The Dippy Cat

The Dippy Cat

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Dippy Does Wisconsin

A few weeks ago the Hip-Hop Hebe and I moved to Wisconsin. After some adult discussion (a coin toss, two screaming arguments and, when all else failed, a vigorous round of slap-fighting) we decided (I lost the fire-walking challenge) that I would be the one to drive the small truck, and Dippy, to our new home.

Eight hours.

In a rental truck.

With a companion who has been known to attack air, her own buttocks, and imaginary blue mice.

What could possibly go wrong?

After the exorcist finished up, I loaded Dip into her travel case.

"Ah" she said. "A new toy. The color is nice.... Oh HOLY MOTHER OF GOD IT'S A TRAP!"

My tiny Admiral Akbar immediately proved the Schroedinger was an ass. The potential states of a cat in a box are not "alive or dead," but "bloody furious," "plotting," and "violating all known natural law."

Thirty-seven clawed cat toes appeared from every "cat-friendly ventilated opening" of the case, and, as I watched, an eyeball and an ear try to climb independently through the "EZ View Wire Loading Door." I realized that I had apparently caged some relative of John Carpenter's "The Thing".

Fortunately, as she began to gnaw her way through the plastic (alternately humming "Don't Fear the Reaper" and doing her celebrated "Rabid Hyena" impersonation), I turned on the truck.

Before I took my hand off the key, the travel crate was empty. Where there had been a shrieking ball of fuzz there was now nothing more than two huge eyes, and some slightly thick air.

"Nope, no cats here," came a disembodied voice from inside the battered plastic. "Just a small defenseless dust bunny, or maybe a scrap of paper." There was a slight scuffling noise as the eyes tried to hide behind a dust mote.

I pulled out of the driveway.

My heart stopped when I got to the top of the street, glanced over, and saw what appeared to be a dead cat, laying flat on her back. I took a closer look.

The evil little drama queen went to sleep.

And snored for eight hours.



Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Dippy and the Monster Under the Bed

There are in this country some basic, inalienable, rights.
Life.
Liberty.
Freedom from being eaten by the monster under the bed.

You've survived this far, so obviously you understand how this works.

Any cover, even a sheet so thin that dust mites can lift it, serves as a perfectly good monster shield. Your average monster or undead serial killer lacks basic skills such as "pattern recognition" or "the intelligence of fleece", and will often sit forlornly on the giggling, sheet draped form of a potential victim, dismayed at the loss of a hearty human lunch or spiffy trophy head to show at the next undead meeting.

However.

Even one toe hanging out in the open air and you might as well hang an all-you-can-eat sign on the front door and sleep on a warm, toasted bun.

I go to bed last night. Brian is already asleep. Dippy is sprawled luxuriantly across his feet. Both are snoring softly.

As I lay there, sheet firmly in place, it occurs to me.

I am hot.

I can't kick the sheet off.

The air conditioning control is downstairs.

I become indignant.

Wait a minute. During the day I nap wonderfully on the couch- one leg firmly under the covers, one out, a personal cooling rod waving free in the breeze.

I am a grown woman. A talented minister over 40. There are no monsters under this bed (I checked before I laid down) and BY GOD I WILL PUT MY LEG OUT TO COOL DOWN IF I WANT!

The stars and stripes wave in my minds eye, and with my chin out-thrust with bravery I slide my right leg out from under the sheet.

Ahhhhh.

Mad with courage, I let my foot dangle off the side of the bed.

It is perfect.

My eyes close and I feel myself drifting into blissful slumber.

There is a large wooden thump- as would be made by a monster using my cedar chest at the end of the bed to pull itself up...  and a hairy clawed hand wraps around my ankle.

My eyes fly open.

I rise from a sprawling to an upright position without passing through any stages in between and, gaining traction on air molecules, run shrieking around the room twice at approximately head height.

I was gathering speed for a third round when Brian used his robe to net me as I passed.

