Mihow » cats

What Lies Below (TWM 103)

mihow — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 13:25:46 +0000

We’re away for the week, trying to get our heads in a better place. My brother and his girlfriend are staying at our place in Brooklyn so they have been tasked with taking care of our fatties.

The road to feeling normal again is proving to be a slow and rather hilly one. I go hours and hours where everything is fine and then BAM! something completely random triggers the anxiety or sorrow and I’m a mess all over again. But I am healing. I went a whole three days without crying, which is pretty amazing for me.

On one particularly difficult day, I missed Murray something fierce. So I wrote to my brother and told him I needed to see the little guy as soon as possible. We received a video within hours. And even though I never actually got to see Murray, the video cheered me up. This is a regular occurrence at our house.

I hope you enjoy it too!

Abby Needs Your Help!

mihow — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 20:26:00 +0000

I get a number of email about cats. Some people ask me questions about their cats that I wish I had the answers to because I do so love these creatures. I am by no means an expert in this area. I just have a deep fondness for them.

The latest email I received is from Alyssa about a cat named Abby. I was going to answer her personally, but decided that it might be better if I give her a broader spectrum of feedback. I was hoping that if I posted it here, someone else might have the answer(s) for her.

Here is Alyssa’s email:

We found Abby when she was 4 months old and took her to our vet immediately. She had ear mites and worms, but nothing a few meds couldn’t fix. We made an appointment while we were there to have her spayed at 6 months. A few weeks before her appointment my husband was sleeping and she crawled upon him and peed on his leg! We called the vet because it was so out of character and they asked if she was acting more affectionate than normal, and we answered why yes, yes she was. They suspected she was in heat and said we could bring her in the next week. We took her in and 24 hours later brought her home. She was sleepy and was having trouble walking, so when she PEED ON ME WHILE SLEEPING I blamed it on the surgery/meds/whatever. So things were going fine until this morning when I decided to allow her in the bedroom at 5 AM because she was looking so darn cute when I woke up to get a drink. (On a side note, she is not allowed in the bedroom with us due to slight allergies.) So, just as I started to nod back off, she crawled upon me and left a mighty pee on my leg.

A few things that may help…

1. We haven’t changed litter or moved her box and we keep it clean
2.We feed her Dick Van Patten Natural Balance dry food

The only thing I can say with any amount of certainty is that cats tend to “act out” (do weird things—however you want to describe it) when they are trying to tell you that something is wrong. My cat, Schmitty, peed and pooped all over my house for months and months before I realized he had ash build up and had to have emergency surgery. I came home one day to find him screaming in pain—actually screaming because he hadn’t been able to urinate in who knows how long a time. He was rushed to the veterinary hospital where I was given an ultimatum: put him down, or cut off his manhood. I chose to cut off his manhood. (I always forget the name of the surgery.)

He lived another 11 years perfectly happy and healthy until cancer finally got to him. (And at the end of his life, he started acting out again by pooping in weird places.)

My only suggestion (and I am by no means very wise when it comes to this stuff) is to take Abby in and run some blood work. They can figure out if she’s diabetic. They can test her for liver function, kidney problems, you name it.

Are there any other suggestions for Abby and Alyssa? Do you have any ideas as to why Abby is behaving this way? Could this be due to a mental problem? Might she need kitty prozac?

Feel free to leave comments anonymously if you are wary of such.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 81)

mihow — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 21:34:00 +0000

I learned Friday that Murray isn’t only a little Internet famous. He’s also famous at a certain emergency veterinary clinic here in Brooklyn. He’s famous because of how much he enjoys chewing plastic and rubber.

When I walked into the ER on Friday, the head doctor—like, the guy with his name on the plaque everywhere, the cute one swamped with surgeries—stopped by to say hello personally. He told me that when he heard the name of the patient in exam room 3, he said, “Murray? WAIT! I know Murray! That’s the cat who likes pacifiers!” (Remember this?)

I wanted to be proud of the fact that the vet knew us by name, and at first I was. But then it occurred to me that my cat is famous for trying to bankrupt us or kill himself, and so I stifled that feeling of pride.

In November we had to make an emergency trip to that same vet because he started projectile vomiting. That ordeal cost us a paw and a leg because the nipple top (which is what the ended up digging out of there among other things) was lodged just inside his small intestines. They were able to scope it, but it was very difficult and took a lot longer than it would have had it just been in his stomach.

This time, it was in stomach, so they were able to get in there and out in no time at all.

The good news is—since we’re famous there and all—the doctor squeezed us in right away so that Murray might return home within a few hours. This helped us out a bit financially. (The longer the stay the more expensive.) It also meant that Murray didn’t have to spend the night. (He doesn’t do well with strangers and even worse if he’s surrounded by barking dogs.)

This operation, while still very pricey, was half what we paid the last time. That’s the good news.

There’s a lot of bad news, though.

I wish I could tell you that this was a new scenario, but it was eerily close to what happened to us the last time. In fact, the x-rays were so similar I joked with the vet who referred us that they didn’t even snap a new x-ray and instead used the one from November. They were so similar, the staff at the ER laughed out loud together when comparing them.

Who could be proud of that?

Murray ate a piece of rubber from a toy earlier last week and successfully passed that item. But then Thursday rolled around and I discovered the remains of a chewed up bottle nipple on our bed. That’s when I knew we were in trouble.

That’s right, Internet, the exact same item landed us in the hospital.

I think it may be time to ween Emory off his last couple of daily bottles. But this is what happens whenever you try and give him milk in his big-boy cup, he’ll drink water and juice out of the big-boy cup, but NOT milk.

I have to figure out how to get two of my boys off the plastic.

Anyway, I’d like to suggest that this recent trip to the ER was due entirely to our carelessness, but I don’t think that’s the case. Murray is insane. Last night, while scanning the house looking for more items he might consume, we made the following discovery:

Surely he’ll be able to pass that, right? I have upped his fiber intake just incase.

We now tip-toe around the apartment, wondering what half-mangled piece of rubber we’ll discover next. And I’m a little curious about what other items have made their way through his little body in the two years he’s been with us.

I fear that Murray is a ticking time bomb.

P.S. I am WAY behind on email. I owe quite a bit of responses to your questions. I hate that I’m using this page to say as much, but I will get back to you as soon as I find a little time and health. (Still sick.) Vaccine questions, cat questions, and medical questions will be answered soon. I am so sorry I have been so out of it lately.

Murray Is At The ER Again.

mihow — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 23:54:00 +0000

Oh, Internet. Please say a few kind words for my feline companion. Murray is at the ER again for ingesting some more of Em’s stuff. We need to figure out why he’s doing this. Someone mentioned PICA. I really need to put an end to this somehow. Please email me or leave a comment if you have any ideas or suggestions. My heart is on the heavy side today, for a number of reasons.

UPDATE: Murray is home. They were able to scope him and send him on his way all in one day, which saved us some money. He’s in good spirits.

Thanks, everyone, for all the well wishes, email and the like. I appreciate it. Now, we just have to figure out what to buy for him so he stops chewing on plastic. Someone suggested doggie treats like rawhide.

More to come at a later date.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 78)

mihow — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 05:01:00 +0000

It’s haiku Tuesday! (Another subtitle could be, “A bit of a cop out because mama had a long day at the pediatrician.”)

Stole my food again.

And chased my paper towel.

Wish he was still small.

They Made Up.

mihow — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 22:02:00 +0000

Remember the post I wrote about how Emory was terrified of the Fisher Price Glow Worm?

That’s the dish we use to feed our cats. Apparently someone decided that Glow Worm was hungry for some canned cat food. All I know is it wasn’t me and Toby was at work at the time.

Glow Worm had a bath right after his meal.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 75)

mihow — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 18:55:00 +0000

Murray’s first ever (witnessed) snowfall.

