Archive for cats

#156 – Five Reasons Why I Sometimes Hate Living With Men…:)

Posted in blogging, cats, comedy, Family, family drama, humor, life, marriage, memoir, Motherhood, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, uncategoried with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 3, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

As I’ve mentioned before, I have son named Max, who is now 23.

Meanwhile Max’s best friend, Taylor, moved in with us about a month ago. Taylor’s roommates kicked him out because their landlord had sold the house they were renting. With 2 weeks left to vacate, they hadn’t packed anything because in Taylor’s words, “Because all they cared about was doing drugs, and that’s just not me.” So, he came home from work to find himself locked out and homeless (awesome).

As much as that sucked, GOOD FOR HIM that he didn’t follow them down that life-crushing rabbit hole. He’s a great kid, so I don’t mind that he’s staying with us until he and Max find an apartment.

That said…however, living with 3 men often makes me wanna go POSTAL. Don’t get me wrong. all of them are rather amicable fellows, and Taylor, who is 21, is a good influence on Max’s bad temper, but I’ll leave that nightmare for another day.

My husband does do laundry and help with dishes (and he actually does a decent job cleaning bathrooms when he has time to assist). However, all you men people have habits that drive all of us ladies to the brink of madness at times. I know I’m not perfect, but this post ISN’T about me…:), i.e. it’s my blog, and the BITCH will bitch if I want to, LOL.

So… why do they disturb me so?


forks and mt dew

There’s always some kind of trash in Max’s room. The last time he cleaned it, he hauled out five 30-gallon trash bags full of pop cans, fast food trash and the like.


My husband’s junk mail piles up to such a sprawling stack on the kitchen table that it even irritates the CAT, who will occasionally push it off onto the floor when it gets in her way from her favorite window seat/across the table to the floor. It’s pretty hilarious. I’ve tried to videotape her, but she’s camera shy.


Max was dating a girl who had an adorable dog, who constantly pooped on the floor when he visited. Guess who cleaned that up most of the time? (:


Max leaves his junk all over the house. This book for some roll playing game, sat on this marble chest by the front door for months until…you guessed it, Samantha (the cat) knocked it into the floor. No, I’m not kidding, she REALLY hates clutter. At which point, I took it upstairs and left it by Max’s door…and he FINALLY put it away.


Max broke a glass a couple days ago in the wee hours after he got off work around 2:30 a.m. I realize he was tired, but he didn’t clean it up very well, and the largest shard in this photo was sitting on a pot holder on the counter where one of cats could easily get a hold of it, and off I’d go to the vet with a bloody, yowling kitty cat, which Max would’ve felt HORRIBLE about.


Max and Taylor leave their dirty clothes on the bathroom floor…Max more than Taylor, BUT STILL. And the other day, Max had left his dirty underwear ON THE FRICKIN’ SINK!!!

And last but not least.. the kitchen ISSUES. All of the items in the sink were from Max making his lunch and/or dinner. And don’t you love the fact that my sign threatening certain death for creating this unholy mess is in plain view and completely ignored?DIRTY DISHES - MESS WITH MY KITCHEN SIGN It’s hanging from the cabinet beside the sink. And no matter how much I bitch and scream and politely ask them to load their own fucking dishes into the dishwasher, it rarely, if ever, happens – though occasionally Taylor and my husband will load their own dishes.

2. Aside from all that, they’re rather noisy and obnoxious at times…

The sound of cars crashing and/or exploding from their videogames often disturbs my zen while trying to refinish furniture, etc., in my exercise/craft room or work in my office during the day… since both Taylor and Max work at night.


3. Then, there are my husband’s television viewing choices. I hate when I’m cutting fabric for an art project or something in the dining room, and I catch a glimpse of some unbelievably nasty house full of dead cats (literally) and God knows what else on the big screen in the family room while my husband is watching HOARDERS. Egad…he says he likes watching these poor obsessive, usually mentally ill individuals get help. Fortunately, those momentary visions of horror haven’t given me nightmares (yet).

