Naughty or Nice Cats?

My name is Midnight.  I am the kitten the Kiem's rescued from their tree this summer.  Angie has been busy getting things in order for Christmas.  She is allowing me to write a blog post for her.

Things seem to be hectic here.  Doug took off to work and the house blew up.  Not literally.  Robby's room is full of green containers from the attic.  Wonderful things have been pulled out of the boxes.  Things with long shiny strings and tinkling bells.  Brizzy and I have been busy batting these things around and hiding them in hard to reach places.

Angie brought in the best play toy ever.  A real eight foot tree!  Then she put some of those shiny strings and tinkling bells on it.  There are colorful swaying things too.  Brizzy and I love to take running jumps at these play toys.  It makes turns Angie's face red and she scolds us.

So, us three cats had a meeting.  Since Bo thinks he is too sophisticated  to play, we designated him the look out.  Brizzy and I were having the time of our life jumping and swatting all the shiny things on the tree.  Then disaster struck.  Bo sold us out.  When he heard Angie coming, he rolled over and licked his butt.  We were caught with angels and santas in our mouths.  I got scared and ran under the bed.  But Brizzy, well, she's not too bright.  She kept on jumping and swatting at the tree.  That got her a slap on the rump.  I don't understand.  Angie brought this tree in for us.  Why can't we play with it?

Sweet smells started wafting from the kitchen.  I am a good kitty and never jump on the kitchen counters.  But Brizzy has a real sweet tooth. Brizzy made sure Bo, the snitch, was snoozing in the basket up stairs.  Then she went on surveillance until Angie left the kitchen.  Once the coast was clear, Brizzy leapt on the counter and began munching on a large pan of dark gooey stuff.  It must have been pretty tasty.  Brizzy licked and chomped for a good five minutes before she was nabbed by the nape of her neck and hauled off the counter.  Angie said some words I had not heard before.

Brizzy was escorted to a place called "kitty time out."  I didn't see her until the baking was finished.  I'm not sure all that sweet forbidden goodness was worth it for Brizzy.  She has been hanging over the edge of the litter box all day. 

I know Angie loves us because she put boxes with bright paper and squiggly ribbons under the giant tree.  Brizzy and I had a tug of war with one box.  I lost.  The ribbon fell off on my side.  Then we each chose a special package to bat around and chew on.  The large packages are good for diving boards.  Bo never suspects we are perched up there waiting for him to walk by.  For a plump cat, he can jump like a NBA basketball player. 

There are new do-dads sitting all over the house.  Brizzy and I have been taking turns seeing who can bat these dainty things farther. Who ever makes the crash first wins.  Then Angie trots over, picks up the do-dad, and takes it to the kitchen.  She mumbles something about glue and tape.  Maybe that is code for award and kitty treats. 

After all this playing Brizzy was pooped out.  She is older at the ripe age of two.  She scampered upstairs to snuggle in the basket with Bo, the nark.  I sit by my favorite bird, hoping Angie will finish with her Christmas rush and play with me.

How'd You Do That?

It finally happened!  I was so excited my heart threatened to jump out of my chest.  My fingers tingled and my stomach fluttered.  The lawn mower had broken, not while I was riding it, while Doug was using it!

This blue riding lawn mower came with the house.  It has been Doug's pride and joy.  The mower purrs like a kitten for the entire six weeks Doug is home.  He leaves and Bam!  It breaks within hours of his departing the country.

It has vapor locked on me more times than my poor preschool teachers brain can count.  Doug says, "Why does it do that to you?  It never does it to me."  I turned the ignition one morning.  No click, no cough, nada, nothing.  Doug replied to my email, "It didn't do that when I was home."   Opening the shed door another morning, the tires greeted me with a deflated smile.  Doug asked , "How'd you do that?"

I do not know or pretend to understand how these things happen.  They are an act of nature.  Now nature has acted on Doug.

I was slaving away in the kitchen cooking Doug a savory dinner.  He had been mowing all day long.  I could practically hear the angel music in his head as he roared along.  Out of the blue he appeared at the window.  "I need your muscles!" he yelled.

