Sleepless and violated…

How does one ask their cat to move out?

I’ve tried reasoning with him about screaming like a banshee all night but he doesn’t listen.

He wants the bathroom tap left open so he can have fresh water at his disposal all night.

He wants our bedroom doors open all night so he can prey on us while we sleep.

That’s right, my cat is a parched arm/leg/face rapist.

Cries of disgust can be heard throughout the evening, from various bedrooms, as victims are awoken by a 3,000 lb feline reckless humping their arm.

Groans of disgust waft through the apartment when unsuspecting sleepers are awoken by a sandy cat toungue licking furiously at their faces and elbows.

A few nights ago my daughter woke up with her legs covered in cat hickies. I’m not even kidding. I would have taken photos but she didn’t want her naked thighs exposed on my blog for the entire interweb to see.

As much as I love animals, I’ve pretty much had enough of Boots/Bowtie/Duncan/Douglas/Gus/Whose-cat-is-that?

In all fairness, he’s not really ours. He moved himself in last August and we can’t figure out who his real owners are, to return him.

I was wondering why there were no “Chat Perdu” signs around the neighbourhood, but it has become apparent to me that his previous parents were probably relieved that he left. In fact, if they were smart, they would have left town while he wasn’t looking.

So now that he’s ours, how do I guiltlessly get rid of him?

It’s all fine and well to kick him out of the house at night to go prowling for innocent campers while it’s summer, but what about the winter? It lasts about 14 months here in Montréal and often reaches -200℃.


Signed,
Sleepless and violated…



My daughter sent me this photo because it reminded her of someone.
I don’t know where it came from but if it’s yours just tell me to give it back and I will.

Jennifer June

Pasta and Salad

Something weird happens as soon as we walk in the house. All three of the girls instantly start fighting. It’s pure evil. You can actually feel the tension building for the last half block before we reach our front door. The bickering starts about three doors away, and everyday I hear the same words leave my mouth.” Leave the attitude at the door ladies.” Yeah right.

We enter the fiery gates of Hell. The pungent aroma of Chloe’s collection of stray tomcats hangs heavily in the air. The piercing cries of banshees echo from one end of the house to the other. The doors on the cupboards and refrigerator start flapping wildly. Bedrooms instantly implode, books fly off their shelves, backpacks scatter, clothes are strewn and dangling from each and every piece of furniture and the floor disappears entirely.  One day, when I have the money, I’m going to hire an effects specialist to arrange buckets of dry ice throughout the apartment, at the precise moment that we enter. This is, of course, if I have any money left after I’ve paid the maid, sushi chef, personal trainer, masseur and six Israeli pool boys.

I won’t pretend that I ever manage to assemble any form of sanity; things get progressively more and more chaotic by the minute. We get home at 4:00pm and typically by 5:00, I’ve broken up about six fights, attempted to reassemble and/or crazy glue somebody’s favorite something that “She broke on purpose”, wrestled the cat out of twelve headlocks, turned the T.V. back off repeatedly, and cried the words: “NO, Stop it, chill out, give it back to her, where are going with that knife? you have a count of three, because it’s a school night,” and “If you don’t like it here go live with your dad,” more times than I can count.

It’s usually in the midst of all this sort of insanity, that the telephone starts ringing.

‘Hello?”

”Jen? It’s Jen”

”Jen!”

” Is it okay to feed your child canned spaghetti for supper if it’s served with salad?”

”The answer is no if I’m on the phone!”

”What?”

“Sorry, what? Spaghet… oh yes definitely, in fact I’m sure it’s on the North American chart of the four basic food groups.

“It is isn’t it, I thought so but I wasn’t sure. Can I call lettuce and a slice of cucumber salad?”

”Where did that dog come from? Sorry Jen hang on… I don’t care if he is hungry, get him out of my house!”

“You have a dog?”

”No, Lettuce and cucumber is totally salad, anything green is salad, don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

“I feel like such a bad mother, but I’m just to tired too think right now let alone cook.”

”Are you bleeding?”

”WHAT?”

”Are you on fire?”

”Oh.”

”… Then leave me alone!”

”Jen?”

”You are an awesome mom Jen don’t be ridiculous, you’re tired, that’s all. A little MSG and sugar in a can won’t hurt him once in a while.”

”What are your kids eating tonight?”

I peer down into a bowl of macaroni noodles, mixed with mayonnaise and canned tuna fish. I toss in a handful of frozen peas.

“Pasta and Salad”.

Jennifer June