Tag Archives: Cats

Five signs your dog is on crack cocaine

I came home today and realized that Leon, my blue heeler/lab-type dog is probably on drugs. How do I know this?

Leon Russell in the snow

Don't let that sweet-boy look fool you. He's doing crack cocaine, and you can't tell me otherwise.

He’s pretty subtle about it, but with my trained journalistic mind, I’ve got it figured out from these five telltale signs.

5. He doesn’t eat his food until the next day. I know that usage of crack cocaine makes people less hungry. I always fill his bowl up, then he stares at it for a minute and goes back to the couch. He eats it while I’m at work, or is possibly selling it for more crack.

4. He thinks the squirrels are after him. He demands to go chase the squirrels off of the back fence, fiendishly whimpering out the back door, then taking off like a shot to rid the yard of squirrels. Either the squirrels are with the DEA, or they’re selling bad shit. Or the paranoia is making him crazy.

3. He steals. I’m sure of it. I know for a FACT that Percy, my male tuxedo cat, has a meth lab in the garage, so why is it out of the realm of possibility that Leon steal money out of my purse? I never have any cash. Who else would do it? I know I didn’t spend it all on Diet Coke and Taco Bueno.

2. He’s moody. I get home from work, and he freaks the fuck out for like 10 minutes, licking and spinning, then retreats to his spot on the couch. I know I’m boring, but does the excitement wear off that quickly?

1. He needs to “go outside” at odd hours of the night. After I’ve taken my bedtime sleepy medicine (thank you, makers of Tylenol PM,) and my senses are dulled thanks to its liver-damaging powers, he immediately scampers to the back door, demanding to be let out. I know there aren’t squirrels out that late (unless they’re covert squirrels… curiouser and curiouser…) and even the mention of the phrase “go outside” makes him slobber a little. Pavlov’s dog, my ass. Pavlov’s crack addict is more like it.

I don’t know what to do about this. Do you think they “Dog Intervention” would be a good show for A&E? And if you take this idea and run for it, I’ll turn my crack-addled dog and meth-making cat on you.

Oh, the carnage. There will be blood.

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It’s the end of the Blizz as we know it

… and I feel FINE. Beyond fine, really. Drove home tonight after spending the night in the Hyatt Regency in downtown Tulsa due to the Winter Storm of Impending DOOOOOOM :O

The morning came too quickly after too many Stella Artois, but who’s counting? I was drinking on a weeknight! I am naughty!

I walked to work this morning in the blizzard. It was probably the coldest morning I’ve felt ever, but I didn’t really feel it because I was jacked up on coffee and eggs. We had breakfast at the hotel’s restaurant and I must’ve had me about 15 cups of coffee. I make my own coffee every morning, and it’s strong enough to skin a mule, so I don’t have to drink much. And there isn’t a guy bringing me more (I MUST work on that). I was in caffeine buzz heaven and I got a lot of shit done early.

It was fun getting out of my well-worn comfort zone. My former roommate, the Ex-Gay Husband, came by in the middle of the night to let Leon out to Do His Thang. That meant I didn’t come home to shitpiles! Hurrah! Despite my near-psychosis about leaving Leon alone, it all worked out. The cats did construct and detonate an atom bomb, but that’s not important right now.

I’m really stupid tired. But it’s a beautiful night here in T-Town. The sun shined for a few hours, though it’s colder than Billy Blue Blazes, as my mom used to say, but it’s nice to be home. I’m going to settle in with some somewhat homemade food, “Breaking Bad: Season 2” and my dog. Probably a few cats, too, though I don’t want them to watch “Breaking Bad.” I’m pretty sure Percy has his own meth lab in a shady corner of my garage. I started believing more today when I got home and there were several sets of tiny kitten tracks in the snow leading to my garage. My cats don’t go out — you tell me what’s going on.

I think life will start getting back to normal, so be prepared to read more posts borne out of boredom. They’ll probably be more structured, and contain more somewhat-real stories about my family, such as my brother-in-law Justin who adores Little People.

Peace out for tonight, homeslices, and stay warm, unless you’re in Florida (I’m talking to YOU, Natalie.) You guys can get sunburned for all I care. Motherbitches.

