So far my parents are failing miserably at the little “Grandkid Caretaker Trial Run” test we’ve given them with the cats.
Well, that’s not entirely true. They were going gangbusters for a bit there – building toys, attempting to play chase despite arthritic knees, napping on the floor of the basement in the hopes that Lucy might momentarily leave her hiding place amongst the air-conditioning ducts, occasionally sticking a cat’s head in each other’s mouths to keep up good training, etc.
But things started to take a turn to the ugly last week when Mom called to say, “That Mildred is a bitey little bitch.”
“She bit you? She doesn’t bite. What happened?”
“Well the slut was sprawled out on the edge of bed so I gave her tummy a rub and she started stretching even more, showing off her bits. Then she started to slip off the edge and I knew she couldn’t possibly land on her feet, so I grabbed her foot and pulled her back on. Then the little shit bit me. And when I tried to pet her again, she hissed. We’ll see if she gets HER belly rubbed again.”
“The other one? She likes your dad, though I’ve no idea why. You should see how rough he is with her – but she just eats it right up.”
Then last night, I decided to call for another update.
Mom answered in a chipper tone, “Did you know your cats love Gladiolas?”
“They LOVE Gladiolas. Lucy came upstairs for the first time today and she was standing on the kitchen table gnawing away at the flowers.”
“I’m pretty sure those are poisonous for cats, Mom.”
“Oh shit. Are they really? How do we find out?”
“I’m googling it now. Yup. Toxic. So maybe don’t give them anymore Gladiolas, k Mom?”
“Damnit! Nothing is going to happen to these cats. Not on my watch!”
“They aren’t going to die, Mom. They just might hurl a little.”
“Bob. BOB! Have you seen the cats?”
“Mom, calm down. Just give them a little less food tonight. And put the flowers on the porch.”
So you can imagine that finding a voicemail on my cell phone first thing this morning was a little terrifying.
Mom answered again. “Hello?”
“Which one died?”
“Lucy. Wait. She didn’t die. Elly! But she’s limping. Has that ever happened before?”
“Nope. Exactly how rough is Dad again?”
“She was limping last night and today she won’t put any weight on it. We have a vet appointment at 10:45 this morning. At least she’ll be easier to catch today.”
Oh and I Sprocketed. Turns out time-traveling sea-monkeys shouldn’t have sex. True story.
Author’s note: As per usual, I may have exaggerated. But only slightly. I don’t think Mom actually said anything about Mildred’s bits, but she definitely called her a slut. Repeatedly. Hi Mom!
Oh and just because I like to keep you kids abreast (heh. breast.) of all the frightening images available on the Interwebz, this is what happens when you google “sexy sea-monkey”: