Thankful to be Naturally Sweet

Bweaking Nooz! Yes, I know it's time for Tuesdays with Dori, but there has been a great upset at my house and so I must inpurrrupt yoor normally scheduled progwam for ...

Last week my pawrents celebwated their annipurrsary of being meowied to each other for--  I wasn't able to get a direct quote, but I did overhear joocy rumors of  them having known each other for at least one hundred years. 

Anyway, due to the arrival of Hurricane Nicole they were unable to go out to dinner because the place Daddy had chosen was in the area where a lot of properties were flooded, if not destroyed. Therefore, they postponed celebwating until this past week.

They arrived before the restaurant opened, so they went across the street to Mon Delice, a cozy French bakery where they drooled over the glass cases until management stepped in with Windex and papurr toweling and told them to make their final selections or leave. They chose two eclairs, a raspberry pastry and a coconut-covered chocolate snowball with raspberry filling. Then they returned to the restaurant across the street.

In an candid intermew with my momma, she admitted they had chosen the restaurant based on atmosphere despite poor reviews on the overpriced food, but they had a delightful time dwinking grape jooce and chatting about their fur babies. Mostly me, because I am the favorite. They skipped dessert because they had the French pastries in the car. 

Back home they watched teevee and enjoyed the eclairs. Momma really wanted to enjoy the snowball, but decided to savor the anticipation until the following night. She placed the pastry box in the cupboard and went to bed.

The next morning, after Daddy left to go play hit balls with sticks despite the hardy cold that had finally arrived at our house, Momma made coffee and eggs, and went into the cupboard for bread to make toast. To her horror she saw micro-ants everywhere!

I was able to catch a few quotes in between her fweaking out, but sadly none of them are printable.

Yes, the ants had found her pastries. Especially her snowball. It was chocolate and round and covered with coconut-flavored micro-ants. Everything went into the trash.

Then she texted Daddy with the bad news. Yes, she's been meowied long enough to know when to deliver bad news in purrson or by text. This was indeed a text message type of bad news.

This is my opinion of this tragic event. God works in mysterious ways. 

The Lord sent those micro-ants to swarm Momma's coconut-covered chocolate snowball with the raspberry filling because God knows she did not need one more calorie.

This coming Thursday we Ameowicans celebrate Thanksgiving. Purrsonally I am thankful to be naturally sweet. I do not need extra sugar to brighten my spirits. Just by making my friends smile is all I need to feel complete in my life.

Sincerely, we at It's a Wonderpurr Life value each of you who participate in our social life, be it here on our blog, or on Instagwam, Faceybook or Twitter. Right now our momanager is spread way too thin with all her accounts while trying to write another book, so we are in the process of combining accounts so that Momma's bwain can stop steaming, and our participation by visiting more blogs and accounts can actually happen instead of wishful thinking.

So, for an extwa treat, I'd now like to purrform my Thanksgiving Song, just for yoo.

Until Next Time...

Lost in Translation

Dear Frens, this is Dori. *wavy paws*. I hope this week has started off on a good foot for yoo, without the usual drama that accompanies Mondays. Purrsonally, I don't understand the growling over the first day of the work week, but then I've never worked a day in my life. 

In fact, I don't know the meaning of work. But that's another topic for another day. Today I feel I must address something I became aware of while eavesdropping on my pawrents over the weekend. 

To set the scene, I was draped over the sofa arm with my attention focused on Momma's dinner plate while Daddy sat a few cats down at the opposite end of the sofa, shoveling his food into his mouth as fast as he could while ChauncieMarie leaned heavily into him, hoping for a bite to fall into her mouth.

This is not at all unusual, although typically it is Peaches who is wiping her drippy nose onto Daddy's arm while he is eating. Opie tends to sprawl between my pawrents, purring loudly with the idea that everyone will hear how adorable he is and therefore share their noms. He's 3 for 10 this week, so there is indeed a method to his madness.

My method is to stare lovingly into Momma's eyes, even if she isn't looking at me, with an occasional pat to her face to remind her I'm there to help her lose weight by relieving her of the food on her plate. This scenario is reenacted every night my pawrents eat at home. The expensive Amish table in the next room is not for human dining, rather it is a place for Candy or Wabbit to sprawl when the window hammocks are taken by Fwank and KC.

So, getting back to what I wanted to talk about today... which has nothing to do with eating or sprawling or purring, or even wet noses wiped across Daddy's arm. It has to do with Ameowican's speaking a second language. Like Italian.