He also likes Bar Rescue, which is a worthwhile show helping bar owners to redecorate, and/or change their irresponsible ways to become more profitable, etc., but I just can’t stand listening to John Tafford scream at people, though his anger is justified. While innocently walking by toward the laundry room, I caught a scene where a horse walked into a bar and actually shit on the floor while the drunken owner laughed hysterically, which is why I don’t watch this crap (no pun intended!). I watch TV to escape reality, not be bludgeoned by it.

4. Men can be so rude!

I can’t tell you how many times while preparing breakfast Taylor has walked in and farted rather loudly. And he just doubled-over in laughter because the stench was so foul that Samantha, our senior cat, gave him a dirty look and sashayed out of sight. I often set my breakfast in the fridge for a bit until my nausea subsides.

Hello…they make medication that renders your disgusting TOOTS, MOOT and void, a cure that costs less than $5.00!!!

5. And if all that weren’t enough to make me load up a couple shotguns and start laying some ground fire of the buckshot persuasion…they can be so CLUELESS. This morning I started to walk upstairs to get dressed, and there was Taylor going to the loo at the top of the stairs WITH THE DAMNED DOOR OPEN! WTF? Luckily, I saw his face and rushed back into the kitchen before I saw anything else, thank God. How embarrassing!

Excuse me, but I LIVE HERE TOO, and just because I was downstairs five minutes ago doesn’t mean that I’m going to remain downstairs the rest of my fucking life….so CLOSE THE DAMNED DOOR…(she says shaking her head in disbelief).

OH AND P.S./BONUS – my husband blows his nose in the shower. UGH, ugh, and double ugh. Don’t even get me started on that…:)

And that’s my rant for the day.

Over and out…

TenaciousB and her Band of Truth-Spouting Hippies



Post #143 -Alive and well despite my suffocation…

Posted in friends, humor, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 1, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

No, I was not nor have I ever been in danger of suffocating. T’was a joke, you know. However, the corporate prison I’ve been living in for the last five weeks does make me feel somewhat claustrophobic.

For those who weren’t aware, after a couple part-time gigs doing customer service, I took a job as a fraud specialist for a mega-huge retailer, my first full-time job in nine long years. Unfortunately, due to the monumental credit card debt we accumulated while Nana was living with us has necessitated this drastic change in employment status.

Oh, how I miss the days when I was freelancing full-time, and I could get up at 8 a.m., eat breakfast, exercise, then park before the alter of my laptop and spend the next 5 or 6 hours writing…insert big, BIG sigh.

For the purposes of this blog, I shall refer to said new employer as Jeans, Inc. While I like the job itself, I’ve begun to loathe banks all the more due to the nightmare of trying to disentangle one’s self from various phone trees and speak to a PERSON while trying to confirm someone’s credit card info in order to prove or disprove whether an order is fraudulent.

And, ironically, the most difficult cyber wall/phone maze to crack are often the small banks, the credit unions and the like. You practically have to break your index finger punching nonsensical numbers before the damned things will finally allow you to segue into the wonderful world of being on hold.

I got so frustrated yesterday, I suddenly had the urge to stand up and throw my chair across the room. However, I’d rather not join the ranks of the unemployed because some really stupid people at Wells Fargo kept transferring me to the wrong department.

Meanwhile, the poor customer who lives in Argentina that I was trying to assist was racking up gigantic long-distance charges thanks to the morons who kept kicking my call into yet another mechanized black hole that led to the system where one could verify whether a customer had a checking account or not–so helpful when one is trying to verify a someone’s MASTERCARD, which was an actual MasterCard, not a debit card.

However, funny thing, one of the largest banks I’ve dealt with frequently is Chase Bank, and you’d think given the fact that they’re like the 3rd largest bank in the world that their phone network would be a guarded by some sort of cyber bear who wouldn’t let you speak to a person unless you had an oozy AND did the hokey pokey via Skype… :).

Instead, their electronic telephone menagerie is the most user friendly, believer it or not. If you press # and 0 two or three times, hiss – bang – boom, you’re on hold for a voice that actually has a pulse!

