The Grooming of Steve

Steve was groomed today. I am not sure how I feel about it yet. She looks like a minx ... she has a big furry head and neck still, along with furry legs and tail, but everything else is completely shaved. When she got out of the carrier today, I actually laughed out loud. What did we do to our cat? There are some pros to this new look though:

1) She must be cooler than before
2) Less hairballs?
3) Less fur overtaking our condo!
4) She feels like velvet now so when she lays on my face in the middle of the night, it won't tickle so much
5) She seems to walk easier now that there is less fur between her legs ... no more waddle

 It's hard to get the full effect without seeing her in person though. One last thing: remember the 3 hour battle to get Steve into the carrier for her visit to the vet? Weeeell .... at the last minute I switched groomers and they DON'T NEED PROOF OF VACCINATION! That's right, it was all for nothing. Well, not nothing. I am now a professional at putting Steve in a carrier.

She is coming to lay on the laptop, so I better go!

~ Heidi

Going to the Gym

So I have been trying to get back in shape now that I have so much free time (and no good excuse to skip a workout). This morning, I decided I was ready to try mat pilates. I liked how it had the word "mat" in it which led me to believe much of this workout would take place on a mat (hopefully in a sitting or lying down position). When I got to the room, however, I saw people were getting out the step things (I don't know what they're called, but they're used for step aerobics I believe). I hesitated a little because I took a class last week where we used these things and I was sore for days. I decided it might just be for stretching (that makes sense right?) and so I pulled one out and staked out my spot in the back behind the staircase (it's less embarrassing when you pass out in the back). A minute later, the instructor walked in and I had a sinking feeling that this was not mat pilates. When I picture a pilates instructor, I see a tall, lean woman. Instead, this was a buff dude with a cut-off shirt and I'm surprised he didn't have a whistle around his neck.

Now, I could have sneaked out the door without anyone really noticing (another perk of being in the back), but I had already taken out the step thing and the mat. Plus, the other people in the room looked like normal people in need of a workout so this couldn't be too difficult. In fact, there was a man well into his seventies wearing very short shorts. If he could do this, then I could do this! (I was aware though of how close this man was to me and how this might affect my workout ... it wasn't his shorts, per say, that bothered me. I can handle seeing a little too much leg, but it was the fact that he was in desperate need of some biker shorts underneath the short shorts ... I won't go into more detail as I'm sure you get the picture ... unfortunately.)

I leaned over to the girl on my right and asked her if this was mat pilates. She laughed and answered, "No, this is boot camp conditioning!" That doesn't sound good. It brings back memories of conditioning for high school soccer. I was in much better shape back then. Oh well, no turning back now. The music was starting.

So halfway into this workout, I realize just how much I need to be here. A mile on the treadmill just doesn't cut it for cardio (darnit my husband is right again), and I could really get into shape if I keep up workouts like this! I mean, being in the back didn't even help me slack off since this buff dude walked around and pointed things out to you like "Bend lower!" or "Move faster!" And then there was the "Do you want to burn 100 calories or 1,000? It's up to you!" 100 sounded okay to me.

By the end, I was sweating (shocking!) and feeling pretty good about the workout. I think I'll do it again. It was no mat pilates, but then again, maybe I will actually see some results from this! That is, after all, why we go to the gym ...

Steve

Now that Steve was safely secured in her carrier (I had terrible visions of the carrier falling open and my beloved furball running away and never returning), it was time for her vaccination. I drove her to the vet and proceeded to fill out the papers at the front desk. The first line asked for "species." Oh right. Cat. Next was "breed." I considered penciling in Norwegian Forester, which is the breed my husband and I believe Steve is, but decided against it since its just a guess and it would be embarrassing for the desk lady to ask questions about it. So instead I wrote ? which is reasonable since nobody really knows what breed their cat is. In fact, I don't even think I knew there were true cat breeds until I stumbled upon Cats 101 on Animal Planet.

Anyway, then they asked for "name." Okay, this is always slightly embarrassing because Steve is a girl. My mom thinks its cruel to name animals gender-confusing names, but this name really fits our cat. I mean, she is just a goofy cat in every way so she really fits this goofy name. Plus, it was already there when we adopted her and I think its more cruel to change a pet's name when they are already used to one name. To avoid confusion though, I wrote in Stevie. That could be a girl's name, right? I also marked female underneath and decided that this would help. I handed the papers to the desk lady and waited. I was really hoping they would come take Steve from me and let me wait in the waiting room instead of go in, but I had no such luck. The lady told me they needed Steve's weight.

Okay, seriously? It took me 3 hours to get this cat into the carrier and now I have to take her out, put her on a scale (which of course she will sit on obediently), and then put her back in the carrier only to take her out again for her shot? Great. I opened the carrier, waiting for psycho cat to fly out, but instead she wouldn't budge. I pull her out (which actually wasn't too difficult) and try to get her to stand on the scale. The lady says, "Oh what a handsome boy! Stevie's a diluted calico!" Owning this cat is what I imagine having a baby is like when they are first born. Nobody knows what gender your baby is at first unless you dress him/her accordingly with pink bows or blue football onesies. Should I have put a pink bow on Steve's head? I didn't even correct the lady. He was handsome.

So weighing Steve took at least 3 tries. 10.2 pounds. It's gotta be all that fur. Then she told me to take Stevie into the little room next door and wait for the doctor. "By the way, don't let him on the ground because it could be dirty." Ummmm ....

