Oh Christmas Tree!

Our animal friends don’t really understand the meaning of Christmas, or any other holiday for that matter.  How could they?  Everyday is a holiday for them!  They get to do the things I enjoy doing on my holidays all the time… nap around the house all day, get tasty treats, don’t have to worry about being anywhere at any particular time, etc.  So the only thing that really makes Christmas any different or special is the fact that there is a tree INSIDE the house!  Yes, I said INSIDE!!!  Oh the joy!

Dogs get gitty and cats go bonkers when you first bring that fresh, pine smelling piece of the outdoors into your home.  They know you got it just for them and their pleasure.  So as you’re laying flat on your stomach, trying to secure the screws in the stand, you’re also batting away the furry bodies.  Then, as you’re stringing the lights round and round, you’re tripping over the same furry bodies as they’re attempting to get closer to the gift you brought them.  Once the lights are up and the tree is in place, you think perhaps they’ve learned their lesson about getting near the tree, as you’ve kicked, stepped on, and back-handed each of them at least 15 times already.

You would be wrong.

As soon as you turn your back, you have 3 cats doing acrobatics in the tree and a dog thinking you brought him a new indoor potty.   Well, at least, in my case, since I have 3 cats and a dog.  The dog you can scold and he’ll get the idea that he shouldn’t mess with the tree.  The cats, on the other hand, will be in and out of the tree all evening no matter what you do.  This is why I have found it best to put up the tree for at least a day or two before trying to adorn it with any ornaments.  Let the cats have their fun before putting anything breakable on it.  Usually the novelty of it wears off in a day or so and they will calm down a good bit.  Not to say they will leave it completely alone, but the worst of the shenanigans are out of their system.

Another trick I have learned is strategic ornament placement and securing.  Anything within three feet of the floor should be your least precious and non-breakable ornaments.  Also, you will need to secure these to the tree with twisty ties.  They make green and black twisty ties that work perfectly for this, you don’t even see them.  Also take the time to secure any especially precious and breakable ornaments with twisty ties as well, no matter how far from the floor they are.  This is like an insurance policy.  Of course there’s not much you can do if all three cats are in the tree at the same time and then shift all their weight to one side and manage to take the whole tree down.  It’s pretty much a guarantee that your favorite ornament will be at the bottom of the wreckage broken into tiny little pieces.

Sorry about that.

Cats in Sweaters?

My cats would shoot me!

    Pictures of Cats in Sweaters

Twelve Easy Steps to Traumatize your Turtle

1. Decide that it’s time to clean the turtle's tank.
2. Remove the turtle from the tank, placing it temporarily in its old, plastic habitat from when you first got it.  Then realize that the old tank is way too small and, also, full of dust.
3. Give the turtle a “shower” in the sink to remove the dust bunnies and then place it in a large plastic bowl.
4. Set the bowl on the table while you go clean the tank.
5. Shoo the kitten away from the fun new play thing he found on the table (a.k.a. “turtle in a bowl”).
6. Repeat step 5 about ten more times, or as often as necessary.
7. Finish cleaning and setting up the tank.
8. While allowing the new water to acclimate to room temperature again, go to the store to pick up a few things.
9. Wait!  Don’t forget to put the “turtle in a bowl” up on top of the refrigerator, so that the kitten doesn't kill it while you’re gone!
10. Return home 20 minutes later to find an empty bowl on top of the refrigerator.
11. After a frantic search, find the turtle upside-down, underneath the refrigerator.
12. Apologize profusely to the turtle and place back into his newly cleaned tank.

People Food

Isn’t it strange how dogs assume that they want anything you are eating?  Like they forgot about the 500 times they’ve spit something out that you gave them.  Most of the time when that happens, you knew they wouldn’t like before you gave it to them, but you did it anyway, just to see…

Nash is notorious for this.  I’m against giving dogs “people food” in general.  Nash knows that we don’t feed him from the table, so fortunatly he doesn’t sit there and beg.  He just hovers around, under the table, waiting for something to hit the floor.  I think of it as a free cleaning service.