Snow must be really strange for cats since the little white things resemble bugs, especially when the show is light and fluffy and the wind carries it every which way it can. He was fascinated. I was as well.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 72)

mihow — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 10:01:00 +0000

Moving Day!

I have a question for you cat lovers out there. We don’t yet have heat or hot water (gas) at our new apartment. It’s not unlivable for a grown adult (the building is “green” so it’s quite insulated) but I am worried about the cats. Would you leave them in an empty apartment (we have the old one until the 31st) where it’s heated? Or would you move them to the new one where they are surrounded by their stuff but are a little cold? Either way, they’ll be alone for much of the day as TJ has to work and I will be in New Jersey with the baby (whom I miss like you wouldn’t believe) until this heat fiasco gets worked out. These guys are like family to me. I want them to be as comfortable as possible. Any insight you may have is greatly appreciated.

UPDATE: We’re IN! And the cats are fine. The apartment is tolerable with the use of a space heater. (Good thing NYC apartments are tiny!) Murray is a bit freaked out by the continuing construction. He hid for the first 5 hours. And then at around 9 PM he came strolling out looking for handouts. So we put him to work and then fed him treats.

I am in Jersey getting my Emory fix. (I spent a whopping 4 nights away from him!) I will be back in Brooklyn tomorrow, God willing.

Things are really great, Internet. Thanks so much for your help and words and suggestions.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 71)

mihow — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 02:34:00 +0000

I can assure you, this isn’t how it looks.

I can explain. Really.

Edited to add: Many, many moons ago I read something someone posted on an “I Love My Cat” Flickr group. The question was: “Do you kiss your cat?” I thought, “Who doesn’t kiss their cat?” I kiss my cats every chance I get. (If they’ll let me.)

In related kitty news: Lisa and PJ of Empty Cages Collective are holding an adoption event this Saturday at NYC Pet (PARK SLOPE!!!! location) from 1 PM until 6 PM. Please stop by if you can!

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 70)

mihow — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 23:13:00 +0000

Murray has been out of his mind for over a week. And by out of his mind I mean he’s acting like a kitten again. At first we were surprised by the apparent sudden burst of energy. Where had it come from and why?

You know how sometimes you live with someone for a while and they put on weight and you put on weight and neither one of you notices until one day you’re looking through some old photographs and you think, Wow! We’ve gotten fat together!

Or how about whenever you live with someone and you’re looking at a video taken a year earlier and you think to yourself, You’re growing up way too fast, little man! Slow down!

You know how that happens?

“I thought he was just growing up.” Toby had said.

It was a while ago (a long while) that I came home to find the remainder of a chewed up nipple from one of Em’s Born Free bottles. I am not sure why I didn’t immediately panic. I think it’s because this has happened a few times before. Murray eats everything, and up until two weeks ago he’s always worked it out. Nine times out of ten he doesn’t actually swallow whatever it is he’s chewed up. (Take the stethoscope, for example.)

But this last time he wasn’t able to work it out. Instead, he became increasingly sicker. He became more and more lethargic. He didn’t particularly want to play as much. He wasn’t running around as he once had. His energy level had been decreasing slowly over time, the process took long enough that we hadn’t really noticed.

For for too long, Murray felt unwell and I should have noticed. I should have assumed he had eaten the pieces. I should have taken him in for an x-ray just to make sure.

But I didn’t.

And he became sicker and whenever the change in personality failed to let us know, his body took over.

Think what you will about my denial regarding Murray’s condition. I’ve thought it and I deserve it. I think the Catholic girl in me craves the purgatory actually. But that’s not the worst part about all of this. The worst part is how we so readily and easily rationalized the change in his behavior.

“I thought he was growing up too.”

When did “growing up” become synonymous with joyless and lethargic? When did “growing up” come to mean giving up on everything that makes oneself (and others) happy? At what point during my 35 years did I agree to such nonsense?

I think I finally figured out why I’m so attached to Murray: he consistently humbles me. He chisels away at all the adult, grumpy shit. Murray’s youthful demeanor makes me feel younger as well. And while my adoration for him may be a little self-fulfilling, I certainly don’t think it will hurt anyone.

It’s mighty great having him back but I wish I’d never let it him go.

(Starring: Murray and Emory. Song by: Tom Waits – “I Don’t Want To Grow Up”)

Edited to add: Upon rereading this post (and a couple of email), I realize now that it may come off a little more serious than I had intended. It lacks the tone of my voice, without that, it reads like a real downer. My apologies!

I Hate New York.

mihow — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 20:19:00 +0000

I had a professor in college whose job it seemed was to make every one of his students as stressed out and angry as possible. The night I was accepted into the Graphic Design program I got a phone call from one of the seniors. He said, “Congratulations! You will cry. You know that, right? He makes grown men cry.”

Our professor worked hard at making our lives absolutely miserable. We lost sleep. We worked through days and nights. We had nose bleeds from darkroom chemicals, spray adhesive, fixative. It was like boot camp only without all the potential death and war. (Ok, maybe a little war.)

Naturally, we hated him. Everyone bitched and moaned about how difficult he was and how he was going to kill us all. We collectively hated him. And we collectively talked about it.

And then one day, right before I graduated, I realized something.

There were 23 in my graduating class. We spent countless hours together, sometimes not bathing for days at a time. Sometimes we went 48-hours without brushing our teeth or washing our underarms. We all did this in a studio together, sometimes working over top of one another in the darkroom or the computer lab. Yet, we rarely fought.

Under most circumstances, 23 people living that closely and for that long would have fought. But we spent almost all of commiserating about how much we hated our professor (who was a very smart man and an even better teacher). Did he do it on purpose? Was he merely acting as the tyrannical drill sergeant? Was he getting the best work out of his students by having us direct all of our stress at him instead of at one another?

The idea blew my mind because (even if he didn’t mean to do it) it worked.

I complain a lot about living in New York. I complain on here, to friends and to family. My friends and family (I think) know that I’m just blowing off steam most of the time. But there are some who probably just think I’m a resentful, hateful, cranky bitch.

And I am all those things sometimes, but not most of the time. I am only just now realizing that I may not have painted a very accurate portrait of myself. And judging by the email I receive and some of the comments I get, I know that many people have it very wrong.

So. Here goes nothing.

I’ve given some people the impression that I don’t have any friends who are mothers. That’s untrue. I have actually met several local mothers whom I really like. We try and hang out regularly although nap schedules, partners’ schedules, and overall exhaustion tends to get in our way. But whenever we do find time, we hit the park and gab as our little ones run around for an hour or two. I really enjoy their company and if our living conditions were slightly easier, I think we’d get to spend even more time together. I’m going to miss them so much whenever we leave here, so very much.

I don’t write about them for a number of reasons. The main reason is that I try and respect their privacy. I also don’t have very much time anymore to write coherent essays (or essays at all).

I realize how annoying it can be—trying to fill in the blanks. I get annoyed that people even try. There are far too many blanks to fill in! On here, lately, I paint the smallest portion of a picture representing my life. That may change soon and I hope that it does, but for now, I just don’t have the time. For what it’s worth, I don’t think I’m a bad mother. I don’t think everything is falling apart around me. I am not suffering from self-hatred most of the time. I just tend to bitch a lot on here I guess.

I know that one thing is for certain, I simply need to illustrate somehow that I have a lot of joy in my life. Most urgent, however, since we’ll be leaving New York soon, I must, for the sake of history, illustrate just how much I’m going to miss this place. (I am wiping a tear from my eye as I write this.)

It occurred to me recently that Greenpoint, Brooklyn is the one place that I have lived the longest. (When you add in the time I spent living here before I met Tobyjoe). I love this place. After all, I think (hope?) that it’s pretty safe to say that this is the only place I’ll ever live where I’ll be able to watch a hobo take a dump in my backyard and then wipe his ass.