The reason I bring this up is because a teevee commercial came on while my pawrents were not sharing a single fweakin' bite of their noms about a European cruiseline where yoo could sail the world like Vikings on rivers, and go on an Italian Sojourn from Rome to Venice.

Daddy told Momma that was on his Bucket List, and Momma replied between the bites that she was not sharing with me that she wondered how difficult a cruise like that would be since they didn't speak Italian. Daddy said he went to Poland when he was a kid and didn't speak Polish, although he picked up the language pretty fast, to which Momma said, "All you picked up were the naughty words the other boys in camp taught you in exchange for you teaching them naughty American words."

So after the commercial ended and the plates were licked clean, I left the sofa feeling hungry and filled with disappointment. Not only are my pawrents stingy about sharing their noms, but they are ignorant about speaking a second language.

I speak Meow, of course, but I also understand Human. This is a phenomenon known as receptive multilingualism where one is able to understand another language without being able to speak it.

I'm willing to bet every fur in yoor home is also capable of receptive multilingualism.

So, for those of yoo like my pawrents who would like to vacation in Italy, but do not speaka da language, I'm here to learn yoo Italian.

Why do yoo have to learn Italian if yoo have no Bucket List with a visit to Italy on it? Well, listen, I'm not here to carve out a Bucket List for yoo, but it might help to have a back up language in case yoo go to some fancy spaghetti place where the waiters bring yoo extra garlic bread only if yoo say, "Prego" when they serve yoo, and yoo aren't referring to the pasta sauce in a jar. 

So for the sake of argument, let's say yoo suddenly find yoorself checking into a hotel in Rome because yoo got an incredible deal with yoor Senior Discount. Here are my suggestions to help yoo in case yoo aren’t happy with yoor woom:

English: We made these reservations six months ago! 

Italy-speak: Weeee maaade theeese rez-SUE-va-shuns seeex months ah-go!

English: Then we will sleep here in the lobby. 

Italy-speak: Weee will emmm-bar-ASS yoo with LOUD snorr-ing.

English: We reserved a room with a view. 

Italy-speak: Wee waaant a BET-ter woom that NO facea da land-fill.

English: The sheets are still damp.

Italy-speak: Did yoooo eee-vun try to DRY theeese things?

English: What is that smell?

Italy-speak: Eeet steeeenks lika old GO-ata in heeere.

English: Something is living in the bathroom.

Italy-speak: If eeet bitey me, I gonna WAKE da WHOLE-tel with SCREEEMS.

English: There is no hot water. The cold water is brown.

Italy-speak: Dair eees NO haaawt WA-ter. Da COLD WA-ter eees daaark like CHA-co LA-tay.

English: Is this a towel? It’s the size of a postage stamp.

Italy-speak: Ees dees a tow-el? Eeet whoa-ta cov-ver my BOO-tay.

English: Four stars my ass! This hotel is the equivalent to the Motel 6 back home.

Italy-speak: FORRR POINT SEEEX starrrr-zzz my ASS! I am gonna TWEEET about theeese crappy hotel unless you-a gimma da freee breakfast.

 

I hope my helpful translations will enable yoo to  converse eloquently on yoor next trip to Italy. And iffa yoo geet any complaints, eez notta ma problem-o. I am a kitteh. I do notta speak-a da engleesh.

Until Next Time...

The Chubby Chonkers Club and How I Lost 3 Pounds with a Purrsonal Trainer

Hi evfurrybuddy, it's me Dori *wavy paws* with another episode of Tuesdays with Dori, plus all the joocy gossip I could find while prowling the inpurrnet.

This past week I ran into fellow reporter Latte, host of News with Latte, and she told me her pawrents have started calling her a Chonkers "Fun Size" while her sisfur Ellie Mae is a "full-size" Chonkers candy bar. According to Latte, their Momma Kat is either shooing Latte away from Ellie's plate, or chasing Ellie around with a plate to get her to eat. Clearly Ellie is very pawtikular about privacy while dining, as she doesn't like being stared at while she puts food into her mouth.

I ask yoo, what woman enjoys being watched while eating? When was the last time we saw video of  Jennifer Lopez horking a bowl of plain M&M's? Actually, I heard a rumor from my Hollyweird connections that J-Lo throws tantrums when hotel maids dare to give her peanut M&M's. 

Ellie, maybe yoo need to rip a page from Kris Jennier's game book and have evfurryone in yoor fam sign an NDA, pronto! I mean, jesting about girth growth among relatives is one thing, but broadcasting it for all the world to read is a lawsuit waiting to happen. 