And that’s all I have to say about that..cuz – I must dash. I’m due at work in less than an hour. As a parting gift, I’d like to share the hilarious card that I gave my beloved Charlie (my husband) last week for his birthday…


And inside it just says:

Hope you’re not too pooped to enjoy your birthday

with a few mushy words from me to the old man…

HAVE A GOOD DAY ALL, and don’t let the phone trees and dumb asses in the cyber cubicles (or actual cubicles) …get you down!  🙂


And her band of truth-spouting hippies

Post #129 – Sorry, Uncle Sam, You Were, In Fact, Upstaged By A Near Death Experience!

Posted in cats, Family, humor, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 17, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

Like many Americans, I was up to my eyeballs in spreadsheets last week finishing the reams of paperwork involved in organizing/compiling my tax info for Bernie, our accountant, who prepares our return every year.  I try not to leave all the fiscal drudgery until the last minute.

But inevitably, too many unexpected issues with my Grandmother or calamities like our dryer catching fire last fall decimate my schedule, and I end up finishing our accounting mess around April 1st.

However, this year, due to the demands of my second job, I didn’t print the last scrap of fiscal fodder until midnight of April 9th. And just as I was heading out the door the next day, my path to Bernie’s office was halted by the sixth-month old, curtain-scaling fella below…initiated by son, Max, exclaiming –


“Why’re George’s feet all bloody?”

I looked down at the cat sitting on my dresser. Both of his front paws were lathered in fresh blood. Samantha, our other cat, was mewing loudly and pacing erratically beside him.

“Oh, my God, George, what’d you do?” I gasped. I didn’t see any cuts or abrasions on his little white mits, and then I noticed something spherical in his mouth. But I couldn’t tell what it was. I tugged on this round, yellow disc wedged between his upper and lower teeth, but it wouldn’t budge.

I feared whatever he’d swallowed might have a string attached to it. I’d read an article at the vet’s office warning cat owners not to pull on a piece of yarn or a string dangling out of cat’s mouth because you could perforate their esophagus, which could cause them to choke on their own blood or cause serious damage to their colon if they’d swallowed part of it.

When Max realized that our baby cat might choke to death, he broke down sobbing. “No, not George. Oh, my God, no, not another cat…”

He was referring to Sasha, my beautiful stray who died last fall. Her demise is the subject of this post:

“He’s still breathing. He’ll be fine,” I said, my voice shaking as I scooped George up into my arms. “It’ll be okay,” I added, trying to keep my wits about me and assuage Max’s distress as well.

“No, he won’t,” Max wailed. “That’s his collar in his mouth. He’s going to suffocate.”

I studied George who was uttering a low, somewhat squeaky cry and struggling to push the foreign object out of his mouth with his tongue. Upon closer inspection, I realized Max was right. It was rabies tag between his teeth, which you can see in this pic:


“The vet will remove it. He’ll be okay,” I replied snatching the cat carrier from the exercise room and heading for the stairs.

But Max was beyond consolation and was convinced we’d bury another family pet by sundown. “Why does this keep happening? Why do all of our cats keep choking on shit?” Max lamented, slamming his hefty fist into his bathroom door.

Max’s outburst startled George who leapt from my arms, and scurried downstairs into the living room. A minute later, Max found the cat behind the couch. I set the carrier by the door and crawled around the furniture and gently captured George once again, only to lose him seconds later. I was so rattled, I didn’t fasten the hinge properly on the carrier. George fled his cage and disappeared into the shadows of the family room.

I spotted him behind Charlie’s recliner. Seconds later, I nudged him back into his plastic pen again. I called our vet who referred me to Diley Hill, an emergency veterinary hospital in Canal Winchester, 20 minutes away.

As I sped down 270, I kept envisioning George undergoing surgery, a gasp away from death, so I kept cooing, “You’ll be okay, baby George,” trying to reassure us both.

I passed the road to Diley Hill, but my GPS re-routed, and within 5 minutes, I was rushing my infant feline inside the ER where a lovely young vet tech with long, blonde hair met me at the front door and practically sprinted George into triage.

Before I could finish writing my address on the intake form, the veterinarian, Dr. Henson, a petite woman in her late 30s, appeared in the waiting room with George’s collar…she’d gotten it out in less than 5 minutes! I was amazed.


