Buffalo!

The majestic buffalo. (Or bison, depending on how particular you are.)

Covered in plaster, because he's our rebuild mascot.

This particular little sculpture was supposed to be for luck. The In-Laws had given it to The Hubby when he first got out on his own. It's a hefty old thing, and for the longest time it had been sitting on a shelf on the wall behind our couch, along with a few pictures and some other knick-knacks we possessed. Honestly we're not big on "decorating," so anything like that was of sentimental value and had been given to us from someone we cared about. Although we're still working on the house, any shelves we do put in will be purely for necessities, not looks. Nail holes in the wall would just be something to patch up later when we move, so we're not even worrying about it.

But back to the story, this particular buffalo was meant to be lucky, and I never ever liked it. I was constantly trying to get The Hubby to part with it, to no avail. It was awkward, and heavy, probably 5 pounds, and was always placed in an inconvenient spot. But the spot above the couch was the worst idea ever, in my opinion.

See, the wonder-kitties were always perched on that particular shelf. They'd jump from the windowsill onto the back of the couch onto the shelf then usually down onto one of our surprised shoulders. (Then down onto the stomach or lap then down to the floor, all to be repeated later, but I digress.) But they loved the hell out of that shelf, and trying to get them down always resulted in our pain, so we gave up. This is why I hated the buffalo's location.

Still, it surprised me when it happened. I was sitting on the couch next to The Hubby, watching TV, when one of the kitties jumped up there and while trying to slink behind the buffalo, managed to knock it off the shelf and onto my poor, unsuspecting shoulder. Unsurprisingly, it hurt like hell. That little bastard was heavy, and the edges that aren't rough were sharp, especially around the base. At first The Hubby laughed it off, until he realized I was being quiet because I was holding back tears. It hurt really bad, and it terrified me how close it had been to hitting my head instead of my shoulder. I had a cut and a giant bruise on my shoulder for days, so I wasn't seeing the humor in the situation yet.

Then I did. I mean, what's not amusing about it? I'm just sitting there minding my own business, and suddenly *buffalo!* It became the moment I thought about every time something inexplicable and ridiculous happened. Those moments where you just want to ask the universe "WHY?!", I could shrug off with "Because *buffalo*." It even became a running joke with a friend at work... Anytime things went insane, we'd just look at each other, shake our heads, then shrug our shoulders and say in a resigned voice, "Buffalo!"

Things don't have to make sense. If I can get mauled by a buffalo in my own living room, anything can happen. Because buffalo.

We still have him, by the way. He survived the flood and now I can't bear to part with him. He may be vicious, but he's a survivor, dammit, just like we are.

You win this time, felines.

Writing prompt from Mama Kat!
5.) Tell us the story of how your pet came to be a member of your family.

I was not supposed to have cats. I could have sworn I was a dog person. After all, when I was growing up the only animals we ever had were dogs. No cats, no hamsters, no rabbits, no lizards, no horses, just dogs. Well, there were a couple fish every now and then, but they were a--and I absolutely must say this, it's too tempting--short-lived obsession every time. No joke, once I tried to "show" my own goldfish a "trick" that my brother's goldfish could do. I scooped him out of the water, made a circle with my thumb and index finger above the opening of the bowl, and dropped him through the circle into the bowl. Ta-da! ...At least the first time. The second time I guess Fishy saw his chance to escape, but alas, flopped in the wrong direction, landing behind the (thankfully turned off) furnace. I couldn't reach with my stupid little arm, so I pretended nothing happened. I don't remember the outcome of that story, but I'm sure there was an interesting one. How the hell did I explain the missing fish?! Then again, my family is very good at coming up with bad explanations.

In any case, although I was never anti-cat, I was always a little suspicious of them. The few cats I was ever around were usually out of sight, only occasionally slinking into my line of vision. Otherwise they were porch-dwellers, sprawled out on decks, the railings, the chairs, or the steps. And of course, being mostly around dog-loving people I only ever heard about how all damn-cats (I swear it might as well have been hyphenated, because the words always went together) were anti-social, snooty and want nothing to do with people.

Then one day five years ago it was decided that I needed a companion for when The Hubby was at work. This was to be a whole new world for me. A litter box? What? So New Kitty is "welcomed" into the home by none other than me, home by myself, with no clue how to handle a damn-cat. I make sure damn-cat has food and water and toys and knows where the litter box is and how to use it. We're good. *Pat pat* kitty head, now I'm off to do whatever it was I was needing to do around the house. Problem? Damn-cat didn't get the memo about cats not caring about humans. This cat followed me around the house all damn day, mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-owing at me. And since she was to become our "woe" kitty, with the most pitiful drawn-out mournful *woe* cry, she'd chase her mrrrr-ows with woes. She was desperate for love, and I was panicking. "No Kitty, you can't eat my food! You have your own!! OH GOOD GOD What is it you want from me???" So I went about awkwardly petting her and holding her until she calmed down. But as soon as I'd get up ("Jesus, Kitty, I gotta put my bowl up! Give me a break!") she'd be following me and mrrr-owing and woe-ing. Sheesh, even the dogs I'd had before weren't this high-maintenance.

