Shellshock of the Turtle

The blanket flops over a sleepy Cai…

This is just going to be a grumbledy gripe and a bit of administrative blether, so if you’re a regular, feel free to stop reading now and leave a sympathetic comment, and if you’re a casual passerby, head on for the next blog on your roll.

Today is Day 15 of my latest catsitting stint for Jane and Robert, and Day 9 of Fergus the Wonder Pisher. Jack stays with us three days a week, and I work at the pet store for a different two days.

Catsitting — at least the way I do it for my friends — involves staying with the cats for a couple of hours in the morning, and coming back at suppertime to close blinds and set down supper kibble. Mornings are peaceful enough, with plenty of exercise as I walk from the dining room table to the back door to let the kitties out. And in. And out. And in. And out. And in. I take my laptop, and get my blogreading done. I bring in the mail, and lock up.

Then home I head to let the dogs out for the third time of the day. Cai pees, Fergus follows suit, and then I hold Fergus’s leash while throwing a ball for Cai. After twenty minutes or so, we come in and the boys play tooth hockey while I set up the laptop again. The dogplay lasts about half an hour, or until Fergus pees under the piano bench, whichever comes first. Then I try to write something while they’re snoozing.

If it’s a work day, I take them out for another potty break, bring them in, set Fergus in his pen, give Cai a bickie, realize I don’t have the full two minutes it takes to use my electric toothbrush, and dash out the door. Two hours later I dash back, mop the pee in Fergus’s pen, take the boys out for a potty break, bring them back in, and dash off to work. At 7 pm or so, having finished up at the store, I head over to throw kibble at the cats and then come home.

Since I’m still dressed for outside anyway, I might as well take the boys out for a potty break. Gillian has already done so once, and is assembling the take-out chicken and pre-washed salad she picked up on the way home. We chow down as we catch up on our reading and the boys play until Fergus goes and poops on the only throw rug we have on this floor.

I leave the dirty dishes for yet one more night, and run away to bed just before 9. At one in the morning I come down to show a whimpering Fergus that no, he’s not abandoned. He doesn’t have a door on his crate, which is inside his pen, and so he just pops out when he needs to relieve himself; he only whines because nobody’s in the papasan any longer.

I tell him everything is cool, and I curl up in the papasan for half an hour. During this time, Cai comes downstairs, and when I wake from my doze, I set him in the lifeguard chair and head back to bed.

At five the cat wakes me up.

Okay, it’s not this bad every day, and sometimes it’s been E.g., not me, who’s gotten up in the middle of the night or arisen with the Cuca alarm. But I’m tired anyway. Waah. Snivel.

… and Cai flops over, a sleepy guy.

*****

Administrative stuff: I’ve decided to add a new page to my blog, containing groupings of my entries. The tales will be together, the nonsense under another heading, the photo essays in another list, and the day-to-day blibbity-blabbity in loose subject areas, like “Our Pets” and “Nature” and “Games and Contests”, that kinda thing. I’m hoping it will benefit three kinds of people: 1) newcomers who want more of one genre or another of my stuff; 2) regulars who want to go back to one post or another for whatever reason; 3) me. Already I can’t remember what some of the pieces are about; “Little Things”, for example, will win no prizes as an elucidatory title.

Okay! I’m back from my final visit with the cats; it’s Sunday of a long weekend (Queen Victoria’s Birthday, known fondly to many Canadians as the “May 2-4 Weekend” — a 2-4 being a case of beer); it’s noon; it’s pouring rain; the pupster is just settling down for a nap, having considerately peed under the piano bench while E.g. was mopping his tarp; and I’m going upstairs to collapse for an hour or so with a P.D. James novel. I hope you all are having a great Sunday.

Oh, wait! I leave you with this inspirational poem I just made up:

  •  
    • Somewhere there’s a place for you and me,
    • Somewhere where there ain’t no puppy pee.
    • Somewhere there’s a place for me and you,
    • Somewhere where there ain’t no kitty poo.

 

8 Responses to Shellshock of the Turtle

  1. Checkers says:

    Wow, I’m exhausted just reading this post! Hang in there. Puppies mess you up in the best way, right?

  2. Shelley says:

    Uh oh…..I hope its just a bad day (and I’m having a sympathetic bad weekend).

    I know that feeling of exhaustion and will everything every be normal again….and just think, you go to Paris, and Shelley-the-fool will be having puppies (and all the sleeplessness that goes with it again).

    Hugs from the crew here….I don’t promise to send Fergus home housebroken, but maybe 2 weeks will “mature” his habits a little.

  3. jamesviscosi says:

    hello lavenderbay its dennis the vizsla dog no puppy pee or kitty poo jeeperz it sownds like that place woodnt smell verry intresting at all ok bye

  4. eyegillian says:

    It’s nice to be needed… but everyone has their limits! Aren’t you glad that the memory of sleepless nights and pee puddles will have faded by the time the cute puppy grows into a handsome dog?

  5. lavenderbay says:

    Yes, Checkers, it’s all “good stress”.

    I’m sorry you’re having a bad weekend, Shelley. And if Fergus wakes you up at night, I authorize you to suspend his gameboy privileges.

    You’re right, Dennis. E.g. hates perfume departments, which suggests that one person’s stinky-stink is another person’s fragrant aroma.

    That’s true, Eyegillian. Do you think it’s part of an evil canine conspiracy to perpetuate the species?

    And now Jane and Robert have returned from their vacation, so things are moving more towards normal. And Jack is here — hi to Jack’s Mom!

  6. goodbear says:

    we will be able to commiserate in a few weeks when i get my pooper, i mean puppy.

  7. Great poem… What is ‘bickie’?

  8. lavenderbay says:

    I guess so, Goodbear! Excited yet?

    A “bickie”, Urban Thought, is baby-talk for “biscuit”, as in dog cookie.
    Glad you like the rhyme; it’s on a par with the roadkill songs E.g. and I invent when we go on daytrips. They’re mock Country-Western laments with lyrics like, “Poor little squirrel at the side of the road / Your mamma said, “Don’t!” but away you goed.” Yeah, we’re sick.

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