Ah, spring in the Midwest. The yellows and purples of crocuses dot the flower beds. Daffodils peek up through the ground. Grass and iris leaves start greening up. It’s a time when song birds build their nest 4 feet outside my bedroom window and sing merrily at 5 am…about half an hour before I go to bed. Each morning I’m serenaded to sleep. That’s today…a month from now I’ll be holding a pillow over my head, I’m sure. And spring, a time when human minds turn to flights of fancy…or in my house become useless mush. Take your pick. The sounds of “where are my sunglasses…light jacket…whatever” followed by “how would I know, I don’t wear them” fill the air, punctuated with repeated sneezes, snorts and coughs.
And spring, the season when the pungent scent of cat urine wafts through the house with the strength of a freak hurricane. And you wondered where I was going with this didn’t you?
I’ve owned cats my entire life…and some have owned me. Right now I own 4 and am owned by 2 more. I’ve never, ever, everever had a problem with a spraying male before. And he’s 10 years old for pete sakes. The dh and I walked in the back door the other day after going out for dinner and we both looked at each other and at the same time asked, “What IS that smell?”
First check is the litter box. Nope, it’s clean. No nasty smell upstairs in the bedrooms, thank goodness. The living room is…eh, I really haven’t decided yet. The dining room was nailed good…somewhere. The kitchen is fine. The basement…where my dungeon office resides was also nailed better than good…again, somewhere.
After 3 cans of Lysol and 2 hours of cursing, I was certain the problem would go away.
Did I mention my middle name was MORON at times?
Took the dog out the other night and when I came back in the house, that…smell…slapped me upside the head. Had the dh not already been in bed I would have screamed bloody murder.
It has to be the new alpha male. Not new as in I just got him, I’ve had him since he was 10 days old and fed him by hand. But the old alpha male is really old and has recently decided to give up the position. He seems to like being a lap cat of late.
The vet claims there’s nothing physically wrong with the suicidal cat…he’s just experiencing a change in seasons. Um, doc, HE’S TEN YEARS OLD. And he’s fixed. Keeps it up he’s gonna be fixed real good.
Lastnight was the kicker. Dear, dear Squirrel (named so because at birth his tail was longer than his body and he carried the thing up and across his back….like a squirrel), decided to beat up on the semi-brain damaged male, who will not fight back like the girls do. My son swatted him away with the newspaper. Later, when said son was doing dishes, Squirrel walked up behind him and yep, you guessed it…sprayed the kid’s pant leg.
Now, I totally understand the cat’s scream—he was more shocked that my son was able to turn around and grab hold of him before he could escape than anything else. And I more than totally understand confining him to a small space.
BUT LISTEN UP — MY OFFICE IS NOT A SMALL SPACE.
A small space is a cat cage on the back porch unless I’m right there to keep an eye on the little snot. He’s currently stretched out on the top of my desk purring and staring at me with that “mom, I love you” look. Grrrr.
So, tomorrow I’m off to the pet store and farm store. There has to be something that will remove the smell from the curtains in the dining room. Tonight, I still need to find his “spot” in the basement.
It’s gonna be a long spring. I can see it now.
Until next time, take care and be well.
Denise Lynn
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