How to care for a pet (aka We should not be pet owners)

Over Thanksgiving, my sister (and her sweet little pooch) were in town.  While here, Sweet Pooch decided to take a romp in my parents’ backyard.

By “romp” I mean, “Roll around in poop and fleas.”  (Sorry, sister dear.  I know you didn’t want to talk about this anymore, but it helps set up the story.)

We noticed Sweet Pooch wasn’t smelling so sweet, so my dear mother gave her grandpooch a sweet bath.

Didn’t help the fleas, though.

Last week, my mother noticed a bug in her house.  And another.  I found one crawling (shudder) on my 5-year-old.  By now, we.  were.  freaking.  out.  It was confirmed that Sweet Pooch did, in fact, contract fleas, so my mother had her house bombed.



We own a cat, right?  And Sweet Pooch had spent some time at our house over Thanksgiving, so I spent this past week looking for signs of fleas.  And vacuuming like a madwoman. 

Saturday morning, as I was changing bed linens, I noticed some black specks on our comforter (shudder).  Was it lint?  Was it (ugh) something worse?  The specks weren’t moving (double shudder), so it could’ve been lint, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I raced to the phone and called the husband, who was out running errands, and asked him to go to the local pet store for flea treatment.

He came home with a spray bottle of something.  Was he serious?

a)  How were we going to hold her still long enough to saturate her fur?
b)  What happens to the fleas after she is sprayed?
c)  Should we instead pat her head (with surgical gloves, of course), wish her luck and dropkick her out the back door?

We decided to take the bull by the horns (literally – she’s a beast) and help our cat.  He held while I sprayed (I’m no dummy).

 

So, I’m spritz-spritz-spritzing while the husband is being clawed to death.  In the end, she won the battle and shot out of his arms like a bat out of hell, but not before I sprayed the product directly in her face (which, of course, the instructions specifically say NOT to do).



(Sidenote:  Have the manufacturers ever tried treating a cat themselves?  Their instructions should really include directions on how to subdue a psychotic cat like this one, as well as how to treat scratches and bites on humans.)Moments later our poor drowned rat was huddled in the corner, licking her wounds (gack)… with foam coming out of her mouth.

What do we do now?

Lock her in the bathroom.  Right!  I don’t want that stuff all over my house!

Lest you think I’m a heartless bastard, I did stay in the bathroom with her to make sure she didn’t cough up a lung (not touching her, of course).  I stayed with her long enough for her to love me again, while my husband bandaged his hands, arms and face and vacuumed the furniture.



Today, she is still the same psychotic loving feline she’s always been.  And the house has been vacuumed about 50 times since Friday.

If she didn’t have fleas, I’m going to be so pissed.

The most wonderful time of the year. Tell 'em, Johnny Mathis.

As I did pretty much the exact same thing over the weekend, I thought I’d republish my post from last year.  With a few colorful comments.

So, we have an Elf on the Shelf.  Or, rather, my mom had some elves that looked like the Elf on a Shelf, so she gave them to me so we could play the game this Christmas season.  You know, to help the boys be on their best behavior for 6 or so weeks so I wouldn't have to threaten them with no Christmas.  Instead, I have someone else threatening no Christmas.  "I didn't tell Santa you were bad, it was the Elf on the Shelf."  Whoever came up with this elf thing was a genius!

For those who don't know of this tradition, the purpose of the Elf on the Shelf is to ensure kids are good so parents can spend time buying and wrapping presents instead of peeling one screaming child off another every 5 minutes.  For said children, the elf is the eyes and ears of The (Big Fat) Man, taking in the daily activities of each house.  Each night, the elf uses his magical powers to fly back to the North Pole with status updates of these good and bad children.  For example, if my 4-year-old kicks the 7-year-old in the face (yes, that happens a lot) (ETA:  yes, this still happens a lot), Santa is going to know about it.  And each morning, upon the elf's return, he likes to play tricks on the families by hiding in a different spot.

