One Fat Cat With a Blog

Human mom lady found a flea on my belly this morning. A FLEA!!!!!! In all of my dignified, senior house cat years, I have NEVER, EVER and I mean NEVER EVER had a FLEA!!! Psycho Sal E. Cat may have had fleas….if a flea was stupid enough to grace his white fur and claw presence. Dumb Dumb Fluff looks like he should have fleas….but, even he’s never had one in all of his adventures and misadventures in the outside world…The girls have never had fleas…Even the face of stupid, pound hound that surely presents himself as a flea magnet purely by nature of breeding has never been caught red-pawed with a flea.

But, yet, she found A FLEA???? A FLEA ON FRITO????? Now it seems that I have been harboring this blood sucking little vermin for days because I’m having some weird allergic flea reaction. (Mom called it a money sucking trip to the vet for a cortisone shot—but, it’s ME these vermin are victimizing and sucking the Frito-ness out of!!!) Can I help it if I’m a sensitive kind of guy? Can I help it if I respond allergically to trash and vermin invasion? So my lip's a bit puffy and I have skin issues…I am the Soul Cat…I need peace and love….not fleas and grief!

AAAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! If I go to the vet for a cortisone shot, I get weighed. If I get weighed, I am the immediate target of diet plan restructuring and the inevitable fat cat jokes. I just went in for my annual ridicule and fat cat abuse session last month…aka the annual kitty “wellness checkup”…I was not supposed to be subjected to the vet calling out the fat cat for MONTHS yet. It’s just not fair.

Who caused this? If not the face of stupid…then I must blame recent house guests. Could my brother’s mum have brought me FLEAS? Nah….not her…My brother Michael is as citified as I am…Oh no….it was the county cousin Shih Tzu! She came to visit…there was talk about a neighbor dog with fleas…there was talk about flea baths.

AAAAAGHHHHHH!!!! I knew I should have chased her to the garage.

Why didn’t Max, the Face of Stupid, chase her to the garage? With that ridiculous hound dog snout, you’d think he could smell a flea from 4 counties over…. Who am I kidding…Face of Stupid evidently holds Snout of Stupid.

I am on my own in this crusade against the dreaded flea. **Note to crazy, flea obsessed, human mom lady….Frito can handle this…no need for trip to insulting vet or to degrading outdoor flea bath….fleas are no match for Frito T. Cat. Really. They aren’t.**

HELP????? I see the outdoor flea bath being readied for one sad big boned city kitty.

Wednesday's Weekly Guest Post:
Featuring Guest Blogger~ Gina T. Cat, Frito's Free Spirited Roommate

Can someone please shed some insight onto why exactly some cats (namely Frito T. Cat) find themselves unable to cover up the doodie in the litter box? Lea, Fluffy D’Dum Dum, and I have tolerated this oddity for years—and have decided that it’s time to seek some outside guidance. Either Frito learns to cover or we are going to block access to the downstairs litter boxes.

Really—it’s disgusting. It’s unsanitary—and we cannot understand why he cannot grasp the concept of potty and cover. I even watched him yesterday! He dropped a Frito sized load of crap (in the box not onto the web)—stepped out of the box, looked around to see if anyone was looking, and then made a quick paw or two into the litter box (without moving any litter) and then stopped to look at the uncovered pile. It seemed that he was honestly perplexed by the fact that it was not covered.

Hello, Frito—it requires MOVEMENT OF LITTER OVER the pile. What did he do when he realized that it wasn’t covered, you may ask? He turned around and pawed like a madcat OUTSIDE the litter box on the carpet. What was THAT supposed to accomplish? He turned to check the status of the potty pile—and was immediately distressed that it was NOT covered. Hmm. Then, he proceeded to try pawing the carpet on the other side of the litter box. Guess what? He turned to check out the potty pile again. Bewilderment struck. What did he do next? He pawed the wall behind the litter box! THE WALL. Not kidding. With one more look at the uncovered pile of poo, he took one more look around the area for witnesses and ran as fast as could waddle out of the hallway and onto the stairs.

For the millionth time, I followed along, entered the litter box and covered his potty wotty doodle. Apparently someone missed the litter box training in kitten school. You’d think as many times as he’s watched me cover for him over the years that he would have gotten the hang of it.

I think I’ve been uncharacteristically patient for the past 8 years. I have followed his litter trail, covered his messes, and have never even made a hiss. Really, though, I’m getting to old to keep covering up his messes. I have kids to bite, humans to trip, and a floppy eared pound hound to bash—you never know when my nine lives will be up. I really do not have time to be on constant litter box patrol. I just don’t get it—any insight? Any good intervention/potty therapists out there? Perhaps a litter box training guide for dummies that I’ve missed?

See you next week! Same cat time. Same cat channel.

Gina

Some of you may remember when the humans took in Fluffy D’Tail a few years back. He was a whiny, hungry, scruffy looking dust mop of an excuse for an outdoorsman. While he’s still whiny and scruffy looking, he does manage to eat his share of the indoor cat allotment of diet friendly kibble—and his own canned mouse ears. The girls and are starting to worry about him…see, since the Central Ohio weather turned yucky and blucky and downright cold and snowy—Fluff D has presented some peculiar behavior. His behavior is so ridiculous, in fact, that we are questioning either his mental faculties or his intellect—or both.

Every morning, he goes to the door and throws an absolute, caterwauling FIT to be let out into the snow. SNOW, I tell you! (While I think that alone screams of a loss of mental faculties—I believe in to each his own and all.) However, after minutes outside—two to three at the most—he’s outside the door again throwing a whiny tail fit to be let back inside. Then he continues to do this throughout the day in 2 to 3 hour increments. Now—the girls and I must ask the question….does he somehow forget that it’s wet, freezing and snow covered outside---or is he just an idiot?

One look out the window is proof that it is snow covered (hence the frigid temperatures and resulting icy, wet, frozen paws). Why then would the cat repeatedly venture out to only prove that it’s miserable out there….there simply must be something wrong with him! I have the sense to know that if the floor is cold once I venture off my blanket that perhaps I should stay on my blanket. There seems to be a missing cause and effect sensation in that cat.

*Sigh*….I guess it just goes to show you that the human’s judgment in animals worthy of adoption has certainly declined in recent years.

Pondering the theory of restless tail syndrome for the morning....

For a long time now, I have discussed the many imperfections in the resident pound hound that the humans so felt necessary to “rescue”to adopt (and pay good cat food fund money for) from the shelter. These flaws include those floppy ears that get in his food and water, the big vacuum cleaner power suction device attached to the end of a ridiculous hound dog snout, and silly spots that look like dirt--which even a much needed weekly bath fails to remove—and a tail that just does not stop wagging.

For a long time, I just assumed the dog was stupid. I thought he was simply in a doofus, la-la land of perpetual happiness. An idiot. Now, though, I wonder if there is not some medical reason or malady causing this constant, unusual (and downright irritating) wagging of the tail. After all, NOBODY can be that darned happy. Then it hit me. He must have restless tail syndrome.

You cats have heard of restless leg syndrome in humans, right? It’s a real thing, you know? My Swat-A-Granny has it and she is miserable without her medication—especially if she’s not moving about (and that make her the perfect Swat-A-Granny contestant I might add). So—I’m thinking (and you know that Frito T. Cat is ALWAYS thinking)—maybe the dog isn’t a clueless buffoon. Maybe he just looks stupid and has Restless Tail Syndrome—making him appear to be unwittingly happy all the time!

I just did some online research and it seems that the vet world is entirely missing this highly plausible, overly irritating phenomenon! I’m going to email this to the human lady immediately—she needs to call the vet. Maybe he needs sedated! Maybe it’s incurable and the only humane thing to do would be to put him down and out of my…er…HIS misery. Did I mention that he even wiggle-waggles that silly tail in his sleep? (The human says he’s dreaming—I say he’s possessed by the moron ghost of hound dogs past—but, of course, nobody ever listens to the fat cat!)