We gradually became more comfortable with each other, and after a couple of days we settled on the name "Kiki" for our little woe-kitty. (Eventually she somehow ended up "Kiki Pants," and is now mostly just called "Pants.") After a little bit it was time for the big vet trip--getting her spayed and de-clawed. When she came back home after that, I sat on the futon we had in "her" room, holding her in my lap and bawling my eyes out. She looked so pitiful, and it was so heartbreaking for me to see such a spirited, affectionate kitty all droopy-eyed and mangled-looking. That's when I fell in love with her. I missed her personality. I just chilled with her for a while until she jumped off my lap. After that, we were besties. She's the first kitty I ever had, and she's awesome.

She went from tiny cute damn-cat...

To lover of heights.

To attacking from boxes. (We had to buy a second one of those after they tore one to pieces.)

To a lover of laps. And staring contests.

To a glorious fetcher. Check out that back claw action. She's a warrior down to her toes.

(...And down to her evil glare of victory.)

To a stealth attacker of feet. (With soft paws, of course. 

She's still a lady.)

To a lover of boxes and soulful gazes.

And she absolutely slays a nap on her favorite blanket.

She's a very thoughtful kitty.

Once she brought me a half-dead cricket when I was in bed, half-asleep. I think based on my reaction she understood that Mama is simply not able, or willing, to learn how to hunt and kill her own food. The half-dead thing has never been repeated. She has, however, gifted us with fully-dead mice, thoughtfully placed next to the bed or in the doorway, where we'd clearly be able to see she's earned her keep. Or that we'd better be on our toes, because she's a cold-blooded killer. Even if she gives us hugs (a paw on each side of our necks, head brushed along the side of our faces) and begs to be held and walked around the house so she can bat at the ceiling fan pull chains and peek out the windows. But she's such a bad-ass, I'd swear she actually catches the red dot of the laser pointer.

We have another cat, too... but Juggabutt's a whole 'nother story.

The night the kitty-saurus had an adventure.

It was a warm and lovely day. I got to talk to a few friends who stopped in at work (I must admit, I missed that part of working in retail. Until someone I don't like comes in, in which case I'll wish I was working in a factory again.), and got to spend time with The Hubby. We even went for a walk at a  park, and walked about a mile. Of course, then we rewarded ourselves with ice cream.

When we got home and settled it was starting to get late, so we started getting ready for bed. I kept hearing a cat who sounded an awful lot like our Juggabutt, but there are also a lot of other strays that run around. They seem to be drawn to the porch area, especially since my cats like to hang out in the window that faces the porch. So I tried to ignore it for a minute, but it quickly started to bother me. It sounded exactly like Jugga, and The Pants was meowing, too. She's helpful like that. Anytime they are low on food or water, or if one of them hacks up a hairball, or if Jugga's in some sort of shenanigans, The Pants will follow you around and meow like the world is coming to an end until we figure out the problem. This is the only time she does this.  I looked out on the porch and in front of the porch, but couldn't see anything, and once I was out there I couldn't hear anything, either. Shit. I had The Hubby go check our bedroom to see if both kitties were safe, because it wasn't looking good for us.  The Pants was in there freaking out, meowing desperately to let us know that her frenemy was in trouble, and indeed, the Jugga was nowhere to be found.

The next 30 minutes went something like this:

"I think she's in the wall."
"No, she can't be in the wall, there's no way for her to get in there!"
"Maybe she's in the attic. It sounds like she's in the attic."
"No, she can't be in the attic, there's no way for her to get up there!"
"Could she have gotten outside and under the house somehow?"
"She could have gotten outside, but when? And there's no way for her to get under the house. She's gotta be in the closet. Did you check your closet?"
"Yes, and she's not in our closet, and the sound is coming from this side of the hallway. She's gotta be in the wall or the attic around the bathroom closet."
"She can't be! I don't see how she could've gotten in there."
"Are there any holes anywhere that she could have gotten into to get up into the attic?"
"No, there aren't any holes anywhere, we sealed all that stuff up. Are you sure she's not in the closet?"

And repeat. Sigh.