The murderous collar in question.

The murderous collar in question.

Can you believe this circular belt, meant to be worn by a Chihuahua, actually fit in his mouth without choking him? Because George is so tiny, the smallest kitty collar was too big for him. Even still, I couldn’t figure out how he’d finagled it off his neck without unhooking it or biting it in two. Perhaps, a name change is in order. Houdini anyone? 🙂

“He probably pulled on the rabies tag, flipped it over his head and his ears, and the rabies tag got stuck between his teeth, and he ended up swallowing the whole thing trying to work the rabies tag out from between his teeth,” Dr. Henson surmised.

“And all the blood is from raking his little claws inside his mouth trying to dislodge the collar, I guess?” I suggested.

Dr. Henson nodded. “Yes. There weren’t any cuts on his feet. But 2 or 3 in his mouth,” she continued, prying open his mug, so I could see the gashes on his gums. The doctor prescribed an antibiotic to administer with an eye dropper twice/day and softened food for a couple days until his mouth healed.

I thanked the doctor profusely and jetted back home, absolutely exhausted.

Unfortunately, because of George’s near-death adventure, I wasn’t able to deposit my stack of tax docs at Bernie’s office before work Wednesday night. Thus, Uncle Sam didn’t receive mine and Charlie’s 1040 form and its many tables and tabulations on 4/15/14, and that, my friends, is how an 8-pound fuzzball upstaged Uncle Sam.

But we shall add a properly executed ES-86-derelicttaxee.loser form to our return for an extension… . And all will be well in the eyes of our God-forsaken tax obligation.

If not, I’ll beguile the tax man with the lore of every cat I’ve ever known, complete with photos, diagrams and urns until my ad nauseam banter prompts him to forgive our tardiness in order to free himself of a cat lover’s verbose serenade.

Over and out from George and TB’s casa de crazy…


Tenacious B and her band of truth-spouting hippies...

Tenacious Bitch © 2014


Post #116 – The mystery of Sasha’s death has been solved…

Posted in cats, Family, nonfiction, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on September 28, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

I called the OSU Pathology department back, and, apparently, they had the wrong fax number for the vet. They faxed the autopsy report on Sasha, my cat, while I was at the vet with Samantha (Sasha’s daughter). But knowing what happened doesn’t make me feel much better. Sasha choked on one of her own HAIR BALLS! Apparently, she had an allergic reaction to something, which made her esophagus swell, so she couldn’t throw up the hairball. And she was a very furry cat, and the vet said it was a rather large lump of fur.

It just breaks my heart knowing how she must’ve suffered in the end. But she’s at peace now, and the vet is going to test Samantha for allergies.  It could’ve been an allergy to dog fur since Sasha was known to chew on clumps of Raven fur, but I fear it might be an allergy to peanuts. Charlie left a can of peanuts on the end table by his recliner in the family room, and the lid was off when he got home that day, and there were a couple of peanuts on the floor. They didn’t test for allergies during the autopsy, but anything’s possible.

Regardless of the exact cause of her death, Sasha was a very sweet cat, and she often surprised me. One day, Raven wandered into our walk-in closet while I was working in my office, and I didn’t realize it. I came out of the office and shut the closet door to keep the cats out of there because they would go in there and knock things off the shelf, and Sasha loved to get her white fur all over my black clothing.

A little while later after I’d shut the closet door, I was sitting on the bed folding clothes. I had the TV on, so I didn’t hear Raven whining from within the closet, but Sasha heard her. And, apparently, I hadn’t shut the door all the way because Sasha wandered over to the door, listened for a second then pushed the door open with her head and out came Raven! Charlie walked in just as Sasha knocked the door open, and he started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked because all I’d seen was Raven bounding toward me.

“Sasha, she saved Raven from the closet. You must’ve penned her up in there.”

“What a good girl, Sasha,” I said smiling, and she looked at me, then looked at Raven for a second then hissed at her as if to say – I don’t like you THAT MUCH…LOL

Since Raven is black, she blends into the shadows if the closet light isn’t on, and that’s not the first time I’ve accidentally shut her up in there – just the first time that Sasha had been the one to rescue her.