Nash does the same thing while I’m preparing food in the kitchen.  I’m kinda messy about cooking, so his patience really pays off for him there.  Plus, I do sometimes give in and toss him something (don’t tell my husband, I don’t want him to think I’m a hypocrite).  I’m sure anyone with dogs knows what it’s like working in the kitchen, only to trip over your hopeful pet every time you try to take a step.

But Nash won’t simply scarf up the dropped food the moment it hits the floor.  No, no.  He must take it off to “his spot” to eat it.  “His spot” happens to be just outside of the kitchen entrance, in the middle of the carpet.  That means anything Nash gets a hold of gets taken out of the easily-cleaned, linoleum-floored kitchen and gets set upon my light-colored carpet.  No matter what I do, this area of carpet will remain stained and grungy looking forever more. 

Also, this is where I discover what I'm making for dinner that is not to Nash’s liking.  Any food item that hits the floor gets transported to "his spot" outside the kitchen.  That is where Nash must ultimately decide if he likes it enough to eat it.  If it is not appetizing enough, there it stays until someone says, “Why are there cucumber peels all over the carpet in the living room?”

What I don’t understand is why Nash doesn't realize he doesn’t want to eat it before he goes through all the trouble to pick it up and walk it out of the kitchen?  Better yet, why does everything need to be eaten at this exact spot?  He will even grab one mouthful of dog food at a time and take it to “his spot” before he actually consumes it.  If "his spot" wasn’t in the middle of the entry way from the living room to the kitchen, I’d consider moving his mat and food bowls there. 

I don’t have this trouble with my cats.  They don’t care for people food at all.  Okay, that’s a lie.  Chili thinks she should get raw chicken when I'm cutting it up and Spike tries to lick your ice cream and fudge pops.  But that’s it.

Halloween is for the Dogs!

Halloween is for the dogs… at least that’s what my cats will tell you. 

Check out any pet store or website for the costume selection for animals and that will only verify it.  All those adorable little doggie costumes to make your pup look like a shark, bumble bee, or hotdog will make even non-animal lovers wish they had a hound to dress up. 

And what will you find for your cat?  Maybe an orange collar or a witch’s hat, that’s about it.  Seriously, can you imagine trying to get a cat to wear a hat?

It only proves that whoever came up with that idea has never actually owned a cat and/or has a thing for Dr. Seuss.

I must admit that I was just as guilty of this ignorance when I first became a cat owner.  I didn’t understand why I couldn’t dress my kitty up in cute little outfits like their canine counterparts.  After a short struggle in which I used equal parts manipulation and brute force, Spike found himself in a cute little T-shirt.  You’re probably expecting me to say that as soon as I let him go he went wild, ripping and tearing at the shirt, not stopping until he got it off.  But no, that’s not what happened.

Once I set him down in his cute little outfit, he crouched low to the ground and started to back peddle.  He seriously thought that he could somehow back out of the shirt.  At first I don’t think I realized what he was doing.  After about 5 minutes of him slinking backwards through the apartment, I finally relented and took the shirt off.  I couldn’t even enjoy the cuteness due to his utter panic.  That was a huge letdown, one that I really wasn’t willing to fully accept.

Hence the Halloween cat hat incident.  Last year I happened upon the cutest little pumpkin cat hood.  Ah yes, just slip it over your cat’s head, and use the little Velcro strap to secure.  Cute as a pumpkin!  Yeah right!

This one I tried on Chili.  She just looked at me for a second with her laser death stare, then neatly slipped it off with her paw.

Ok.  So I didn’t secure it on tight enough...

After chasing her around the house for 10 minutes I tried it again.  Same results.  But this time, after easily removing the shameful accessory, Chili immediately ran off and made sure I couldn’t find her for the next 2 days.

This year I think I’ll just stick to dressing Nash like a little devil.  Unless…

Maybe Lew would be willing to get into the spirit of Halloween…

Cat's Rule

So far, my posts have been more about our dogs, but don’t forget that this zoo is substantially composed of felines.  In fact, they now out number dogs, 3 to 1.  Luckily Nash is pretty adaptable, or maybe he’s just not bright enough to realize that there is a difference between cats and dogs.  He’s been around cats his entire life, yet Nash still doesn’t get that they only want to play when THEY decide they want to.  Nash still gets over rambunctious when one of the cats passes by and then acts all surprised when he gets wacked in the face.  Cause and consequence escapes him.