"Me?  The 100 pound weakling?"  (Okay.  Maybe that was 20 years ago.  But I still see that person in the mirror.) 

Doug was frowning as I rushed outside.  "What's going on?"  He ignored the question and lead me to the front yard ditch.  Low and behold there sat the lawnmower.  It listed to one side looking sickly.  Come to think of it, Doug looked sickly too.  The wheel was missing!

I tried to contain myself from smiling and jumping up and down.  Tired, but failed.  "Hey, how'd you do that?" 

He ignored that question too.  "I'm going to lift the lawnmower and I want you to push the jack under it." he instructed.   (What he meant was shove the 80 pound floor jack through the sod and mud.)  Like that happened.

Plan B.  We will push it up the ditch.  He will get the trailer and we can push it up the ramp into the back.  I quickly nixed that idea.  If my muscle bound son and I could not push the mower up a slight hill, there was no way Doug and I were pushing it up any incline.  Not that Doug isn't muscular, but his muscles are 20 some years older than Robby's.

By now he was pacing and muttering.  I stood back to take a picture.  He muttered more in my direction.

Plan C.  The lug nuts were striped.  Perhaps he could secure them enough to drive the lawnmower on the trailer.  Doug climbed on, started the engine, (Not right away.  The handle sensor has a short, has for several months.  The sensor has to be manipulated with a knife before it would think of coming to life.)   He attempted to drive on and the tires spun sending grass flying into the neighboring field.  I could see determination in his face.  He spun the mower around and flew up the ramp backwards. 

"Now what?  Are we taking the blasted thing into the shop."  I asked still trying to hide my amusement.

"Tomorrow," Doug barked out.  "I must clean it up first."

Strange, but okay.  I watched from the kitchen window as Doug blew the grass off his baby.  He wiped the dirt off the exterior.  Oil was applied to the crevices.  A soft blanket was delicately attached around it so it wouldn't get too dusty on the drive to the lawn mower hospital.  It was like giving a baby a bath and tucking it in for the night.  It was an evil lawnmower.  Let bugs splatter it.

We live on a moderately busy road.  I see people checking the place out as they drive by.  There is a sense of security knowing that if I fall off the ladder or out of the apple tree someone will see and pick me up.  People have even stopped to ask my why the lawn mower is sitting idle in the middle of the yard.  (Because it died, duh!)  However; no one drove by as Doug and I attempted to rid the ditch of the possessed mower.  I could gloat with no one at the time.  So pass this on to everyone you know.  Let the word be out that the evil blue lawnmower pulled a quick one on Doug.  Finally!

Uninvited Guests

Doug thinks he's flying off to go to work tomorrow.  I've got news for him.  He's not going until he fixes the problem in the basement.

This problem started when we were preparing to leave for a trip.  We shut the water off to the house when will be gone for an extended period of time.  One never knows the cats may decide to have an inside pool party while we are away. 

Our bags were packed and loaded in the truck.  The cats were fed.  Doug had gone to the basement to shut the water off.  That's when it first happened.  Doug comes tearing up the basement steps.  He looks at me, put his hands up and firmly says, "Don't worry!  I will handle it.  Do not worry!"

"Don't worry about what?  Handle what?  What are you talking about?"

"Just don't worry," he reiterated as he sped off to the garage.  Seconds later he emerged with a bucket and a child's snow shovel.  (I know.  We do not have any small children living here now.  But some day there may be grandchildren.  Someone has to shovel snow in my old age.)  It dawned on me what I shouldn't worry about.

"Is there a gross, slimy snake in the basement?"  I hopped on the counter just in case it slithered up the basement stairs in search of my toes.

Doug ignored me and tore down the basement steps.  Minutes later he walked triumphantly in the kitchen with a snake larger than my leg coiled in the bottom of the bucket.  "Got it!" 

"Get it out!" I wailed.

After our trip Doug decided to tackle the snake problem in the basement.  His solution was to get rid of the two dingy light bulbs that didn't illuminate the corners.  He installed seven large florescent lights.  "You will be able to see now if there is a snake down there."

