

This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a squatter in my garage.  Of course, the last time I had a “guest” back there, I wound up having to clean up quite a mess afterwards – old moldy blankets, empty syringes, and a pair of soiled green briefs.

No, I think I like the cat better.