For Sale

I know, I know. It's been a long time. I would say that I was in Spain on sabbatical, but it would be a filthy lie. The last several months have been particularly unpleasant. I developed an affliction that caused me to groom myself raw -- until I was patchy and bald. The itching was excruciating and I scratched until I bled. For a while I had Crazy believing that I was truly allergic to Max. This began back in December. It feels like an eon.

Shortly after my torture began, Crazy noticed that I had ripped out all the fur on my forelegs. I believe she slipped a Valium (or four) to calm herself and made a note to check on me in a day or two.

Then, it was off the vet (who said, let's just keep an eye on him.) Next trip, they tested for ringworm (icky). That test involved waiting a couple of weeks for whatever reason. I think they were growing the worm. I proved negative for said worm. Could it be a food allergy? Perhaps. And, I started a prescription diet -- duck and green pea. Delicious, but not helping cease my itchiness. Eight weeks I spent on this fare and eventually it was determined that no food allergy existed. Must be an environmental allergen. Crazy suggested it was my castle -- the kitty condo that she had given Max and me for Christmas. Could it be? Nah, seems unlikely. Vet shrugged.

Next stop -- kitty dermatologist. Now, this lady was good. She purported that Max had brought something itchy into our home when he was adopted from the rescue group. Could be that while the symptoms were dormant in him, they were present in me. Six week treatment for mites. No avail.

Meantime, Crazy was testing her theory. She moved our kitty condo into storage. Finally, my dermatologist prescribed a antihistamine. Two tablets twice daily. Bleh. That really means human finger down throat twice daily. So, each time I saw Crazy coming toward me I would flinch and run like hell. She usually caught me. After all, I was exhausted and uncomfortable.

By July, I turned around. My fur began growing in nicely and I began to look big and healthy again. Things are finally going well and Crazy is certain that the cat tree was the catalyst. I had been spending all my time there. Hey, maybe she's not as crazy as I thought.

So, I've put my kitty condo on the market. Call me if you'd like to make an offer.

Casa de Cubby

Christmas came early to casa de Cubby. On Saturday, Crazy brought home a ginormous cat tree—a kitty condo, if you will – perfectly adorned with a big bow of red velvet that would make Mr. Claus himself proud (or perhaps a bit green with envy). It’s got three large buckets for lounging and a tunnel for hiding. There’s just one catch: I’ve got to share it. Little Idiot already got his germy paws all over it. Regardless, the top bucket is mine. I fought him for it. Blood was spilled, yet I prevailed. Now, if only I could take my meals up in the top bucket.
Let’s be honest. Crazy bought the huge, $200 kitty condo for selfish reasons—as a sort of peace offering. She is actually hoping this distraction will keep Max out of the Christmas tree and help to prevent her ornaments from being shattered. Most of the ornaments have been plucked or batted off the branches. Those that did not break now reside under the couch, refrigerator or dresser. I even found one in the communal toilet (don’t ask).

Don't Tug on Superman's Cape

He had it coming. It's obvious that Little Idiot is feeling better. He won't keep his filthy little paws off me. I finally snapped after he gave me his eye infection and wouldn't let me rest.
With the help of Drool Beast, I shoved Max in the kitty carrier and locked him up in the closet. Oh, Crazy almost sent out a search-and-rescue team when she couldn't find him after work. Naturally, Max the Motor Mouth told her exactly what had transpired in her absence. I still think it was worth an afternoon of peace and quiet. Tattletail. My new motto: You mess with the bull, you get the horns. (Yes, I'm the bull in this metaphor.)

Saved

Crazy says I've got the devil in me. She took the three of us -- me, Little Idiot and Drool Beast -- to church. I took a baptismal.

IT BURNS!!

Pastor Kathy blessed each of us and prayed that we all have a long, healthy, comfortable life. Crazy just smirked and said, "I just saved your soul from eternal damnation."

Well, praise Jesus.

Hallelujah.

You've Got to Be Kidding

Dear Catster,
As a long-time devoted Catster participant, I am astounded that you have chosen Little Idiot's diary as today's feature. He can barely spell his own name.

As an established writer, I'm deeply pained that Little Idiot's thoughts on his mommy and his new friends are considered valuable in this community. He tried to nurse on the dog for God's sake! It's a male dog--honestly, the kid is in the midst of a severe identity crisis.

I sincerely hope the quality of your featured cats will improve in the future.

Cubby

Hindsight is 20/20

It's all clear now. Crazy was awfully nice the day before she brought home Little Idiot. She was buttering me up. Can't believe I fell for it. "Here, Cubby, let me brush you. Would you like your ears scritched? Freshen your martini, Cub? I read your latest diary entry--it's brilliant. Have I told you how handsome you are? Make you a turkey sandwich?"
In retrospect, she was way over the top. I should have known she was up to no good. Hindsight is always 20/20.

Crazy bought Little Idiot his own potty box and I caught the little bastard using my NEW box. Panic washed over me. Is nothing sacred?! I've already seen my therapist twice this week.

Maybe Max'll get put on pest control. Young punk. I put him through a massive interrogation yesterday. "What exactly do you intend to contribute to this living arrangement?" His resume is quite lacking. Told him to cut his hair and get a job.

Little Idiot

I thought the new toilet was bad--but yesterday was the worst day EVER. Crazy, up to her old tricks, brought home a kitten. He has a name but I call him Little Idiot. God, I need another martini.

$hit or Get off the Pot

The other morning something horrible happened. The day started as usual (see diary entry 6/18/05 "Desperate Housecats"), but took a dreadful turn when I got to number five on my to do list.

Without warning, Crazy Blonde Chick replaced my toilet. "Surprise!" she said. "Don't you love it?" The thing is a monster. It has a pulse. Claws. And fierce breath.

"I want my old box, Crazy," I said. "I want my old, smelly box." I pouted and stomped.

"No can do, Cubber. I already tossed it. Besides, this one is way better--it's self-cleaning, so you will always have a fresh box!"

Ugh.

Pseudonym

The name Cubby is far too cute and cuddly for revenge purrposes.
My alter ego shall be called Rocco.

Jeepers Creepers

As I said before, I was recently fired from all pest-control-related activities. Well, Crazy Blonde Chick may be regretting her decision as we've fallen under attack. Last week it was an earwig. Crazy did lots of screaming and whimpering before calling TJ over to kill it.

Today, it was a gargantuan long-legged spindly spider crawling merrily across the bedroom wall. I happened to be napping on the bed near Crazy and Drool Beast. Crazy woke up and spotted the creepy crawly. Screaming ensued.

CUBBY! DON'T YOU SEE THAT??
WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME FOR???
KILLITKILLITKILLITKILLIT!!!!!!!

I shrugged, strutted out of the bedroom to a quieter napping location. That's when the creepy crawly dropped off the wall. Crazy's screams bled into wails. And it disappeared. Minutes passed. Tension heightened.

After a small eternity, the creepy crawly emerged swiftly from under the bed. A bold move. Crazy, with lips quivering and arms flailing, doused it with hairspray. I wondered briefly if she might light it on fire or just restyle its mullet. This effort did not slow the creeper. On an impulse move, Crazy creamed it with a flip flop.