Nash’s confusion might come from the fact that both Chili and Lew do enjoy playing with him on occasion.  Just the other day I saw a streak of orange fly through the living room, followed by a streak of grey.  Loud snarls and squeals then filled the air as Chili rolled Nash several times.  Once she had accomplished her “tigger” move, Chili jumped out of reach before Nash could react.  Chili had proven her dominance over the stupid dog, so she was finished. 

I think maybe when Lew gets to be bigger, he’ll play more fairly with Nash than Chili does.  Maybe it’s more than just a dog/cat thing, maybe also a boy/girl issue…  Lew is way more interested in playing with Nash than either of the other cats, but he’s so much smaller than Nash right now that I usually end up yelling at Nash to stop being so rough.  Nash is then pummeled while he’s distracted by my hollering.

Puppies can be pretty destructive, but I have found that you can usually keep important items out of reach until the “teething” stage passes.  However cat’s do not grow out of their destructive stage, and they just don’t care. 

They don’t care if you scream at them to stop scratching the side of the couch or to get down off of the kitchen counters.

They don’t care if you severely cut yourself on a piece of glass from your favorite figurine that they knocked of the top of the TV and smashed into little pieces.

They don’t care if they toss their stinky litter 20 feet from the litter box while creating the perfect divot to do their business in.

You simply can not discipline a cat.  They do what the want, when they want, and do not care what you think about it.

Good thing they are so cute.

RIP Rocky

I have to apologize for the missing posts the last couple of weeks, but I have a good excuse, I swear.  Rocky is now in doggy heaven after a short, but hard struggle with cancer.  I had suspected that something was seriously wrong with the poor guy, but there were no major symptoms until so close to the very end and then it all happened so fast.  He is now at rest in our back yard, right where he liked to just sit and enjoy the sun and breeze.  I know he would be happiest there.

Grumpy Old Dogs

Last night, as I was surrounded by my 5 furry family members, I really felt blessed to have such great pets and loyal friends in my life.  I went from that feeling of joy to depression, thinking about the fact that they would all be climbing in years and eventually become old.  Which, to me, means grumpy, bald, and incontinent.

My limited experience with elderly dogs and cats has made me dread those late years of my animals’ lives.

My first childhood experiences with an elderly dog was with my grandparents’ dog, Bosco - a medium sized mixed breed – some kind of terrier.  My memories of him include keeping my hands close to my sides and never speaking to him, in an attempt to keep all of my finders and toes.  I don’t know why, but any noise with high pitches sent him off into attack mode.  I’m talking about whistling, sirens, and the squealy “baby” voice most people tend to use when they’re talking to small animals and children.

Another formative experience was with a friend’s small dog named Bubbles.  I was always warned not to try to reach down to pet her, that she didn’t like strangers.  I took that warning seriously and never did.  However, Bubbles must have really disliked me.  I didn’t even have to try to pet her to have her want to rip my hand off.  I was just standing there, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I had 6 lbs of raging animal clamped down on my hand.  I remember thinking that she would never let go, and I don’t recall how exactly we pried her off, but I know that shaking and screaming didn’t seem to loosen her grip.

Poodles seem to be the family dog of choice for us.  My grandma has always had a poodle or two in her home, my parents had one while I was growing up, and so did my aunt.  I only knew my aunt’s apricot poodle, Monique, briefly and as an old lady.  Monique just plan didn’t like anyone but my aunt.  Lessons had been learned about grumpy old dogs, so I carefully kept all extremities out of reach.  However, what freaked me out about Monique was the patchy, thin coat and nasty looking lumps all over her body.  This dog was ugly, and as an impressionable child, this created a grotesque picture in my mind that still haunts me today.

Just over a year ago my husband lost his 15 year-old Dalmatian to old age.  Tad and Haley were very broke up about it, but to be honest, I was not overly upset to see him move on.  Rolly was by far the grumpiest old dog I ever encountered.  When it came to children, Rolly was like a shark out of the movie Jaws.  After one incident, when he decided that he wanted to eat an earring off of a little girl's ear, we decided he could not be trusted.  So we kept him physically separated from any kids that came over to play.  One brave girl who came over frequently insisted that she wasn’t scared of Rolly and we didn’t need to keep him up while she was there.  What a disaster!  The poor girl was standing at the kitchen table when Rolly came from out of no where and bit her full force on the butt.  Thank goodness he had practically no teeth left in his mouth and had chosen a fleshy spot!

