Tuesday, November 21, 2006

more cat tales

Riley died on a Wednesday and only a week before Christmas, so accordingly, what with the drowning of my sorrows and the freely flowing Yuletide cheer, I went to our work Christmas function the following Friday and got utterly and completely maggotted. I don't think I've ever been so drunk and capable of standing.

Given that I'm a very cheap drunk on any day, and given that it generally takes only one or two shots for me to start wearing my wobbly boots, this day, my goodness. It started out at a (very liquid) luncheon at a restaurant in the city, progressed to a pool hall down the road where the boss declared an open bar, and then we all staggered back to this house and sat on the balcony drinking fig martinis until well after the sun set. I'm not sure how the others fared, but my last memory is of emptying the contents of my stomach into the gutter outside the boss's front door, and then being put into a cab with a pat on the head, a cabcharge docket in my hand, and the cabbie, with a wave of my boss's hand, being given the vague direction of 'take her that way'.

Even in retrospect, I only vaguely remember being asked if I wanted a new kitten. I don't remember answering at all, so apparently my eyes rolling backwards and passing out on the front lawn is the universal sign for yes please because, come Monday morning, I was presented with the most uncolour coordinated kitten I'd ever seen, squawling at me from inside a cage.

I was all 'NOOOOOOOO!!' and the kitten wrangler was all 'oops', and then I spent ages convincing another workmate to convince her elderly and lonely mother to adopt the kitten instead, which although it took time and a lot of cajoling, she did, which would have been awesome if when she came back to my office to take the kitten off my hands, I didn't reneg on the contract and effectively steal the kitten from the lovingly open arms of a dear little old lady.

I called her Hollie, it being Christmas and all, and that, as they say in the movies, was that.

Unlike her three (THREE!) predecessors, Hollie made it past her second birthday and is, in fact....I don't rightly know how old she is now. Nine or ten, I think. I never counted with her because, given the ridiculous history of cats dropping dead, I didn't think I needed to.

Daniel loves her to bits, but doesn't quite know what to do with her when he sees her, so in between gaping at her in wide eyed wonder, he squeals. Hollie too, is so good with Daniel, and puts up with his adoration and little grabby hands with the kind of patience one would never expect to see in a cat. I'm always, always right there though, because she is, after all, a huntress, and shouldn't be expected to not think he's a giant mouse with alopecia. She's accepted him with grace, especially since she used to be my princess and now she's kind of considered to be a smelly, hair shedding thing that I love very dearly but would like to shave because, jiminy crickets, enough with the fur!!

In other news, Daniel bit me on the weekend. Hard. He even broke the skin and left bruises in the shape of teethmarks on my chest. We were at a party and he'd been sitting on my hip while I was talking to my girlfriend, when he leaned on over and sunk his teeth in. I yelped an approximation of the f word, what with it being mixed company and all, and Daniel laughed. Now he thinks it was a great trick so he keeps going the chomp again, and I'm all jittery and nervous with the anticipation of more bits of me being chewed off and spat out on the ground. How do I stop this? Biting children are annoying little fucks and besides, I don't wish to end up looking like I've been gnawed on by rats. Also, my nerves. Oy.

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