What’s not to love about that? I mean, as sick as it may be, it’s temporary and slightly hilarious, so I might as well file it under the “Things I Tolerated And Even Laughed About When I Was Younger” category. Also in this category is my difficult and absurd parking fiascos, the half naked man I watched snort heroin at 1 PM at the local public track, and the crack bag I intercepted from my son on the children’s playground. I tolerate the smell of the human waste facility not too far from here and the fact that it wafts up from our sewers at least twice a week making morning walks downright third world. I deal with the loud construction taking place out back now that the hobos are gone. (Is it wrong of me to miss them?) I tolerate the toxic waste dump in our backyard as well as the water bugs (American Cockroaches, you ain’t foolin’ no one, New York) the size of small cats. I even tolerated the crack head that ripped my antenna off of my car so he could smoke up. I even tolerate the insanely high rents and even higher mortgages.

I have tolerated all of this and I continue to do so. And I do think it’ll end up being hilarious one day (assuming that none of us get leukemia from the benzine leak in our backyard).

You simply must tolerate the good, the worse, and the vile if you wish to live in New York. (Switch the city, however, and people might call you insane for putting up with such nonsense.)

But this is New York! New York gets away with being the drunk aunt at the wedding party, the rich 90-year-old with the 24-year-old wife, the strange 7-year-old boy who touches himself too much in public, the gassy grandfather at the dinner table. You shrug it off as expected, maybe joke about it to a few people and get on with your day.

I’m going to miss it. I am going to miss all the weirdness and grime. I am going to miss the fodder for stories to tell people whenever I see them. I am going to miss the defecating hobos, the laughing hipsters with stupid haircuts, the Polish kids who collect sticks.

New York is tolerated because it’s New York and it has a stigma attached to it, whether you agree with it or not. And New Yorkers get to bitch about New York and blame everything bad going on in their lives on the city, like it’s a living thing (or a graphic design professor). At the end of the day New Yorkers all have one thing in common: we get to collectively bitch about how much we hate the city we love.

^{Photographs are from this series.}

Edited to add: I have gotten a lot of email asking where we’re moving and when. We don’t know yet and we don’t know yet. But we know we have to leave here. I’m sorry I have been so vague. It’s not intentional. I am vague because I don’t know the answers yet myself.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 63)

mihow — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 20:14:00 +0000

When we lived in Washington, DC. I took pottery classes at a studio in Adam’s Morgan. I studied with Jill Hinckley and threw pottery like this, this and this. I wasn’t great at it, but I loved doing it and while there I met some of the greatest people.

One of the people I met was an organic farmer named Mike. He was a sweetheart. I adored this man. He and I became close friends. He had a great big heart. I loved spending time with him.

Right before we moved to San Francisco, Mike gave us the most spectacular going away gift. It was a small vase he threw at Hinckely. It was fired out back during one of our Raku sessions. If I remember correctly, he used horse hair (taken from a local farmer) to create the most intriguing affect on its smooth sides. The piece was amazing—all of his pieces were amazing—but this one was particularly special, I think.

It was probably one of the nicest items we owned. I was so proud of that vase, whenever we moved cross-country, I wrapped it up and took it with us in the car instead of packing it away with everything else. I showed it off at home. It was always on display, albeit, at higher heights for all reasons feline.

(Trying to guess where this story ends is probably a no brainer.)

On Sunday, Murray simply had to get to the very top of the bookshelf like Tucker had. In doing so, his fat ass knocked the vase to the floor, shattering it into a million pieces. I was in the shower and heard the smash occur.

“WHAT WAS THAT!?” I yelled.

Tobyjoe came in to tell me what had happened. We were a little heartbroken.

I don’t like to get attached to non-living things because of this very reason. With cats around, you’re kind of a fool to. And now that we have a toddler, that notion became twofold. It’s better to just assume everything intangible will eventually die. It’s just a matter of when and how that end should occur.

But saying goodbye to this item stung. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

I did not raise a hand at Murray (I don’t do that to any of my cats), nor did I yell at him (I do yell at them sometimes). He knows nothing of his mistake. And I think the noise it made was punishment enough for a creature with such intense hearing.

But I’m sharing this with you today (on Murray’s day of all days) because as I watched Tobyjoe sweep the remaining pieces into the trash can, something became very clear to me: I must really love this cat because I was unbelievably attached to that vase.

I didn’t even yell at him.

^{(And Mike, should you ever read this, I am so very sorry. Both Toby and I have actually mourned the loss of your gift. I thought about glueing it back together, I even thought about trying to make a mosaic out of it, but to no avail. We miss it, Mike. And would love to buy a replacement.)}

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 62)

mihow — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 20:45:00 +0000

Murray is fat. And for the longest time we’ve tried to ignore the fact that we may have had anything to do with It. I’ve suggested that he’s overweight because he steals food from us. I’ve blamed the baby for sneaking food to him. I’ve even suggested that Murray is overweight because of being bottle-fed.

Certainly he’s fat because he was bottle-fed.

A couple of months ago, someone suggested that Murray is fat due to genetics. I mentioned this to Toby.

“You should ask the woman who adopted Murray’s sister if her cat is fat too.”

I thought about this. But how would Kate feel if some strange and potentially crazy cat lady emailed her about her cat?

Dear Kate,

Hey there. My name is Michele. I know we don’t know each other very well and we’ve never actually met in person, but I adopted Eleanor’s brother, Murray. How are you? How is Eleanor? Is she fat?

yours,

Michele

How would she respond? Would she immediately write back saying, “OMG! YES! ELEANOR IS HUGE! Let’s schedule a play date!” Would she suggest I get a life? I just didn’t feel right about bugging her about the weight of her feline. Plus, I think I secretly wanted to blame Murray’s expanding gut on genetics. Basically, if I never knew the truth, I could forever blissfully assume that Murray was fat because of his mother and father and not because of what I had or hadn’t done.

On Saturday I went to the Empty Cages Collective adoption event at Muddy Paws. While there, I finally met Kate, Eleanor’s mum.

“Kate! It’s so nice to meet you! How is Eleanor?” I asked.

She explained that Eleanor is equally as insane and strange and amazing and awesome and hilarious as Murray. We swapped stories about their eccentric nature. We joked about whether or not they would recognize one another. The more we spoke, the more I realized that our cats, separated very early on, were still oddly similar.

Perhaps they are so genetically similar that Eleanor is fat too?

And so I asked. “Kate, is Eleanor fat?”

She immediately shook her head. “Oh, no, not at all. Eleanor is not fat at all. The opposite actually. She’s actually quite skinny. I think it’s because she never stops moving!”

I nodded. Murray moves around a lot as well but sleeps as much. I wanted to ask her if Eleanor eats Entenmann’s, banana nut muffins, pancakes, corn, broccoli, waffles, and scrambled eggs. I wanted to ask her if Eleanor steels food whenever she isn’t paying attention. I wanted to ask her if Eleanor licks sticks of butter, oiled pans, and muffin holders.

But Eleanor is fit. Murray’s sister is svelte. Murray isn’t fat because he was bottle fed—Eleanor was bottle fed as well. Murray isn’t fat because our son likes to give him tiny bits of waffles. And genetics apparently have nothing to do with Murray’s expanding waistline.

I fear I have run out of excuses.

I’m the mother of the fat kid and the only thing I have left to blame it on is me.

Empty Cages Collective

mihow — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 21:45:00 +0000

It’s been a couple of weeks since I wrote about Empty Cages Collective. Since then quite a bit has changed. Thanks to many of the people who graciously visit this Web site, ECC received a great number of donations. Lisa has had her arms full with kittens, cats and adoption events, but she expressed to me several times how grateful they are.

Thank you so much.