So now, though all of our dogs and cats are currently young to middle-aged, I am dreading the day they suddenly become bald, lumpy, grumps.  As if that isn’t enough to look forward to, I can’t wait to have my floors ruined by their inability to hold their bladders.  I think I may buy stock in Resolve Carpet Cleaner in preparation!

Veterinary Trama

Today I am making a trip to the veterinarian’s office.  Thankfully it’s just for another round of shots for our new kitten, Lew.  I think I can handle the 2 lbs kitten with no problems.  But it reminds me of other visits to our vet’s that didn’t go so smooth…

It all started about 6 months ago, just after Tad and I got married.  Tad couldn’t remember the last time his beagle, Rocky, had been to the vet and I was noticing that his ears seemed to be bothering him.  So I searched out the closest vet to our new home and made an appointment.  $260 later Rocky was up-to-date on all his vaccines and we had some goopy stuff to drop in his ears 2 times a day for 2 weeks.

The most difficult part of getting Rocky into the vet’s office is making it past the flowerbeds out front without Rocky trying to take a dump.  Other dogs find a likely spot, lift their leg, make a little sprinkle, and wa-la! Their territory is marked.  No, no - not Rocky.  Rocky insists on finding the most prominent feature in the landscaping and attempts to poop on it.  Evenly cut grass just won’t do.  If he is forced to do his business in a relatively featureless landscape, such as our backyard lawn, he will hunt out a tall growing weed that sticks up higher than the surrounding grass.  I’m not sure what kind of statement he’s trying to make, but at the vet’s office, this translates to the desecration of the ornamental grasses growing outside the door.  How he even gets his back-end all up in the middle of it, I’m not sure.  Rocky just has this skill.

Sitting with Rocky in the waiting room is the next challenge; it can only be described as embarrassing.  There’s no such thing as waiting quietly if Rocky is with you.  The whining never stops.  If that didn’t draw enough attention, asking for paper towels to clean your dog’s pee off the nice, shinny floor will certainly help. 

Recently I had to bring both Rocky and Nash into the office at the same time.  You might think having a calmer, more well-mannered dog with him would help to even out some of Rocky’s behavior.  However, in reality, the opposite occurs.  Nash becomes a Rocky-wanna-be and is just as impossible to control.  My well-trained poodle turns into a mindless ball of uncooperative energy.  I wish there was some way to pretend that they aren’t mine, but the leashes give me away.

Whenever I leave the vet’s office, I can just imagine the receptionists and vet techs saying a little prayer of thanks for our departure.  But today should be different.  All I have to handle on this trip is a cute, little, innocent kitten.

Rain Rain Go Away

Today is Monday.  That’s enough to put me in a bad mood by itself.  But this continuous water pouring out of the sky is really starting to piss me off.

I was appreciative last night when it started raining.  I don’t have a green thumb, mostly because I’m too lazy and forgetful to keep up with watering.  Each spring I get this desire to plant flowers and such, but once they’re in the ground my enthusiasm trails off.  It hasn’t rained at all in the past several weeks, so the plants in the front of the house have been looking wilted and stunted lately.  I was just starting to feel bad enough about the way they looked to actually get the hose out.  Thankfully the rain relieved me of my guilt. 

If it had stopped after a couple hours, that would have been perfect.  After raining steady all night and today though, my flowers are drowning and I’m just pissy.

For those of you that don’t live in the “low country” of South Carolina, let me explain… We’re about as “low” as you can get – sea level.  That means utter chaos in weather like this! 

Sunny Low Country

Rainy Low Country

Southerners aren’t known for their driving ability to begin with.  If it sprinkles during rush hour, you have a 90% chance of being hung up by an accident.  Add flooding roads and malfunctioning traffic lights to the mix and you can pretty much expect to get nowhere.  I still don’t understand the inability of the people around here to drive while it’s raining.  Simply slow down to a reasonable speed and leave plenty of space between you and the car in front of you.  I didn’t say come to a complete stop on the interstate!  I guess that’s a hard concept to grasp.

