Loss

I'm so very sorry to inform my readers that Harold, my unconditional friend, my perpetual, longtime companion and champion of all things metrosexual cat passed away just over two weeks ago.  He became unexpectedly gravely ill and the decision--so as to end his suffering--was quickly made to put him down. Given his condition at the time, I'm confident that it was the right decision.  I was with him and held his paw, stroked his head, spoke to him and comforted him throughout the entire procedure.  

He was the best companion anyone could ever ask for for well over 15 years.  He was independent, codependent (or was that me?), whimsical, incredibly wise and in fact he had his own alter ego online known as Shabba who actually performed on live casts, and as you all know, he was also a columnist on this blog for Between The Whiskers.  Incidentally, he was also as much my caretaker, as I was his.  And he loved to spoon and run that purring motor of his.  He was also a nephew to his Uncle Chet and Aunt Maggi Rose the daschund, a grandson to my Mother, and a friend to many of my family and friends.  All of those folks have been incredibly kind to me--calls, sympathy cards and more calls--and many have expressed that they miss him already as well.  I thank you all for that and you know who you are.  Your kindness and sensitivity has meant the world to me and it brings me comfort to know that he was loved and appreciated by so many. 

   

I'd had him since he was a scrappy, scrawny, flea-infested stray kitten, with ears as big as his heart.  

As some of you may already know, he was also a fantastic companion to his brother, Lil Man.  Survival of the fittest didn't apply when it came to these two.  They loved hanging out with one another, perusing the neighborhood from the windowsill.  And so now the two are back together once again.  Or so I hope.  I had Harold cremated and for now his remains sit upon my nightstand, however soon they will join Lil Man's remains on the shelf in the living room.

I've had many, many pets in my lifetime and I have to say that out of all of them, Harold was the one that I could have easily thrown myself upon the proverbial coffin for had there been an opportunity to do so.  I'm afraid I'm short on words--organized thoughts, or proper punctuation for that matter, as words just aren't coming so easily for me--as I'm filled with grief and yet, empty, as I feel like a part of me is missing.  He was a part of me.  But most of all, he was my friend and I shall never forget all of the joy, amusement, companionship and love that he gave me and the many others who knew him and his unique personality.

This is the last photo that I took of my handsome man just a few weeks prior.  Harold, you certainly grew into those ears.  You most certainly did.  

Harold 1997-2012

And so, Goodbye, friend.  May you rest in peace.

-Harold's Mama

Rasta Kitty!

SHABBA!

Apocalypse

Meteorological Revelation Monday























*storm aftermath at jenji's house

Incidentally, I will be taking donations so that I may somehow re-install and/or rebuild Harold's lower colon and sphincter muscle, as he most certainly blew out his entire--are you fucking kidding me with this shit? ten inch ass gasket--whilst weathering this most recent batch of violent thunderstorms from beneath the safety of the television set; which frankly, isn't so much a safety zone, as it is a lightening rod.

At this point, an expensive, expansive bionic regeneration is his only option and if you're curious as to whether or not the damage applies to the feline's involuntary inner or voluntary outer sphincter, let me say this:

Does it really matter? The gaskets are blown either way.

Your generosity is greatly appreciated.

jenji

*UPDATE:
Harold has asked that I specify that he didn't literally blow out his ten inch ass gasket; it was only metaphorically blown. Therefore, there need not be so many worries about cleaning up cat shadoodle, as there was no cat shadoodle to clean up per se.

Astroglide Hypothesis

Okay, I'm not going to mince words here...

I think I'm going to have to start moisturizing and slathering my entire body with Astroglide whenever I dare breach the confines of my domicile. It's just no longer safe for me to leave the premises otherwise. Will it work? I dunno, it's a hypothesis--you tell me.

Within the past 3 weeks I have managed to get a variety of body parts--my body parts mind you--stuck into, wedged under and jammed between far too many devices and/or contraptions.