Now, while I've signed an NDA at my house, being a Bweaking Nooz reporter I have a special dispensation when it comes to sharing Behind the Scenes insider info on those who share my domain. So what I'm about to reveal is not liable for any lawsuit, mainly because *raises right paw* it's the Troof and Nuthin But The Troof, so Help me Cod.

THE DIRT ON CANDY

My sisfur Candy is a Calico, and easily falls under the category of "Chonkers." Momma says the girl just can't say no to a calorie. It's gotten so Candy gets a portion of canned wet pate without a side order of kibbies because we all know she will scarf down her meal, and then lean over to sneak bites off the plate of her boyfriend, KC. 

And KC will then lean over into Opie's plate... who will lean over into Peaches' plate... who will lean into Candy's plate... except Candy's plate is empty because she didn't leave a single crumb for Queen Peaches.

Since wimmen rarely reveal their weight, and I was unable to find a reliable information source at our family veterinarian, I am unable to report at this time just how chonky Candy actually is. However, when I was enrolled at the National Enquirer School for Journalism I learned pictures are worth a thousand meows:

Now from this aerial shot it may appear that KC is also a member of the Chubby Chonkers Club, however he's actually a big boy and looks slim and healthy when he's strutting his fine self around the house. Or maybe he's deliberately bulging just to make Candy feel less self-conscious about her weight.

As we age us wimmen have problems either losing weight or gaining weight for many reasons. Purrsonally, I lost three pounds when a certain AssWabbit joined my family. After a year he started chasing me all around the house, stalking me like he was a lion on the Serengeti and I was prey.

If yoo are stwuggling with a few pounds, I would be happy to send over my purrsonal Turkish Van weight loss coach free of charge provided yoo keep him at yoor house because I am DONE with his boosheet.

Here's the problem with Candy. She doesn't run, even from Wabbit. She may squeal with outrage, or hiss. But she's a red-blooded Calico and we all know how they are very confidant and will stand their ground when confronted. 

Candy is clearly comfy with her body image and our momma is aware that less calories plus more activity is the secret to getting a pound or so off my sisfur. However there is only so much we can do to motivate someone, and when they are stubborn and constantly hangry, then that purrson is in God's hands and He can deal with her determined cattitude.                                                                                        

AND HERE'S THE REST OF THE STORY

Did yoo know bending low over your plate can create digestion malfunction? Think about all the times yoor fur baby has barfed after eating. Were their plates sitting directly on the floor? Raising the food off the ground will help them digest their noms much easier.

A few years ago we bought a plastic children's table, removed the legs and donated the chairs to Goodwill. All we wanted was the pink table. It works perfectly for the Gang to gather around at mealtime and enjoy their noms without digestive upset occurring after they've finished.

The table is stored when not in use, but when it comes out there is a mad rush to gather around and wait for Food Service Girl (as the Trout Tabbies call her) to serve their meals.

Here is an example of Candy asking KC if he's finished with his food because she's done - for now - with hers. Because we are typical cats and will change our minds about what we like to eat at any given moment, our mom serves three different flavors of Fancy Feast at every meal just in case one... or four... of us decides we don't like what we have in front of us and want to change plates with someone else.

In the example below Opie - also a member of the Chubby Chonkers Club - has cleaned his plate, but clearly was not happy with the flavor he got stuck with.

And so this concludes this week's Tuesdays with Dori. We at It's a Wonderpurr Life are in the process of making changes and redefining the purrpose of this blog. If yoo enjoy my Tuesdays with Dori, please let me know why in the comments below. I won't be hurt too much if yoo are ready for something new.

Until next time...

The Worst Halloween Ever

October 31, 2010. The day my nightmare as a Cat Mom came true.

Up front let me say, I have gone around in circles on whether or not to post this, mostly because I have strived to publish nothing but happy cat humor across all my social media accounts. However, my experience as a cat rescuer sometimes hands me lessons that have sad endings, and yet they provide me with an insight on what to watch for with future rescues.

Kenny was one of those sad lessons that I continue to ache over, even twelve years later. This is his story.

The front yard was set up like a mini graveyard with homemade Styrofoam tombstones and a giant blow-up black widow spider. A furry brown spider, about the size of a bed pillow, was attached to a clear string and pulled to make it jump as Trick or Treaters walked past it. Often the parents jumped higher than the spider.

Two days before I’d noticed my long-haired tabby, Kenny, wasn’t eating. Kenny always ate, so this was a red flag. I’d lost my older tabby, Moose, to horrible kidney failure a couple years previous. His mouth had been filled with poison, making it impossible for him to eat. So I rushed Kenny to the vet. He was diagnosed with a mouth infection and an overactive thyroid. Tests indicated he had kidney disease, but I was told to have him rechecked again in 1-2 months. And we were sent home.