When I moved to South Carolina a few years ago, my first observations about the differences between Northerners and Southerners were made on the road.  People in the south have trouble overcoming inertia.  Very slow to start.  Yet somehow they have no trouble with defying momentum, abruptly stopping without any sign.  I was concerned about what kind of vehicles would be on the road since there is no annual inspection required.  I was worried for nothing though.  Even if you can’t pay your rent or feed your babies, somehow the $500 car payment for the brand new beamer is never overlooked.

It actually snowed a couple of inches last winter.  I stayed off the roads for two days in fear of my life.

Rocky - pet or hunting dog?

We think Rocky was a hunting dog in his previous life.  In fact, we’re pretty sure of it, since an old hunter came around the campground looking for his best hunting dog a few weeks after my husband, Tad, took Rocky home.  No one spoke up of course.  I think if Rocky were smarter, he would have really appreciated that.  He went from living outside in a pen to the lap-of-luxury!

Normally a hunter who keeps dogs treats his pack fairly well.  But they are NOT treated as pets.  My father-in-law has a few hunting dogs, so I’ve seen this first hand.  On my first hunting escapade with Tad, I quickly volunteered to retrieve the dogs at the end of the drive.  I felt bad for them and wanted to pet and show them some affection.  That’s when I discovered why hunting dogs are not treated as pets.  It’s not because they are considered working-animals and such treatment would make them soft and useless.  It’s actually because of the horrible odor they give off!  It’s like a musty mix of old cheese baking in the sun, with week-old sweat.  If that weren’t bad enough, if you actually touch one – say to try to pet it – good luck getting that smell off your hands for the next two days.

 

Considering Rocky’s background, you can understand some of his behaviors… but others don’t make any sense at all.  For example, if it’s been raining, Rocky will try his darndest not to get his feet wet.  I have to chase him off the back porch if the grass is even slightly damp, otherwise he’ll either decide he can hold it or find a suitable spot on the porch to do his business.  When his feet hit the wet grass, you wouldn’t believe your eyes - try to imagine a beagle on his tip-toes.  When Rocky and Rolly would come in from the backyard on a rainy day, Rolly, the white Dalmatian, would be covered from head-to-toe in mud, while Rocky, the ex-hunting dog, would be as pristine as when he went out.

Maybe part of Rocky’s dislike for getting wet and dirty stems from his hard life as a hunting dog, which would make sense.  What doesn’t make any sense is his need to lick anyone who gets within a foot of his face.  My father can attest to this from personally experience.  Imagine getting woke up with a French kiss from a beagle with really bad breath!

Rocky doesn’t like fences.  Probably another result of living in a caged pen day after day.  Our home does not have a fence, but we did install one of those underground, electric barriers to contain the dogs.  Rocky seems perfectly content with this arrangement.  But previously, at Tad’s old home, Rocky would try everything in his power to escape the half-acre, fenced-in backyard.  For some reason Rocky sees a physical barrier as an obstacle to be surmounted - some kind of challenge. 

One morning at the old house, we were all peacefully sleeping, only to be awakened by a horrible screaming/howling sound.  I knew something was terribly wrong, so I ran towards the noise, finding Rocky at the gate of the chain-link fence howling miserably.  He was stuck and trying to back up to free himself.  When I got close enough I could see that he was caught by his ear and the reason he was making that awful noise was because his pulling had actually punctured his floppy ear and he was trying to tear it free.  I was able to stop him from pulling while Tad used pliers to free his ear without additional damage.  Since it was already pierced, I suggested we make Rocky an earring, but Tad didn’t go for it.

Tad attempted once to take Rocky back to his roots.  Bright and early one Saturday morning in November, Tad loaded Rocky into his dog box to take him hunting.  From what I understand, any time the truck was moving, Rocky was howling.  The first drive of the day, Tad’s brother released Rocky with their father’s dogs.  As soon as the other dogs caught a scent and started after the trail through the woods, Rocky decided he’d rather not go trailing through the rough brush and mud.  Tad’s poor brother spent the next hour trailing Rocky up and down the dirt lanes.  When he finally was able to get Rocky into the dog box, the howling started again.  Everyone on the club could hear Rocky as Tad’s brother made his way back to the camp.  I’m pretty sure Tad’s brother had a lot of things to say to Tad when they got back, but whether he was able to hear it through all the howling, I don’t know.