Particulars:

1. My arm wedged and stuck underneath, up and behind the flippy door of a vending machine. Oh yeah, right up to the shoulder. Full out, face pressed against the glass. legs flailing helplessly stuck.

My inner dialogue went something like this:

(clink)
"Um...oh. Oh, okay... The Dew is stuck...Eh, I can reach that...I'm so thirsty...it's just hanging...stuck...it's right there...if...I could...
(insert Kama Sutra move for one here)...just...reach ...ow. ow. OW!"
See what I should have done here




<---evidence from Vending Machine Smackdown '08

2. My entire right leg, from groin to ankle, jammed between the door and the wall of my outdoor shed. Oh right, in the middle of a March blizzard, dressed in a head to toe Christmas Story snow suit.

"Hm, the door is broke from the weight of the snow and I need that can of gasoline for the snow blower...sooooo, maybe if I pull on the door really, reallllllllyyyy hard...

(insert popping ocular blood vessels here)

-then I can wedge my leg in the door and...reach...the can...without...ow ow OW!"

reminder




<--me, but significantly more stressed out


3. My right middle finger jammed into plastic vent of Harold's cat carrier. Oh right, while driving.

Complete dialogue of jenji and her cat, Harold:

"Meow."
"Meow. Meow."

"I know Harold, you don't like the car. It's okay, you're okay."

"Meoooooww! Meeeeeooooooooooooowwww!"

"It's okay buddy, we're almost there..."

"Meowwwwwwwwwww, Meooooooooooooow! Meummurfffeowwwskkkkkkhack,"
that's cat for -bitch you better get me outta here or I'm gonna hurl-

"Okay, okay...I hear you Harold, it's okay...MEOW!...it's just the car...no worries...MEOW!
(insert finger into carrier vent for consoling rub under the ol cat chin)
...it's okay...you're...such...a...good...ouch...um...boy...ow ow OW! ...sniff...meow?"

Harold insists that he will walk to and from the vet from now on.





I concur.

So, in an effort to spare my insurance company from having to pay for any sort of future prosthesis, I will test the Astroglide Hypothesis and get back to you; one knuckle at a time.

jenji

Arachnid Inn

Current condition










Puzzled, as I don't recall extending an invitation for visitors of the eight-legged kind.

I suppose he/she just wants out of the tundra and into a warm environment, yet I hesitate to admit that it's still so chilly inside that even I tend to wear a ski hat around the house.

Surely if I exterminated her/him there would be a puddle of vanilla puddin' on the floor, yeah?

I invite you all to pick a name for my new friend.

And by friend I mean, that hairy, eight-legged, 400 eyed monster that is undeniably planning a ritualistic esanguination as I sleep.

Wait jenji, don't you have a ferocious cat whose basic instinct would incline him to snap that thing into a million pieces?

Why yes, yes I do.

In fact, here is Harold's official response to the situation:









...I know.

jenji

ask Harold

On 7/20 Sue had this question for ask Harold...

This may be personal (but not quite as personal as the grooming habit you discuss) but what is your current shedding factor? I was at the SPCA last night and was a pubic's hair away from adopting a fellow 'mate of yours until he dumped a crapload of hair on my new white capris. I don't think this is gonna be a match made in Heaven since I love to live low maintenance.
Kind Regards, Sue

Thank you kindly for your question, Sue. Please be assured that you have come to the right metro kitty to answer your query.

My current shedding factor remains quite precarious in that I have a tendency to hack up hairballs on a somewhat frequent basis. This is not to say that any kitty you may choose to adopt may do the same—in fact, my mommy has informed me that many of her past kitties have not had such hairball problems.

First, you should know that my allergy condition has predisposed me to hairball issues—so, you need not worry about hairballs as long as you buy kitty food with hairball formula to prevent such problems (dry food only).

