Robust McManlyPants on Average Display

I sleep on my stomach. I awoke at one point very early this morning to find that Didi & Gogo were sitting on my butt – square in the middle – wrestling each other. I peeked over one shoulder and there they were. They noticed me looking at them, paused briefly to stare at me, then went back to wrestling.

Kittens are so weird.

Also, I am never reading Penny Arcade late at night again. Last night I dreamt that Patrick Swayze was conned into marrying a morbidly obese midget. The Boyf and I had to make the case to free him from this unwilling matrimony.

OK, so kittens? Kittens have energy. Also, they eat. They eat all the time. They eat whole bowls of food in a day. They eat more than grown cats. They eat more than Bruce did, and Bruce was 14.5 pounds of solid muscle. I am so glad they like cat food because if they didn’t I might wake up without a foot one morning.

Also, kittens like to do laps around the room, on the walls, on the ceiling, wherever they can. At first I thought I wasn’t paying them enough attention so I would try to engage them during these frenzied relay races – imagine the sound of galloping horses on the stairs as two, 2 lb. kittens race each other up and down them – and then I realized that no, really, it’s not me. It’s them. They’re kittens, and this is how kittens roll: on top of each other, on any available surface whether flat or slanted.

They are so awesome, it makes me turn to jello. A little mewing and some purrs and I am like puddy in their hands.

In non-kitten news, what’s up with everybody thinking Jon Stewart blew it at the Oscars? That “heterosexuality in westerns” montage was fucking brill, and the best supporting actress campaign ads were equally hilarious. Funniest Oscars in a while, if you ask me. Yeah, he was nervous. It was the fucking Oscars. Jesus H. in a thong.

Oh, but back to kittens. Bascha and Katastrophes (and Mr. Pink Eyes and Push-Up Joe) were over on Saturday, and pictures were taken. Links: Bascha’s pictures, Katastrophes’ pictures.

Gods, I need a nap.

We had many contenders (Tuck & Zip, Statler & Waldorf, Jake & Elwood), but the winners are:

Vladimir & Estragon

As the characters in the play are sometimes called Didi and Gogo, they shall go by those, as well, among many other names, many of them perhaps cuss words.

The thing is, we haven’t decided which is Vladimir and which is Estragon. So, there’s that.

The new kittens are here, and I’ve already dragged out the camera.

They are ridiculously cute. They hated the car ride back home across Durham, and not even gentle Antarctica could soothe the savage beasts, but now they are purring and playful and sleepy and not trying to remove The Boyf’s hands.

UPDATE: I posted more pictures, just FYI, in that same gallery.

We pick them up Thursday morning.

I will post pictures sometime that day.

Cat-blogging to resume as usual.

AW YEAH.

Yes, an update to the update. We have our 2nd interview with Independent Animal Rescue on Monday. The kittens may be ours as soon as a week or two weeks or four weeks from now, depending on when we have the house kitten-proofed.

WHEE! *does a happy dance*

KITTENS!

They are the kittens of the mind, not yet actualized. Should they be engaged, they would of course become kinetic kittens, rampaging around our house. We went to meet them tonight. Decisions & announcements (if such are appropriate) forthcoming.

UPDATE: I sent an email to the foster mom this morning letting her know that we want them. I don’t know if they’re definitely ours or not – eggs, chickens, hatching, etc. – but let’s go ahead and say that The Boyf and I might need help coming up with names for them.

In the last one, the black cat sitting next to me – like, feet against my legs, curled up halfway on me, at one point climbing into my lap and all over me style “next to me” – is the foster mom’s cat Riley. Riley was dubbed The Ambassador as soon as he ran over to greet us. Riley was all kinds of friendly. I wish we could have stolen him. Heh.

I am, apparently, a glutton for punishment and thus I have started hitting the websites for various local animal rescues. It still hurts a little to look at the pictures of cats and hear their stories and wonder what Bruce might have been like ten years from now, or to think of how that little summary of him on the Orange County APS website was so accurate but so failed to capture his full personality. Still, it’s been a month, and in another month or six weeks we may really be looking, and so I figure it’s time to put at least a toe back in the water if for no other reason than to begin to build a thicker skin.

The thing is, every cat has apparently cured cancer. Their biographies are like the back-of-the-napkin draft for any Lifetime special. Allow me to present you with an only slightly satirical sample:

Madam Sniffles was found in a cat carrier left in the parking lot of an abandoned whorehouse. An explanatory note attached to the handle indicated her owner was dying of cancer in a state mental facility and would no longer be able to care for her. Though shy at first, much love and attention have allowed her to blossom into a perfect little princess. She is eager to sit in your lap and “make biscuits.” In the company of other cats, she likes to run and play. In her spare time, she has developed a malaria vaccine, the patent to which she has donated to the United Nations for use in Africa. Despite being only three months old and slightly underweight, in 1999 she saved President Clinton from a little-known attempt on his life by space-ninjas. She has a Ph.D. in 19th century British Literature, and she was the blue-ribbon winner in the NC State Fair’s crochet competition for eight years in a row. Despite being abused by Marxist rebels and blinded in both eyes during the daring rescue of a small child being held captive by an unregistered sex offender, she has learned to love again in her foster home.

She would prefer a family without dogs or small children.

Won’t you give her a forever home?

I mean, Jesus H. in a bad toupee, these animal rescue people are really good at making you want to adopt an animal.

So, here is my question: what Triangle-area animal rescues should I be looking at to further emotionally flog myself? Any rescues with which you have personal experience, or about which you’ve heard good things (or bad things – warnings are also very welcome) or where you just really like to go to look at pictures of kittens would be welcome additions to the comments section.

