And They Call Me The Cat Whisperer

I don't normally do pet posts, because I'm a default pet owner. I didn't actually choose to have pets, they just sort of moved in. The cats down here in South Georgia are really pushy that way. They arrogantly take up residence with you, expecting full room and board, plus lots of air conditioning for comfortable day sleeping. I currently have three cats, which is down quite a bit and I hope it stays that way. The cat above is Delia Louise. Yes, my cats have middle names and when I use both their names, they know they are in huge trouble. They don't actually care in their nonchalant feline way, but they know. Delia, when not being a house pet, is actually a serial killer.

This one is Gypsy Rose Lee, aka "Rosie". She's the baby of the group. Don't let her cuteness factor fool you. She's four pounds of sharp claws and teeth with sociopathic tendencies. She and Delia are like the Thelma and Louise of the feline world. She's totally ruthless and plays with her kills for hours.


And then there's Lulu Belle. Who looks evil, but is not the brains of the organization or even female. Poor Lulu is what's known in the veterinary world as "gender ambiguous". No, not alternative life style, he doesn't wear a little rainbow collar and disappear during Fleet Week. It just means that in the vet's words "he has undescended testicles and a small, underdeveloped penis, combined with no kitty testosterone." Which is why we couldn't find evidence of masculinity and named him Lulu Belle. It did take the vet and two of her assistants to figure him out though, she had only read about that issue in veterinary school and never actually seen it. Lu has problems with gaining weight around his lower abdomen and hips (he has a massive FUPA), and depression. Now at around 15 or so, he has cat Alzheimer's and doesn't seem to know where he is most of the time. Notice how confused he looks in the above picture.

According to science and an obscure pop song, the female is the more deadly of the species. I see that on a daily basis here at Casa del Pretty. "The Girls" have maimed, tortured, and killed a record number of reptiles, birds, and amphibians this year and drug the remains to the back porch for me to clean up.

These aren't gifts. Dogs bring gifts, they want you to like them, they're needy that way. Cats don't care if you like them or not, their "offerings" are actually threats of what could happen to you if you make them unhappy.

Their "gifts" mean "keep the kitty kibble coming or you're next. And quit buying the cheap shit, we know the difference." Or "you've forgotten the cat nip two shopping trips in a row. Maybe this rotten, decomposing squirrel will help jog your memory beeyotch. By the way, your new "hot" shoes are the most totally fugly thing I've ever seen. Snnnaaap!"

Yes, my girls sound exactly like the girls from "Mean Girls".

I don't know what I did to deserve this week's gift, but they brought me a foot long serpent of undetermined origin. Torn to shreds and decapitated. They left him on my back porch, which is a nice enclosed area that I where I enjoy taking the evening air and having a glass of wine.

I found it Tuesday, and left it there in the hopes that they would finish him off and drag the body away. Or that one of the other fauna of this area; raccoons, possums, armadillos, vultures, hawks, or foxes, would come up and drag him away.

But no. Asking the Teenager to do something about the rotting reptile was pointless. I'm his mother so I'm allowed to say this; he's a great kid about most things, but is a huge pussy when it comes to bugs, reptiles, dead birds or anything with a grossness factor.

So by Friday I had to do something about it. I had a friend meeting me at the house Saturday and obviously I had to let her in the house, I couldn't just meet her in the driveway. My back porch runs the length of the living room with large sliding glass doors leading out to it. It's a nice view, most people immediately want to walk out and look over the golf course.

By the way I am completely phobic of snakes. Really phobic in a panic attack sort of way. Living in South Georgia means lots of snakes. It's pretty normal even in our subdivision to kill rattle snakes in your yard. Or water moccasins from the lake across the street. Or just a variety of corn, black, indigo, and the occasional but rare coral snake.

So Friday I woman up and go get my broom. I planned on beating the snake a few times to make sure he was dead. The last one I picked up with bar-be-que tongs was not. As I got closer I saw he was covered in flies and looked pretty gone, so I took a chance and started whacking him across the porch like a hockey puck toward the door.

Then he exploded. With maggots. Which is what I get for leaving him out there for days, I should know that problems just don't up and go away on their own. Especially dead bodies. I watched "The Sopranos" for years, you think I would have gotten something useful out of it.

I managed to clean up and sterilize the porch. And myself.

The "Girls" meanwhile lounged around the air conditioned house watching me dance around killing maggots and trying not to get snake parts on me. They had smirky expressions and kept giving each other conspiratorial looks. Naughty brats.

I deliberately forgot treats that night. The treats are on a top shelf they can't reach, plus are in a Ziploc bag. They could probably open it if they had thumbs. Sucks to be them.

Guess they'll have to sulk while they watch "Bring It On" for the millionth time. It's their favorite movie.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva