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Tuesday, June 28, 2016

~ My First Cat Fight

Twitter told me that Saturday was #Caterday.  Honestly?  I don't have one fucking idea of what Caterday is or might entail. 

I can however tell ya what my Caterday involved.

1)  Cat scat
B)  Feline vomit
III) Words with my neighbor  
Sorry you have to see cat scat.
Welcome to a portion of my world.

Some of you are asking yourself, 'does BBG have a cat?', the answer is no.  Which makes the how and why I have a * #Caterday story * all the more befuddling.  But here we are.  Funny.  That was pretty much my waking thought as I opened the slider to the deck to kick off the day.  Crisp 'n cool morin' air greeted me as I stepped out to set about H2O-ing the plants of BBG HQ.  I was also greeted by a pile of cat shit in one of my flower pots.  For.  The.  Second.  Morning.  In.  A.  Row.  ...Here we are...  

I looked right and spied with my eye a puddle of cat hurl.  Naturally, I was infuckingfuriated.  Like, still in my pj's and I'm police knocking (aka: not a polite 'n dainty knock) on your door, infuriated.  I went over intending to ask Kooky McBean to help me with something at my place and when she got here giving her a baggie to pick her 'outdoor cat' shit up and clean its sick.  She was home.  I know because it was her I'm-feeding-feral-cat-noise on her deck that woke me the hell up in the first place.  (She went in when I heard me open my deck door.)  Unless she possesses the magical powers of Samantha Stephens she didn't leave in the three seconds it took me to walk out my front door and knock on hers.  In fact, I could hear her clankin' around inside as I rang the bell.  She didn't answer.  I went to my other attached neighbor who sits on the condo board, she came over to witness the ramifications of Kooky McBean's defiance in complying with the law forbidding feeding, harboring feral cats Still in my jammies.  Did I mention I was fuckin' furious?  Fact:  You know you're angry when you can't even don a bra before mixin' it up.  


Again, sorry you have to see
cat puke.  At least you don't
have to clean it.
For the second day in a row I picked up cat scat from my impatiens, and commenced to cleanin' cat puke from under a chair.  Otherwise known as exxxxxxactly how I wanted to spend my Saturday morning.    

Quick question.  Do you know what's in wild cat shit?  Yeah, neither do I.  But I'm bettin' whatever badness it is isn't healthy for you to be dealin' with.  So I'm sure as shit someone who's immune system is incapable of successfully fighting off bacteria and virus doesn't have any business cleaning up after wildlife.  I'm guessing never has a doctor ever advised that a cancer patient or bone marrow recipient should up their exposure to deer dung and fleas and ticks.  So yeah, it's gross.  But it's also more of a danger to my health than is necessary.  (Not to sound like a girl who needs to be put in a bubble.  Life is risks.  Ya simply can't mitigate every danger.  Out in the world that seems fair.  But in the confines of my own personal space seems like something that I should have pretty absolute control over being a safe place.  I for sure ought to be able to walk on my deck barefoot, no?)

(Possible Cat-aclysmic Cat Scat Fact
I googled to find out if cat shit posed any particular dangers. 
And discovered that essentially my neighbor is doing
everything in her power to kill me this.
[The word you're searching for is 'biohazard'.])

This has been an ongoing, and super fucked up situation.  Here's when it started.  So while (Spoiler:  Lame and intended pun alert!) crappy, and a cat-astrophe, not particularly (sadly and irritatingly) unusual conditions.  But #Caterday took a turn y'all.  Things turned legit unusual.  Ya see, after I picked up feline fecals and hosed (bleached and scrubbed) down the former belly contents of a cat wildling, I returned to the 'bidness of doin' me, which a lil' later in the day included caulking a place at the deck screen door.  Yes.  I'm minimally handy

Whilst BBG DIY-ing I heard Kooky McBean come out on her deck (Fact: Caulking is a pretty silent project, I know she had no idea I was out there too.)  Next thing I know I hear "Excuse me" come out of my mouth.  Between the slats of the 6' separating fencing between us I see her freeze.  Then I'm like, um, "I can see you".  I ask if she could come over because I'd like her to attend to her cats* scats.  Once she flat out denied having any other than the two she says she has inside, I became oh-no-you-fuckin'-didn't angry.  Ya see, the local BBGville city code enforcement has already visited, observed and photographed the conditions at Kooky McBean's.  She has received several written notices for her to comply, she has not.  The case has been turned over to the city prosecutor.  By all rights that--  all of the things above should be the crazy part of this tale.  Tail?  Nope.

* I'd estimate that since Kooky McBean created this cat circumstance there have been 4-5 batches of new cats.  The last time the BBGville city code enforcement visited to observe her status in complying with the law he took a photo showing 4 kittens on her deck being housed and fed.  So which free range cat of hers?  Who the fuck knows.   

Yeah.  I said, "housed and fed", as if that's a reasonable phrase to turn when discussing wildlife.  I have to say a lot of things that sound ridiculous.  Imagine the trauma of having to say things that aren't actual things.  I know people think I'm just putting incongruent words together when I explain the situation;  'Outdoor litterbox''outdoor cat bed''outdoor scratching posts' all make it sound like I'm the crazy one.  Until you see it with your own eyes and realize that what sounded wacko is exactly the reality of the ta-doin's.  
Why yes, you are seeing an 'outdoor scratching post'
and an 'outdoor litterbox'.  The Rubbermaid-y tubs?
Look closely.  They're cat houses.  The one with the
brick on the lid faces her kitchen window so she can
watch the cats.  Serenity now.  