That was conquering the problem?  Helping me to see the snakes?  I wanted the snakes evacuated to anywhere outside away from the house.  I think he must have fallen off his lawn mower and banged his head. 

The basement is like a car dealership.  Lights blind you and every dead cricket is visible.  I stop at the bottom of the steps and peer into every corner and crevice to make sure there is not a snake stalking me.  Once the initial viewing looks snake free, I creep into the lighted cavern.  I don't forget to  inspect the timbers overhead.  It could be days before someone found me after my heart attack if a snake toppled from the rafters onto my head. 

We had not had a snake sighting in a couple of weeks.  I was feeling pretty comfortable about Doug leaving.  He was in the basement sweeping the dead crickets when my cell phone dinged alerting me to a text message.

My considerate husband had sent me a picture of him and a snake!  The caption read, "I nabbed this uninvited guest.  Must have scared him because he jumped and scrambled away.  Searching.  I love you."

And he thinks he is really leaving tomorrow.

I fixed that!  Doug is going no where until the snake is found and relocated far away from the house.  My furry four legged sentries are helping me.  

Mr. Squirrel vs. The Man

Caddyshack was a hit movie in the 1980's.  One of the stars was Bill Murray as a possessed maintenance  man of a golf course.  His Nemesis was the gopher.  He would stop at nothing to remove Mr. Gopher from the golf holes.  Doug has a similar situation on our acreage.  Mr. Squirrel has decided Doug's man-cave shed is a squirrel's cozy mansion.  It has driven Doug to madness!

Let me first say in our 13 moves we have always fed the cute bushy-tailed squirrels.  We have squandered money on squirrel food and feeders.  They have provided us hours of laughter at their antics.  Our entire family loved watching the cute rodents ride the ferris-wheel like feeder trying to stuff as much corn in their mouths before slipping to the ground.  But moving to the country has blinded Doug to the beauty of these animals. 

I noticed something was amiss when the live trap appeared beside the corner of the shed.  "Honey, what is the trap doing by the shed?'" I inquired.

A wild look came into Doug's eyes.  "There is a squirrel in my shed and he is getting dirt and grass and straw all over my workbench!"   He practically popped an artery in his neck chocking out this one sentence.

"Can't you just sweep the debris off the bench and go on with your work?"  Doug isn't prone to laziness, but he is a man.

"You don't understand.  That squirrel is up in the rafters of the shed peeing and pooping and soon the roof will be caving in on my head!"

I have been in the shed.  It had never rained poop or roofing material on my head.

Nature verses Doug was in full battle. When the trap didn't yield more than dirt, he confiscated the used cat litter and sprinkled it around the perimeter of shed.  The odor of the cat urine was supposed to disgust the squirrel and send him packing.  It must have been a cat loving squirrel.  He scurried into the shed mindless of the cat stench. 

Doug crawled like a snake around the shed searching for the squirrel entry.  He found a minuscule hole in the wood where Mr. Squirrel had chewed his way in.  I awoke to insistent banging the next morning.  Doug had gone out at predawn hours waiting for the squirrel to exit the shed.  At which time Doug began to nail every piece of scrap lumber he owned over the squirrel door. 

Next Doug stood sentry at the kitchen window, binoculars in hand.  It wasn't long before Mr. Squirrel had finished his breakfast and tried to return home for a nap.  Squirrel was not pleased to find his door barricaded.  He paced back and forth.  He stood up on his hind legs and thought.  He then preceded to chew another whole six inches away. 

Doug then tried to communicate with the squirrel in sign language.

The next plan of action for Doug was to bury cement blocks under the large shed doors.  He reinforced the inside of the doors with steel.  If the squirrel tried to get in, he was going to need some dental work.

Whistling and happy with himself Doug went to work in his man cave.  The scurry of little squirrel feet above his head stopped him in his tracks.  He didn't care how the squirrel got in.  He didn't care that I love to watch squirrel antics.  He just wanted that blank-a-dee-blank squirrel out of his space.