I’ve come to the realization that Rocky will never be a normal dog.  He’ll never be like a real pet because of his origins as a hunting dog, and he’ll never be an actual hunting dog since we give him baths and let him sleep on the couch.  Poor Rocky, torn between two worlds, yet somehow he’s found a little place in all of our hearts.

Bios

I originally titled this blog imagining that I would end up writing about the zoo that I currently live in, so I guess I should give quick bios on each of the main characters.

Jaala (that's me):

My last post gave a lot of background on my childhood and hopefully some insight into who I am.  What I didn’t tell will probably come out in future posts, so I won’t bore you now with how fantastic I am.  (Sometimes I wonder if I overcompensate for a lack of self-esteem by filling my own head with my superiority and come off to others as arrogant, but then I realize that I truly am exceptional in many ways and it’s not my fault if others recognize their own shortcomings when they compare themselves to me.)

Tad:

Tad is not a dog, cat, fish or even a frog; he’s my husband.  It’s hard to tell that from his name, but it actually suits him well.  Tad is a hunter, fisherman, and NASCAR fan.  Yes, I realize I just described every white, southern redneck on the planet, but I think he’s got potential.  We got married about six months ago and he’s already moved out of his double-wide, sold his bass-boat, and helped paint our home “honey beige.”  He’s really coming along!

Haley:

This is my husband’s 10 year-old daughter.  She spends half her time with us and the other half with her mother and TOM.  TOM is not her name, it's an acronym for “the other mother.”   Don't worry, I wasn't in-the-know about these things either, until recently .

Haley seems to be pretty well-adjusted to the arrangement with all of her “parents.”  I spend a lot of apparently unnecessary time worrying about that, but all indications seem to indicate she is developing in a normal, healthy way.  Well, as normally as any child can!  I just hope that being surrounded by all these adoring adults doesn't end up spoiling her...

Nash:

Nash is my red-headed, miniature poodle.  He’s around 3 years-old and weighs 16 lbs, so he’s not one of those tiny, yippy dogs.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a poodle, but not your stereotypical one.  He likes to eat kitty treats (not treats “for” cats, rather “from” cats – another important distinction) and roll in stinky stuff like a real dog.  Nash learns to do tricks pretty quickly, so I guess most people would consider him a smart dog.  However, the fact that he eats cat poop makes me skeptical.

Yeah... that's kitty litter caked up his nose.

I have to admit, he is a momma’s boy, but all my animals are.  I am the pack-leader.

Rocky:

Rocky is the family beagle, who actually pre-dates me.  He was found chasing rabbits around a campground where Tad used to go on weekends.  After a couple weeks of no one claiming him, he went ahead and brought him home.  I’m still not sure why.  I’m trying to think of something nice and pleasant to write about Rocky, but I’m really drawing a blank.  Oh wait, he does have nice soft ears!  But if you start petting him, he’ll either piddle on the floor or start trying to lick every square inch of your exposed skin.  If he’s not trying to lick you, he’s licking himself – and very noisily I might add – or scratching himself, or chewing on himself.  Thank goodness for you that I don’t know how to add sound to a post, otherwise I would subject you to the beagle howling and whining that I must endure daily.

Nope, still can’t think of anything pleasant to share about him…

Rolly:

Rolly was Tad and Haley’s albino, deaf Dalmatian.  I say “was” because he is now buried in a Rubbermaid container out back, behind the double-wide.  Can you believe this dog lived to be almost 16 years-old?  I’m introducing Rolly, even though he’s no longer with us, because I’m sure he’ll make some future posts.  He is Tad and Haley’s beloved, never to be replaced in their hearts.  I don’t get the attachment honestly.  I guess I only knew him in his elderly, grumpy-man condition.  But he was always deaf, born that way, so I don’t see how you’d get attached to a dog that won’t follow any commands or respond to you other than when you have a treat in your hand (very much like Rocky... but he's not deaf... hmm).