In only twenty or thirty minutes I was able to stop gibbering and forming anything I could grab into random religious symbols, and once Brian got me to stop singing "Spirit of Life" and trying to push a chalice under the bed, we were able to reconstruct "the event" (as we now call it).

The forensic reconstruction expert ("Brian") determined that Dippy ("the accused") was awakened when Brian ("the snickering weasel") moved his feet after I disturbed him by moving the sheet over my leg.

Being the graceless lump of furred evil that she is, she rolls off of his feet in surprise- and continues right off the bottom of the bed.

Hitting the wood cedar chest and sliding on the slick wood.

And grabbing my ankle on the way down.

I am never sleeping again.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Emo Dip


You know that feeling you get, when the sky has turned green, air raid sirens are blowing, the theme to the "Wizard of Oz" wafts softly through the air, your neighbor has just blown by backwards on her bicycle, and an ominous funnel cloud is hovering on the horizon?

Yeah, that feeling. the one that says that says "A picnic! That's what I need to do right about now! What could possible go wrong?"

That was the feeling I had when I watched a baby Dippy cat hop her way across my living room.

And then fall over.

It's the same feeling I have now, as I gleefully prepare to drive from Ohio to Wisconsin, with a teenaged 21 month old Dippy in a small cage, on the front seat of the truck, with me.

How do I know she's become a teenager, you ask?

Some of you may have teenagers in your home who are kind and gentle, self-aware, and sweet-smelling. Teenagers who would make the angels weep with their sensitivity, dress-sense, and melodious voices.

I hate each and every one of you.

Currently, my days look something like this:

6 AM- Realize I am awake. Wonder why. Sniff. Blame Brian for odor. Realize Brian is laying on his side facing the other way. Eye Brian suspiciously and wrinkle nose. Reconsider as I feel something odd in my left nostril. Cross eyes attempting to see source of peculiar popcorn and tuna funk. Realize that one of Dippy's toes, with claw, is in my left nostril. Realize that Tuna stink breath is curled around my head, and breathing in my face. She meeps at me, annoyed that I have disturbed her so early, and stretches, putting her right foot in my mouth.

7 AM- Showering. Dippy hears water running. "Alas," she says, "I shall convey my disdain for such foolishness by reenacting a moving moment in avant guarde cinema." Blissfully humming folk tunes, I lather my hair- and shriek as the shower scene from Psycho begins.
Add tail and claws...












8 AM- Have developed phobia of showers. Prepare bowl of cereal for breakfast. Dippy "eats" two spilled pieces- chewing them slowly and letting the bits fall out of her mouth while watching me intently. She horks the rest up in my shoe.

8:15 AM- I clean up hork, wash hands, and finally sit down with breakfast. I push bowl to my left on the desk, and begin setting up my medications for the day.

8:16- Dippy climbs up on the printer and cranes to see what I am doing. "My vile captor is engaged in oppressor activity," she muses. "I must Occupy Desk."

8:17- I glance up to see that Dippy has assumed the little known ju-jitsu position "Stance of the Defective Sloth" and is prepared to leap, or at least fall off of something dynamically. "No, Dippy! Bad Dippy!" I say, in my stern parenting voice.

8:17:30- Without taking her eyes off of me, she flattens herself into the fearsome "Way of the Squashed Possum". Visions of Tiananmen Square in her head, she meows something that sounds suspiciously like "We Shall Overcome." She slithers forward six inches, draping herself over the phone and 3-hole punch. Her chin rests on my cereal bowl. She swats in my general direction, ears flattened.

8:18- "NO Dippy! Baaaad Dippy!" I swat her on the nose with one finger.

8:19- Worlds have ended. But she will not die weak. She will stand strong. Eyes locked on mine she sits upright, and squares her shoulders.

8:19:30- "Dippy- nooooooooo." (insert slo-mo scene).

8:19:32- She steps into my cereal bowl with both front feet, and stares me down as she steps in with her back feet.

8:19:34- She sits.

And starts to purr...