The thought of trying to put Steve back into the carrier was enough for me to think I could hold Steve while waiting for the doctor. It doesn't matter that my super friendly and cuddly cat absolutely hates being held ... I'm sure at this moment, she will nestle into my arms comfortably. Unfortunately, I spent the next 10 minutes wrestling with a deeply terrified cat. My arms were covered in scratches, there were tufts of fur flying around this small room, and I was afraid if I let her touch the ground, the vet would yell at me for contaminating my pet.

Finally, at my wits end, I decided to shove her back in her carrier, which she actually went into easily. Right then, the vet came in and told me to get her out. Well she wasn't coming out. The vet just stood there as I tried to coax her out gently like a good owner, and finally offered to take the top off the carrier. Evidently, tops on carriers are quite easy to remove which may have helped me 3 and a half hours ago. We took the top off, Steve got her his shot, and we were on our way home.

Moral of this story: get a dog

How to Put a Cat in a Carrier

For the past 9 months, my husband and I have been discussing the need for our cat, Steve, to get groomed. It's one of those things you talk about, but never actually do for various reasons (too busy, too lazy ...), but now that summer (a.k.a. my unpaid vacation) has arrived and my husband has accepted my jobless status, he suggested that now I have the time to take Steve to the groomer. Fine. I can do that. We are drowning in fur, and the cat probably does get hot during the warm days so I guess it's my duty as a responsible pet owner to do this, not only for the good of our house, but for the cat itself.

I call the groomers and find out they need papers. Uhhhhh? "We don't have them, but I promise she is completely healthy." Apparently, that doesn't work. I will have to take her to the vet to get a booster shot before they will groom her. Fine. I can do that.

So I get out the cat carrier and put it on the floor and proceed to get this show on the road. What I didn't know then was the battle that was about to ensue.

Round 1: I call her to the carrier and coax her in. Yeah right. (Steve 1, me 0)
Round 2: I pick her up and attempt to slide her in. Okay, psycho cat. (Steve 2, me 0) My husband laughs (one of the joys of him working from home) and suggests using food. Genius. I get out some ham.
Round 3: I leave ham in various spots on a path which leads to the carrier. This cat is no dummy and manages to use her paws to swat the ham towards her without actually having to get closer to the carrier. (Steve 3, me 0) Fine. I can play this game.
Round 4: I put the carrier on its back so it faces straight up, I pick up Steve and try to cram her in while my husband holds the carrier steady (he has now decided to join forces). Psycho cat strikes again, tufts of fur fly, and scratches result. (Steve 4, us 0)
Round 5, 6, 7, 8: Try as we might, two young, strong, grown adults are unable to overtake one small ball of fur with giant talons. (Steve 8, us 0)

My husband suggests Benadryl. I give up. Steve licks her paws victoriously in the corner. I decided to expand my resources. I youtube "How to put your cat in a carrier," imagining that some cat expert is going to have some brilliant trick up their sleeve. I click on the first video. I watch as a smiling woman holding what looks to be a drugged cat explains how simple it is to put your cat in a carrier. Sure enough, never losing her smile, she picks up her cat from the scruff of its neck and gently lowers him (that's right, her carrier conveniently has a door on the top) into the carrier. That was highly unhelpful.

About an hour later, I realize how ridiculous this predicament is. People do this everyday! How hard can this be? I grab her front paws, husband grabs back paws. Together, we ... fail. Limbs were flying, claws were out, husband got scratched, and even more fur was lost. (Maybe if we do this enough, there won't be any more fur to groom)

I am not going to take no for an answer! I back Steve into a corner. I pick her up, grasping her back paws, I walk over to the carrier, and I confidently shove (sounds violent, but it was necessary) her butt into the carrier and close the door. Easy as that. I won. (Steve loser, me winner)

This better end up being the best grooming I ever saw.

Summer Vacation

It is June. Almost July. This means its summer time and though possibly my favorite season of the year, it also means I am officially unemployed. Sort've. I'm a teacher so technically I'm on vacation, but vacations prove to be less fun when they are unpaid (this does not apply, however, to my 3 day trip to Maui because ... well ... its Maui and let's face it ... second graders are praying for a substitute to torture by the end of the year). So I have recently begun this "vacation," and spent the first couple of days pitying myself and my lack of paycheck, but realized two things in the midst of my sorrow:

1) I am married. I am no longer that poor (literally) daughter sheepishly moving back in with the 'rents for free rent and sustinance. I have a husband who actually works 12 months of the year and who surely doesn't need my income ...

2) I am a teacher. Blood, sweat, and tears are poured out for nine months as I labor over lesson plans, books reports, papers to grade, and parent-teacher conferences. Patience is tested to an illegal level, and there were times I found myself uttering things such as "It's not kind to call your classmate a fart face" or "Thank you so much for bringing in your pet cockroaches, but it's very important that we put Mr. Roach back in his cage." You know what people? I deserve a vacation! (Preferrably paid, but I think I'll lose that battle)

So now, I am no longer wallowing in self pity, but revelling in my newfound freedom. That's right, I am sleeping in, working out in the morning (okay sometimes), eating something other than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch (remember, unpaid summers), reading, sitting by the pool, and ignoring my husband's subtle nudges to perhaps find something part time to fill my time (and my wallet). It's bliss, I tell you.

Here's to vacations. The paid and the unpaid. (I'm just saying ...)