 I swear it is a Dalmatian... an albino one.

Spike:

Spike is a tough, vicious bulldog!  Just kidding, he’s a cat.  Yes, a grey and white, tiger striped cat named Spike.  I guess I thought a tough name might affect his personality accordingly - not so.  I got him my last year of college, so Spike is the most “worldly” of our animals.  He’s lived in 5 different homes in his 7 years of life.  Maybe all that moving is what made him so timid?  Spike can be very loving when he wants to be though.  Giving head-butts is how he expresses his general affection, and is also the reason he is not allowed in the bedroom at night.  My slight allergy to cats only really flares up when Spike wants to show me his affection, over and over and over again.

 He looks tough, right?

Chili:

This little kitty girl was the second addition to my zoo, the year after college.  She got her name by taking a trek through a bowl of chili the night I brought her home.  Her snow white paws were stained orange for a while.  Not surprisingly Chili has dominated Spike from day one.  She’s a predominately grey calico cat with white and orange markings.  She always looks pissed-off.  Even when she’s purring and rubbing up on you with love, you get the impression that she’s plotting your death.  I think I’ve gotten used to this evil look of hers, knowing what a lover she really is, but every now and again I catch an especially pissed-off look on her face that makes me  wonder…

 "I kill you with my laser death stare"

Lew:

No, really, I don’t want to spell it L-O-U, it's L-E-W.  This kitten is the newest member of our zoo, my husband’s idea of a thoughtful birthday gift.  I’m still trying to decide if a “free-to-a-good-home” kitten should count as a birthday gift for your wife.  I guess it’s on par with a home-made card, and those are considered thoughtful... when they're from a five year-old.

Anyway, Lew is a very uniquely marked grey and white guy, currently about 2.5 lbs.  I don’t know why, but I’ve been letting him sleep on my pillow at night.  He’s like a little vibrating night cap.  I should probably put a stop to this before he gets big and smothers me in my sleep.  Lew has only been with us three weeks now and has two distinct modes:  crazy-hyper-ball-of-fuzz and passed-out-like-a-drunk.

 A rare moment... holding still, yet not passed-out.

Tom:

Not to be confused with TOM, this was Haley’s cat.  She was only seven when she named him, but it actually turned out to be the perfect name for him.  Other than the fact that I had him neutered right away, he was the ultimate tomcat.

Haley brought him home as a stray the same day we got Nash.  Kind of like giving birth to twins when only expecting one.  Ok, maybe not like that exactly, but Nash was planned and Tom was a surprise.  Spike and Chili never met Tom, as my ex had "custody" of them at that time, so he was an only-cat.  I keep referring to Tom in the past tense because he didn’t come home one day.  We really don’t know what happened to him, but it’s a 50/50 chance that either he tried to catch an opossum or the neighbor guy shot him.  I guess it’s for the best anyway since Tom was black and white.  He wouldn’t have fit it in with my grey-cat theme.

 The twins

Henry and Rose:

These are Haley’s turtles.  Henry is one of those illegal red-ear sliders that aren’t supposed to be sold as pets.  Nana bought it for Haley when she was seven.  Haley brought Rose home from the lake about a year later and I still don’t know what kind of turtle it is.  You may have noticed that I am not calling them by gender.  This is because one morning while I was passing by their tank, I shouted out in alarm thinking that Rose was dead.  It looked like Henry had Rose backed up against their little sunning bridge and that Rose was unconscious.   After taking a quick look Tad politely informed me that Rose was just fine.  He also pointed out that we had been mistaken when naming the turtles, as Rose is obviously a boy turtle and Henry is a girl turtle.  Once the shock wore off, I became concerned about being over-run with little, baby turtles.  My research informed me that I didn’t have to worry since there was no dry land for laying eggs.  I also became very proud of myself because my sources also said that turtles that were not content and happy would not "get horizontal" (Well, Henry was horizontal, but Rose was more vertical).  I apparently am a master of turtle tank Feng Shui!

We did think about switching their names around, but that got too confusing.  So Henry is still Henry and Rose is still Rose.

Henry and Rose in their happy home