Monthly Archives: February 2012

My Cat is an Alien.

I’ve been curious about Wispy’s peculiar markings ever since they began to come in (he was pure white when we got him), so the other day I did a little research, and lo and behold! we have ourselves a genuine Oriental Shorthair Siamese-style cat, or something.  There are a bunch of names floating around for what he is, the most common being flamepoint Siamese, though of course there’s a big difference between what the crazy show-cat people and the yeah-whatever-it’s-just-a-cat cat people say around what you may or may not call a cat of Wispy’s free-love parentage.  After reading about the “breed” personality traits and looking at countless lookalike photos of fellow mutt-cats, Marble Mable + anonymous Siamese-style dad = Wispy = flamepoint Siamese.

Exhibit 1: Wispy and Wispy

Exhibit 2: Spot the Siamese! (hint: it’s not Bob)

Here’s what I think of all that.  Look at Maine coon cats.  The Maine coon cat bred itself.  I bet there are a lot of people out there who wish they could take credit because Maine coons are really amazing cats, and they breed the hell out of them now, but the Maine coon is a landrace – it developed naturally out in the wilds, adapting over generations to its particular environment.

Maine Coon Cat

So here’s the important question. Do you think there’s a woods out there with a bunch of Wispies running around in packs?  Because that would be awesome.  Or … oh my god … could the Wispies have come from … SOMEWHERE ELSE …?   I’m thinking that Rocky’s “barn cat” was strategically placed in our family, by some Wispy mothership currently in cloaking mode in orbit around the moon.  The Wispies on Earth are reporting telepathically – or, oh god, using our own technology while we sleep! – to the Wispies in Space, comparing notes on crazy show-cat people versus yeah-whatever cat people, and other choice bits of information, like how the humans feed their cats poultry by-products from tin cans.  They’re planning something.  The Wispies are coming. GOOD GOD, THE WISPIES ARE COMING.

P.S.

Bob survived. I couldn’t believe it, but he recovered. Nine lives? Pshaw. Try twenty-nine.

Blue’s Walk on the Wild Side, or, Taxidermy! It’s Not Just For Deers’ Heads!

These are gerbils.  They are brothers – you can tell by the way they’re chewing corrugated cardboard together.  My brother and I chewed together like that, too, when we lived together.

This is a gerbil with an intelligent look.  This gerbil is having a conversation with you, probably telling you where he went to college.

This is a gerbil playing the trombone.

Don’t forget these images; they’ll be important further along in the post. They are totally not just some random weird gerbil images that came up when I googled “gerbil images”.

And now I’m getting to the point.

This is a dead gerbil.

See how it’s on its back, not moving?

Sadly, Rocky’s gerbil Creamy died today.  Considering that I deeply respect the divinity of all living things, and someday Ry might discover this post and hate me for it, I really shouldn’t be making it into a joke.

 

This is Creamy’s brother, Fluffy.

To be honest, this is a totally random gerbil image that I googled.  Fluffy has pink eyes and back legs that don’t work any more, so he pulls himself all over the cage with his front legs and sort of flops over into their nest now instead of climbing, my point being that Creamy’s demise was not entirely unexpected, since these gerbils are like 150 years old.  In gerbil years, you know.

Did I mention that Fluffy is crying?  He is lonely now.

So I had this idea.

Dramatic pause.

I had this idea, since despite the entirely inappropriate tone of this post I actually do care about Fluffy freaking out about being alone, that I would skin his brother and use his pelt to make a new Creamy to put in the cage with him.

If you know me well, you know I’m not necessarily kidding.  And if you don’t know me well, you probably don’t want to now.

A little background: I have family members who regularly shoot, skin and eat things like squirrels and moose.  This is important, and you need to remember this, because I want to be all woodsy and tough like that too. Add that to my uber-right-brain superhuman creativity and you’ve got yerself a loose canon who thinks she can taxidermy a gerbil.

Actually, this is where I got the idea:

See the little piggies?  Their mommy tiger loves them.  It doesn’t matter that there’s probably ninety pounds of bacon lying on top of her.  They’re wrapped in baby tiger skins, so it’s all good.

What do you mean, I’ll traumatize Rocky?  What could be more comforting than knowing that your mother skinned your pet gerbil, wrapped the fur around a rock or something and put it back in the cage?

(Note: Snopes says these are just tiger outifts, and that this tiger was herself nursed by a sow, making her friendly with piglets, and the idea that these are baby tiger skins is false; they live in sort of really bizarre Thai zoo that does random shit like this with tigers – but I didn’t know that before I had my big idea, and it doesn’t fit with this story, so ignore this run-on sentence.)

I had this idea that I’d search “taxidermy gerbil” for how-to tips, or if there’s no one out there sick enough to do something like that, I’d just look up “how to skin a squirrel” – close enough.  Then I’d get out my best knife, shut my eyes and just fucking do it.   Most importantly, Fluffy would then have something that smells like Creamy to snuggle with at night and he wouldn’t be lonely. I was absolutely sure of this.  A secondhand effect would be that I would then post about it on my blog, and just sound totally natural about it, like I skin small rodents every day, and you’d think damn, she’s all woodsy and badass!  If she can skin a gerbil, she probably skins fucking tigers.  Or baby tigers.

Hahahahahahaha!  Good one.

Instead, I made this:



It’s a rag.

But you have to admit it has the spirit of a gerbil.

 

I rubbed it all over Creamy’s little dead body to get his smell on it, and I put it in the gerbils’ nest.

Then we gave Creamy a proper burial in the back yard, skin and all, and I cried.

When we came back in I checked on Fluffy.  He was attacking the rag.  I took it out.  He curled up in his nest and went to sleep, like, “Whatever”.

 

Epilogue

Are you genuinely grossed out and disturbed that I seriously considered skinning and stuffing Rocky’s pet gerbil?  I am too.  But I really was worried about Fluffy getting depressed.  I can’t stand seeing animals all scared and confused, or seeing them suffer.  I’ll go to great lengths to help them.  Rocky had a baby goldfish named Pocket, and when I found out goldfish are anxious without friends, I insisted on buying not just a friend, but a thirty gallon tank and like $50 worth of plants since according to my research they also need lots of space in order to be healthy. And one time my friend in Austin, Linda,  was babysitting Rocky’s polliwogs while we were out of town, and the polliwogs all died, and she buried them in her potted plant and put eight tiny handmade crosses over them, and I totally would have done the same thing.  And then one time Sunny mortally wounded a possum, and it was suffering so I put it in a bag and ran it over with my car.  Dude, I am KIND.

This is a litter of gerbil babies.  Gah, that is so gross.