Today my entire body is sore. I woke up feeling like my spine had fused into one long rod jammed under my skin. I have spent the last three days with my whole body as tense as a clenched fist. I’ve taken some Advil, I’ve stood under a blazing hot shower on the massage setting, and I’ve laid on the couch.

Bruce was diagnosed with metastisized lymphoma on Thursday; there were tumors in each kidney, his intestines and several lymph nodes. With chemo, they said, he would live a couple of months but it was impossible to cure and he would be in tremendous pain. Without treatment, he had at most a few days.

The veterinarian came out to the house on Friday evening and, in the back yard he loved so much, helped him not have to suffer like that.

I have cried until my skull ached. I have cried until I could no longer speak. I completely lost my shit when the doctor got here Friday, and then I cried so hard and so long that I haven’t had to cry since.

Friday night some friends came over. They distracted us. They made us laugh. They asked how the day had gone. We spent the day laying in the living room floor letting Bruce climb around on us, lounge against us, purr to his heart’s content.

There are people and animals for whom I would have given anything to have one more day. With Bruce, I got to have one more day. It made a big difference.

And today, I hurt like there is no tomorrow. I hurt like I hurt after my worst car accident – every muscle stiff, every joint popping anytime I move. I have curled up in front of DragonQuest VIII and played it and played it and played it. I am probably 1/3 or 1/2 of the way through what’s theoretically a 60-hour game. I’ve been playing it for less than 2 days.

The thing that sort of shocks me, and sort of doesn’t, is how like losing a human this has been, only scaled down. I have thought I saw him out the corner of my eye. I have thought I heard him. I have wondered whether this is all some big mistake and they’re going to bring him back and everything will be OK. I have done laundry and noticed that the irises are already putting up green sprouts along the back of the flower bed where he liked to play. I have suffered tremendous emotional upheaval and I have started to realize that life goes on whether I like it or not. With people, this is a process that takes weeks (for me, anyway). With Bruce, it’s taken days. I’m not over it, but I can sense myself starting to process it and that, itself, is a comfort.

So anyway, that’s the deal. I’m going to leave his gallery up for now, though I’m thinking of closing it and keeping it private. I don’t know. I just don’t know.

In the meantime, raise a glass or a mug or a smoke if you’ve got one in memory of Bruce Banner, aka Bruce, aka Brucy-Bruce, aka PurrMonster, aka PurrMachine, aka Buddy, aka Kid, aka The Hulk. I miss him terribly, but as Bascha said to me on the phone Thursday night, this is the price we pay for so much love from something so small.

I wouldn’t trade a day of having him in my life, not even to avoid feeling like this.

Two new pics of Bruce, taken about 5 minutes ago.  Recently I
cleared out some space on the shelf of my computer desk, and tonight
Bruce discovered he fit quite nicely there:
[[image:brucedesk00.jpg::center:0]]

[[image:brucedesk01.jpg::center:0]]

I think he’s trying to tell me it’s time to go to sleep.  Because it is. (more…)

So, I put my state tax refund hard to work yesterday by picking up a
new camera – the HP R707.  It’s one sweet little dealio, let me
tell you.  It has all kinds of buttons to mash.  I like
buttons!

Below are my trial runs with various settings.  Bruce is my
patient subject, particularly when already mostly asleep in the middle
of the living room floor.
[[image:bruce.jpg::center:0]]

On this one I turned up the color saturation to see what would happen, and it gave him freaky eyes:

[[image:bruceeyes.jpg::center:0]]

On this one I wanted to play with the white levels, so it came out greyish.

[[image:brucenaps.jpg::center:0]]

[[image:brucesepia.jpg::center:0]]

[[image:brucesepia2.jpg::center:0]]

The camera has a “sunset” option which front-loads all the settings to
emphasize softer edges and yellows & oranges present in the
existing color balance.  It makes him look like he’s swimming in a
tropical cocktail.

[[image:brucesunset.jpg::center:0]]

Eventually, he got tired of me and his eyes said it all.  Namely,
they said, “Two words:  Social Services.  Don’t think I won’t
call them.  I’m going blind here.”

[[image:brucewary.jpg::center:0]] (more…)

Bruce:  It’s What’s For Dinner
[[image:brucetable.jpg:Bruce Atop a Placemat:center:0]]

(That fine, fine example of late-night, flashless photography is Bruce hogging a placemat at our kitchen table.) (more…)

Slashdot reports that Allerca is now taking pre-orders for the first genetically-engineered, hypo-allergenic cats.

I don’t know why I think they’ll be mad as hell, but it’s funny to
contemplate, isn’t it?  A cat scratching the face off an allergic
person who then consoles themselves with the thought that at least they
can still breath without congestion? (more…)

Two recent pictures of Bruce as he chilled on the kitty shelf.

[[image:bruce.jpg:Bruce on the Shelf:center:0]]

[[image:bruce0.jpg:Bruce Tires of the Attention:center:0]] (more…)

Last night, it being the middle of the month and all, and Bruce seeming
particularly agreeable as he had wallowed in my lap while I scratched
his ears, I decided to give him his monthly flea/tick treatment.

This is something to which he has always, every month since I’ve had him, acquiesced with grace. 

Oh, but not last night.

So after a while chasing him around, having gotten half the concoction
onto him but not all, I gave up and let him sulk for a while.  I
did eventually get the rest of it on him, but in the meantime he took
up various positions of blistering resentment, sitting in various
places where he was prominently on display, his back to me, squinting
hate with every glance.

I figured I could just enjoy Fiddler’s Green‘s
incredibly yummy chicken alfredo while Bruce pouted all he
wanted.  As I did so, with Bruce at the far end of the kitchen,
back turned to us, staring at the floor, Mr. Saturday asked, “Can any cat sulk more prominently?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

“Oh yes.” (more…)