I may have just discovered the cause of irritating wag-worthy happiness in dogs everywhere. Do you think they’ll give me credit? Do you think this discovery is worth any money? (Either the cat food fund is low these days or those humans are enforcing the evil vet diet plan in preparation for my upcoming vet visit—this visit I like to call “The Fat Cat Weight Check and Ridicule Session”.)

I think it’s answered. The stupid dog, while he may be inherently less intelligent than we felines, is suffering from a real medical illness. He needs help—he needs drugged…um..he needs medicated! He may even need to be put down for humanity sake. I’m a strong advocate for humane treatment—we cannot wait on this—we need to act quickly, human!

Mom has been on a mission to help me with my urinary tract issues. As I’ve mentioned, every so often, I get irritated, freak out a little, and my bladder goes crazy. I end up at the vet for some poking and prodding (and the occasional shave), get some medication to drug me for 5-7 days, then I get over the stress of whatever caused the initial upset and all is good for a few months. Well, she has been following all sorts of advice—and this is what I think of it all.

· The Vet says I need more water. The lady bought me a fountain. It’s pretty cool. We can keep the fountain.

· The Vet thought maybe I was having some territorial issues with the Great Fluffsy—so, now we have litter boxes everywhere. It’s like a beach, there’s so much cat litter in this house. This works for me though. No waiting in line, no rushing, and no gawkers (except for the crazy lady that feels the need to examine my "deposit" after every visit). We can keep the extra boxes—I’d just appreciate it if the lady could back off a bit.

· The Vet says I seem to have separation anxiety. Now there’s an example of a human with an overinflated sense of self-worth. The humans were home last week before my latest episode, but they were outside a lot. See, I don’t really like any of the humans. If they’d just top off my food bowl before disappearing for hours, I wouldn’t get so stressed! Of course, the Chief of the Diet Police has a strict feeding plan and empty food bowls are about all I see. The humans can go for weeks—hey, they could move, take Fluffy Tail, and give me and the girls the house, but the food bowl needs to be filled or I’m going to freak out. Separation anxiety? Try Fear of Starvation, Dr. MindControl.

· The Vet says I need to lose another 8 pounds. 8 POUNDS??? That’s like losing Gina! If I lose 8 pounds, they’ll be able to pull my loose fur/skin into a 5 inch Mohawk down the length of my backside! Remember when I said Dad’s eye doctor was getting kickbacks from the vet by making Dad see me as overweight? Well, this crazy vet must be on contract with a plastic surgeon because if I lose 8 pounds they’ll be able to cover some balding cat in need!

· The Vet says I need to eat only wet cat food. I’ve made my position on canned, stinky squirrel innards quite clear. I won’t eat it. I refuse. It makes me gag. Fluffy Tail loves the stuff! He must have had his nasal cavity ripped out in a catfight—because any cat with a sense of stink could not be in the same room as that yuck.

· The Vet says I need exercise. Bring on the milk rings, but don’t expect miracles! I’d have to fetch milk rings 18 hours a day for 10 years to lose 8 pounds—and I do not believe my life expectancy is 18, so I don’t see the need to waste my life!

· The Vet says I need a “dietary supplement” sprinkled on my food. Hey, I’m cool with that. I’d be willing to eat dietary supplement sprinkled on the crunchy cat food 8- 10 times a day. All in the name of urinary health.

Since it’s not likely, she’ll follow my feeding plans—and I have yet to see one that I’m going to follow, we’ll see what new ideas the vet has here in about 3 months!

Well, I have been successful in my refusal of canned mouse ears. Mom returned me to my diet crunchy plan...the premeasured one. Now, we've been busted again! This time, the one I affectionately call Dad is in big trouble! This is his second offense. It looks bad. What crime? Feeding a dieting (starving!) cat! Can you imagine? One or two extra feeding and he's in hot water with the Chief.

