Lunchtime Laughter

My Onlyson’s cat, Chloe, provided me with a much-welcomed dose of laughter today at lunch.

As I was preparing my lunch, our 2 cats came into the kitchen. They always seem to think that they have to eat when I do, so as I’m getting out my food & utensils, Chloe attempts to jump up on the counter where their food is. (Separate from my food counter, thanks)

I say “attempted”, because she failed, spectacularly. Here’s the set up:

Lidded garbage can sits in front of litter box, & both are next to the counter. Cat usually jumps from floor to garbage can, then to counter.

Cat fails to get all 4 paws on counter  at conclusion of second jump.

Cat scrabbles at counter, desperately holding on for feline life, even with front claws, cannot maintain grip.

Cat falls ass-first into litter box.

Human stands, watching, & general hilarity ensues.

The look of sheer horror on Chloe’s face as she slid closer & closer to falling completely was hilarious.

The face of utter disgust & humiliation on her face when her tush hit the litter (and the clumps kept within the box) was PRICELESS.

Immediate feline exit stage right.

Of course, a couple of minutes later, she thinks I’ve forgotten all about her debacle, so comes back to the kitchen to try again. This time she jumps directly from floor to counter, bypassing the offending garbage can she blames for her earlier failure.

I didn’t forget.  I just wanted a picture…

Now she hates me, too.

Witnesses die in their sleep all the time, right?

Anyone want a humiliated cat?



OnlySon’s cat.
Irritating evening yowl-sounder.
Dog teaser.
Early morning tail-in-face flicker.
Catnip addict.
And when she visits the cat box….
The repository of dead, rotted souls.

Ah, gawd. The stench.

Eats the exact same food as my other cat, and yet… something inside this feline has died, and revisits us every time she evacuates her bowels.

Errrrrgh….*choke, gag*

The Dog Dyed

My grampa on my dad’s side passed away when I was very young.  But, I still remember his quirky, soft-hearted sense of humor.  He was a soft-spoken man, with a pocket full of pennies whenever us grand-kids would come to visit – I was only about 5 or 6 when he passed away, so all I really remember is his soft manner, his smile, and him always having pennies for us to spend at the candy shop, and always having cookies for us in his cookie jar.

But, over the years, my dad has told us many stories about him, and one of my favorites is his story of the Easter Egg Dog.

Grampa had a dog with unruly hair.  It wasn’t any particular breed of dog, but rather a mangy mutt, with hair that tangled so well, that Grampa liked to shave him in the spring.  That way, he wouldn’t have to deal with his pup getting cockle burrs caught in his hair through the summer, as well as generally looking very disreputable.

Dad says that the dog – hated- getting shaved.  Because there was no adorable “puppy cut” for Grampa’s dog, this was a sheep-shearin’ extravaganza.  Dad says that Gramma could probably have knit another dog out of the hair that Gramps shaved off every spring.  But the dog was mortified to be shorn of his beloved locks in public.  Grampa would get out the clippers, shave the dog almost bald, and turn him loose.

The dog would limp around as though Gramps had cut off his legs.

Then he’d go lay on the porch, and not move.  Only getting up to take care of life’s necessary functions like eating and poo-ing.  For weeks, this would go on, till the dog would finally decide that his hair had grown back enough to be acceptable, and would recover.

Until Easter rolled around.

Dad told us that Grampa loved decorating for Easter. 

Er, he loved decorating the DOG for Easter.

I would imagine, from Dad’s descriptions, that the dog looked something like this when Gramps was done with him:

He’d pick a different color every year, and use the food coloring, mixed up in a big batch, probably with water.  And the dog would come out looking like a pastel marshmallow Easter peep.

They say that dogs are color-blind.

No matter.  The dog knew what had been done to him.  The laughter that would be aimed at his pastel posterior as he walked down the street, head hung in shame, told him that he looked ridiculous.

The dog found solace in mud holes, covering up the “princess pinks”, and the “yes, chickie yellows”.  The “irish green” and the “passionate purples” would be only found, huddling under the porch of Grampa’s house, waiting for the first good rain to either bleed the color from his fur, or to turn the backyard into a big enough mud hole to keep him incognito for a good long time.

I wish I had pictures.  OH, how I wish I had pictures of this!  Because, in today’s weird world of pet-bling, there is a new trend.

