Making up for lost time

A few of my readers have asked me how Charlie the Dog and Izzy the Cat are adjusting to apartment living. Good question, readers! Or, you know, it's an okay question. I mean, there have been worse. Questions like "Why are you wearing that?" and "How much more could you suck?" So. Onward!

Of course we had informed the pets when we first decided to move, to give them time to adjust. And Charlie was all, "But I need a backyard to defile with my fecal matter" and Izzy was like, "How will I live without a basement in which I can find all manner of dust and crap to rub into my fur?" And we replied, "How about your opinion matters when you contribute some money and/or start picking up your own poop?" That shut them up good. At least for a few hours, and then they started grumbling again.

I am happy to report, however, that they appear happier in the apartment than they ever were in the house. I'm not sure why this is, except that now they can keep on eye on us at all times. Frankly I didn't think Izzy cared all that much, but it turns out she likes having us around. Where she can be directly underfoot, trying to kill us.

Charlie seems more comfortable knowing that we're all in one place, that his pack is safely assembled. It must have been exhausting, keeping track of us in the house. Especially when some of us were upstairs and others were downstairs, a setup he must have imagined we had planned just to torment him. He's also enjoying meeting other dogs, which is a huge surprise—the last time we lived here, he would go ballistic if he saw a dog or anything vaguely dog-shaped. On our walks in New Jersey, we would maybe see one other dog, usually across the street, as the dog and its owner scurried away. Now he's seeing multiple dogs on every block and he's greeting them like they're old friends. Like he's happy to be back in Brooklyn! Or maybe he's just old.

So they're good. Besides, we're in an overheated rental, and what animal doesn't enjoy a nice dry heat?

A brief, bewildering tour of where I spend most of my day.

Why hello! I've had too much coffee, and I've taken pictures of my workspace! Come along with me, won't you?

This is what my office looks like in the morning. Look how sunny! You'll notice there's no computer. That's because I compose my thoughts in a linen-bound journal, which I then read into a recording device, and send the digital voice files to a transcription service in Uruguay.

Actually the computer's just downstairs, and I'm too lazy to get it, so I was writing in my journal instead. I tend to write on whatever's handy. A journal, the side of a building, my son's forehead. Whatever.

Here you see the doodles I doodled at some point, I can't remember when. Doodling is essential to my thought process. I drew, as you can see, a heart, because love is very important to me. Then I drew the symbol for eternity, because I often ponder the big questions. Then there's a star and a star-like shape, and I don't have a reason for those. I like to practice the alphabet, because sometimes I forget what comes after what. The "catapult" note is about this deadly, enormous catapult that I'm designing… but I've said too much. Then there's a space for… for what? Who can say! You see how inspiring that is?

And here are the toys I play with, when I crave inspiration. Sometimes I like to take a break and go on a space mission. Or a "mission dans l'espace." It all depends. On what? Je ne sais quoi.

Here is my exercise ball. I have been known to use this for some forms of exercise. Usually I just leave it in that rattan basket, so I can pretend I am a bird, sitting on an enormous, bouncy egg. This amuses me.

This is my chalkboard easel, upon which I scribble angry notes to my inner critic. Here, as you can see, I have scrawled NONONO. This is because my inner critic told me to write something more worthwhile than this rambling mass of lies. Another day I might write POOP, or just draw a space man. I find this technique quite valuable, until my inner critic mocks my penmanship, and I cry.

Here is my cat. She likes to sit on this chair and stare at my back while I work. This keeps me awake, because if I nod off who knows what she'll do. She really cares about me, that cat.

In the adjoining bedroom is Charlie, who as you can see is lounging across our pillows. He does not care about my Art at all. All he cares about is himself. Himself, and his damned sleep.

Now he is pleading me with his eyes to go away, and leave him in peace. And so I shall.

The tour of my office is now finished. You are very welcome.

I am not at all afraid of my cat.

My cat tried to kill me. But I'm sure I had it coming.

It all started when I mocked my cat's ass on Twitter. Izzy the cat is—well, she's become a big girl. She rapidly morphed from an adorable teacup-sized kitten to a hulking mass who causes the house to shake when she jumps off a chair. Here is what she was:

And here's Izzy now!

She actually looks relatively slender here, due no doubt to her slimming black hue. She's way more of a moose than you can tell from the picture. In real life, she causes people to exclaim in surprise when they see her. She's not small.

I don't even know how she fits on this windowsill.