They also got some press! I’m hoping that’s just the beginning. The more people in New York City who hear about what they’re trying to do, the better life will be for all of us, fuzzy or human.

Last but not least, ECC held an adoption event at The Beehive recently and 7 cats were adopted! Seven. That’s outstanding! They still have a lot more and there are many other colonies out there breeding and breeding, but that’s pretty remarkable for a one-day event.

Anyway, ECC is holding another adoption event this Saturday at Muddy Paws here in Greenpoint. Stop by if you are in the area. We’ll be there as well!

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 61)

mihow — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 21:50:00 +0000

We purchased a new toy for Em. It’s this crazy ball-shooting machine that plays music every time you press its big red button. It’s nuts. To be honest, I’m a little surprised that he even likes this thing. Had we been in a toy store, it probably would have been one of the last items that would have caught my eye as something he’d like to play with. But then we had a play-date at Caroline’s house. She brought out the ball-shooting machine and BLAMO! he was mesmerized.

The following day I told grandma about his adoration for the toy. A week later he had one of his own. Naturally.

Em still very much enjoys the toy. He has it out constantly. And we find it pretty hilarious that he uses one tiny finger (instead of his entire palm) to push the button. Sometimes, it takes him several tries to get that thing to sing and pop but he manages.

What we weren’t aware of was how fascinated Murray would be by the toy. Almost every time Em pushes the button, Murray runs out to watch. In fact, I think the only time he’s uninterested is if he’s sleeping or eating—his two absolute favorite pastimes.

Even though Em has decided that trying to insert anything and everything into the opening is much more fun than using the balls it came with, Murray tries hard to play along. My guess is that Murray is thinking, “BALL-SHOOT! YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!”

We’ve had to pull out a coat hanger three times now to remove items Em has crammed into the opening.

In other news, we’ve had quite the crazy morning here. You see, during our walk this morning, we found a lost cockatiel. He’s currently in our bathroom scared half to death and wondering where his mama is. We are trying to figure out how to contact said person by calling every local vet and shelter. I have my work cut out for me today.

We’ve named him Newman temporarily.

How does Murray feel about Newman? Hilarity ensued outside the bathroom door. Commando Kitty all around. And every time Newman squawks or tweets, Murray’s all, “WUZZAT?! IMA GIT THAT BIRD!” Tucker was just curious and then stopped caring immediately. Pookum didn’t care at all.

I get the feeling Newman would win in a fight against any of our absurdly passive cats.

But we’re not taking any chances.

Francisco DeFlaviis – The Lone Juror.

mihow — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 23:24:00 +0000

Joseph Petcka, the man arrested for beating a 7-pound cat to death, had his day in court recently. The jury came back hung: 11 to 1. After five days of deliberations eleven people were in favor of convicting Petcka of aggravated animal cruelty. A lone juror by the name of Francisco DeFlaviis did not believe that Joseph Petcka killed the cat on purpose.

Joseph Petcka weighed 205 pounds at the time. He and his girlfriend had just had a fight. The cat, Norman, weighed 7 pounds. Norman was declawed.

Petcka said he kicked the cat to death in self defense.

I could go on about how I feel regarding animal cruelty in this country. I could go on about how unbelievably angry his actions and this mistrial makes me. But I won’t. Instead of stating the obvious, instead of ranting without resolve, I’m hoping that something positive might come out of this.

Please don’t forget to donate to the ASPCA. Help them put an end to animal cruelty. Help them spread the word that beating an animal to death will not be tolerated in this country.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 59)

mihow — Tue, 09 Sep 2008 17:09:00 +0000

Words fail me.

Everything was normal. We turned our backs for a minute and discovered that Murray had changed positions. The props may have been added by two thirty something going on 7 year olds.

P.S. Have I ever mentioned before how much I love this cat? I love all of my cats, but Murray represents something extra special. I think it’s because he’s just so damn happy. What’s not to love?

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 56)

mihow — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 16:56:00 +0000

Murray was orphaned at a very young age. I’m sure many of you know that already. He was so young he had to be bottle-fed by human hands. I talked over Chapter 56 with Murray and he agreed that those human hands are what I need to write about today.

Murray was nurtured by two people: Lisa and PJ. Though PJ doesn’t quite remember Murray (due to the number of cats he’s cared for before, and since) he is responsible for much of Murray’s trust of humans.
When Murray was a few weeks old, Lisa took over. Because Murray is unable to thank them personally, I’m going to try and do it for him.

PJ and Lisa have dedicated themselves to starting a unique animal advocacy group, and I’m attempting to contribute what I can to their effort.

THEIR MISSION

“The Empty Cages Collective (ECC) is a New York-based animal and environmental advocacy organization. ECC aims to cultivate a culture where animals are recognized as fellow sentient beings worthy of respectful and compassionate treatment. Through advocacy, education, hands-on rescue and assistance, the ECC envisions a world free of animal exploitation, abuse, and ecologically destructive behavior.”

WHAT THEY’VE BEEN DOING

They Trap, Neuter and Release animals back into their natural habitats. Here’s where being a realist can actually make a difference. As opposed to someone like me, who can only see the big picture, someone who wants ALL animal abuse to stop, all homeless cats to be adopted, all things to wrap up perfectly. It’s never going to happen that way. Instead of doing something, I get overwhelmed and give up.

PJ isn’t like that. Neither is Lisa. Sure, they want all of those things as well, but they’re a bit more level-headed about it. They take it day by day. They’re hoping that with every cat they trap and neuter, a dozen less will be born next season. They’re hoping that we city-dwellers can one day coexist with our city-dwelling friends. They’re hoping to teach people that animals living within the city aren’t a nuisance and that it’s not necessary to kill every stray or feral or wild animal you come across.

There’s room for all of us. Hell, they were probably here first anyway.

The problems they’re facing is that they’ve found so many adoptable kittens during their trapping efforts that they’re running out of room and resources to continue with their TNR efforts. To put it bluntly, they need some help.

HOW WE CAN HELP

When I asked PJ what they needed the most, he gave me the following list: donate, volunteer, and adopt. He reiterated twice to me that donate and volunteer are head-to-head in urgency. Granted, if they can get the cats they have in-house adopted soon, they might have more money to use for TNR. Obviously, adoption is important as well.

I’m writing this today on behalf of Murray and all the critters out there that are needlessly killed. Can you help Lisa and PJ and their cause? Do you have a dollar to spare? Do you have some time to donate? Do you have a Web site you can use to help get the word out? Can you write them some kind words? Anything will help, any amount, any number of hands or hours, any advertisement—big or small.

If you have some extra paypal cash and/or an Amazon gift card you’re not using, visit this link and send some stuff their way. (Some of the items on that list run as low as 4 bucks.)

If you’re interested in adopting a cat, here are the animals they have up for adoption. I’m going to put up some pictures as well.

And if you got some old balled up dollar bills you washed in that pair of jeans from last winter, they’ll take monetary donations as well.

For those of you who have some cash but don’t have a lot of time and just want to click a button and be done with it, here’s a link to their paypal account.

To read more about what they’ve been doing click here.

From here on out, I’m going to be donating as much as I can out of the money I make from advertising on this Web site. It’s not much, but it’s something. I purchased 90 pounds of cat litter for them yesterday. Like I said, every little thing matters right now. It doesn’t have to be a huge sum—or cash at all.

At some point in the near future, I plan on designing some banners for them so that other bloggers can add them to their site. I hope that you will join me getting the word out for them. I realize that they’re Brooklyn based right now, but if this works out—this model—it could become a nationwide advocacy group.

