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There are six (admittedly adorable) young cats who hang out in our backyard sometimes.  They are all shades of grey but don't appear to be the same type of cat, so not siblings, just buddies.  I am guessing one of our neighbors just realized she was never going to get married and decided to commit fully to the stereotype.  Either that or PetSmart just started using punch cards.  "Buy five cats, get one free!"  Some people really can't resist a bargain. 

Anyway, Cael and Finn love them and want to adopt them, obviously.  I told them that was not an option.  The real reason for this is that litter-boxes are on my "Never Subject Yourself to this Voluntarily" list.  (Also included on the list: needles, seafood, door-to-door salesmen, Nicholas Cage films.)  The reason I gave the boys, however, is that we already have a dog and dogs don't like cats.

Allie:  We can't have Clio and a cat in the same house, guys.  They just wouldn't get along.
Cael:  That's okay, Mama!  We can just get another house!

I'm thinking cleaning a litter-box would be less offensive than cleaning an entire second home, but I could probably be convinced if it had a walk-in closet and bigger master bathroom.  Add an updated kitchen and you've got yourself a deal.

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*Friendship will be terminated if/when any party uses other party's tail as a road for toy cars to drive on.

Always read the fine print, Cael. Always read the fine print!

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Cael's friendship with Clio remains strong. He continues to refer to her with her full title, "My friend Clio," and be unusually distressed when she is not with him. This morning he wanted her to play but she wanted to snuggle in Ryan's discarded bathrobe on the floor of our bedroom.

(Password: Allie)

Clio appears to be unmoved. (Literally.)

Lyrics:

Dance, dance.
You've got to feel better with your owie
You've got to! You've got to! (Yeah, yeah!)
You've got to! You've got to!
Now you've got to feel better with your owie
You've got to! You've got to!
And you've got to get down
You've got to! You've got to!
And you've got to - and you've got to feel better with your owie

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Clio is likely allergic to something that's currently blooming, because she got a cut or scratch and it reacted much like the cut or scratch she got last time this year, which is to say - we took her to the vet for the good drugs.

I told Cael that we were going to be taking Clio to the vet, and he took this very seriously. He insisted that he be the one that break the news to her. He went into the living room and sat beside her on the blanket, gently petting her tail. Then, in a very calm but serious tone he said, "Clio, you don't feel well. You have an owie. You are going to go to the doctor. You'll feel better with medicine."

He dealt with the entire thing with a great deal of gravity.

When we were at the vet, Cael sat peacefully in the lobby until Clio's name was called. As she rounded the corner to the exam room, he started keening. Loudly. The tears were instantaneous and I could hardly make out what he was saying. Eventually, I could decipher the words. He continued hysterically wailing, "My friend Clio! I don't want my friend Clio to go!" for about five minutes, until Ryan came out of the exam room to retrieve Cael so that he could go sit with his newly minted best friend. Once in the exam room, Cael proceeded to comfort/distract her by reading her his new BabyBug that had just come in the mail.

For someone whose previous interactions with Clio were 95% poking with blunt objects, it was all very touching.

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If you'll remember, our tank started with the tragic suicide of Lizzie and went downhill from there. Only one other inhabitant has been a self-inflicted death, but there have been several subsequent homicides.

It turns out, not only were the crabs voracious carnivores, but so was Pepe the Evil. (R.I.P. Ruby the fish and Patty the crab - you won't see pictures of them because they didn't last long enough to be photographed.) Needless to say, Pepe took a long walk to the aquarium store and someone else can enjoy his "brilliant coloring." Apparently he was remarkably healthy looking. I guess that's what you get when you have all that fine dining.

We now have rid the tank of predators (we hope) and restocked with a few new faces.

This is Annie. She and Charlotte have become fast friends. They burrow together and sometimes hang out on the gravel, side by side. I imagine Charlotte is telling horror stories of the life inside, and Annie is resolving to spend more time under the rocks.