So, basically, it's just one more thing we adults have to remember to do every night.  (ETA:  Tru dat.)The first 2 weeks we had Frank (I was hoping for Lou, but Frank it is) (ETA:  This year, his name is James.  We apparently forgot we named him Frank.  Eh, whatever.), he hid in our kitchen cabinet.  Along with the other elves my mother gave me.  In a pile.  Yeah, I suck at this stuff.  (ETA:  This year, he was in one of our boxes of Christmas decorations.  Our neighbor’s elf had come to their house early, so the boys had been wondering where our guy was.  I told them he doesn’t come until our house is ready for Christmas, so there you go.  I’m a genius.)  Honestly, it's just another thing I have to do.  With the decorating and the shopping and everything else, I lost the will to add one.  more.  thing. 

Really, I'm not a bah humbug kind of person.  I love Christmas.  I love the music and the lights and the shopping and the baking (or, more to the point, the eating of the baked goods my husband makes) and seeing the Nutcracker and all that crap.  I was all gung ho this year, too.  As we speak, I'm almost done with my shopping!  Being a notorious Christmas Eve shopper, this is an amazing feat for me.  

As a general rule, I try not to get into the Christmas spirit too early.  Otherwise, I'm burnt out before Christmas arrives.  So, ever since I left retail (which celebrates Christmas from the 4th of July on), I hold off listening to any Christmas music until 2 weeks before Christmas.  (ETA:  Still true.  I’m too busy listening to the Breaking Dawn 2 soundtrack.  But I did listen to Christmas music while we decorated the house.  It’s not Christmas decorating without it.  It’s more like… glittering the house just to annoy myself.)

But, this year, I went off the reservation.  Since I was Christmas shopping, I had to listen to the music to get in the mood, right?  So I did.  The last 4 days, I have spent all my spare time shopping and decorating.  I have more glitter on me on any given day than all the strippers in the world combined.  (ETA:  Again, still true.  I also have broken more bulbs this year than ever, so there’s glitter and tiny shards of glass mixed in just for fun.)  I spent 2 hours on Friday at Toys R Us alone.  And Saturday, my mother, SIL and I closed down 2 shopping venues.  (ETA:  I spent the 3 hours of alone time last week at Target.  I love Target.  Whoever has me in the Christmas exchange this year, I’d like a Target of my own.  Thanks in advance.)  

We are in it to win it.  I have shin splints and sore arms, but my monthly cardio quota was met in one weekend and it's a small price to pay for giving the boys the perfect gift.  

But, if I have to hear Johnny Mathis sing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" one more time, I might actually kill someone.  

So, as you can imagine, the Elf on the Shelf got the shaft.  But, over the weekend, I realized what fun we could have with this guy.  I love the magic of Christmas.  (ETA:  Still do.)  And, with my 7-year-old already questioning the existence of Santa Claus (with a "Just tell me the truth, Mommy" - damn those older elementary kids for planting seeds of doubt!), I had to do something. 

Okay, I suck at it.  Friday night, I decided to move Frank from his kitchen cabinet to the top of our lamp.  And my wonderful (painintheass - kidding, my brother!  I love her!) niece caught me moving him.  And then told her cousin the next morning. 

Sonofa...

I think I saved it.  I told them adults sometimes need to help the elf if he asks.  And he asked me to move him because he ate too many cookies and couldn't move himself. 

Right.  That was why.

After my marathon shopping on Saturday, I hid my loot in my closet and went straight to bed.  And then remembered I didn't move the damelf.  So, I went back downstairs and threw the elf head first into an almost empty box of Cheerios, making it look like he got caught having a late night snack.

I'm so clever.

Fine, I'm not.  But, the boys laughed, and that's all that mattered.

(ETA:  Last night, James (Frank) decided to play a game of Connect 4 with our Wall-E action figure.  The boys ran up the stairs this morning to let me know.  They were ecstatic.  I should also mention they’ve been on their best behavior since JamesFrank has returned.  No kicks to the teeth, no whining.  They.  Are.  Sharing.  Toys. 

The extra 5 minutes at night to move him?  Totally worth it.)