Showing posts with label CATastrophe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CATastrophe. Show all posts

Thursday, September 15, 2016

~ I Want ALL Of The Gold Stars


I want to be a 'good person'.  I spend a inordinate amount of time attempting to fit that definition.  Usually, I think it's not that hard.  Being a dick is just not my go-to-move.  Which isn't to say I can't be a dick.  Everybody has their breaking point where all bets are off.  I just try to use all of the other gettin' shit done tools in my arsenal first.  (Caveat:  Sometimes [although particularly in business, I probably feel this way 'cause I don't let a lotta assholes in the BBGWorld-da-verse.] an asshole only understands assholiness.  That's the only language they understand.  They can't respect anything other than the asshole approach, so you've gotta go in hard with these people.  [Which is kinda fun and exhausting all at the same time.], but I digress.
Mom is an RN.  Before that she was a Police Officer.
Dad was a Police Officer.  Before that (& ALWAYS)
a Marine.  So you're damn straight this is one
of my favorite quotes.

So the frequency in which I'm having to remind me that I'm not the kind of person who kills cats is, I wanna say disturbing, but also stressful, so?  Disturbfull?  Stresstrubing?  Having to come up with new words to convey the enormity of fuck-up'idness, is also, as it turns out, stresstrubing.

I have, let's call 'em general plans if I have to kill an actual person.  Which I am always prepared to have be a possibility. 

Totally TMI, and (some serious digression is about to go on alert:) probably a tid-bit that once I share will likely leave your head noddin' in the affirmative while thinking silently, 'yeah.  That explains a lot.'  When I was a wee ass lass, maybe? 8-ish, a completely random guess from a girl who can't accurately recall what the fuck I did last Tuesday.  My Dad was studying for the Sergeants exam.  Manuals and study guides sat on side tables and I was kinda kid who liked to read the set of encyclopedias, or Finger Paper Google for you youngin's. Next thing I know I am learning about entrance wounds vs. exit wounds.  I won't bore you with the details, but full color, corpses on the slab, oh, that's what brain matter looks like?, amazement and wonder sucked me in.  So much so that I never heard my Mom enter the room.  I did hear when she yelled at my Dad for leaving such material out and about.  (Sorry, Dad.)  I could absolutely not see the problem.  I'd learned some shit.  For, ya know, all of those times an elementary age kid needs to lead a murder investigation.  I'd seen parts of the body I'd never seen before other than in cartoon form.  Thought that was cool too.  I don't remember ever having a bad dream, or anything.  I just found it fascinating.  Like I later did with Mom's nursing school books.  Making me the coolest 10-year old familiar with the PDR (Physicians Desk Reference) and Merck's .  (Suck it, Doogie Howser, M.D.)   I've always had a curious streak.  Then a few years later Dad was forced to shoot and kill a man. (Story link here)   ...So, I've always, from an early age, known that I might have to kill a human.  Circumstances conspire and you're in an only-one-of-us-is-going-home, and I'm goin' the fuck home.  And boom.  There's a body.  I accepted this reality a long ass time ago.

Obviously, I'm not a monster.  I hope I never have to kill a person.  But if I do?  Well, two things;  1) If ya've given me no other option than to kill you?  I.  Am.  Gonna.  Kill.  Your.  Ass.  

I have one way to kill a person in every room.  Some rooms have two.  They're not all the same and are easily accessible without being visible, or recognized on sight.  In my life I have only told one person the entirety of the weaponry at hand.  Ok.  I just told a fib.  He knew all but one.  (He:  my live in police officer beau) I just thought it was prudent to have a hold back in case I ever had to kill him.  (shrugs)  Look, if there's anything life has taught me at every fucking chance it's had it's that you can't be 100% sure of what tomorrow is gonna bring.  (Oh.  I see that that seems borderline bat shit crazy, and for an accountant's kid it would be.  As a copkid, my Dad would never speak to me again if he thought BBG HQ wasn't tactically tricked out.)  BBG Fun Fact:  The first move you make that let's me know it's to-the-death time?  I've already decided I'm going to kill you.

B) Have you met 'people'?  There are a lot of real fuckers out there.  The last time I grocery shopped I awarded myself a gold star for not slashing the throat of some broad who was too busy with her cell to be bothered with common civility, like, pulling off to the side as opposed to, let's say, abruptly stoppin' her shopping cart buggy (West Virginia shout out!) in the middle of the aisle.  I didn't think my frozen pizza offered the kinda edge necessary to accomplish the task, so I just repeated 'serenity now' until I tersely said, very Suzanne Sugerbakerly, "excuse me."  The kind that on first blush ya think is a request, but then ya realize ya just got, albeit politely-ish, ordered.  I'm just sayin', if every other day of life has taught me two things then it's that I know how to manage to not let dumbass people make me loose my cushy, compared to Oz, which I am currently watchin', existence. 