Jimmy appears to be a victim of tank violence. You'd think that would make him rough and tough and ready to live in this harsh environment, but apparently he's got some PTSD. He just stays in the same spot all day and all night, nose against the glass as if it will hide him from everyone else. (He needs to have a talk with Charlotte and Annie about hiding under rocks vs hiding in plain sight.)

This is the snail. He/she/it doesn't have a name. I figure it's better this way.

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There was a wrestling match to determine who got to snuggle in Clio's new bed.

And, no, Clio was not a participant.

(Don't forget to click to enlarge!)

The champion:

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If you think, "Weird. That sounded like a fish jumped out of the tank" - INVESTIGATE FURTHER.

In related news: RIP, Bo the Fish.

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After the tragic loss of Lizzie, we found a new partner for John. She's smaller, cuter and spunkier. Lizzie would hate her, but I bet John thinks it's an upgrade. Meet Winona:

When we got Winona we also got Bum and Bull, the bumblebee snails. They help Ryan clean the tank. This is Bum:

We've had those three for a few months now. Unintentionally, we've also been collecting really freaky looking worm parasites and little buggy things that scamper when the light turns on. They creep me out. In order for me to get within ten feet of the tank, these baddies must be removed. There are to be no worms in the house, omg!

Yesterday we returned to the fish store and made a few more friends whose purpose in life is to eat the skeevies while looking pretty.

Charlotte:

Pepe:

Bo:

It's been 24 hours and there's still some nasty stuff scurrying around. I'm giving these three 'til the end of the week and if they don't make a dent I'm buying someone with a bigger jaw. Die, worms!!

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Go, Rescue Pack!

Obviously, I have been watching enough Go, Diego, Go! that I, too, have become an animal rescuer.

Authorities are still trying to determine whether it was accidental or attempted suicide, but one way or another, Medusa got herself sucked into the tank filter this morning. I walked by and saw her stretched into a skinny pink tube and all her arms were down the black hole.

Because I don't have a super backpack, camera, and interactive audience, I had to resort to Google to help me remedy this crisis. In what some would call a "duh" solution, my research concluded that I needed to turn the filter off. This, according to the world wide webs, may only be the first step. It could possibly be followed by dismantling and prying. I was not looking forward to that portion of the program.

I couldn't find a switch for the filter, but I yanked the plug out of the wall and the tank powered off. Medusa slowly slid back out and balled up into the fetal position. No arms appear to have been severed. Medical teams are standing by. I hope. Maybe. Do vets attend to invertebrates?

The good news is - two more saves and Diego will make me an official Animal Rescuer!

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We've got some sort of black fungus stuff growing in the aquarium. Fish dude says it comes from tap water and will eventually work itself out... or something. I tend to tune that out and let Ryan handle it. (Don't judge me! It was part of the deal!) It looks unappealing, to say the least. Kind of like the tank is in a bad industrial area where the buildings are all decrepit and smudged with soot. It's definitely the wrong side of the tracks.

And to add to the sociological degradation of our fish society, Drab is now walking around in Alabastor's shell. Which is both frightening and really, really creepy.

So, for those keeping tally, of the seven life-forms that once inhabited the tank, two are swimming in that giant toilet bowl in the sky, and one is wearing the deceased's skivvies. I'll give him props for the upgrade - his shell was boringly colored and sporting a giant hole - but minus points for total lack of class.

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R.I.P. Lizzie the fish.

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Cael likes to show off his birthday present. FISH!

This is Alabaster the Snail. She's very wise and gives sage advice to:

Purmitt and Drab the hermit crabs.

Medusa. Because it's a requirement that everyone's first anemone is named after famously crazy hair.

John and Lizzie. Clowning around.

The blue guy in the center is Jeff.
He won't sit still long enough for a portrait.

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Cael is in his very fussy phase (please be a phase, please be a phase...), which leads to a lot of immobility on my part.