The first time we ran into issues with Mom, AKA, the Chief of the Diet Police, was right before Thanksgiving. Mom had worked out a portion control plan with the vet on some healthy schmelthy cat food. No more free feeding. Two meals a day—MEASURED meals. Well, I don’t know what five-pound-cat-kind-of-feeding-plan this was designed for, but I am a manly man kind of kind. You’ve seen Hungry Man dinners? I need the Hungry Cat dinner plan. Of course, there is no reasoning with the humans!

Miraculously, around Christmas, some unknown benefactors (umm, Dad, the oldest human kid, and the middle little person) began to supply an extra portion or three throughout the day. Under the radar of Chief Mom, of course. It was wonderful. Things were virtually back to normal. I was again a well fed, happy Frito. It began to unravel when Mom picked me up one Friday and realized that perhaps I wasn’t losing weight. She brought out the scale. 23 ¼ pounds. Down ¾ of a pound?? How could that be possible? Maybe I had a thyroid problem? Should we go to the vet? Uh-oh. That went so well for me last time.

She began a little undercover investigation of sorts and we were busted! We had a great little system going. Mom would feed me my dinner when she put the little people to bed…then Dad would feed me in the middle of the night when I raised a “ruckus”—but, I would make sure to have it all gone before Mom came downstairs to feed me breakfast…then before the middle little one went to school, I would hit her up for a little midmorning snack. Handful (or two—her hands are small) of treats. Then I’d hold out all day, a good six hours, until the oldest came home from school…then I’d beg and plead and even let her pet me. Degrading, yes, but well worth that handful of cat food. Then it came crashing down. Mom got up extra early one day to iron and found a full food bowl!! Not possible since she had watched me eat ½ the bowl the night before. The interrogations started. Dad broke first. Mom’s a tough one. Then the oldest admitted to the mid afternoon feeding. She hasn’t broken the middle kid yet, but I don’t see any treats in my future.

Now Dad's been nabbed again for coming to my aid. This time, I may really be on a diet for good. It's bad, very bad.

This new diet threat is getting serious! The crazy human lady is literally refusing to give me real food! Well, I’m not stupid. I may not always be able to figure out how to get a milk bottle ring off my paw, but I know where they keep the good fat, uh, I mean CAT food!

The lady was not going to give me anything but Sludge-in-a-Can last night. I hadn’t eaten anything in at least three HOURS! We’ve played this game before, a few months ago, when they tried to “mend my ways”. Then, I simply waited until she got the little humans to sleep and I headed to the closet where the “good stuff” is kept. Just so happens to be about 5 feet from their bedroom door. I yowled and howled and pawed at that door until the middle little kid woke up! I got into a bit of trouble for that and Mom and I would have a 20 minute staredown over a plate of ground mouse ears. I would wait until she got distracted and I’d head back to the door and proceed to repeat my performance. You have heard nothing until the 24 pound cat stands up at midnight and pounds on a door. It was priceless.

I tried this last night, and she sat out the smelly gruel again, sprinkled some crunchies on it and really expected that to make a difference. My beloved crunchies were contaminated by buzzard innards or whatever “fillers’ make it into the vat of yuck that gets canned and dumped onto my plate!

Well, I refuse. I am a cat with principles on a mission. Anybody got an extra bag of Friskies lying around? I’ll even eat the crunchy Science Diet healthy stuff! Anybody?

Please control your shock and amazement. It seems that the vet, with all of her incredible knowledge and wisdom determined that I was, indeed, fat. Even after I lost almost a 1/4 pound since my last visit four months ago! (I am just thanking my lucky stars that we put in that one extra brushing before we left! Dodged the bullet on that one!)

Well, the vet is again pushing the portioned controlled wet food diet plan. All in the name of urinary health or some other vet mind control nonsense--and once again, the human lady is buying into it. They’ve given me diet food before. First it was crunchy diet food. It’s not my favorite, but I’ve always eaten it. Then, a few months ago, they tried the wet food diet plan. CANNED, wet, stinky food! Does anyone know what’s in that stuff??? Why would anyone EAT that? It’s dumbfounding. I can only imagine what parts of unsavory critters get put into that stuff! Yuck. I’d rather eat plastic spiders (but don’t tell the middle kid!)