(Dear HBO GO,  We're gonna have to have a talk.  Have you not seen Netflix??  I swear, sometimes you make me insert a soundtrack of the ol' school AOL dial up noise.  So, get your shit together.   Regards, BBG)

I am not the continually loosin' my shit type.  I've never thrown a plate in anger so the universe is pretty fuckin' safe from me ever throwin' bullets because some dolt is tickin' me off.  Plus, I place a high value on the absurd, and the fixin's of a good story. 

...So, while I haven't had to kill a person (again, thankfully) the thought of it isn't very troubling, in the sense that I've already accepted that if we've gotten to that point?  My death was the only other choice, and I can't have that.  I know all to well the toll taking a life takes on the take-er with the Dad situation, so I don't mean to sound caviler about it, just keenly aware that if somethin' ever goes down I'm fully capable of takin' a human life, if the universe won't have it any other way.

But an animal?  Nope.  I just couldn't.  And, yes, I get that my burger doesn't grown on trees that are hugged everyday by people dancin' around dressed in tofu scented tu-tus.  (I, BBG, do hereby call dibs on the corporate name and/or likeness of 'Tofu-tus'.)  Ham, as much as I wish were the fuckin' case, doesn't magically appear with the wave of a wand.  Lemme short hand it for you, I have stopped the BBG(at the time)mobile to avoid running over an opossum. (In the country in the dead of night, so no witnesses or ramifications.)  A person who doesn't kill an opossum, an opossum!  One of the ugliest, creepy ass creatures in the animal kingdom.  If anything probably deserves to be looked at and immediately killed, it's an opossum.  Fact:  If you won't kill an opossum you're not gonna kill a cute animal.  (For the same reason that you can guarantee that a person who wears swimming nose plugs is definitely not gonna snort any powder-y substance.)

Congratulations!  You made it through the ramble!
(circling back is about to happen)

The fact that I'm having to set an internal reminder to settle myself probably tells ya all ya need to know about the (ugh) Cat Fight (the origin story).  But if you seriously don't have anything better to do...

When we last left off all cat action (or, 'catageddon' as my Mom calls it) was confined to the back deck, comprising the bulk of my in theory personal outdoor space.  And rendering it almost completely fucking useless to me with it's bio-hazard-y nature, thanks to my neighbor, and free-range cat feeding enthusiast, Kooky McBean. There were some behind the scenes ta-doin's that I wasn't ready to tip my hand about in the last post.  (ahem, hold backs)  The BBGville City Prosecutor has struck a deal with her that she shall ('shall', as in fuckin' must) cease feedin' these fuckin' cats.  (Doing so stops the clock on the legal proceedings looming over her head.)  If she's found to be feeding cats she will immediately be charged with contempt of court and forced to pay all court costs for both sides.  The deal also includes a provision the the BBGville City Health Department can make an unannounced visits to her home at literally any time for a random inspection of the premises, both inside and out and she may not deny them entry. 

When I got the final update from the City Prosecutor he mentioned that he hoped that would put an end to the situation.  I giggled.  And remember how long and how much effort it took to get her to comply with the Great Don't Feed The Birds Off Your Deck-Fest of 2011 (link to story).  I pretty much knew it was likely to be a when we talk again vs. a if

And guess fucking what?

I'm calling him today.  For today, I found this on my deck...

Hey, BBGW-ers, know what's cool?
Well, after a quick Googlin', according to the CDC
eleven can kill ya things including;

Super.  Fucking.  Cool.  No?

Now, again, I don't like having to play the girl in the bubble card, but this is what's posted in throughout the hospital system I use.  I have two items that apply to me.  (I miss out on a trifecta on a technicality.)  So, I'm pretty fuckin' sure I'm not supposed to be dealing with 11 herbs 'n spices ways to be die during mouse body disposal.  But this, my friends, is just the today-y latest. 

In the past week or so I started to notice a change in my sole remaining source of outdoorsiness, as the back area had been, for all intents and purposes made functionally unusable by Kooky McBean's actions.    

Last week-ish started looking like this in the front of BBG HQ:



One day returning to BBG HQ I found two kittens curled up at my garage door.  (Do I sound like I'm in any condition to have to deal with a cat creepin' into my garage and dying behind a 6' shelf?  Or that I'd fare well if one of these flea ridden fuckers shoots in my house infesting the whole BBGOperation?!?)  Again, I don't mean to sound like woe-is-fuckin'-me as much as it seems I am, but I can't pretend that this is just a general inconvenience to an otherwise up-to-snuff, healthwise, human. 

Once I noticed the activity in front I attempted to change it.  Nana told me that she and Papa kept some feral cats at bay (on their front porch) once by setting up mouse traps on the chairs they were beginning to frequent.  She said the clickity-clack of them frightened the cats away, but didn't harm them.  So, I gave that a whirl.


As you can see, that went exxxactly as planned.  In my defense, it was the first time I'd ever purchased or used a mouse trap.  In fact, when I asked for help locating them I didn't think they were called mouse traps 'cause I though that's what they call those black boxes ya see around the outside of stores 'n such were.  Honestly, I don't know why they don't call 'em mouse guillotines (aka:  Mousekotines [Trademark pending.  Suck it.])  Not only did the putting them into action part go poorly, the actual efficacy didn't break my way either.

Exhibit A:  Take a peek at one of those last pictures.  (lower, left)  See that cat on the bricks?  At my front door?  Notice what's right the fuck beside it completely un-sprung and deterring squat.

Another feline present: 
Bloody ass egg on my deck

And to put a perfect caper on the endevour, later when I was getting ready for bed I noticed I had a few places on my legs.  They were itchy.  I showered and squirted myself with some Benadryl spray.  Now, before last year?  I probably woulda scratched until the itch subsided or my skin tore open and bled, ya know which ever came first.  But now?  I can't have skin openings practically cobbling together embossed invitations for bacteria and virus.  Gold star, me for exercising pragmatic behavior.  The next day I showed my Mom the spots, she said they were flea bites.  I wonder were I got those?  So now I have been banned from going in my courtyard. 

Today I noticed the cats had been wilding and had knocked over a few plants.  Can I go 6' out of my front door to right them?  It doesn't strike me as being prudent, how 'bout you?  I'm leery to open my front door lest fleas try to breech the screen door.  I don't know how fleas function? 

Wait.  I resend ^^that^^ as being the caper.  The caper is actually this head exploding moment...

These.  Cats.

I see them from the window.  I try to shoo them away by knocking on the window.  Naturally, their feline-y response was to

SerinityRightFuckingNow, 9, 8, 7, 6...

Which tells me they are accustomed to Kooky McBean summoning them with a knock.  My non-cat expert senses tell me wild animals who aren't being courted by people are more skittish than this. 

My detective senses, which is actually a skill I posses.  (Do you know the kind of deducing, lead following, getting people to talk to you and tell you info they don't want to tell you [turning states evidence] and recon you need to employ to get to the decision maker at a McDonald's or Target?) tells me that Kooky McBean has moved her operation up front.  By the, I'm now leaving my garage door jusssssst a cat amount, I'm guessing she's made that a new safe haven. 
She's even gotten stealthier in her OG cat set up.  I no longer see an 'outdoor cat scratcher' when I glance out of my window.  I suspect her grill cover, so covertly raised oh-so-much at the bottom (and directly facing her floor to ceiling kitchen window) obscures some form of harboring and 'care' station. 

Can fleas come through the screen?  I don't know either, as a precaution I've had to keep my slider closed for obvious as fuck reasons.

Meanwhile, I remind myself that I'm not a cat killer.  Because unlike any person I might have to kill the cats aren't maliciously tryin' to kill me.  But Kooky McBean?  She's an option.


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.  





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?


Tuesday, March 10, 2015

~ I'll Take Things That Aren't For $1,000 (Outdoor Pets)

I have no patience for things that aren't being passed off as things that are.   Drives me bonkers.  Apparently this bothers others less.  And by 'less' I mean, not fuckin' at all.  

Today's Things That Aren't?

Outdoor Pets.

I'm sorry.  What are outdoor pets?  I don't care how many times you said or heard this, it is, in fact, not an actual thing.

Country caveat:  If you live in the country this is a thing.  Hi, barn cat.

Again, in the city?  Not.  An.  Actual.  Thing.  (Yes.  Geography sometimes matters in ruling out thing/non-thingness.) 

Take the Are You In The City Quiz?
  • If you had to run to your neighbors house is it such a distance that you would have an MI (heart attack) before you arrived? 
  • Is your only source of delivery pizza DiGiorno's?  
  • If you buy ice cream at the grocery has it turned into a cookie dough cosumee by the time you've arrived home?
(If you answered YES to 1-3 of these questions you do not live in the city.  [Enjoy your outdoor pets.]  If you answered NO to 1-3 of these questions you do not live in the country. [Try not to be a dickwad neighbor.])