Sasha was also a good mouser, definitely brought me quite a few corpses during her 18 months on this earth. She liked having her belly rubbed, which is so unlike most cats. She would lie on her back with all four legs drawn back, and if you didn’t touch her, she’d bat a big furry paw at you until you just couldn’t resist – and you’d end up petting her and rubbing that matted carpet of fur on her tummy.

I had Sasha cremated, and I’ll be picking up her urn next week. It’ll go on the mantel over the fireplace next to Bart and Maggie’s urns – everyone’s photos over their ashes. Some people might think it’s morbid, but it makes me feel like they’re still part of the family – which they most certainly are.

So, goodnight and goodbye my dear Sasha. There are no words for how much you will be missed…there will never be one like you…:)

Sasha, the innocent-looking pasta thief....:)

Over and out from fracked up central…

TenaciousBITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies

Post #115 -She’s NOT the daughter of an Iranian Prince…

Posted in cats, college, Family, humor, mysteries, nonfiction, relationships, true stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 24, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

I realize people may be getting tired of hearing about my dead cat, but…

When we dropped Sasha off to get autopsied, they told us to contact the pathology department at Ohio State in a couple of days to see if they had found the cause of death right off, or if they’d had to do testing before a definitive cause of her demise could be determined. In which case, we wouldn’t know until the final report comes out in 3-4 weeks.

However, when I called earlier today, I was told they couldn’t give me any information over the phone!  What the hell?!! She was a CAT, for heaven’s sake, not the daughter of an Iranian PRINCE…or some neighbor’s kid. She was 1/2 Maine Coon, but she wasn’t a show cat. She was a stray 18 months ago. She wasn’t a descendant of Ronald Reagan’s dog – or a radioactive squirrel that survived CHERNOBYL just your ordinary – loved to eat mice/chase dog fur/play with the feather duster, kind of cat. So, HIPPA, the International Laws of NATO, and/ or the guidelines/restrictions of the World Health Organization do not apply.

I was told the pathologist could tell me, but he wasn’t there. And I was so angry, I didn’t think to leave a message for said pathologist/wizard/keeper of the Book of the DEAD or whomever has the classified intel/clearance to discuss why my cat was fine one minute and croaked the next…

So, the woman I spoke to in the Pathological Department at OSU said they’d faxed a preliminary report to Dr. Blair, our vet, but the vet’s office didn’t have any record of the report. AWESOME.  Tina, the vet’s admin assistant was going to check around to see if it had landed in the wrong inbox, but – nope. They simply don’t have it.

I’m worried about Samantha (Sasha’s daughter) and Raven, our dog – maybe getting into whatever killed Sasha. Plus, Sasha was 18 months old. Maybe, it was something genetic that Samantha could be tested for, and she’s got an appointment with our vet, tomorrow, which is why I’d REALLY like to know today what killed my beautiful baby feline – if there was any preliminary findings that point toward a particular medical condition or accidental ingestion of some sort of poison/bad meat/bad air – or did she sneak off to a rave and re-up on some bad Ecstasy? Or something more normal and cat-like a.k.a. having a seizure/heart attack/aneurism, etc., because she certainly didn’t die of old age…

I’ll keep everyone POSTED as this veterinary nightmare of redirection, reanimation and red tape unfolds…

Over and out from fracked up central…

KENNEDY/TENACIOUS BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies…



Post #114 – My beloved Sasha is gone…

Posted in cats, Family, memoir, Motherhood, nonfiction, relationships, true stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 18, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

I was going to write another post about another man who wronged me, but I’m afraid a death in the family has usurped that rather juicy tome. And HEAR me, UNIVERSE, it’s time for death to take a frickin’ holiday!! Since 2004, we’ve lost my Aunt Lily, Max’s Dad Ashe (for the 411 on him – ck out:  ) both my parents, our dog, Maggie, suddenly in ’09, my husband’s grandparents, our dog, Bart, and now SASHA my cat, who was half Maine Coon and half dog (at least that’s how she acted…:)).