We had some ups and downs with that first trial. For a few days I gave in and ate it—but, we had some issues. I don’t care for fish, I insisted on turkey and only turkey. Of course, I prefer a plate rather than a bowl....I have some whisker clearance issues. And I hate to eat alone so my human Mom had to adjust her schedule to sit with me. I ate it for almost a week--I even lost a little weight.

Then it happened. I got a whiff of the roomate cat, Lea’s, breath and realized that the girls have crunchy cat food stashed somewhere! The betrayal! Well, that did it. I was going to get some real food! Mom put out the so-called turkey and giblets...I’m sorry, I know what giblets are—and even big psycho Sal E. Cat left behind the “giblets”…So, I, ever so casually, moseyed over to the plate and proceeded to pretend to bury it. I thought it was a good one. One of my best. Mom wasn’t amused. Then I summoned my best hairball gag sound and walked away. Mom didn’t find it nearly as funny as I did.

Oh, joy. We'll get to try it all again. Well, I refuse. If that bundle of ground up mouse ears and innards packaged into a cutesy little can is cat food, I must be a dog!

Oh, good news today, folks! I am due for my Rabies vaccines at the vet. In case you haven't noticed, I hate going to the vet. It’s embarrassing. First of all, like always, the receptionist who witnessed my one little meltdown in the lobby will make a point to tell the new receptionist all about me. One time. I had one little lapse of character in the waiting room...a dog came in and barked something in Great Dane and I climbed up on Dad’s hat. One little freak out and I’m labeled a nutcase! As usual, I'll get rushed into the examining room to avoid an anticipated loss of composure and they'll send in the 98 pound vet tech to get my measurements. Okay. The 98 pound vet tech can never get a handle on all of me at once. We look ridiculous, she always nearly drops me and it’s humiliating. Why they subject me to these things I will never understand.


Then, the vet will come in. Oh, yes, and if I'm lucky, it will be my favorite one in the practice! Last time I was there, not only did she poke and grope and prod me, but she immediately started the “fat cat” rant. Oh, and then, I had to spend a full day with this lady! She had the nerve to put me on a diet! Hmmpf. Well, I sat in the hospital through her lunch and snacks…and apparently, her NutriSystem meals were delayed or something because that McDonald’s lunch and the Nutty Bars were surely not part of her diet plan. Somebody else needs to give old Jennie a call besides Frito, let me tell you.

Of course, since I'm not exactly a featherweight kind of kitty cat, they'll bring in not one, but two, extra vet techs to control me during my shot. Oooohh. I'm a mean one. They'll all grab me like I'm going to go Cujo on them or something--I won't move a muscle--and they'll feel like idiots...been there done that. It's really not as funny as it used to be, you know?

Wonder what the practicing moneymaker, a.k.a., the Vet, will find wrong with me today. Think my weight is too obvious? Gee, I wonder if they'll change my diet plan? That's been working so well for them. Well, I've decided that I'm not going without a fight today. I think I'll grab onto the front door with all four paws, then I'll refuse to get into the van, then I'll insist on sitting on the human's lap with my paws around her neck, and, ah, what the heck, I may just climb up onto her head for fun in the lobby...even if there isn't a dog...you know for old time's sake.

Vets. Phooey. Frito the cat is no lab rat....my new motto, like it?

Let me ask you something, do you know the function and purpose of the vet? Webster's Dictionary has defined the word Veterinarian as a person qualifed to practice veterinary medicine. This lead me to wonder the definition of veterinary medicine, as according to good old Daniel Webster....veterinary defines a term which means: of, relating to, practicing or being the science and art of prevention, cure or alleviation of disease and injury in animals and especially domestic animals.

Uh, let me get this straight....a veterinarian practices preventing, curing and alleviating disease and injury in us domesticated critters as a career....so, then the financial livlihood of a veterinarian depends on them finding issues in us to prevent, cure and alleviate, right? I am putting my health, happiness and wellbeing into someone's hands who gets paid to practice their art on me? Who signed me up to be a lab rat? I may be stupid, which I doubt, but, if I only get paid to fix and prevent illnesses and such, then I would imagine that if I looked hard enough in any critter, I could find something to prevent and alleviate in order to make that next house payment.

