Our cats are lucky I love them

 

We have five cats, and I suppose I am more involved in their care and maintenance than anyone else in the family. It just sort of happened that way over the years, to the point that it's difficult to imagine doing anything other than feeding them and scooping out their litter boxes every day when I first wake up.

Contrary to popular belief when it comes to cats, they are all affectionate to one degree or another. They seem grateful for the easy life they live (at least as far as cats can be grateful), though there are times when they clearly take this as nothing more than their proper due.

I've generally been OK with that, but the three boys are trying my patience as they age.

The other night/morning, for instance, Charlie woke us up at 4:30am making a strange sound. Terry got out of bed and discovered he had a mouse in his mouth. I'm pretty sure the mouse was dead – that, or he was doing a bang-up job of playing dead – so I grabbed it in a paper towel, took it outside in the pouring rain, and flung it into the grass.

Then there's Fred, whose urinary tract issues are relatively under control, but only through daily effort on our part and not-inconsiderable investment in vet bills and prescription medicine. I've not cleaned up a puddle of Fred pee for a week or two, and I'm of course happy about that, but the total amount of his urine I have sopped up over the years would fill a large backyard swimming pool.

I apologize for the nauseating image, but it's true.

There are regular piles of nasty cat puke to clean up, some of which fall to me and others of which various family members (and here I'm thinking mainly of Terry) take on themselves to address.

Add to this Charlie's constant need to assert his alpha status by tormenting the other cats, plus the shedding, plus the cost of specialty food for Fred and regular food for the other four, plus the need to keep certain doors closed so that cats don't go in there and deposit a random biological substance on the floor, and...well, it's a lot.

Pet ownership done right is never easy, no matter what sort of animal you own. But the cats know all they have to do is present themselves to me for petting, and then loudly purr once I touch them, and all is forgiven.

I am an eternal sucker.

A man's STILL got to know his limitations

(NOTE: This post was published five years ago today on September 5, 2016. I went back to it to see if it all still holds true. The answer is yes, except that, as recently pointed out, I don't do long tedious car rides as well as I used to. Other than that, these are still a few of the items on my long list of weaknesses and flaws...though to my credit, I fully embrace them all.)

Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:

• If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.

• Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.

• Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.

• I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.

• Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably still your guy.

• Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.

• Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.

• I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.

• I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.

• Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.

• I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.

A man's got to know his limitations

Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:

• If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.
  
• Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.
  
• Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.
  
• I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.
  
• Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably your guy.
  
• Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.
  
• Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.
  
• I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.
  
• I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.
  
• Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.
  
• I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.

When a child chunders

I applaud all of you single parents. I don't begin to understand how you do what you do, but you do it, and for that you deserve all the credit in the world.

There are certain parenting situations that, to my mind, require two people to handle. And here I'm thinking specifically of those inevitable times when a child throws up in the middle of the night.

All of the kids' rooms are upstairs in our house, while the master bedroom is on the ground floor. Therefore, Terry and I never actually hear it when someone blows chunks in their bed. Instead, we are jolted awake when they come into our room and say those terrible, terrible words: "Mommy? Daddy? I threw up."

Whenever this happens, I try to lay perfectly still for at least five seconds. My dearest hope in the world is that it's all just a dream and I can fall back asleep peacefully. But it never, ever happens that way. It's always real, and Terry and I throw off the soft, warm covers to head upstairs and survey the damage.

This is when we fall into our assigned roles. As I've mentioned on Facebook before,  we are a top-notch Puke Response Team. Neither of us has to say anything like, "OK, you do this and I'll do that." We just know.

Terry's job is to attend to the Vomiting Victim. Are they OK? Do they feel like they're going to throw up again?  What is the condition of their pajamas? Do they need to change? Did any of it splatter into their hair? Do they need comforting? Terry runs through this mental checklist in about two seconds. It's beautiful to watch.

I, meanwhile, am in charge of crime scene clean-up. This generally involves three things:

(1) Cleaning as much of the excess vomit -- solid and liquid -- off all surfaces with which it has come into contact, usually the bed or the floor.

(2) Taking soiled sheets and clothes (which Terry will have quickly removed from the child and passed on to me) downstairs to the laundry room so I can throw them into the washer.

(3) Dealing with any vomit stains on the carpet. On my way back up from the laundry room, I'll grab a bottle of spray cleaner from underneath the kitchen sink and apply it to all areas of the carpet that have been violated by barf. As I'm waiting for the cleaner to soak in and do its job, I will sometimes fall asleep as I stand there in the child's room. This has happened several times.

Having taken care of the immediate needs of the little horker, Terry must now make the decision as to where the child will spend the rest of the night. If they seem to feel OK, and her motherly intuition tells her it's safe, she will throw a comforter over the now-stripped mattress and let the kid sleep in their own bed. If there seems to be more imminent danger of pukage, she will put the comforter on the living room floor next to the couch and have the child sleep there. In either case, a bucket is kept close by the would-be upchucker in case of a repeat incident.

By this time I usually have sponged up any floor stains and returned the cleaning materials to their proper place. We meet back at the bed and discuss vomit-related strategy for the rest of the night. Then we put our heads down and are both asleep in seconds.

All of this happens quickly, but it's exhausting. It interrupts the whole sleep-cycle thing and takes away several precious minutes of shuteye. And that's with two of us on the case. I can't imagine doing this myself over and over again, yet you single parents do just that. You all deserve a medal.

And a clean set of child-sized bed sheets, too.