Second, you should be aware that what some have come to call my “fanatical” baaawwwl licking actually compounds my hairball issues, yet cuts down the “shedding about the house” factor, as most of what would have been shed about the house has indeed been hacked down my throat. Occasionally, my mommy will sigh and say things like “seriously Harold, how can one cat shed so much?” as she sweeps the floor during the summer months. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have been known to shed like a wookie in the Sahara desert, but overall it’s really not much. My mother is just—well, you know…dramatic. I don’t want to even tell you what she sheds once a month—let me just say it isn’t pretty…have you seen Baby’s First Christmas? Yeah, I rest my kitty case.

Anyway, if you get a short-haired cat the shedding won’t be nearly as much as a long-haired kitty. Also, it’s a good idea to brush your kitty outside or on a patio to limit shedding and promote a healthy, shiny coat (make sure an indoor cat has a leash on so they don’t run away). Shedding about the house should be minimal if you follow these directions. In fact, I did some research on the web (despite my lack of thumbs) and found a site which may help you here. One site even went so far as to insist that "if you brush your cat, you have full control over where the fur goes." I love to be brushed, but I strongly recommend that you do not attempt to brush your kitty while he is licking his baaaawwwwls, as this will only infuriate him and ensure that he pisses on your new white capris (not a move that I would pull, as I am a pair of hot pants away from being a lady).

Most any kitty will love to be brushed as you can see if you click here.

The only other mitigating factor concerns your capris, as clearly the adoption of a kitty is all about you. Are they from Banana Republic or Ann Taylor? If they are from the latter, I hope you enjoy your new adopted kitty. If they’re from Banana, well………buy a brush and make a sincere effort to adopt a kitty that has been schooled in the fine art of baaaawwwwlll licking to minimize your problems.

Which reminds me, it’s time to get back to mine.

Good luck and good day to you.
Harold

My Memorial Day Morning

Back to the single woman living alone and "you're-screwing-up-my-evening-now-scat." (YSUMENS) *see here
On Sunday afternoon there were several baby robins wandering around and about my yard. The birds were only able to fly about two feet off the ground and appeared merely days away from being able to care for themselves. Robins are extremely doting parents and they didn't seem to mind when I would pick up a baby and shuttle it back into the play area before it was hit by a passing car or mower. They were great parents--I know this because I had been watching their ritualistic feedings throughout the spring--granted, with voyeuristic binoculars in hand (my neighbors already think I'm eccentric. Big deal). The chicks would chirp from a low perch wherein the parents would bitch and moan at each other to get the babies fed. Mom and Dad yank the worm out, fly over and drop it in the kid's face.

Rinse and repeat.

So, on Sunday/Monday morning I went to bed at around 3 a.m. Just on the brink of slumber I hear a high octave chirp outside my bedroom window. Naturally, in classic "you're-screwing-up-my-evening-now-scat" form I ignored the chirps and figured I would let nature take its course. Very Darwin, very Survival of the Fittest.

Chirp. Ignore it.
Chirp. Ignore it.
and yet again, chirp. I ignore it.

By this time I'm not looking out the window out of sheer defiance, rather than fatigue.

Then I hear these frantic high-octave chick chirps and the parents throwing a complete shit fit in my driveway.

I AM IGNORING YOU!

sigh. I just want to sleep--

--in only a few hours my neighbor will wake to obsessively vacuum his car out, followed by his predictable 8 a.m. lawn maintenance. Seriously, would it kill the fucker to sleep in just once?

Still ignoring the chirps.

Then it came. The knock at my front door at 3:30 a.m.

Oh, now it's on!

I get up, bitch and moan my way across a pitch black house and open the door.


I look down to see this staring back at me:









Okay, not exactly that...more like this...




..and no, it wasn't Harold. He's much too metro to go outdoors at night. And by that I mean that he's a pussy in every sense of the word.



It was a baby robin scared out of its mind fluttering against my door with a big ol cat lickin his chops a foot away, ready to pounce.

