In an effort to piss off "SERIOUS BLOGGERS" everywhere, I'm making a blog post about a cat, complete with LOLcats pictures!
And it's not even my cat. BOOYAH!
Do ya hear that? That WHOOSHING sound as regular readers rush to navigate away from this blog as fast as they can? Followed by that little popping sound as the surrounding air rushes in to fill the vacuum where they used to be? Hawesome!
The cat in question is named Dash, due to his skittish nature. He was a stray taken in by some friends of mine, so he has some residual attachment and territorial issues. At least I guess he does. Seems to. I don't know shit about animals.
My friends were going on vacation for a week and thought they had a cat sitter, but said sitter flaked out on them less than 24 hours before departure.
As is the nature of social networking these days, they sent out a tweet on twitter looking for a replacement.
No one was more surprised than me to find myself volunteering for duty!
I've kinda been thinking about getting a cat lately, and this will give a chance to test drive one without making any commitments.
I made sure to cat-proof the house as best I could before going to bed. Folding up that runner with the drapey bits over my kitchen table...the one with the tassels on the end. The one that sits underneath the two large candle sticks and the large bowl of potpourri. Ya know, shit like that.
Oh, and I bagged up all the potpourri and put it away. Shit might be cat poison for all I know.
So they dropped Dash off on Wednesday while I was at work. I get home and am careful to make sure the garage door is fully closed before I opened the door to the house. I mean, they named the fucking cat "Dash". I'm not stupid.
I make a pass through the house calling for Dash using his nickname, "squeaker".
I see the litter box in the bathroom and the full food dishes in the kitchen, but there is no sign of this fucking cat. Nowhere.
I had closed the doors to the bedrooms before I left for work. I made sure the pantry and cabinet doors were all closed, drawers shut. There just weren't very many places for a cat to hide. He had to be under the couch.
But that's cool. I expected him to be skittish and shy in a new place. So I just went about my binnis. He'd come out when he wanted to. No pressure.
I pour a drink, go upstairs, change clothes, take a dump, check my google reader, my emailz and my tweets. Such is my evening ritual.
I finally make it back downstairs. Still no cat. I sit on the couch, turn on the TV and start surfing for something to watch. At some point I must have shifted my bulk in a way displeasing to the cat because I feel a disconcerting movement beneath my increasingly substantial ass cheeks (I'd already taken a dump, so it couldn't be that) and then this furry little gray rocket SHOT out of the opposite end of the couch and flew upstairs.
"Well, hello squeaker!" I says to his hairy contrail.
I figure he's pretty spooked, so I give him some time to calm down. I had left my bedroom door open so I knew he'd be in there somewhere.
He was pretty easy to find. He was making that little squeaking sound that earned him his nickname. The sound was coming from behind a couple of decorative throw pillows stashed beneath a Victorian dressing bench.
Yes, I have decorative pillows and a Victorian dressing bench in my Man Lair. Fuck you. Chicks dig that shit. How is your pile of dirty laundry and Chiefs comforter and pillow set from Walmart working out for ya, douche nozzle? And yes, I mean you.
But I digress.
So I gently reach in and extract him from his hidey hole. He doesn't resist at all. I pick him up, snuggle him, pet him, take him back down stairs. I show him where his food is and where his poop box is. I get him to the purring stage. After a bit he starts wanting down, so I let him down.
Right back under the couch. That's cool. Baby steps.
I manage to get him out again before I go to bed and repeat the process. I top off his food and water before going to bed.
That was Day 1.
Did I mention I've got this cat for 8 days?
By next week my readership will be down to me. And I'm not that sure about me.