I mentioned Sasha recently in this rather amusing post )….

Sasha, queen of cats, whose passing left an un-healable gash in my heart

Sasha, queen of cats, whose passing left an un-healable gash in my heart

Yes, I know – un-healable is NOT a word. But it is today, dammit!  I’m completely devastated by her death.  She’s only 18 months old. She was in the kitchen watching me make spaghetti/playing around, chasing a fly- didn’t act ill at all, and an hour later, I found her lifeless corpse in Nana’s room. I kept staring at her, thinking she couldn’t possibly be dead. She’s just a baby!

I know it’s different with animals, but her life had just began. And it’s just NOT FAIR. Why her? Why not a couple pedophiles, or the poor black stray who terrorizes Samantha, hissing at the windows all the time. It would be a blessing if that one died. She’s suffering so.

The crazy drunk next door moved and left her cat behind! She’s at least 12 years old and blind in one eye. I’d take her in, but she was so badly neglected before the woman moved, I’m afraid of what she might give my cats/dog – or the way she might treat them. She’s a mean little thing.

And the strange thing is – I dreamed it. I’d forgotten all about it, but after the shock started to wear off, I remember waking up and being sickened by the sight of Sasha lying exactly where I found her. Only in the dream, she wasn’t dead. She was really sick. Shit – I hope that dream wasn’t supposed to be a warning, and I missed it. But if she had a seizure or a heart attack or something, she hadn’t been lying there for long. And if she found one of Nana’s pills, she probably wouldn’t have made it to the vet. Nana was really bad about dropping her meds. I vacuumed obsessively in there, but I found 2 in her chair right after she moved into the nursing home.

I just totally feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of my life. I know she’s just a cat, but she and Samantha are the little girls I could never have. And Sasha was very different from most cats, very laid back. She was a stray. And she FOUND me. She saw me from across the street and came running up on our porch like she knew I would rescue her – like someone told her I was the one, and she kept coming back for weeks before I talked Charlie into letting me keep her because he allegedly doesn’t like cats.

But guess who was out back on the deck, chain smoking and sobbing after I told him about Sasha? Definitely a far cry from his behavior in this post:  – and when she first dawned our doorstep, Charlie would try to shoo her off the porch, but she wouldn’t budge.

Obviously, she wasn’t skittish like most cats. She wasn’t afraid of much – not dogs, not loud people or loud music, not other cats – or thunderstorms – nothing really. The only things that bothered her were mechanical like the sound of the garage door or the squeaky springs on the oven door. It’s almost like since she lived in the wild for the first three months of her life – not much in nature could intimidate her. But maybe I’m reading too much into her personality.

I’ve cried so much, my head hurts, and my tear ducts must surely be empty. And this is the cat, of course, whose babies I delivered, and we still have Samantha, her 15-month old who is completely lost without Mommy. She’s been trolling the house aimlessly for hours since Sasha died.

We took Sasha to OSU to be autopsied. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother with something like that, but I want to know if she got into anything that maybe would be a danger to Raven (our black lab) or Samantha. And it only cost $100, which I didn’t think was bad, but we won’t get the report for THREE or FOUR weeks. Charlie did a pretty thorough search of the garage and couldn’t find any antifreeze leaking or anything toxic since Sasha had been in the garage this morning. She constantly dashes in there when you open the door to go to the freezer or something, and sometimes you don’t see her rush by. Occasionally, I actually put her in the garage on purpose when I’m eating breakfast because she drives me bonkers trying to jump/climb/scale the big screened TV the minute I sit down to eat. I really didn’t think there was anything in there that could hurt her.

But she never misbehaved when Charlie and I are eating (little dickens) only when it was just me. Samantha never does any of that, and she’s more prone to chew on things, so I never put her in the garage intentionally. So if Sasha did get into something in the garage, hopefully, Samantha was not exposed.

Even though I have to wait three weeks for the official report, I can call the pathologist in a couple of days to see if he found anything obvious like an aneurism or a heart attack. I thought maybe it might’ve been some old d-Con that we had set out awhile ago before we had the cats, but Charlie said that probably wouldn’t have killed her because she would’ve thrown it up, but we’ll see what the autopsy reveals.