Closets were ransacked *repeatedly*--no kitty. This whole line of conversation was punctuated by me calling for her and her responding. And almost every time we'd call Jugga to try and get a better idea of where the hell she was, The Pants meowed, too. I think maybe she was trying to help us call her, but her yowling was interfering with our ability to hear our stuck kitty.We could even hear Jugga scratching occasionally, trying to get through. My heart was pounding, but I was going to get my dinosaur-kitty out of wherever she was. The in-laws were using the generic "Here kittykittykitty," which never works for our cats (they respond to their names), so for a while when we were looking outside they weren't getting any response from her. So when I got back in and heard that, I started to panic when I wasn't getting any response either. But I think she was just like "WTF?" since after a few times of me calling her name she started responding again. There was no doubt about it, she was in the wall. We just had to figure out how to get her out.

Like they said, they'd sealed everything up (...Except for the two spots that they eventually mentioned, one of which she had used to get up into the attic. Stab.) so there wasn't an easy way to get to her without putting a hole somewhere. So they dragged a chair into the bathroom closet and ripped out some of the paneling in the wall at the top of the closet, giving us just enough open space to look and shine a flashlight. And pull out a kitty. We could hear her meowing, and she could see the flashlight beam, but it didn't seem like she was moving closer. So I  got up in the chair and called for her, and finally I could hear her scrambling. Obviously she had dropped down some from the attic floor into the wall space, and had to climb back up to be able to get out. I was about to cry at the thought of Jugga getting stuck in the wall with no way to climb out (she is declawed, after all), but I stuck my hand up into the hole in the closet anyway so she could hopefully see where to go.

There are no words for how happy I was to see whiskers and a nose finally peek over the edge of the hole... She climbed down so she was at the same level as the hole, but that still left a foot of a drop onto the tops of the clothes hanging up in the bathroom closet. She wasn't jumping it and she wasn't letting me pull her out all carefully and stuff, so I petted her and got her purring and happy while The Hubby grabbed her legs and I got her around the neck and shoulders and pulled. And out comes a filthy, scraped up, musty-smelling kitty-saurus, meowing and purring and rubbing against my ears, neck, hair, and face. 

And all was well with the world again.

Meet Teh Kittehs.

This is The Pants. A.K.A. Miss Pants, Fancy Pants, and [actual name here]. First kitty of our household, 5 years old, much loved.



She is our lovey lap kitty, who we can always hear coming because she seriously just crashes through the house, destroying everything in her path. Loud noise in the middle of the night? Pants is on the move! I thought kitties were supposed to be graceful and stealthy, but if she has to walk past anything you can almost guarantee she's not going to miss running into it or knocking it over. She is also the one I have to battle for computer access most often, and she is the most frequent reason for random google searches... I have no idea what ";;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;/;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;l;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;" means to her, but apparently it is extremely important to find out. Also, I love how she manages to get *three* paws up there for this picture, but her other back leg was all splayed out. Sometimes she manages to steal the cursor from me, and we have an epic battle where only one individual (me, in case you need the clarification) cares about the outcome.

And this wondrous mass of fur and bliss is the 2-year-old Juggabutt, and she's an idiot. This is her absolute favorite position other than The Hubby's left leg. When sitting on The Hubby's lap, she *only* lays on his left leg.

She is also known as Jugga, The Dinosaur, [Actual name]-osaurus, and of course, [actual name here]. She is best known for a few things: Scurrying through the house going "Reh-eh-eh" or trilling/chattering while she does so (the scurrying-while-chunky is what got her nicknamed "Juggabutt", as in "Quit juggabuttin' around!"), the chattering she does anytime she's irritated, and getting stuck. What "stuck" means for her is that she runs into another room, stops somewhere, and cries the most pitiful kitty cry until someone comes and "rescues" her by picking her up. We are rewarded by almost immediate purring, and she is one of the loudest-purring cats I've ever heard in my life. She tends to get stuck in the bathroom, either on the toilet (we have to keep the lid down, otherwise she plays in the water... then tracks it all over the house and onto our laps) or in the bathtub.

This little game may also be referred to as hide-and-seek, but we started referring to it as her being stuck because The Pants was first to discover the game when she'd jump on top of the fridge and not want to get down by herself. However, instead of the pitiful kitty cries, The Pants would just say "Hurrrrroooo? Hurrroooo? Woe, woe..." Seriously. Clearly she's able to get down on her own, since she does all the damn time. Every once in a while, however, she just doesn't want to.

But seriously, I thought cats were supposed to be all snooty, elegant, graceful... Between Pants's clumsiness and Juggabutt's constant chatter-commentary while running through the house we only have quiet kitties when they're sleeping. Even then there's no telling if they're gonna fall off whatever perch they're sleeping on. I do adore my kitties, maybe because of all their craziness and faults.

Anyhoo, just thought I'd post something fun to balance out that last one, which certainly wasn't so fun. Maybe one day I'll be able to joke lovingly about The Princess like this.