When I finally manage to calm his hysterics, the last thing I want to do is move him. I handle him much like I would a live bomb - I use extreme caution so that I don't jostle him and trigger an explosion of life-threatening proportions. (Seriously. You should hear this kid wail.) So, no matter what awkward position I end up in, if his eyes close I immediately freeze.

As I sit here, pinned to the couch and typing one handed, it occurs to me that I could use a little help from Clio in times like these. She's just lying there, curled up and cozy on the end of the couch and not pulling her weight. I mean, I put food in her dish every morning and I sneak her tiny pieces of meat from dinner - would it kill her to nuke me a hot pocket? Or at least hand me the Tivo remote that is woefully out of my reach?

Lately I've been thinking I should train her not to bark at small children and large dogs, but I think I should skip that and go straight to an instructional on how to make a margarita.

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It’s official. Clio is not a threat to national security. At least for the next 29 days.

/Sigh of relief.

I know you were all worried.

In order to take your pet across state lines by plane, you need to have a signed health certificate by order of Homeland Security. Just to make sure she isn’t packing distemper. Biological warfare is frowned upon.

We actually had the pleasure of two pet visits today. Since, well – I’ll get to that. It was a bit of a last minute veterinary visit.

Being new to the sunny land of hell-a, we have yet to find Clio a vet. So, we did what all red-blooded-lazy-cheap Americans do… we took her to the vet attached to Petco. Yes, Vetco.

What kind of people take their pet to a place called Vetco?

While we were in the waiting room a man walked in the door with a paper bag in his hands. I assumed he was carrying canned dog food or something. It looked heavy and cumbersome. Well, of course it was cumbersome. It was a cat in a bag. A brown paper bag. A cat. In a brown paper bag.

Once admitted to the examination room we were helped by a lovely woman named Bridget. Who was a little less lovely when, after she shoved a thermometer somewhere things should never be shoved, grabbed an alcohol swab and dropped it on the floor. She picked it up and looked at it briefly before swiping it once over the thermometer and placing the thermometer back in the drawer. One swipe. Hmm. Thank god it wasn’t going up my butt next.

After that ordeal we were instructed to wait for the vet.

Two minutes later, Bridget returns to say that, oops – their vet isn’t certified to do health certificates. Oops. Should have told us that yesterday when we called, shouldn’t you have, Bridget?

So off we go to vet number two. At VCH the vet actually has the qualifications required to look at Clio for two minutes and deem her healthy.

We shall not return to Vetco.

So… why did we wait until the day before takeoff to get Clio certified? Because EQ2 has sucked in my brains and won’t give them back.

If you call me while I’m playing Everquest, even if I respond – I’m not really listening. If you email me while I’m playing Everquest, and I read it? I’ll forget it ever existed. If you’re Ryan, and you say, “Allie, Clio and I are going on a walk, we’ll be back in ten minutes,” I won’t notice you were gone, nor will I know where you have been.

It’s a disease. But Ryan has it too – so I don’t feel so bad.

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It’s raining.

And I’m not talking Oregon rain. None of the good stuff… the light sprinkles and random downpours that make you feel like Gene Kelly. Oh no. This is LA rain.

This is the kind of rain that happens when the sky opens up and hawks up the biggest loogie you could ever conceive, and continues to do so for days on end. The drops are the size of golf balls. You can’t stand outside for two seconds without drenching your clothing to the point that it takes them all night to air dry.

Plus, with the city’s poorly constructed drainage system – the streets are deeper than the LA river (I know, I know – no large feat… but with all this rain you should see it… it actually resembles a body of water!) I’ve seen countless residents who, either through negligence or lack of options, parked their cars on the side of the street at night and returned the next day to find them up to their running boards in liquid filth.

Get out your galoshes. This is not pleasant.

I blame LA for it. I reason that if this city were not so asthetically repulsive, there would be no need for heaven to attempt this drastic deep cleaning.

Perhaps we’ll get some greenery out of it?

Ah. Cue the thunder and lighting. Now that’s more like it.

Luckily, Clio has her raincoat.

.

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