If you have a dime or or some time to spare, do it for Murray. He wouldn’t be here had it not been for these two people and their great big hearts.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 53)

mihow — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 00:36:00 +0000

The other day I was thinking about Schmitty. Schmitty was our 15-year-old cat who got cancer and died in a very short amount of time. Schmitty was chubby, loyal, beautiful and probably one of the sweetest creatures alive. We used to say that if there’s such thing as an 8-fold path, he was most certainly at the finish line. When he was put to sleep on April 21st, 2007, he entered nirvana—enlightenment. He would have left this tangible world forever.

I used to brag about Schmitty. You see, he was directly responsible for turing at least three people into cat people. In fact, they liked him so much, they too adopted cats. The surprising thing about these three people is that they didn’t particularly like cats before they met Schmitty. I took great pride in knowing that cats were adopted directly because of Schmitty. (I still take great pride in that.)

Schmitty was always spreading compassion.

We had to say goodbye to Schmitty. But we still think about him all the time. He comes to me in dreams sometimes, which is always bittersweet because I wake up aching to see him again—like, actually aching. But it’s nice to see him at all.

We miss him. That’s about all I can really say about that because if I continue writing about him, I’ll cry and I don’t want to cry this afternoon.

And so.

Murray.

We adopted Murray a month or so after we said goodbye to Schmitty. We got Murray because I needed to laugh. And Murray is a hoot. I don’t have to convince you of that. If you’re reading this, chances are you already know and love Murray—goofy as he may be.

Well, Murray and Em get along wonderfully. I couldn’t have asked for a better, more baby-friendly pet. When Murray plays with Em, he’s surprisingly gentle, like he knows he needs to be. And they actually play together. Murray makes Em laugh almost as much as he makes us laugh, which is pretty remarkable if you ask me.

I swear if I were a less cynical person, I’d guess he’s doing this intentionally.

Their relationship brings me some bittersweetness as well. You see, watching Em with Murray is great, but there are times where I just wish he had a brother. There are times where I think, “Oh, this boy is entirely too friendly and outgoing to spend all of his time playing with a cat!” And I feel a little sad for him and then I take him for a walk and show him the colorful arrangement of drunk and dying men our neighborhood park has to offer. (Again, sad.)

About two months ago I started to realize that Emory simply couldn’t be an only child. I was surprised by the change of heart. All along, I have said one child, just one. But I think I was even more surprised when I realized who brought the change to light.

A cat. Another freaking cat!

And so I have to spell it out for myself. I simply have to write it down for the sake of history.

Schmitty was responsible for convincing a difficult crowd that cats make awesome pets. At least three people adopted a feline because of him. He passed and we “replaced” him with a fuzzy feller named Murray.

Murray is responsible for showing us—a couple determined to have only one child—that we simply cannot stop at only one. We simply have to give our son a sibling someday.

I guess what I’m saying is perhaps this is what Schmitty wanted all along.

But I have to admit, I’m having a little trouble figuring out a way to tell Em’s eventual sibling that he or she was brought into the world because of a cat.

Confessions From A Mother

mihow — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 19:54:00 +0000

I’m amazed at how quickly Em is picking up new things and I constantly wonder where he’s getting these new ideas from. Sometimes I think I get it, and other times he just starts doing something and I’m left scratching my head, wondering if he’s keeping night hours elsewhere.

They’re precise little human recorders, babies. It’s no wonder how they can turn out so graciously sweet or so horrifically angry.

His new thing is all about books. He loves reading books and then rereading books and then re-
re-reading books and, well, you get the picture.

He crawls down off of my lap, walks over to where his books are kept, grabs a new one, walks back over to me, hands me the book and then turns around and waits for me to pick him up and read to him. Now, I can’t believe he does this. I can’t believe he enjoys hearing me yammer on about ducks, curious monkeys and blue horses, green frogs, purple cats and jumping on the bed. One day I read Brown Bear so many times I lost count.

One day, however, each time I finished reading one of his books, I placed it in his basket of toys underneath Huggy Bear. (Not the guy from Starsky and Hutch.) I realize this doesn’t qualify me as a patron saint of motherhood, but I was going cross-eyed and I needed to do some chores around the house. I can’t just not do it, you know?

I’m pretty sure that the fuel used to run a parent consists of few parts guilt.

Anyway, I wonder what the record is for number of times someone’s read a Super Chunky Good For Me! book in one sitting.

Last week I took him to a local “World Music” class a family-oriented café here in Williamsburg called Mamalus. The management is thinking of offering weekly classes. They’ve been offering freebies for the last couple of weeks. Most of the classes seem to be for older children, but we signed up for the two that included his age group. (Incidentally, I have noticed that Em is kind of in a bit of a “no-man’s age group” when it comes to classes. He’s either too old or too young. But we make due.)

So, we arrived early and it was already packed. There was a couple standing at the corner holding several different instruments. They were obviously running the show.

They pulled out drums and rattles and moroccos and bells and then bigger drums—all types of instruments. We went around the great big circle and the Cuban music man sang out each baby’s name to the beat of a drum. When he got to Em, Em was unsure of how to react. I told the man his name and the man beat the drum and sang EMORY! EMORY! EMORY! EMORY! Em just stared up at him, open-mouthed and perplexed—not frightened, but maybe a little unsure. (Or maybe he was just recording it?)

After every child had their moment in the spotlight, the room erupted. Parents and nannies danced; children sang, babies waved their hands in the air. And I’d have declared it a room full of chaos had it not been belted together by song.

Since our visit, Em has begun this adorable sing-songy chant of sorts. At first I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but then I realized that every time I sing, or every time I turn on one of his musical toys he would react. It’s really adorable and strange and I want to dance all over again.

Children are capable of making those normally seduced by shame realize that the only thing shameful about life is feeling shame at all.

So, whenever Em is older and he lets us know how embarrassing we are, I’ll tell him he has only himself to blame. And then I’ll thank him.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 51)

mihow — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 21:03:00 +0000

We’ve decided against letting Em cry-it-out and have instead enrolled in the more passive sleep education course. You see, Em is one of those babies who does not calm down by crying. Instead, crying makes him more and more hysterical until he erupts, spit and other bodily fluids spray out of his mouth, eyes and nose and his head looks like some kind of pierced water ballon. He gags and sometimes it sounds like he’s going to vomit. It’s awful.

Naturally, I have only let it get to this point twice in his life and both times it felt needlessly cruel. I know that it works for some people, but we simply cannot do it. (And we don’t want to.)

And so we’re trying something less aggressive where we’ll sit with him and console him when he needs to be consoled. It’s not yet going according to plan. He still cries because he wants to be picked up. But we have high hopes. (This is all still very new. We’re still reading up on how to do it. I anticipate a long road ahead of us.)

Anyway, on Friday Tobyjoe decided to sit with him and watch him cry as I frantically tried to block it out by cleaning the entire apartment.

Normally I lock Murray in our bedroom whenever I mop because he really likes to be involved. He’s weird. But this time I thought he’d be OK. Plus, I wanted to keep noise and cats as far away from Tobyjoe and Em as possible.

I decided to clean with Murray in tow.

Everything went just fine up until the very end when the entire railroad apartment was wet. That’s when Murray decided it was time to attack.

The next 30 seconds were that of hilarity and I so wish I had them on tape so I could watch them over and over again. And I swear to you, all 30 seconds took place in slow motion. Like, someone actually slowed the rotation of planet Earth just enough for me to thoroughly enjoy what was about to take place. Even the baby’s cries were muted. It was just Murray and me and a slippery apartment.

Murray successfully jumped over the mop, but whenever he touched down on the other side, his feet gave way on the slippery floor and his back legs slipped out from under him, making his entire body skid to the left. In an attempt to correct the sudden momentum, he immediately turned his body to the right, a decision that may have worked had Murray not thought someone (or something) did this to him. He wanted to find the culprit! He jerked his head from one side to the other looking for the invisible prankster. That threw everything off and sent him into a full-force right-hand slide. Still unable to make peace with the slippery floor, and still in search of the guy who pushed him, he just kept sliding, like an out-of-control slalom skier.