Let me be clear: The bird knocked on my door.

I'm just sayin' I had already handled him most of the day and now he knew to knock.

He knocked, I'm just sayin'.

Long story short, the baby robin would never survive the night with that big bad lion out there, so we had a sleep over. I put him in a spare bird cage that I had and he slept in my bathroom. Occasionally I'd hear a chirp, but overall I think he slept quite well. Harold could care less, as his bawwwwls are far too hypnotic for him to pay any attention.

The next morning I got up and well,
as I said, my Memorial Day morning went something like this:


Breakfast






"Oliver"






Mumbling Co-dependent up the tree in her jammies.








Oliver happily back in his nest.








Oliver let out a chirp that sounded like a birdy version of thank you...

Or was it...

"You dumb bitch, this ain't my nest!"

jenji

Ask Harold advises Chet from 5/27

On 5/27 Chet inquired at Ask Harold...
Hello Harold. My question is about bawwwwwwls. With the humid temperatures of summertime quickly approaching, I've considered adding a dose of talcum powder to my morning post-shower nether regions bathroom ritual. Do you think this would be beneficial?
Hello, Chet.

As I am keenly aware of each and every one of your "issues," I must warn you that to talcum powder your "nether regions," or what I so fondly refer to as my bawwwwls, would be a most unfortunate remedy for summer scrote heat.

You see, I recently overheard you telling my mother that you had aquired an "actual toothbrush that dentists use" from your dear old dad. I would venture to say that using said talc powder on one's bawwwwls would indeed leave a sooty, cakey residue that would almost certainly linger upon your tongue after a good bawwwwl washing. That would be quite the not so fresh feeling, yes? Hence, the fancy toothbrush reference.

Long story short, using talcum powder on your bawwwwwls would leave your royal, if not smug, toothbrush jammed with powdery soot and such, and ultimately break your genuine American Dental Association tool.

What I would recommend is that you open a window after each and every steamy shower--then, carefully perch your newly polished bawwwwwls upon the sill--preferably in a window that will not slam shut without warning--then, carefully air the front, sides, overhang and under hang of your privits through the naturally wafty winds of the Avenue and cremative air of your surprisingly stiff downstairs neighbor.

I often air my bawwwwwls out this way after a serious bawwwl cleaning.

**Incidentally, to fight winter bawwwl chaffing, thoroughly saturate area with Crisco Original (none of that smug crap) and then air out with a 100 watt hairdryer.

Good luck Chet, and please refrain from sending any pictures of your progress.
Harold

ASK HAROLD

Greetings.

As most of you are probably already aware, I'm Harold and my life is beyond busy.

For example, in the morning I rise at about 5 a.m. only to find that my mother is far from ready to feed , play, and/or smother me with attention in any kind of way. So, until she gets up I usually thoroughly clean my bawwwwls. Some say that I'm obsessed with my bawwwwls and I say, damn right I am, wouldn't you be?

After my mother gets up, she feeds me and keeps yelling something about, "that is a seriously offensive load in the litter box, Harold!" I'm not quite sure what it is that she means by this, but she yells it at least once or twice a day.

After my mother leaves the house, I settle in so that I may again thoroughly clean my bawwwwls, as clean bawwwwls are the sign of a truly metrosexual cat.
If I could wax them I would do so, as I shed fur like a 300 lb wookie in the Sahara. However, my fear of the outdoors (especially thunderstorms) keeps me local and unable to get out to the detail shop on my own.

Please feel free to post any questions that you may have for me regarding any topic really. I'm very wise and I often give helpful advice. I am highly skilled and accredited, as I have an MFA in the smuggity art of bawwwwl licking from the University of Felix.

To quote the great Mustafa: "I lick them because I can."

I hope to hear from you soon and I promise to get back to you as soon as possible, that is unless I'm polishing my bawwwwls of course, then you'll just have to wait it out.

Cheers,
Harold (Pronounced Hair-wuld)