Doug stormed into the house and grabbed our loaf of bread.  The live cage was loaded in the shed with six pieces of bread and positioned inside the shed. 

The next morning the squirrel had a feast of bread before he was relocated to his new home up the hill.  I suppose he can be friends with Stripes.  They can reminisce about the good old days on the Kiem acreage.

Terrorist in my Bed

There is a conspiracy in my house to keep me from sleeping.  This conspiracy is spearheaded by a four pound, four-legged, furry black terrorist named Midnight.

I don't like to wake up until the sun comes up.  I am worthless without sun, so why bother?  The sun was not scheduled to wake up this morning until 7:09 a.m.  At 6:03, over a full hour before the sun appeared, the terrorist invaded my bed.

She is stealth.  There is no noise as she creeps onto my bed.  In her mouth is the weapon-a fuzzy ball.  The fuzzy ball is batted from one end of the bed to the other, over my face, and back again.  I slit one eye  open, grab the offending ball and toss it out.  A wild look comes in Midnight's eyes.  She bounds out of bed after the fuzzy ball.  My eyes close, and I start counting sheep.  Three sheep later she's back with the ball in her mouth.  Six times I toss this ball out of MY bed.  Six times she brings it back.  Now the ball is slimy. She's a dog in cat's fur!

I decide the best course of action is to ignore her.  This cat/dog is smart.  She's onto me. The larger red ball with bells is the next weapon of wakeness.  Not only is she batting the ball over my body, it is jingling.  She may be smart, but I learn quickly.  I am not throwing this ball.  I will attempt to ignore this also.

Midnight has one last weapon in her arsenal.  The bird with a bell dangling from a foot long stick.  Wouldn't you know she carries that bird in her mouth.  She practically flies with it on the bed, the stick trailing behind her.  If you have never been awakened by a stick bouncing across your face, you are missing out.  Maybe, just maybe, I can ignore this too.  I need my rest.  Fifty has passed me and the crows are after my eyes.

It is quiet in my bed.  I snuggle under the covers.  There is a noise in the kitchen that sounds like numbers being punched in the telephone.  That's when I hear the semi bumping down the road jake breaking in front of my house.  People don't haul grain in the dark.  I'm not so concerned about Midnight dialing the telephone.  But where did she get the number to this night driver?

My resolve is almost gone.  I am thinking about getting out of bed and stumbling around in the dark.  Almost.  It is still warm and cozy in the bed.  Then the last straw hit.  Above our bed hangs a lovely double wedding ring quilt Doug's great aunt made.  There is something moving in it.  That darn mountain lion cat is climbing the quilt with her fuzzy ball firmly planted in her mouth.  Well, firmly planted until she drops the soggy thing on my face.

She wins.  I am out of bed before sunrise.  Tonight I am sleeping in a different bed with the door locked and bobby pins hidden.  You never know.  This terrorist cat my know how to use them to jimmy the door. 

Lamb Sandwiches?

My cousins could not believe I have never been to any State Fair.  When the Iowa State Fair rolled around they plunked me in the car and off we went.  The fair was amazing.  However;  some things there were so wrong!

The first thing that hit me as we pushed our way through the gates in Des Moines were the number of people.  There were young people, old people, kids high on cotton candy.  Luckily one of my cousins wore a bright colored shirt.  I would hate at 53 to show up at the lost and found booth as lost. 

                 

We strolled though the many buildings bursting with everything under the sun to buy.  Nail art, t-shirts, spas, ring cleaners, anything you could think of, and some things you could never have imagined.  I heard you could buy a cow at some point.  I didn't think it would fit in the car.  Had to nix that idea. 

While the shopping was fun, I was jumpy waiting for the best part.  The food!  I ate my usual fair food-funnel cake and hot dogs.  I love hot dogs.  (One day I am going to travel the county to all the major league baseball fields to compare hot dogs.  As of today Anaheim Angels are batting 873.)   At the Iowa State Fair there is a cookie tradition.  You purchase a bucket of warm from the oven chocolate chips cookies.  The bucket is overflowing.  One must eat and eat and eat the cookies to get the lid closed.  But why close the lid when you can eat more?  I did not throw up on the way home.  Just thought about it. 