Frito is a cat--not a rat. I will no longer be someone's practice dummy.

After a temporary hiatus, the fat cat is back! As many of you know, I had some embarrassing bladder issues which, as usual, the crazy lady I call Mom, announced to the world. Well, it’s time to tell my side of the story, from the soul cat point of view. As I’ve said, I’m a pretty sensitive, laid back kind of cat. Leave out a bowl of cat food, a water fountain or two, my blanket (that the middle kid still hides on her bed), and let me peacefully coexist with the world….the “inside my house” world.

The real problem started when tSee, out of the blue, the parents insisted on adopting the great (scary, chipmunk eating, whiny) Sir Fluff—this upset the harmony in my world….and it upset my tummy. Then, the parents went away for the weekend leaving me and Lea alone with Gina, the punk rocking psycho cat….Oh, the hairballs! Well, naturally, I was upset, I got a little stressed out and I couldn’t pee. That was it. A little tension induced peeing issue. No need to panic. But, oh, no, Mom panicked and it was off to the vet for Frito. Vet visits always go SSSOOOOOOOO well for me. Gee, guess who has a little weight problem? Now, I'm a stressed out cat on a diet. That will really help my anxiety issues, eh?

It took me nearly two days to regain composure after hearing that it’s time for me to head to the vet again. Thank goodness it did not affect my appetite. Anyway, I am almost over the feeling of dread about that finally. THEN, yesterday morning, the one they call Mom thought she spotted a flea-on ME no less. Thank you, smelly old dog who has to go outside 30 times a day. You go outside and I somehow get the blame for the flea. I’m sure it wasn’t really a flea, but do they ever listen me? Yeah, right. Spring is here in Ohio-and out comes the first dose of flea medicine since November. Who gets it first? Better yet, who do they catch first? Yep. The fat cat. Everybody always picks on the fat cat. If there is anything that I dislike as much as going outside—it’s this flea stuff. First they have to hold me down. Degrading. Then, there is always some “I can’t find his shoulder blades, can you?” line of hardy har hars. Oh, yeah, the humans are a riot. At least, when I’m finished (passively, of course), I get to watch them try to put it on Lea. She is a complete psychotic. All of those forgotten, wild, outside cat characteristics come out. She becomes the little fireball of claws and teeth that we met and originally voted to throw back outside. I wished for popcorn. Now, this scene is a riot. Lea is about 8 pounds and they can’t do a thing with her. Later today, they’ll spot Gina and I’ll hang out to watch another show. Gina has agression issues. But, I’ll talk about that later. Fleas. On ME? Please.

Okay. I'll admit it. I hate going to the vet. Actually, I hate going outside. Newsflash, humans, if I hate going outside, the trip outside to get to the vet just may make me a little more than temperamental. To top off the fact that I hate getting to the vet, I have some other more embarrassing issues with the place. See, a couple of years ago, one of them (and she isn't so petite herself) suggested that I lose a few pounds and I haven't really followed my diet plan for a while now and I know there are going to be all the fat cat jokes and snickers and stares. It's just humiliating. Yes, I weigh 23 pounds, give or take a hairball, but I am mostly a MAINE COON. I'm not supposed to be a little lap cat. It's just not in my genes. And then there is also the fact that they have me "labeled" as a freak-out risk on my chart. That's like my permanent record in this world and they go and make little red sticky notes everywhere because of one teensy weensy little loss of composure a couple of years ago. I sort of flipped out a little bit once in the waiting room while we were in line waiting to pay bill. A dog walked in, barked something in Great Dane and I climbed up onto my Dad's head. It was a one time thing. Dad's a big guy, he handled it. It should not have been the defining point in my veterinary office behavior background. Out there for everyone to see. Horribly embarrassing. Now, I hear I have to go next week. I'll let you know how it goes.