Animal House, Installment II

Thanks to my handy dandy list I remembered that I was going to write a second installment on the topic of my house and its animal-ness. Just WHAT exactly I was going to write about I'm not sure. So, you see, what we have learned here is that while lists are useful in keeping one organized, they are not of such a useful-ness if one has not added notes.

Perhaps if I recap a little on the topic at hand my memory will stop working against me and actually DO something for a change. No promises. This blog might quite possibly end up entirely in vain. But at least you, the reader, will most likely enjoy watching me struggle.

In Animal House, Installment I we learned about the beginning adventures of Boo, Bartleby, and Bunny. The Three Musketeers. The three B's. Two cats and a rabbit...

Ok, I'm stalling.

What the HELL was I going to write about?

Wine. I'm more interesting with wine. But I can't very well drink wine at work now can I? Huh. Well would anyone KNOW it was wine?

(hi mom, I'm really NOT a lush)

So the animals. Well, we crammed them all together in our quaint apartment where they hissed, growled, and stared each other down. That was, like, almost 2 weeks ago. And...

Oh yea! Victory! Halleluiah - my brain has functioned in my favor!

Ok, so, the second installment.

The following day after we moved the bunny into the apartment my landlord had to come in with a maintenance guy to fix our dishwasher. Before leaving for work in the morning I decided to leave the cats in the bedroom so they didn't torment the maintenance guy with incessant meowing (Boo) or hissing (Bartleby).

Now you see, the bedroom is a magical place. Promptly remove your minds from the gutter. I'm referring to the cats perspective. The cats are banned from the bedroom and therefore they believe it is a place where wonderful magical things take place like copious amounts of catnip is readily available, raw tuna is delivered every hour (on the hour), and all the furniture is upholstered in sisal rope and carpet. Before you think I'm cold and heartless for banning the fuzzbutts from the bedroom please take into consideration that the husband is horribly allergic to them.

So blame him.

(love you Honey)

By being contained in the bedroom for the duration of the afternoon the cats were ecstatic. They demonstrated their happiness by sleeping for 8 hours straight only stopping occasionally to clean themselves. Sleeping is a dirty business.

Upon returning home I immediately flushed the cats from the bedroom and shut the door. Life had returned to normal. Boo went to eat, Bartleby went to hiss at the bunny. And then...both cats returned to the bedroom door and sat there.

Meowing.

And they stared. And got excited every single freakin' time one of us walked by the door. And Meowed. And meowed and stared. Stared and meowed. Oh my god all evening LONG.

We cooked, we ate, we reduced our brain cell count in front of the TV. The staring, the meowing, it never ceased.

The evil red-eyed cat-eating alien - aka the bunny - no longer existed.

Never mind eating or cleaning themselves, forget water or the liter box, war, peace, starving children in Ethiopia. The cats can't get into the bedroom, call CNN.

Being the long term cat owner I had a feeling this wasn't going to be short lived. And at 4am, when the pathetic meows from the other side of the door continued I was beginning to question just how much I loved my cats. Or any cats really. Did I even "like" them? 5am rolled around and neither one of us had obtained much "sleep" if you could call it that.

The cats were determined to be let in. And I was determined to ignore them.

Here's a little peak at my thought process at 5am:
Why aren't they hoarse yet?
Do they really think that after the 782nd meow I will let them in? Are they thinking "well I can see how after only 781 meows she might not be convinced we want in, but 782 is definately going to convince her"?
I can't give in to this.
Forget all you people with your idle threats and weak spines! I am not one of you! I will stick to my guns and follow through!
I really have no choice - the husband will suffer!
But sleep is SO nice.
What is that? Are they scratching at the door now? The little shits are actually scratching at the door?
Just how much does he suffer anyway. It's just a little runny nose...and watery eyes...and the sneezing...and the itching.
There must be something I can do.
Maybe I can rig up a fire hose and drench them upon throwing open the door.
Where would I get a fire hose at this hour?
A garden hose would probably suffice. Oh, but the mess. That would be a lot of water to mop up.
What would I be terrified of if I were them. So terrified that I might stop pissing me off...

And then I thought of the most brilliant plan. Up I leapt out of bed, threw open the door, marched right over to the closet and yanked out the most horrible nasty devices I own.

Two cat carriers and the vacuum.

Both cats were nowhere to be found at this point.

One cat carrier went in front of the bedroom door. If they wanted to sit there and meow at us through the door they would have to do it while sitting next to their arch nemesis.

The other cat carrier went at the farthest point from the bedroom in the living room where I fully intended to put Bartleby, the main meowing offender, should he decide to continue the meowing. He could meow all night long (all two hours left of it) but he would do it TRAPPED where I couldn't HEAR him.

The vacuum went in the hallway to the bedroom as an obstacle for them to have to get around to get to the bedroom door.

I then retreated to the bedroom and crawled into bed. I lay waiting for just one meow. Just ONE. But nothing came. Not a single meow.

The plan had worked.

That day was the most miserable day I have had in a LONG time - minimal sleep coupled with psychological torture does not a happy day make. But I was victorious. I had put my foot down and kept it there! It was me vs. the cats and I had skunked them!

I win I win I win!

Thank god for coffee.