I enjoyed gawking at all the animals.  We walked through the horse barn.  I saw the tallest, most muscular horses I have ever seen.  Their heads were inches from the top of the barn.   They were not Clydesdales.  I don't know what they were.  But if I was Scarlett O'Hara and needed to get out of Atlanta fast.  It would be on these monster horses. 

Next my cousins thought we should walk through the sheep barn.  It was there I spied something so wrong.  I had to look twice.  It was the same thing the second time.  Outside the sheep barn they were selling lamb sandwiches!  Those poor sheep inside.  What do you think they were thinking?  "Hey, am I on fire?  Is it you Isabel?  Are you on fire?"  Wrong.  So wrong. 

Then it was off the Agricultural building.  I was told there was something in there I would not  believe.  They were right!  Standing behind a glass enclosed case stood a 600 pound cow.   I know most cows weigh over 1,000 pounds.  Most cows are not made out of butter!

A butter cow has been an Iowa State Fair tradition since 1911.  The cow is 5 1/2 feet high and 8 feet long.  It is taller than me.  I now know why there are so many dairy farms in Iowa.  The State Fair needs butter.  There was also a butter sculpture of Abraham Lincoln.  Very life-like, except he was yellow. 

As my daughter commented, "Someone has too much time on their hands."  Iowans are extremely proud of their butter sculptures.  They stand in lines for close to half an hour to catch a short glimpse of their state's butter creation.   Perhaps I will buy a milking cow, make butter and sculpt a cat.

We concluded our Fair experience with the ski lift ride over the fair grounds.  I was amazed at the cluster of trailers camped on the edge of the site.  People camp for the two weeks, eat fried Twinkies on a stick, and sleep it off in their campers.  There was much more Fair I didn't see .  Next year I am taking Doug with me.  We will see it all and stand in line to view the 600 pound butter cow.  After all we Iowans are proud of our butter cow!

L.M.A.

My husband has a problem.  He needs a support group.  I have yet to locate one to help him so I am starting a group-L.M.A.- a.k.a:  Lawn Mowers Anonymous. 

Doug has always enjoyed pushing a lawn mower.  Our city lawns were well manicured.  Every week he would be toiling in the yard claiming it was his play time.  When we moved to the country he became obsessed. 

Our four and a half acres came equipped with a riding lawn mower.  Two days after moving in Doug was perched atop the mower riding around.  It was mid February.  There was snow on the ground.  That should have been a red flag warning for me. 

We have lived here a year and a half.  Doug's lawn mower activity has been strange to say the least.  One balmy spring evening Doug announced he was going to cut the grass.  That was not strange until darkness crept in and Doug kept riding.  The darkness enveloped our four and a half acres.  Still Doug kept riding.  I soaked in the bathtub and was bundled up for bed before Doug made an appearance in the house.  Not a big deal, you say, riding lawn mowers have lights.  Yes, ours does.  They do not work. 

Iowa is in the midst of a drought.   Nothing grows on our property but dust.  Doug fires up that lawn mower and mows the dirt.  He looks like Pigpen from Charlie Brown.  A cloud of dust engulfs him as he putts around the property. 

Our wind break is full of trees, some alive and some overly dead.  The weeds there grow like a body builder on steroids.  They are tall and round.  Doug is allergic to those weeds and the pine trees.  Still he whips through them laughing as they fall to the ground.  He disappears in the tress only to squeeze out between them again.  I keep track of him mowing there by following the sneezes and trail of pine needles dripping off him and the lawn mower. 

I tend to the lawn while Doug is away.  I use my trusty weed eater to trim under the trees.  Not Doug.  He fires up the push mower and attacks the undergrowth of the trees.  He pushes and pulls and sweats and grunts.  Trust me the weed eater is much easier.  Doug did not buy a self-propelled push mower. 

Ladies, I know I am not alone in my quest to rehabilitate my husband.  Let me know and we can all send our husbands to Lawn Mowers Anonymous together.  There is hope!