2012-10-06_09-54-32_362                                                                             See? LITTLE DICKENS…:)

I miss her so much already! So, when I recover from the latest chink in my armor, I’ll be back to lambasting bad men, the universe and the like…just thought I’d share.

Over and out from fracked up/off the hook/home of the Hotel California of crazy trains…

Tenacious BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies…

Post #111 – No judging my transsexual cat…

Posted in cats, Family, humor, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 3, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

For the last couple weeks, my Mama cat, Sasha (pictured below), decided that her daughter Samantha had become a wicked adolescent (or something, who knows), and every time poor little Samantha sashayed into the room, Sasha would hiss and bat at Samantha with her very swift and furry paw, which, thankfully, is a mitt sans CLAWS, so Sasha didn’t draw blood or anything.


Sasha, the mama cat, lounging on my bed.

And as far as I could see, Samantha had done nothing to warrant her mother’s wrath…

SAMANTHA in my closet april 2013 2 Here’s Samantha, pretty as you please after she trashed my closet a couple of months ago…:), the little dickens.

We thought the ruckus was due to the fact that Sasha was spayed shortly after Samantha and her brothers/sisters were born, but Samantha has not yet had the dreaded hysterectomy, which one of my friends on Facebook mentioned. I hadn’t scheduled Samantha’s official snipping before now because we were so broke when Nana was still living with us. And quite honestly, after she moved back to Florida (see ), I kind of forgot about it.

I called the Vet this morning, and Samantha has an appointment for a checkup/booster on her immunizations this coming Friday, and then, she’ll be going in for surgery to remove all that pesky female plumbing next Thursday.

HOWEVER…finally, thank HEAVENS, Sasha and Samantha seemed to have patched things up – because this is how I found them when I got up this morning…

SAM - SASHA CURLED UP ON CHAISE LOUNGE Sasha and Samantha all curled up on the couch.

Oddly enough, this was AFTER Samantha went into heat Saturday night. Weird, huh? Yeah, she started YOWLING and hiking her haunches up in the air late Saturday afternoon. She’s a little calmer now but not much.

So, then, yesterday, my son, Max, was making his breakfast. I was upstairs cleaning when he heard me tearing around after Sasha, completely panicked, shouting, “Oh, my God, Sasha! Come back here! Give me that!”

“What’s wrong?” Max asked, from the kitchen, spatula in hand, as I chased after Sasha who bounced down the steps like a calico basketball.

According to Max, I sputtered, “She’s got a penis!”

“What?” He asked, rather confused. He sauntered back in the kitchen, flipped his omelet, then followed me into the dining room where Sasha had stopped right in front of the Grandfather clock, which began CHIMING loudly – 11 times, since it was 11 AM. “She’s got a what?”

“She’s got a penis!” I allegedly shouted over the loud GONGING of the clock. Finally, I kneeled down on the floor beside Sasha, and Max watched, ever-so-puzzled, while I wrestled something out of Sasha’s mouth. “Oh, thank God,” I said with a sigh. “It was just a tag.”

“What’d you think she had?”

“A peanut.”

His brow furrowed, a little befuddled. “Well, that wouldn’t kill her. Was she choking on it?”

“No, not a Planter’s Peanut that you eat,” I said, shaking my head.

CONTENTS - PEANUTS IN TRASHWhite Styrofoam PEANUTS in my trash

“A packing peanut. I bought a book that was packed to the brim with them last week. I hate those damned things. They get everywhere. I was consolidating all the trash from upstairs into a plastic bag to carry outside when some of the packing peanuts fell on the floor in the hallway, and Sasha ran off with something white, couldn’t tell what.”

“Oh, okay,” Max said, laughing. “I thought you said, she had a penis!”

We both burst out laughing. “Nope, just this…” I said, holding up the tag.


Okay, so maybe Sasha cat isn’t REALLY transsexual, but the fact that Sasha and Samantha are now all cozy after Samantha went into heat does make ya wonder, does it not?

Over and out from fracked up central…

Tenacious BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies

© Tenacious Bitch 2013