This went on for the entire length of our apartment. All I could think was, “PAUSE! PAUSE! STOP! STOP!” and then, “REWIND! REPLAY!” because in my head everything, including my every day life, can be controlled by the DVR. And, oh my God, I love this show!

But I couldn’t pause it so I could show it to Tobyjoe. And I couldn’t rewind it and watch it again. This was live. And it kept happening until he finally hit the wall at the very far end of the apartment.

Time immediately sped up again and the baby’s cries came billowing out of the bedroom once more. And Murray, unfazed, walked directly to the food bowl to refuel because sliding across a wet floor counts as exercise.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 49)

mihow — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 05:57:00 +0000

Toby and I hired a maid. We made the appointment two weeks ago. She was to begin Monday.

On Saturday night I began to freak out about the logistics. (How would she get in the house? Were we supposed to leave? Did she need to use our supplies? If we left the house, how would she lock up? Am I supposed to tip her? Does she do laundry? Am I supposed to tidy up the house first? What if she’s allergic to cats? Oh my crap! Murray!)

I voiced my concerns to Toby starting with the more reasonable.

“Do we stay here while she’s cleaning?”

“We don’t have to.”

“Do we need to move things around so she can get to certain areas? Does she do the closets?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to ask.”

Realizing that he wasn’t going to suggest that we cancel, I dove right in.

“What about Murray?”

“What about him?”

“What will we do with Murray?”

“Nothing. He’ll probably eat her.”

“Well, what if she uses poisonous cleaning supplies? I think we should cancel. I’ll clean instead.”

“Whatever you want.” He rolled his eyes.

On Sunday I canceled the arrangement and asked Toby to keep an eye on Em so I could clean up. I started with the counters and the stove and worked my way down. Just as I began to mop the kitchen floor, I was attacked.

Murray leapt into the air—all four feet off the floor, arms spread wide, eyes wider—and bear-hugged the mop with all his might, deploying a move we liked to call “The Grizzly Bear”.

The mop gave way beneath his weight. As his hind legs touched the floor again, he slid full force into the mop bucket, spilling water everywhere. Unsure of how to regain his composure on the slick surface, he tried running, which sent him sliding all over the linoleum surface.

I looked down at the wet, hairy mess. The kitchen was dirtier than it had been before I started.

“See!” I said from the kitchen. “This is why we can’t hire a stranger to come clean our house!”

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 46)

mihow — Wed, 28 May 2008 05:22:00 +0000

PRELUDE

I had a great deal of trouble putting aside a post I’ve been writing for weeks in order to keep with Tuesday’s theme. The post in question is about how I plan on ending this Web site. It includes reasons why as well as ideas for what I could do with it. I’m still very much unsure about its future. I know only one thing for sure: mihow.com the “mommy blog” part will cease to exist.

And so I battled with this. I contemplated taking the day off.

But it’s TUESDAY! I thought. It’s Murray’s day. You have to write about Murray!

TUESDAYS WITH MURRAY

I receive a lot of email about Tuesdays With Murray. Even email not specifically about Murray usually includes a mention of how much the person loves him or how much they enjoy reading stories about him. Several people have told me Tuesdays With Murray is their favorite part about mihow.com. I’ve had people write letting me know how much their cat has in common with Murray. I had one person ask if Murray could be her lady cat’s baby daddy (a suggestion I may have entertained had he not been fixed). I guess the email boasting love for Murray shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. My stats alone speak volumes. For a year now, Tuesday has been my busiest day. I receive thousands more individual visits on Tuesday than any other day of the week.

Murray is loved. How can you not love something so much that loves so much for nothing?

I also get a lot of email asking me why I seem to like Murray more than the other cats. Some folks aren’t even aware of the fact that we have two other cats. I guess I do kind of give off that we-keep-two-red-headed-step-cats-chained-up-in-the-basement sort of vibe. But I assure you all, we love all three of our cats, and yours as well.

But this has me thinking about why Murray is kind of special to me. It’s not that I don’t love my other two cats—I do, I love them very much. But I think I take Murray love to Nicole Kidman, stalkerish levels. And I think I finally know why.

Let’s talk about the book this series was inspired by.

TIME TRAVEL

(This is part of the story where if it were a motion picture the image before you would fade a bit, a sepia-like tone would envelope the screen. There might even be some Wayne’s World “doodly doodly” music to stress that we’re going back in time.)

When I was 23-years-old I was doing an internship with Lifetime Television. I stayed in South Brooklyn with a friend from college. He and his girlfriend let me sleep in a small storage room off their bedroom for the duration of my stay.

My boyfriend remained in State College. We talked late at night and on weekends over the telephone. I paid for our chats whenever the bill came. There were no cell phones boasting rollover or unlimited nighttime and weekend minutes. There were no consumer Macintosh laptops to purchase (at least not that I knew of) which meant there was no email. He was studying to be a chef. His hands were too busy stirring pots of Hollandaise sauce to type an email, anyway. I was too busy commuting to and from a temporary job, all the while lining my shoes with Band-Aids and toilet paper to pad the blisters I grew during grueling lunchtime job searches.

I got turned away from so many different design firms. So many Art Directors shrugged and said, “We just don’t do many logos here.” I was so perplexed as to why good logo work meant I couldn’t do direct mail, brochures and annual reports but these folks were wiser than I.

“Get some experience first!” They’d say. “We’ll hire you after you get some experience.”

How does one get experience if everyone wants it first?

I was in New York. I was 23. I was in search of my own professional identity. I was full of hope, pipe-dreams, and excitement. I was naive but happy.

And I didn’t find a job.

My internship came to an end on a Friday. I took the F Train uptown one last time that morning, put in a full day’s work, and then took it back into South Brooklyn later that day. The following morning, I packed my bags and headed for Midtown. Along the way, I grabbed something to read, hopped on a bus and headed for central Pennsylvania.

It was during that bus ride I read “Tuesdays With Morrie”.

RIGHT NOW

I, like many people who spend a lot of time online, wrestle with it constantly. When my 23-year-old self looks at the me now, there’s a part of her who wants to slap me a few a times, knock some sense into my head. On the one hand, I am happier now than I’ve ever been. On the other hand, somewhere along the way I become a person living in fear, indecision, anxiety, cowardice, and (during my weakest hours) jealousy.

I’m in neutral. I’ve been in neutral for long time.

I have known for a while that once Emory got to be a certain age I’d shut this site down, at least in terms of how much and what I write about him. And the meat of this paragraph really demands much more attention and care than I am giving it now. I will go into it soon. I promise. But I will say this much: Emory shouldn’t be exposed the way he has, sans consent. I just don’t feel right about it.

THE REALIZATION

And so that brings me back to Murray, the book this series is based on, my life and me when I read it, and all three of my cats.

Tucker is The Orange One. He’s a bit skittish, paranoid and at times vindictive. A lot of the decisions he makes are fueled by jealousy. I still love him and he’s still very needy, but he can be a real bastard. Tucker is sneaky. Tucker is not to be trusted. This is how he got the name “Orangemani Terrorist”.

I’m a little bit like Tucker whenever I spend too much time away from doing the things that I love. I act like Tucker whenever I’m having a “nobody-likes-me!” kind of day. I may come off as unapproachable, mean and bitchy, but all I really want is a great big hug and some lovin’ behind the ears. I act like Tucker right before I act like Pookum.

Pookum is old and grumpy and at some point she kind of lost her ability to laugh. She’s overweight and lives in fear of the other cats. She thinks they’re out to get her even if they’re playing. Unless we break inertia for her, she just sleeps, eats, and poops. And I reckon that if we were to let her she’d probably give up on all the things that make her happy; she’d give up on life entirely.

I’ve been Pookum before. (Hold on, I have to go pet her.)