That was on a Saturday. The vet clinic closed after noon, and any problems would be addressed by an emergency vet clinic. I monitored Kenny closely for the day, with my instincts screaming that something more was wrong. I wasn’t happy that I’d been sent home without more information. I’m a full-throttled kind of information girl. I keep religious records of every cat, from yearly vaccinations, to abscesses, to what medication they took for sneezing. I know how much they weighed on any given vet visit. What they went in for and what meds were prescribed.

Kenny seemed listless, but he did eat. I decided I wouldn’t wait the 1-2 months for a recheck. I’d take him back when they opened on Monday and demand a more thorough examination.

Halloween night…kids are flocking to our driveway, squealing and jumping with the brown spider. Upstairs, Kenny is bleeding from his urinary tract.

Shaking with fury, I run him to the emergency clinic where they tell me his bladder is the size of a baseball. They inserted a catheter, but he had to be manually expressed. Over the next two days he refused to eat. His kidneys were shutting down, creating blockage.

My regular veterinarian talked to the emergency vet to get answers. She felt as upset as I was that she had not diagnosed the severity of Kenny’s problems. She was told that his kidneys weren’t failing from any diet that I fed him, but rather from toxins his kidneys were producing.

In short, it was just Mother Effing Nature taking him down, without consideration to my feelings, or the fact that Kenny was only eight years old. Too young to die!

On November 3rd I was called in to say goodbye. What upsets me to this day is that I never saw this coming. Kenny wasn’t a Drama Queen, like 95% of my other cats. He was a quiet, sweet angel who readily offered to warm my lap. He ate without complaint. He didn’t have aggression issues. He loved to have his whole body shaved in the summertime, and would lie on his back in order for me to shave down his tummy and even his arm pits. I’d sing, ‘Kenny Kenny Coco Pie,’ and he’d run to me, his fluffy tail in the air, ready to hang out with me.

At the clinic, they brought Kenny in to me, and gave us privacy to say goodbye. He had a tube inserted into his urinary tract. He looked fine! That’s was really gets me. He was normal looking. All set to get the hell out of there and go home. He kept nudging me, anxious to get off the table. After ten minutes, I was ready to get this over with. I so wanted to run him out of there with complete denial that it was happening at all.

I’d just lost my beloved snowshoe Siamese, Holly, in April. That she lived to be 18 was beside the point. I was still grieving. And now I was losing Kenny. To say I was roiling angry at myself is putting it lightly. I take my responsibility as their guardian with as much seriousness as any parent would their children. I go without in order to afford their medical care and the best of food, always done with intense research. There is no slacking on my part when it comes to my cats. But sometimes no matter how much you know, how much you care, how much you love, there is nothing you can do to make it all better. Sometimes there are no second chances.

I had Kenny cremated. His urn is a handsome wood block with a brass plate and his photo, the best I’d ever taken of him. I remember the day: sunny and clear. He sat in my lap in the sun room and I took his photo close up. Handsome boy!

My stomach tightens whenever I dust his urn. I tear easily at the thought of him. That’s not a good way to remember someone you loved. You’re supposed to be filled with joy that you had them in your life. But with Kenny, I feel that I let him down. I wish that he had been a Drama Queen, grabbing my attention on a daily or even hourly basis, as some of mine do. I may not have been able to save him, regardless if he’d been closely monitored, but that he was in pain and I didn’t know it will eat away at me forever.

I didn't realized Kenny and Moose were almost inseparable until I went through old photos and saw how many I'd taken of them together. Moose was a full-on feral polydactyl who had suffered great loss when his lady Maggie left us when we lived in Kentucky, and his baby brother Logan disappeared when we moved to Mississippi. It was then that I brought Moose indoors, and it was then he and Kenny apparently became best friends.

I’m determined that Kenny didn’t die in vain. Now aware that my Drama Queens could distract me from another non-Drama Queen, I pay that much closer attention to them so that the unfortunate end of Kenny’s life was a lesson to me, and through my telling of his story, to all who share their lives with multiple pets.

God has the final say on the demise of all of His creatures. For those of us sanctioned with the honor of caring for His creatures, let us honor Him by doing them right.

Love them. Hug them. Feed them good food. Listen to your inner voice warning you something is wrong, and demand answers.

This is how I will always remember Kenny, lying in the cat apartment litter box pretending it's just another day at the beach.