Dyeing your pet’s fur to look like something else.  And while there are still people out there that will turn a bingo-dauber into a weapon of cat destruction (OtherHalf’s friend did this once, the cat almost begged to be killed out of the shame), some people have turned this into an art-form.  If you want to see… google “Dyed Dogs”.  You’ll go blind, or have a few laughs, either way, there’s too many pictures out there to post here.

But YoungerDaughter wants one of these:

A Chow.  Dyed to look like a Panda.

Talk about an identity crisis!

Poor Panda/Pooch! 

But you know?  They are kinda cute…..

Oh… JILLLYYYY!  Hey!  Hold still while I get out the hair extensions! No!  No BITING!

Baa Baa Black…Goat?

Stupid city ordinances. *pouty face*

Sec. 7-5. Keeping of certain animals prohibited; exception. (a) No person shall keep or maintain within the corporate limits of the city any of the animals named hereafter: (1) Alligators; (2) Bears; (3) Bees; (4) Cattle; (5) Coyotes; (6) Crocodiles; (7) Felines other than domestic house cats; (8) Foxes; (9) Goats; (10) Horses; (11) Mules; (12) Rabbits; (13) Raccoons; (14) Scorpions; (15) Sheep; (16) Skunks; (17) Snakes; (18) Swine; (19) Wolves; and (20) Any other poisonous or venomous animal. (b) This section shall not apply to: (1) The Park District; (2) Animals while being used in a theatrical production, parade or circus; (3) Non-venomous snakes or rabbits kept under the authority of a permit issued by the city animal warden upon showing satisfaction to him that the animals are being kept for a bona fide educational purpose and that if the animals were to escape captivity they would present only a nuisance and not a danger to the public. The permit may be conditioned upon continued observation by the permittee of such reasonable limitations as the animal warden considers to be proper to protect the public health, safety and welfare.


I’ve been thinking about keeping a goat.  Just in my backyard. Just for the weeds.  See, I have these thistlesfromhell in my backyard, and I need to find a way to get rid of them.

Goats eat thistles.

I know this, because I grew up on a farm, and had a nanny goat for a pet for a while.

Her name was Heidi. (Ok, get the laughing over with, I’ll wait ……………………………….. sheesh, you don’t have to laugh quite that hard….)

This was her, perched and waiting for me to come outside and play, with two of our barn cats.  The hay was to protect the foundation of a very old farmhouse that we lived in at the time.  Kept pipes from freezing, and such.  The cats are Rocky (stripey one) and Boots (black and white one), both boys, and both getting their daily grooming from Mama Heidi.

ANYWAY… *digression sigh*

I would love to have another goat, just a little one.  They eat weeds that no other animals will touch.  Like 7 foot thistles that children are afraid to go near, because they think they’ll have to either cut them down and haul them away, or maybe they think the thistles will magickally grow feet and thorny hands and GRAB them as they walk past.

This only happens in the Disney version.

My life is not the Disney version.

I want a goat to nom down these weeds, then I would have a lovely, snuggly pet to sit with in the evenings, that would harumph contentedly when it sits with me on our straw bales in the backyard.  I want an eager, goaty face run to greet me, bleating madly, because it missed me awwwwwlll day.

Heidi would follow me around the farm as I went about my daily chores.

Feeding horses, she had to always check the quality of the feed (nom, bleat, nom).

Mucking the stalls required much stamping and jumping to make sure the fresh straw got packed in juuuust right.

Checking on the kittens upstairs in the barn required much nuzzling and purring.  Such a nanny…clattering up and down the barn steps on little goaty hooves.

Feeding the golden retriever, Honey, that lived in the barn, required chasing her around, and being chased by her – all over the yard.

And then, there were the lazy autumn afternoons, cuddled in the piles of straw, soaking up sunshine and nibbling the split ends off my hair, thus preventing, for another week, the haircuts I hated.

And, when gardening time came around, making sure those stupid raspberries didn’t take over the farm by munching them right.  down.  to.  the.  ground….oops. 

The raspberries were the last straw for my mom.  That goat Had. Ta. Go.  Luckily, a friend ran a recovery farm for race-horses, and goats are very soothing for those high-strung thoroughbreds, kept as companions for them to allow them to heal between races.  Heidi went to live in his horse barn, and had a very happy, easy life after that.

But I still miss her funny, cud-chewin’ little face.  Her bah-ah-ah-ing (which I can actually imitate, and we used to let each other know where we were – goaty hide-n-seek).  Her bristly fur, the floppy ears, the sharp little hooves and bony knees that she used to climb up into my lap with, to cuddle like a cat. *sniff*

I want a goat.

Stupid city ordinances.