And then there’s Murray.

Murray is the hand stirring a pot of Hollandaise sauce, the smile that moves across a person’s face when no one else is looking. Murray is New York City before 9/11, the sound of the teenagers skateboarding out back. Murray is laughter among friends, that first sip of white wine, lightning bugs at dusk.

Murray is me before I exchanged my naivety and hope for experience and cynicism.

Murray is youth.

Murray is a fixed number of minutes and a computer you leave at home.

Murray is joy.

Murray is the you you thought you would be, and the you you still can.

Dog Park Politics

mihow — Thu, 22 May 2008 19:21:00 +0000

It’s probably pretty obvious by now that I’m what some may call a “cat person”. I love cats. I love all animals. But I love cats. They hold a special place in my heart, even the troubled ones. And so I am biased. I’ll admit that straight up.

Every day (weather permitting) Emory and I take a walk through Mcgolrick Park. There’s a dog park right by the Driggs street entrance. We usually enter there, loop around, hit the playground for a bit and then loop back around and exit through the Driggs street entrance. We always walk by the dog park and I’ll stop for a couple of minutes to show Em the dogs. He’s so used to being around cats, I figured it’s best to introduce him to a couple of the other 5,000 plus species of mammals. I’ve introduced him to Penn State bunnies, Mcgolrick Park squirrels, and several Brooklyn dogs. He’s also met a few birds, which he speaks to by grunting.

Yesterday was not unlike every other day except that the sky threatened us with dark clouds. The ground was wet as were the swings so we were unable to hang out in the playground. I spent a few extra minutes watching the dogs instead.

I don’t know a lot about dogs or dog parks because I haven’t ever owned a dog. I do spectate, however. When I worked in the city and Tobyjoe and I rode our bikes to work, we’d meet every single day at the Union Square dog park where I’d watch the dogs interact with one another. I can’t tell you what breed of dog believes in which law of butt-sniffing, or whom agrees with whom, but I get the feeling that a dog park holds more political heat than all the goings on on Capitol Hill.

There are the big dogs, the little dogs, the older dogs, the dogs that hump, the dogs that run from humping dogs. There are the dogs that avoid all other dogs. There are the dogs that want to hang out with all other dogs. There are friendly dogs, mean-looking dogs, dumb looking dogs and there are smelly dogs. There are dogs that cower, dogs that bark a lot, dogs that do nothing but run. There are dogs that want to just go home already! And there always seems to be one or two dogs that make all other dogs (and me) nervous, like, you just never know what they’ll do if you look at them the wrong way.

And so yesterday whenever the medium-sized white dog attacked the brown dog by going right for its throat, I very nearly threw up from the stomach acid that bubbled up from my belly. And Emory had no idea what was going on. Suddenly, angry barks filled the playground and all hell broke lose. Little dogs ran in the opposite direction from the fight. The owners (two hipster couples) tried desperately to pry their dogs apart with very little luck. It took an uncomfortably long time for the man from one couple to pull his white dog from the brown dog. And all the while the male owner of the brown dog screamed, “NO!!! NOO!!!! NOOO!!!!” at the top of his lungs. And they weren’t commands, he was pleading with whomever would listen. He was begging into thin air, trying to reason with angry dogs.

With humans, unless there’s a weapon involved, a fight doesn’t usually end in death. The way these dogs instantly went for the jugular, meant business and their business was with death.

I was stuck there, in space, watching. I couldn’t close my mouth, look away; I couldn’t move. It was terrifying, a truly horrific experience, one that brought tears to my eyes, one that will continue to haunt me for days.

Does this happen often at dog parks? Do owners constantly have to look out for the potentially troubled animal? Does the owner of the potentially troubled dog know that they’re dog could very well freak out at any given moment? Do owners of small dogs worry whenever a larger dog comes around? Are there people who avoid the dog park altogether because they worry about fighting? Are these things dog owners know instinctively or do they learn over time?

Yesterday’s incident was the second dog park dogfight I have seen in two weeks. The first one was less horrific because the owner of the dog being attacked was able to scoop his pup up before the other dog got a firm hold. That owner then promptly turned to the other couple and said, “Get your dog out of this park right now!”

Three weeks ago, I was out for a jog and I saw a dog suddenly stand up from a blanket and tackle a toddler who was running around with his mother in the park. The toddler was knocked down hard enough to warrant one of those silent screams. And the couple just yelled for the dog to return to their blanket. I would never hurt any animal, but if that had been my son, I am not sure what I would have done to that couple.

Either way, Em and I are going to have to find some other way to learn about dogs. Their unpredictable nature scares me too much.

And I’m reminded of why I don’t think I want one right now.

Edited to add: I am not anti-dog. I don’t have a huge amount of time to reread and edit my thoughts today sadly. I realize that’s irresponsible of me. Sorry, folks! I have tried to clear up any possible miscommunication in the comments section.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 44)

mihow — Tue, 13 May 2008 17:24:00 +0000

Murray is getting fat—like really fat. It’s hard to believe that just a year ago he looked like this:

And now he looks like this:

Tobyjoe has accused me for years of making everyone I live with fat. Which is just absurd since he’s always been the one to cook. (I do bake, but Tobyjoe doesn’t really eat sweets; it ain’t me!) I’ve always brushed it off. But lately, as I look at Murray, I’ve been asking myself: did I make Murray fat?

Murray loves to eat. He loves to eat more than any other cat I’ve ever known. Murray even puts Schmitty’s eating habits to shame. Pancakes? Yup. Chips? Yes. Bread? Muffins? Cupcakes? Yes, yup and you betcha. But Murray eats vegetables, grains and eggs as well. The only item I’ve seen him turn his head away from and bury with his paw has been fish.

I feed our cats one can of wet cat food twice a day. They split one can twice a day. They also have some low cal hard stuff that I put out all the time, which they simply refuse to eat now that they know there’s good stuff on the way. Even Pookum, our eldest, eats the wet stuff now.

Two days ago, I woke up to my same morning ritual. I filled the kettle for the french press. I opened my computer on the way to the bathroom. I peed. I brushed my teeth, tied my hair back, and washed my face. I returned to the kitchen, made Em’s morning bottle and prepared his solid meal. I got a can of food out for the cats and fed the fatties in three different bowls. I moved one out of the circle a bit for Pookum (who gets harassed otherwise). I sat down to read email.

A few minutes later, Murray jumped up onto the sofa next to me. He was soaking wet. I checked to see where it was coming from, and to get a better idea of what this mysterious liquid was. I discovered that his entire underbelly is sopping wet.

“What have you done, Murray?” I asked. “Did you fall in the toilet again? Is this pee? Were you in the sink? What have you done?”

I followed the trail of water from the sofa to the food bowl in the kitchen. A giant puddle of water surrounded the now empty water bowl. You see, Murray had decided that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. So, instead of moving his body and positioning it around the water bowl in order to eat, he plopped his belly down right overtop of it. Because God forbid Murray have to walk a little out of his way in order to start eating. God forbid Murray should potentially arrive late for the morning buffet. God forbid someone else get to his bowl before he does. God forbid he get some exercise on his way to eat. God forbid all of that.

And so it brings me great pain to write what I’m about to write but Murray has to go on a diet. The problem is, I am not sure how to put a cat on a successful diet. The last time I tried this, I created the grumpiest cat in the world.

Is he going to stop loving me? And with that comment, perhaps Tobyjoe is right.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 43)

mihow — Tue, 06 May 2008 20:48:00 +0000

Today is a special day and I only just realized it halfway through writing this post. It’s special because we adopted Murray one year ago today. I know this because tomorrow marks the anniversary of when I announced it on mihow.com.