I know that this is partly our fault. Or at least it's our fault for not addressing the issue as soon as we noticed her rapid expansion. It occurred, as these things do, after she was spayed. When she figured there was no reason to keep up her girlish figure. She let herself go, and we let her do it.

Look, now her back-fat is causing her to slip:

So lately it seems that she is too heavy to clean herself. Specifically, she cannot reach her butt. And this is disgusting. I even tried cleaning her myself—out of love, yes, but mostly disgust—but the fur is all matted, and now there's no getting it out. It's clear that we need to take her to the vet and get the whole cat-butt problem worked out. She's also apparently incapable of cleaning her back, now, and let's face it, it's really hard to pet her when she's like this. Our love, apparently, is conditional, and the condition is "must not have pooplets stuck to ass when you rub our legs for a pet."

Oh wait, I just found a picture in which her enormous girth is revealed.

NOW YOU SEE. Quick, look away—I can't be sure what prolonged viewing of her Rasputin-like gaze would do to your brains.

I feel bad for her, but that didn't stop me from writing a Twitter about her ass. And not a few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen, and Izzy dashed in front of the doorway, causing me to fly across the room, landing on both wrists and one knee. I had to lie there for a while. Henry came in and offered to kiss my knee, but I demurred. Over the next few days, my knee turned all kinds of colors. My parts hurt. But it could have been much worse.

I have never almost been killed by a cat before, and it's a humbling experience. I can only conclude that Izzy can read, and that she's following me on Twitter. She's probably reading my blog. So I just want to say here that 1) my cat is beautiful, no matter what condition her ass is in, and 2) I was wrong to publicly mock her. Oh, and 3) I am sure that if we take her to the vet it will be so she can be admired, and not to have her hindquarters shaved and a tasteless diet food prescribed. In conclusion, my cat is beautiful. A big, beautiful beast.

If I don't post in a couple of days, you'll know that she didn't accept my apology.

I feel so violated.

Dear cat:

I'm sorry we forgot to get you spayed. The good news is it's happening tomorrow. Meanwhile, don't look at me like that. I like you, but not in that way.

Fondly,

Your owner (but not lover)

Dear sexy, sexy human:

You are one hot number, did you know that? You don't have sleek fur covering your weird body, and you can't even cleanse your hindquarters with your probably un-barbed tongue, but… I don't know. There's something about you. I never noticed before today. But now I have these feelings, and I can't ignore them.

I will waggle my hindquarters in the air, and let nature take its course.

Patiently, your cat,

Izzy

Dear Izzy,

Shall I lock you in the basement overnight?

Love,

Alice

Dear Charlie,

Aw, yeah. I don't care how much of a non-cat you are, you are working this dog thing, and me likes. Do you know what you're doing to me, with that tail, and those eyes, and the way you stand there, paralyzed in terror, whenever I come around? Don't be afraid, baby. I got needs, and you're the closest thing to perfect within these four walls. You know where to find me.

Rowr,

Izzy

Cat-Thing--

Hey! What! I don't undersand when you talk about this and with the cat-butt in the air and what! It, you know, it's scary enough when you swat and hiss and poke and hiss and swat! Hey! But now I have to say I can't really handle this! Wow! I sure am very very very nervous! Where are my beloveds! My giant pink beloveds! Save me from cat-beast! SAVE!

Running,

Charlie

Hey baby,

You're the only one left, and time is running out. Tomorrow they take out my feelings, my hot cat needs, but tonight, tonight is for you and me. The dog, that coward, is hiding with the other non-cats, and I can't get at him. But you, you don't run away. You stand tall and strong, and I like that. Now MOUNT ME.

Thank you,

Your kitty cat.

ANIMAL:

No understand, me. Is confuse! Why you writhe and shimmy against I? What have you reason for chirruping? Cannot act. Cannot help! Want to, would like, but no working I is parts for moving. Am non-moving, but not non-feeling. So sorry.

Love,

COFFEE TABLE

Dear Alice,

Where are you going with this? Yes, we get it, the cat's in heat, you're getting her spayed. Better late then never, although some of us think spaying is evil and your cat should mate with wolves or whatever. We can't help it, some of us are kooks. Do you have any plans to wrap this up?

Love,

The Internet

Dear Internet,

No, I don't have any ideas, I'm sorry. I didn't think this through.

Yours,

Alice

Hey, Internet,

As long as you're here, HELP A CAT OUT GODDAMMIT.

Hugs 'n' stuff,

Izzy.