Obviously, a pet is a thing.  As is the outdoors.  Both certifiable things.  Check.  But there is no (I-live-in-the-city) outdoor pet.  Nope.  Pets are animals that have people in charge of them.  A pet has someone with opposable thumbs who tends to their needs who they rely on for food, housing, health and shit picking upping.  (In the case of talking birds, a human to teach them to say ironic, ridiculous and/or curse-y phrases.)  A pet lives in conjunction with their human(s) under some level of restraint.  (Yes, sometimes a pet lives outside of the house in its own house generally hemmed in by either a fence or chain or barn scenario.  [read: not free range])   Essentially a pet is a furry, wet nosed hostage.  This is mine:

Inside?  Check.  On a human bed?  Check.
Safe 'n warm?  Check.  ...Ladies & gentlemen we have a pet.

Things that live outdoors are not pets.  Don't be mad at me.  I don't make the rules, I'm just reporting them.  They are free range animals.  Newsflash:  Feeding doesn't make it a pet.  I can't feed a local coyote and then contend it's my pet.  Why? 'Cause that sounds, and would be fuckin' crazy.  ...Oh, that?  That's my pet deer.  I leave food out for it.  It comes around...    

How long would it take for someone to ask how exactly bat shit crazy you were once ya started talkin' 'bout your pet deer or opossum?  Not long, right?  2.6 seconds, maybe?  (Hello?  Yes, I need to know the procedure for getting someone signed up for a lil' 5150?  Oh?  She's babblin' some bullshit about the existence of outdoor pets, like, she says she has a pet crocodile so send someone immediately.)  ...But say cat and six people will trip over themselves to tell ya about a pack of feral cats they're sustaining, because, ya know;  outdoor pets. 

One of my neighbor's *outdoor pets* gawking at me from my hot tub.

BBGSideBar:  Ugh.  So now I'm gonna have to fight felines this summer to enjoy my deck.  Now you know that's some bullshit.  I'm allergic to cats.  I have to be careful in other peoples homes because they have cats.  That's cool.  We're in charge of what we're in charge of and I'm not in charge of how my body receives and deals with cat-y proximity.  Accepted.  Someone having a cat has never stopped me from hanging out with them.  But I sure as shit shouldn't have to be careful in my own damn (cat free) home.  I've been thinking of ways to deal with the situation.  As I believe that what we put out there reverberates.  Bad begets bad (good, good), call it karma if you will, and I'm not tryin' to invite any extra drama trauma across my path.  Or as I told another neighbor whilst discussing our mutual free range cat overrunning situation, "I did the math.  She (cat feeding neighbor, Kooky McBean [not actual name]) is lucky I'm a 3% better person than I want to be.  'Cause if I were the 3% worse person I wanna be?  There'd already be a bowl of anti-freeze out there.  Problem solved.  Evidently, 3% is where a good amount of--   ...You are not a dick.  ...Now you know you could kill a person if ya had to but there's no way you could kill an animal [like on purpose, not euthanasia].  ...You'd 100% be haunted by some freaky deak-y gaggle of cat ghosts all the rest of your days.  --I can't have that on my head stuff/I'm not that person, lives.  The extra 3% that is who I am (not what I want) is saving those kitty lives."  ...So, non-leathal solutions.  I've heard setting up mouse traps along where they travel?  And putting moth balls out along their trails (which apparently, is conveniently, everywhere [see below].)  Any ideas, my Big Brown Girl World-ers?  Seriously.  Help!

I say sustaining, but honestly I think it's, at least in these parts, kinda cruel.  Let's face it, in large part free range dogs get picked up by the authorities.  But cats?  It's not uncommon to see them pouncing about, well, really, anywhere.  It gets cold here.  (Not a complaint)  It's no surprise when the temp dips into the minuses.  For weeks.  Feeding feral cats doesn't save a cat.  It creates 8 new lil' kitties freezing in sub-zero temps, attempting to dodge the coyotes foraging for food of their own.  Ya know, warm fuzzy, four legged food.  (Meow)   That doesn't make any cat-y situation better, in fact it's worse eight-fold.  So, congratulations?

Last week the weatherman told me that we had been above freezing (32 degrees) for a grand total of two hours total over the past 2 wks.  Schools were closed several times over that period because it was deemed too cold for children (human, dressed in layers, waiting for a bus amount of time outside-- and these are 'Merican kids, so they were probably well insulated to begin with) to be out and about.   But tell me more about how it's humane to be cultivating extra cats to endure such conditions?

I always say when I run the world things are gonna be a lot different.  (#BBG2016)  For starters?  Things that (actually and straight up legit) aren't will no longer be given equal time, benefit of the doubt or agree to disagree designation.  For the same reason we wouldn't put stock into someone contending that cigarettes are healthy or that the earth is flat just because people say/believe it.  They will just be wrong.  There will be no back and forth-ing, (arguing/debating) only an immediate indication of dumbassery followed by subsequent pointing and mockery

                                                                       -  President Josiah Bartlett

Other Cat-y Posts:

Coming Soon-ish Sometime, Other Things That Aren't:
  • Accidental (child) shootings
  • Reverse racism

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