My animals have issues. People are starting to talk. As if the neighbours didn't already think I'm totally bonkers, my pets are a constant source of new proof. As their owner, it naturally must be my fault.
Take Max the cat. He thinks he's a dog. Nothing amuses Max more than to tag along on a drive. If he happens to be outside and hears my keys when I go to my car, he starts running and hops right in. Starting the engine would mean scraping most cats off the ceiling, but not Max. He settles on the dash, purring happily, ready for a new adventure to begin.
When I got him in the spring, I never considered we spend every weekend from May to September at the trailer. Since it probably wasn't a good idea to leave a kitten in the care of four cats who would've whooped his furry little butt, I grabbed a carrier and took him with me. Naturally, Sugah Pie wanted to hold him on her lap. He was treated to much adoration. As a result, he expects nothing but good times in the car.
The morning I took Max to the vet to be fixed, I felt like the worst kind of betrayer. He arrived at the castration site quite relaxed. Poor little bugger. Fortunately, he was quite stoned when I picked him up, so he's never associated the events. Yes, we do get more than a few strange looks. I'm certain I've heard people muttering, "Crazy Cat Lady." Oh well, I've been known to create gossip with tougher stuff than a car-cat. He's proof cats can be as easily trained as dogs if started young enough. In some cases, even easier.
Rex is a fantastic car dog. Last summer he travelled cross-country and didn't cause a single problem. In fact, he was a great companion. Naturally, I'd like Roxy to be as well accustomed to travelling as him. So far - not going well.
A few days ago, I took both dogs with me to the grocery store. It's best to train puppies in small increments so I was only inside for about ten minutes. Nine minutes too long. I returned to my car to find the interior covered in confetti. A few empty coffee cups and a Toys R Us flyer can be shredded into billions of tiny, soggy bits that take a really long time to pick up. Betcha didn't know that.
Not to be discouraged, I revised the training plan, but still took them along the next day while I ran some errands. To give her a chance to learn not to destroy everything in sight while I'm gone, I stuck to quick in and outs. Drop mail at the post office. Picked up a coffee - wisely chose the drive through window. Treated the pups to a Timbit. Good dogs. Fuel up the car. Pop into a convenience store for a loaf of bread. While I was paying, I actually thought how well it was going.
Returned to the car - no confetti or other chewed bits - I was delighted with my little dog! I praised her, "Good girl, Roxy" as I sat down. An instant later, as I wondered what happened to my take-out coffee, I realized my ass was in a cold, soaking wet seat. Ahh, what a lovely way to spend the 20 minutes it would take to drive home. After a bit of grumbling, I realized it was my own fault for leaving the coffee there....but, the little darling wasn't finished with me yet.
I decided another three minutes at the drive through was worth it and would at least allow me the coffee I'd been denied. As I was paying, I was overcome with a nasty odour that has no business in my car again until I have grandchildren. A quick glance in the back seat revealed a ripe, brown present left right on the seat!!! Pulling into the carwash next door, I was trying not to vomit and seriously contemplating dogicide.
As the cold wind blew across my soaking wet ass, I removed the pile she'd left and called that dog every dirty name I could think of. Loudly. I came up with some really creative combinations. Some guy was snickering at me. If my butt had been dry, I would've asked him WTF was up with that. Did he think I wet my own damn pants? From waist to knees???
Just thinking about it gives me a headache. Forget it. Next time I go on vacation, she's going to a kennel, like dogs owned by normal people. I'll take the cat who knows how to behave - to hell with what people think.
Take Max the cat. He thinks he's a dog. Nothing amuses Max more than to tag along on a drive. If he happens to be outside and hears my keys when I go to my car, he starts running and hops right in. Starting the engine would mean scraping most cats off the ceiling, but not Max. He settles on the dash, purring happily, ready for a new adventure to begin.
When I got him in the spring, I never considered we spend every weekend from May to September at the trailer. Since it probably wasn't a good idea to leave a kitten in the care of four cats who would've whooped his furry little butt, I grabbed a carrier and took him with me. Naturally, Sugah Pie wanted to hold him on her lap. He was treated to much adoration. As a result, he expects nothing but good times in the car.
The morning I took Max to the vet to be fixed, I felt like the worst kind of betrayer. He arrived at the castration site quite relaxed. Poor little bugger. Fortunately, he was quite stoned when I picked him up, so he's never associated the events. Yes, we do get more than a few strange looks. I'm certain I've heard people muttering, "Crazy Cat Lady." Oh well, I've been known to create gossip with tougher stuff than a car-cat. He's proof cats can be as easily trained as dogs if started young enough. In some cases, even easier.
Rex is a fantastic car dog. Last summer he travelled cross-country and didn't cause a single problem. In fact, he was a great companion. Naturally, I'd like Roxy to be as well accustomed to travelling as him. So far - not going well.
A few days ago, I took both dogs with me to the grocery store. It's best to train puppies in small increments so I was only inside for about ten minutes. Nine minutes too long. I returned to my car to find the interior covered in confetti. A few empty coffee cups and a Toys R Us flyer can be shredded into billions of tiny, soggy bits that take a really long time to pick up. Betcha didn't know that.
Not to be discouraged, I revised the training plan, but still took them along the next day while I ran some errands. To give her a chance to learn not to destroy everything in sight while I'm gone, I stuck to quick in and outs. Drop mail at the post office. Picked up a coffee - wisely chose the drive through window. Treated the pups to a Timbit. Good dogs. Fuel up the car. Pop into a convenience store for a loaf of bread. While I was paying, I actually thought how well it was going.
Returned to the car - no confetti or other chewed bits - I was delighted with my little dog! I praised her, "Good girl, Roxy" as I sat down. An instant later, as I wondered what happened to my take-out coffee, I realized my ass was in a cold, soaking wet seat. Ahh, what a lovely way to spend the 20 minutes it would take to drive home. After a bit of grumbling, I realized it was my own fault for leaving the coffee there....but, the little darling wasn't finished with me yet.
I decided another three minutes at the drive through was worth it and would at least allow me the coffee I'd been denied. As I was paying, I was overcome with a nasty odour that has no business in my car again until I have grandchildren. A quick glance in the back seat revealed a ripe, brown present left right on the seat!!! Pulling into the carwash next door, I was trying not to vomit and seriously contemplating dogicide.
As the cold wind blew across my soaking wet ass, I removed the pile she'd left and called that dog every dirty name I could think of. Loudly. I came up with some really creative combinations. Some guy was snickering at me. If my butt had been dry, I would've asked him WTF was up with that. Did he think I wet my own damn pants? From waist to knees???
Just thinking about it gives me a headache. Forget it. Next time I go on vacation, she's going to a kennel, like dogs owned by normal people. I'll take the cat who knows how to behave - to hell with what people think.
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