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Chips Ahoy!: Superior to everything.

Dare I say that no one reviews already-deemed awesome foods enough?

I dare, alright, and I’m just gonna throw this one out there: You hipsters with your fancy “artisan” cookies, I think Chips Ahoy! is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

I realize that Gwen Stefani song is old, but it applies, so backthefuckoff.

Yes, I’m snowed in still, and on a whim, in my dizzying trip to the grocery store mid-cabin fever, when I didn’t have a list but was shopping using only me Id, I bought a sleeve of Chips Ahoy! (exclamation point INTENDED!) and ate them over three days.

Normally, I probably wouldn’t blog extoll-house-ing the virtues of cookies, but dammit if they didn’t get me through the rough parts of this storm. Yesterday, during Clean Fest 2011 (see this blog) I survived on Chips Ahoy! and leftover pizza.

I think I might’ve even lost some weight over this snow-in, so therefore, Chips Ahoy! are good for diets.

Don’t tell my Weight Watchers group leader I wrote this. She’d shit. Literally. And I don’t want to see that again.

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I sing Melissa Manchester to my cats

Welcome to Garish Chicken, just lay your coats on the guest-room bed.

And speaking of guest rooms, I’ve got one now, thanks to 16.9 inches of snow that fell on lovely Oklahoma this week. It fell Monday night into Tuesday morning, then again Friday, and I’ve left my house for 1 hour since. And I want that hour back. It was horrifying.

Oklahomans, like Texans and Floridians, and I’m assuming Lousiana-oins and Bhutanese, don’t know how to drive in snow. And our plows can’t even find it, though it’s fucking everywhere. The hour I was out, the plows were out with their giant shovel things aimed in the air, like that’s going to do anyone any amount of good.

Every morning since, Leon (my heeler mix dog named after 70s rock star and Oklahoman Leon Russell… more on that later) goes to the sliding glass door and sighs. I swear to Christ my dog sighs. He’s having squirrel withdrawals.

My cats are probably sick of me (Percy and Penny, no relation) but I’m trying to keep them entertained. They went into complete panic yesterday when I started reorganizing the house. You see, for the first time since I’ve owned this place, it’s only me and my herd of pets who live here. For five years, my gay husband lived with me, then for nearly two, my brother lived here. My gay husband got gay married in Iowa (IOWA!) and my brother went back to college to become a strength coach.

So here I am, in my home, a newly abandoned room ready to have my shit populate it. It’s a three-bedroom house, with me having the master (say it like Vincent Price) bedroom, my cats having the Room Formerly Known as the Guest Room, and the Other Room.

Yesterday I moved the spare bed into the New Guest Room formerly the Other Room, and turned the Cats/RFKATGR into a “Music/Cats Room.” I really wish it was a “Musical Cats Room,” but A) I haven’t purchased any tiny musical instruments, and B) I suspect my cats might be talentless hacks.

Regardless, I like to shower them with pop culture, in case they do become celebrities later and they go on talk shows and need to be well-read. So yesterday, when I’d coaxed them out from behind various pieces of furniture after I’d run both the vacuum AND the spot cleaner, I fed them Special Food. That gets their motor hummin’, lemme tell ya.

So I fed them a pouch  o’ Friskies, the whole time singing “You Should Hear How She Talks About You” by Melissa Manchester and dancing. My dog also watched all this.

I’d like to say I am aware of my psychosis, but I hold down two jobs and appear to be somewhat responsible, so I just ignore it, like that black mold that’s growing in my linen closet.

The cats rolled their eyes, perhaps from my singing, perhaps from the sheer pleasure of the pouch-O’ Friskies. I let Leon lick the inside of the pouch, like every day, because my mother let me lick the beaters and that’s just how it works around here.

I’m hoping the streets are clear enough soon that I can go back to work and quit creating blogs about peacocks. But I think I like this one, and I paid $17 for the domain name (like anyone else would want it) so now I’m stuck with it.

Please read me. Maybe I’ll eventually sell some ads and get the real  Melissa Manchester to come sing for my cats. She can’t be too expensive, right? Wait, is she still alive? (brief Google session) Yes, she is alive. I don’t have to “Cry Out Loud.”

I apologize for that last sentence.

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