I haven’t ever admitted this before, but I kind of feel sorry for Murray. Sometimes he has to deal with an annoying amount of affection. You see, every time I get word of someone doing something horrific to an animal, or whenever I witness an animal in distress, I dig him out and hug him. Sometimes I hug him so tightly and for so long he very nearly passes out. (Only, not really). I fool myself into thinking that Murray is powerful, powerful enough to transfer all the affection we give him on to more needy creatures. I imagine that somehow, through powers unbeknownst to me, he’s able to pass love around—the almighty Murray, my creature extraordinaire.

I realize this borders on absurd, but love knows no logic.

Murray fetches. Did I ever tell you that? He fetches. I know that many cats fetch. For example, my cat, Pookum fetches tampons, but Murray will fetch until you give up. He doesn’t get distracted. It’s just him, you and whatever balled up piece of trash you can find. In fact, I have no idea how long he’ll fetch before giving up because I’m the one who always ends the game. He’s sporty. If there were a fetching league for cats, I’d let him enroll.

On Saturday, we watched the egotistical Kentucky Derby prematurely ejaculate all over our TV screen. The event deemed “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports!” made my heart stop for almost that long.

I used to love horses. I still like horses but when I was a kid, I loved them. I wish I could express to you just how much I loved them. Only my mother could do that. Like most little girls, I begged my parents for a horse. I even prayed for one. I once asked my mother that if one should wander into our backyard, could I then keep it? She said yes. And so I waited for that miracle. I’m still waiting.

But I digress.

Whenever Eight Belles fell to the ground, my childhood emotions bubbled up like vomit and sucker punched me right in the gut. I simply could not control myself. My hands covered my face and I began crying.

Tears fell into my soup and onto my salad and Emory looked over wondering where my smile had gone. I wanted to tell him that sometimes people do horrible things to animals for “fun”, but that overall we’re pretty good! I wanted to reassure him that we named him after Saint Francis, the patron saint of animals, and that his best friend right now is a cat.

“Turn this off!” I yelled, covering my eyes. “Turn it off! I can’t watch any more!”

Toby grabbed a hold of the remote control and turned the channel.

“Now, say something to make me forget.” I cried.

“Look at this.” He said. Murray had his belly up and his legs spread wide, a position he has grown very fond of lately.

Needless to say, I cracked up. And then I Pepe Lepewed my cat until he wriggled free. Unfortunately, eight thousand hugs and kisses couldn’t save Eight Bells.

So, in honor of sporty animals everywhere, I shot a video of Murray playing fetch. The director’s cut is over 4 minutes long but I shortened it because it’s just a video of him and me and a balled up napkin. Pretty boring, right?

But after you watch the video I think that you’ll agree that the title “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports” no longer belongs to the Kentucky Derby. It belongs to Murray—the almighty Murray, my creature extraordinaire.

Now, run along and smooch on some animals.

One Year Without You.

mihow — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 06:26:00 +0000

Sleep tight, Big Guy.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 37)

mihow — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 23:53:00 +0000

It takes anywhere from five to 15 minutes for Murray to take a poop. It’s never an easy, in ‘n out kind of deal. I think he plans for it, actually, like a vacation or a picnic in the park.

I’m usually in bed or watching something REALLY IMPORTANT on the television whenever he decides it’s time to unload. Never in my life have I met a cat with such a noisy poop ritual. (Incidentally, this is the main reason we got a DVR. The TV must be paused for the duration otherwise we miss everything.)

I guess it’s a good thing the noise I’m complaining about doesn’t actually come from within or due to anything passing from one place to another. According to TobyJoe, that’s not even possible since cats are incapable of making fart sounds on the account of their having only one sphincter.

The things you learn while married to TobyJoe.

No, the noise doesn’t come from Murray’s butt itself. The noise comes from his inability to carve out the perfect dirt dent. No doodoo dent is good enough for Murray. He probably creates anywhere from 5 to 35 holes before doing his business. Perhaps it’s the feline version of searching for that perfect magazine? I have no idea what type of hole he considers good enough to envelope his poop. They always look the same to me.

I realized today that (if I’m lucky) I’ll probably know Murray for another 15 years and in that time the only thing I can be absolutely sure of is that I’ll never, ever figure him out.

I Write This As He Screams.

mihow — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 19:07:00 +0000

Emory has been sick. He got a cold the day before we left for Florida, kicked it the day before we headed back north, and then got another one from one of the 4 billion kids we saw while we were away. He’s been cranky.

Wiping his nose has become one of the most impossible tasks. It’s become such an ordeal, we basically don’t do it, which explains why we have a bunch of vacation pictures that show Emory’s face covered in dried snot.

Here’s a video of one of his smaller hissy-fits. Believe me, this is nothing compared to what it’s like when he’s really cranky.

It’s been a rough couple of days for this mother and son team. He’s been unbearably fussy and impossible to amuse for more than a minute at a time. Yesterday, after listening to him scream and fight sleep for almost an hour straight, I sat on the couch and cried into my egg salad sandwich. (Which was nice because I forgot to add salt and I was too lazy to get up and grab some.)

Wooden spoons seem to amuse him long enough for me to pee or brush my teeth. The picture below gave me mental chatter, a problem I have whenever I’m dead tired. I repeat phrases or words until I exhaust every syllable, sound, and approach every cadence. Yesterday, I must have said, “MY SPOON’S TOO BIG!” 4,000 times.

I think it’s time for some sleep training because I’m losing my mind. But I don’t know when or how to begin or if I have the stamina for it. Plus, every time I let him cry for a bit, the cats circle and howl because the shrill sound hurts their ears. Tucker has gone as far as to climb close to my face and touch my nose with his paw as if to say, “Please make the lambs stop screaming. Please?”

I read last night that you’re supposed to take away a baby’s pacifier at 4 months. Well, we missed that window of opportunity. (We read that they help with SIDs, so we left it in. Conflicting reports, as usual.) I’m having trouble deciding what to focus on first. Do I let him cry it out for sleep with the pacifier, which will be easier to deal with. Do I take the pacifier away and then let him cry it out later whenever he’s over the pacifier? Or do I do it all at once? If it’s the last option, I am going to need either a whole lot of booze or a whole lot of antidepressants.

The more I read about how to nurture (or train) a baby, the more I think that sometimes this educated woman/mother thing causes more of a headache than it helps. I am convinced that’s how mothers who are cruel to other mothers get to be that way. (i.e. When career-oriented women become mothers, they tend to educate themselves to the point of judgment. Suddenly, there are no longer raises or bonuses, bosses or coworkers telling them what a great job they’re doing, so they have to convince everyone and themselves how awesome they are on their own usually at someone else’s expense. This can take the form of a three-way call where one mother calls another mother while a third remains silent on the line and the called mother tells the instigator how horrible a mother the silent mother is.)

But I digress.

I realize that I will have to let him cry it out (and soon) because he needs to learn how to sooth himself but when I combine it with all the other things I’m supposed to do (or have done), I start to feel a little overwhelmed.

Please Help

mihow — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 22:34:00 +0000

The Mayor of Randolph, Iowa has offered a 5 dollar bounty for any feral cat that is brought to him alive. An action I find mindblowlingly deplorable. Why not take every five dollar bounty and pay someone to come and do this properly and humanely?

Please join Murray and me and write to the Mayor of Iowa. Let him know that this is a terrible idea.

107 S Main St Randolph, Iowa, 51649

712-625-2601

~~randolphcity@iowatelecom.net~~ DOES NOT WORK (?)

Mayor: Vance Trively

Even if you are (what CNN so irresponsibly refers to as) a “cat hater” then pretend this is about dogs, hippos, whatever the crap. Members of a community cannot take matters such as this into their own hands. I can’t even imagine what kind of abuse these cats are going to experience, let alone what they could do to the kids looking to make some money.

Please see this link to send a letter via Alley Cat Allies.

Mihow » cats

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