Life at the cattery

I must blog about my cats. For they have become my life. And lately, life isn't so grand.

I blame Banana. She's the foster kitty who needs to be spayed once she's out of heat as well as have surgery on her ear.

The offenses:

The first night LISBF and I slept at my house with the new kitties (they were still separated in the second bedroom) she CRIED AND CRIED all night long. And not just I'm-so-sad-and-scared-cause-I'm-in-a-strange-new-place cries. We're talking deep, grumbling yelps. Something to do with her being in heat, I guess.

She scratched the SHIT out of my arm when I had to carry her down the ladder from the attic, after she'd followed me up there. It was SWELTERING hot up there, and I had gone up to open the windows to create a cross breeze. I turn around, and there's Banana, trotting all over the Fiberglas. LISBF doesn't understand why I was so surprised to see her. But Cairo (my good dominant kitty) just sits at the bottom of the ladder and cries for me while I'm in the attic. It never occurs to him that he might be able to follow me up. And wherever Banana goes, Luna follows. So as I started down the ladder, I looked up to see Luna. I was carrying them both down when the scratching occurred. Good thing I was observant, or I would have had a couple of crispy kitties.

Then, yesterday afternoon, I came home to cat puke ALL OVER my kitchen. On the stove. On the counter. Running down the front of the stove. Running down the front of the counter. In front of the refrigerator. And covering a full 2/3 of the surface area of the floor. I cannot describe to you how foul and nasty it was.

I do know ... I can't take 10 years of this.

Apparently, Banana doesn't realize how close she is to the chopping block.