As Kooky McBean lies (that she has no outdoor cats she's tending to) about her roll in this concat-enation, she shares this crazy nugget;  '...And you shot and killed my kitty and I called the police on you, they have a report...'  And that's when it sinks in, 'holy fuck.  I'm in an actual cat fight.'    (BBG Confession:  Ya know, I feel like this is happening is a thought that crosses my mind waaaaaaaaaaay too fuckin' frequently.  Like, more often than it seems to be a running internal commentary of others.  I guess I chalk it up to the fact that I have an abundance of weird ass shit in my life.  #Blessed) 

Obviously, I did not shoot and kill a cat.  Those who know me know that this, of course, never happened.  Strangers, you're hearing a one sided story, you can come to your own conclusions, but I assure you the peeps who know me have already realized that if I had a twenty-five cat problem I would never kill 1 cat.  I would have devised some sort of Ocean 32-ish/Rube Goldberg-y plan to have killed them allThat's how you solve a problem.  Having 24 cats roaming your outdoor space is no improvement of circumstance. 

This marks the first time I've been accused of redrum.  It was a real seminal moment.  So while I'm pissy at the actual situation I simultaneously find myself kinda super amused at the fact that this is the current reality of my life...   BBG:  Accused Murder

Fact:  I have not ruled out the possibility of acquiring a tear drop cheek tattoo. 
Gladys Kravitz.  Always Remembered.

To be perfectly honest with you I had trouble focusing in on the remainder of what she had to say as the copkid in me drifted off on a logic stream of;  ...Wait.  So you are actually floating the notion that one day I just decided it was a good idea to discharge a firearm.  In quiet suburbia.  From a condo (where neighbors, nay witnesses are literally 12" away?) . Like it's something I/anyone could get away with doing completely unnoticed by every Gladys Kravitz in the 'hood?  And that I would have bet my freedom on authorities not noticing that a/or many(?) bullet hole(s) came from, um, right next fucking door?  The most rudimentary logistics of your story don't even add up, Kooky McBean...

I've always suspected Kooky McBean to be a loon, but that was based solely on her actions.  In all these years I'd never exchanged more than a few words with her until #Caterday.  But hearing her claim that she filed a police report on me confirmed to me that she is, in fact, bat shit crazy.  (P.S.  Lady, I know you're lying otherwise the police would have knocked on my door to investigate a shooting.  The ease and quickness of this recognition is what makes you saying it seem so extra crazy.  You are a bad neighbor AND a bad liar.)   

I'm not proud of what I'm about to disclose.  It's a, it-had-to-be-this-way, but-not-by-my-choice, kinda thing.  Once I could get my fat fingers to type in the right code I started recording the conversation (which seems like a misnomer when describing an interaction where one party freezes and pretends not to exist...) with Kooky McBean because based on my suspicion that she was a kook (hence her codename) I felt it in my best interest to have a record of the involvement.  Frankly, there's no behavior too bizzar for me to put past her.  Even in the moment I felt like a bad person because honestly?  People ought to be able to have a conversation, hell, even a confrontation with another without it gettin' 'Tube'd or 'Chatted, ya know?  But, also, honestly, both parties have to be able to be counted on to be reasonable.  Meanwhile, absolutely nothing I know about Kooky McBean has ever led me to believe that 'reasonable' was in her repertoire, so I kinda felt as though I had no real alternative to video-ing evidence of the exchange.  So as Kooky McBean tells me from her mouth hole that she has no cats other than what she contends are two indoor/pet cats--  (which I don't know, or care if is true?  I couldn't give less of a fuck about what goes on in the confines of her four walls that doesn't effect me.  Two cats?  Or two hundred, if they aren't causing me to alter how I live in my own home?  Live long and prosper.)  ...But as these words are coming out of her mouth cat-egorically denying her involvement,  I hold the phone up over my head and scan her deck-y surroundings capturing a cathouse (not a euphemism, an actual outdoor house for the cats), an outdoor scratching post and outdoor litterbox.  Nope.  Not feeding 'n harboring free range cats at all.  


Not.

At.


Fucking.

All.



I know I'm supposed to love thy neighbor.  She's made that impossible.  I'm currently just tryin' not to hit her in the head with a brick hate my neighbor. 





Update:  In the past seven days I have had to clean 5 cat scats and 3 cat vomits, each time having to take ebola-like (a la universal) precautions (a 99 step procedure including: latex gloves, changing into shoes that can only be worn out there [but can't be left on the deck, because, cats.] bleach, double bagging, a through washing when I come back in trying not to contaminate the inside of my digs, etc.).  Despite the nice days I haven't been able to sit outside..  Doing so would require bleach washing furniture (anything I want to touch), by a miracle not ruining my clothes with bleach spots, waiting for it to dry (while keeping an eye on it to ensure a cat didn't climb all over it while it dries)  ...Wouldn't you hate your neighbor?


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