shereads
Sloganless
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2003
- Posts
- 19,242
So, last night I'm sitting on the front steps feeding the mosquitos and tallying up what I've spent on medical care and general maintenance for the Katz's, a family of strays consisting of four kittens, their catnip addicted mother and alleged babydaddy, Steve Katz.
With three Katz's down and three to go, you don't even want to guess what it's cost so far for neutering/spaying + blood tests for feline AIDS/leukemia + vaccinations + deworming + flea treatment + boarding at the vet's office during recovery from surgery + antibiotics for Anna Nicole Katz after she pulled out her sutures + treating the gravel beneath my carport with an ineffectual volcanic-mineral-based so-called deodorizer, which has in no way diminished the fragrance of kitty effluence that now hangs like a greenish-yellow mist over my property, which happens to be for sale.
The pungent note of cat pee-and-poop, combined with the indescribable scent of bloating lizard torsos, half a dozen of which are deposted by the Katz's for safe-keeping each week in the fern-bed that flanks my front walkway, assaults the unwary visitor with a violent olfactory insult sufficient to make strong men weep.
Inevitably, the police will arrive to investigate allegations that I have murdered an itinerant cat-urine salesman and hidden his body in my garden.
So. I was sitting on the steps last night being dined upon by mosquito fledgelings and dispensing catnip to Steve and Anna Nicole Katz and their offspring, Bernard, Phyllis, Caspar and SuperFly, when all six cats suddenly went on the alert, staring at a point above and behind my head and going quite still, as if anticipating some new thrill, such as the chance to capture, disembowel and discard a non-lizard. I turned to see what they were staring at, at precisely the moment when the tree frog landed on my shoulder.
This is not the first tree frog incident at the Decaying Jungle Compound. I have been leaped-upon by a tree frog after accidentally blasting it with the garden hose while watering a basket of impatiens. That was a provoked attack, which didn't stop me from screaming bloody murder when the creature appeared out of nowwhere and attached its little suction-cup-like toes to my forehead.
Another time, the dog reluctantly went outside during a rainstorm to do what dogs must do. She darted into the shelter of the carport and was there no longer than half a second when she returned in a blind panic, ridden by a tree frog.
That was the night I spent nearly an hour attempting to herd the tree frog outside. I won't attempt to explain about the ceiling fan, or how the frog dropped into the pocket of my bathrobe. Suffice it to say, the chase was exhausting but necessary. Left to their own devices in an air-conditioned house, tree frogs and lizards and such will disappear into linen closets and beneath guest beds, where they dehydrate. While sweeping dust-bunnies from beneath the furniture, it is all too common to come upon the macabre sight of a mummified tree frog with bits of lint clinging to it, and sometimes with a missing earring stuck to the carcass.
This is a good time to get rid of unwanted costume jewelry.
(A sure-fire way to rate the quality of jewelry is by the number of seconds you hesitate before throwing it out, still attached to the frog carcass.)
Despite tree frogs' disturbing tendency to leap onto startled persons and dogs for no apparent reason (they panic, I imagine), and to sing too loudly and off-key, I like them. In fact, I'm beginning to think I like tree frogs better than cats. Or at least Katz's.
When this latest tree frog landed on my shoulder last night, the six Katz's sprang at me all at once. It was all I could do to save myself; that I also managed to save the tree frog from being disemboweled and dragged off into the fern bed is a minor miracle. A temporary one, if I know Katz's.
I don't, really. Know them, that is. Don't want to, either. I did, but now I don't.
I liked the Katz's well enough until Steve, the babydaddy, attacked my harmless blind dog, on her very own deck and hissed at me when I rushed in to defend her. Little hoodlum.
Now, more than ever, I am a dog person.
Three neutered Katz's down, three to go. Steve, you're next.
With three Katz's down and three to go, you don't even want to guess what it's cost so far for neutering/spaying + blood tests for feline AIDS/leukemia + vaccinations + deworming + flea treatment + boarding at the vet's office during recovery from surgery + antibiotics for Anna Nicole Katz after she pulled out her sutures + treating the gravel beneath my carport with an ineffectual volcanic-mineral-based so-called deodorizer, which has in no way diminished the fragrance of kitty effluence that now hangs like a greenish-yellow mist over my property, which happens to be for sale.
The pungent note of cat pee-and-poop, combined with the indescribable scent of bloating lizard torsos, half a dozen of which are deposted by the Katz's for safe-keeping each week in the fern-bed that flanks my front walkway, assaults the unwary visitor with a violent olfactory insult sufficient to make strong men weep.
Inevitably, the police will arrive to investigate allegations that I have murdered an itinerant cat-urine salesman and hidden his body in my garden.
So. I was sitting on the steps last night being dined upon by mosquito fledgelings and dispensing catnip to Steve and Anna Nicole Katz and their offspring, Bernard, Phyllis, Caspar and SuperFly, when all six cats suddenly went on the alert, staring at a point above and behind my head and going quite still, as if anticipating some new thrill, such as the chance to capture, disembowel and discard a non-lizard. I turned to see what they were staring at, at precisely the moment when the tree frog landed on my shoulder.
This is not the first tree frog incident at the Decaying Jungle Compound. I have been leaped-upon by a tree frog after accidentally blasting it with the garden hose while watering a basket of impatiens. That was a provoked attack, which didn't stop me from screaming bloody murder when the creature appeared out of nowwhere and attached its little suction-cup-like toes to my forehead.
Another time, the dog reluctantly went outside during a rainstorm to do what dogs must do. She darted into the shelter of the carport and was there no longer than half a second when she returned in a blind panic, ridden by a tree frog.
That was the night I spent nearly an hour attempting to herd the tree frog outside. I won't attempt to explain about the ceiling fan, or how the frog dropped into the pocket of my bathrobe. Suffice it to say, the chase was exhausting but necessary. Left to their own devices in an air-conditioned house, tree frogs and lizards and such will disappear into linen closets and beneath guest beds, where they dehydrate. While sweeping dust-bunnies from beneath the furniture, it is all too common to come upon the macabre sight of a mummified tree frog with bits of lint clinging to it, and sometimes with a missing earring stuck to the carcass.
This is a good time to get rid of unwanted costume jewelry.
(A sure-fire way to rate the quality of jewelry is by the number of seconds you hesitate before throwing it out, still attached to the frog carcass.)
Despite tree frogs' disturbing tendency to leap onto startled persons and dogs for no apparent reason (they panic, I imagine), and to sing too loudly and off-key, I like them. In fact, I'm beginning to think I like tree frogs better than cats. Or at least Katz's.
When this latest tree frog landed on my shoulder last night, the six Katz's sprang at me all at once. It was all I could do to save myself; that I also managed to save the tree frog from being disemboweled and dragged off into the fern bed is a minor miracle. A temporary one, if I know Katz's.
I don't, really. Know them, that is. Don't want to, either. I did, but now I don't.
I liked the Katz's well enough until Steve, the babydaddy, attacked my harmless blind dog, on her very own deck and hissed at me when I rushed in to defend her. Little hoodlum.
Now, more than ever, I am a dog person.
Three neutered Katz's down, three to go. Steve, you're next.
Last edited:
