the saga of the offending hairball

Shoulda blogged about this incident a while back.   Fear tied my tongue, or in a blogger’s case…my fingers.  I’m upset.  I’m freaked.  I’m an upset, freaked lady.  But today, I am an honest, upset freaked lady.  Read on for the saga.

About a month ago, there was a traumatic incident involving a cat at my house.  Then, two days ago there was ANOTHER crazy happening.  I admit to not being a ‘cat person’.  Many of my fine friends are ‘cat people’ and they seem to live perfectly normal, happy lives with their cats.  More power to ’em….to each his own…live and let live…one fry short of a happy meal…and all that.

I’ve never had fun, fluffy experiences with cats.  Growing up…we never had one.  If I even so much as glanced at a cat, I was stricken with a raging, crusty case of ringworm over my entire body.  The disfigurement would last for months; people shunned me more than normal.  In my 20’s and 30’s I was unable to enter the homes of folks with cats.  I’d innocently saunter into the home blissfully unaware of the feline danger.   In a matter of minutes sneezing, hapless hacking, and Niagra eyes would have me stampeding for the door searching for relieving doses of Benadryl and Prednisone.
I did relent for a short time when the sprouts were small.  A cat moved in with us.  He adored all three sprouts.  He purred on the Texan’s lap.  He made an uneasy peace with our precious schnauzer (after he’d nearly clawed his eye out and we were left holding the vet bill bag).  He despised me-growling and hissing whenever I came near.  I’m not smiling on the inside.

Discovered he had been gleefully peeing on and over everything in our laundry room.  Who started the rumor cats do more than just paw around in litter boxes….that they actually URINATE and defecate in them?…I’d like to set the rumor-monger straight.  But, I digress.  One day the sprouts came home from school and the cat curiously wasn’t at our house anymore.  Where’s the cat, mommy?  Is he gonna come back, momma?  I patiently and earnestly explained the cat was using us all along….he was really a social climber. …he desired to live in a better neighborhood…..(cue Doris Day voice...que sera, sera…whatever will be, will be....).  Things calmed down over time.  I was back to blessed dogdom.

Spring forward to about a month back.  I’ve told you how we live in a rural area…we have neighbors, but we have some room.  Roxy-Doxy has a doggy door that enables her to go outside to our patio.  She has her own ‘poop garden’…but again, I digress.  The doggy door is plastic and has a couple of strong magnets on the bottom that help keep it closed.  She inserts her pointy doxy nose….and click-click she’s outside.

Sticks her head through again and click-click…voila!, she’s back inside.

Easy and efficient enough.  Here comes the scary part.  I started hearing the click-click in the dark of night….with the doxy snuggled warmly against my bum.   Click-click…what the hell?  Is it THAT windy again?!  Next morning….dogfood turned over in the pantry.  Soon enough…doxy was hunting and tracking INSIDE the house…showing us all the places the cat had been.  Cat hair on the back of my brand NEW sofa??  I hightailed it to Gander Mountain and bought a live trap.  I’ll spare you the details, but that haughty gray cat was a social climber as well.  Cats are always lookin’ to move up….humph!

Feeling smug and confidant our house was once again our castle.  Writing at the computer in the sun room surveying the hillside….did I see something?  A flash of gray, perhaps?  No, no silly…not possible.  Could the gray cat be slumming it?  One day I spied a tabby cat with white paws hunting on the hillside.  It’s a good thing the  tabby doesn’t know how to open the doggy door!  The other cat was really, REALLY smart….this one is probably of normal intellect.  One night, I’m startled from a deep slumber…..click-click.  Eyelids fly open.   Doxy is in her usual buttical zone.  Summoning the courage to get out of bed, I pad to the sun room and flip on the light.  I catch a fleeting glimpse of a startled tabby with white paws racing to another part of the house.  Texan….there’s a cat in the house…get up and grab a flashlight!  We’re gonna find it!  For some reason Roxy Doxy’s nose refuses to work at 1 am (union rules).   We are wandering from room to room, searching under every stick of furniture for the outlaw tabby.  Nowhere do we see the tabby and Doxy is quizzical.  We repeat our search.  No luck.  Maybe it darted back out the doggy door while we were looking for it?  We give up our brave kitty posse and fall back in bed.  I can’t sleep…what if the cat jumps on the bed and suffocates me?  Gives me a permanent case of ringworm….claws my eyes out?  About an hour later…(you know what’s coming)…..click-click.  Jumping out of bed, I race to turn on the patio light.  I spy a very self-satisfied tabby cat licking it’s white mitts.  Seems it’s made a very wholesome meal out of the dogfood it turned over in the pantry.
I set the live trap.  I was pissed.  I brought out the big-cat guns…tuna fish.  No cat.  The nocturnal bandit wasn’t buyin’ it.  Nothing brought him into the trap.  I made darned certain I padlocked the dog door every night.  I was keepin’ my breath, my eyes and my clear skin, thank you very much!

Fast forward to last Wednesday night.  I come home from church…there’s still daylight.  The Doxy is a lone sentinel in the bay window guarding us from renegade roadrunners and the fat, black pug from down the street.  The Texan is in the TV pit (yes, it’s a 1960’s house).  Suddenly, the wiener dog’s nose wakes up and realizes full potential.  She begins tracking INSIDE the house.  This involves the high-pitched hound dog bark and nose to the ground meaning Roxy Doxy is on the job.  The Texan hollers at me and we follow Doxy to our farthest back bedroom.  This is what greets me.  Avert your eyes.

What looks like a perfectly normal bed to the untrained eye is really a stray cat habitat.  This is made clear by the offending hairball.  See the hairball on my 800-count thread Egyptian cotton, unironed sheets?  Don’t be the ironing judge and take a look at the offending hairball.

This cat has loved our bed….looks like many, many times leisurely scratching it’s hairy back on this bed!  Doxy is half-out, half-under the stray cat habitat, formerly known as ‘bed’.  You are bright enough to envision the rest of this story.  Lots of barking, running, flashlight dropping and the tabby with the precious white mitts racing out the doggy door.  Click-click.  Trap re-set.  Still no cat.  Not much sleeping went on Wednesday night.  Roxy Doxy had trouble comprehending a sneaky feline had invaded her safe and what she thought cat-free home.  I’m still having trouble sleeping…..click-click….I KNOW he’s out there……...click-click
scary barn cat

3 thoughts on “the saga of the offending hairball

  1. This is just too funny to be soterrifying. Run, don't walk,to thenearest pet store and buy the petdoor and collar(s)that allow onlya pet wearing the collar to use thedoor…..no more kitties, or ratsor armadillos or possums…..I think I am finally going to getaround to signing in to your blogcuz.

  2. you tell the best stories!!! I can't even imagine the feline drama going on as this all goes down. I have no tips for you as I'm a dog person too and only sneeze and cry when one is near for longer than a few days (I'm lucky it's not minutes like you!), but I wish you luck. May the catnip be with you.Oh, and while I answered my comments on my latest post on the blog itself, I feel the same about BP. I can barely watch anything on it because I already fear the worst- pictures just make it that much more nightmareish

  3. I loved your story. I can imagine being there, sneaking through the house in the wee hours of the morning in search for renagade cat burglers! I also loved the picture with your young family holding the very fluffy cat. I like cats at a distance- but definately not in the house and I hate litter boxes. I never got ring worm – but itchy watering eyes, yes. So glad you shared. You seriously need to consider authoring a book of short stories.

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