Ramble, babble or rant - you decide.
I have to conclude that cat people are crazy. Okay, I'm a cat person - I live alone with two of them. One day soon, I'll really start collecting them and I'll end up on the news or something. Hey, everyone needs a goal. But some cat people are a cog or two short of a wheel. (Whisker short of a kitten? Fin short of a tuna? Tuna short of a school? Something, anyway.) I posted something several months ago someplace else about the kitten - something along the lines of "What the hell was I thinking?!?!" I updated this post in the last couple of weeks ago with a new listing of the things that the demon has destroyed, and then I goofed. Totally blew it. I mentioned in one post that I intended to have her declawed in the front and (oh, the horror!!) I feed Sophia Purina One. Wow, did the fur fly!
I should be drug into the street and shot. I shall rot in hell for all eternity for being house-proud. I'm putting my furnishings, my clothing and my flesh above my sacred cat's happiness and well-being. AND, I'm trying to poison the other one while I'm at it. If I loved my cats, they would be invited to shred anything that was in reach of their unmolested little daggers, and I would spend my days dicing up mice and endangered songbirds for them to nibble on, while they sipped from bowls of freshly melted Antarctic glacier. Sure.
Okay, people. Lookie over here at the shiny light. See it? It's called reality. I know it hurts, but let's look into the light for a moment, shall we? Sophia is declawed in the front. She came from the shelter that way. Her little nose has a bloody scab on it now from the hellspawn swatting her, daggers extended. That beast's claws ARE coming out. The fact that Peanut spends her days jumping up the walls and shredding the paint and wallpaper enforce that this is the right decision. I rent. I have a security deposit that, greedy wench that I am, I'd really like to see again. Deal with it.
On to the poisoning. I've had Sophia for three years now. She's been on Purina One (hairball formula!) since the day she came in. The vet says she's in perfect health. And, she won't eat canned food. Or organic free range protein enhanced this-is-really-meat-honest-we-swear cat pellets. And she drinks mostly from the bathroom faucet, so she won't be ingesting too much of that flower water I would buy, if I were a good petparent. She and the kitten both drink the water in the saucers after I water my plants - dirt, dead leaves and all - so don't try to guilt me into buying spring water for them either.
Maybe I'm being unnecessarily bitchy here, but if you spend that much money on "essentials" for your "furbabies" (a word I personally loathe) and that much time, I am going regard you with a look very similar to the one I usually reserve for fat old men in shiny red convertables. Get a life. I may be bursting a bubble or two here, but your cat is not your child. If you die in your home, they'd better find you fast 'cause cats survive, and they're pretty unsentimental about it.
Speaking of free range, wild animals, if you have a chance, you should really try to watch Hogzilla. Believe it or not, it's a National Geographic Explorer. I can only assume that NG has been bought out by the Weekly World News. But, I think one of the best job titles ever is "Feral Hog Expert." How does one become an expert in this? Can there be enough need for this expertise (hard won, I'm assuming) to sustain life?