Cat Not Included

Spring has sprung in the great state of Florida, with lung-constricting pollen levels so high you'd swear you were in the Michael Crichton novel, "Prey."  It is also the time of year when my Mom and I get an itch to "simplify" our lives and downsize the volume of useless material things that we've accumulated over the years.  What does that mean?  A garage sale.  We have a rule:  If I haven't touched it or missed it in 2 years, it's gone.  My old pink SCUBA diving fins, the reptile habitat I once put a Cuban tree frog (Louie) in for 3 days (to save him, of course), and even my $85 Steve Maddens--all sold for an embarrasingly low price.  The sale was a smash-hit, and before the day was over, we had collectively sold over $500 worth of "merchandise."  However, there was one showcased item that was most certainly not for sale, although we had several offers...

Yes, Fidget joined us in the garage sale fun, by either sitting/napping in the stroller, or walking amongst the patrons on his leash.  Henry joined us for a brief moment, but he's by no means a "morning cat."  We began at 730am, and Henry had his fill by 800am and was dumped back in the house.  Fidget helped to sell his old scratching post, which he couldn't have cared less about since I brought it home, as well as his toy tunnel, which he only used as a small kitten to hide in before ambushing Henry.  He greeted small children, and made many new friends.  He ate a bug, and sat directly on an ant pile (which I removed his fat ass from immediately).  He rolled on the driveway, sticking as many leaves and sticks to himself as possible and chattered at the birds.  I think it's safe to say that Fidget enjoys garage sales.

One customer came to take a peek at the bounty we had to offer, and instead found great enjoyment with my cat.
     "What's his name?"
     "His name is Fidget," I replied.
     "Oh, hello Midget!"  She continued to pet the cat as if that was a perfectly lovely name for a cat to have, and we giggled at her honest mistake.
     "No, actually it's Fidget," said my Mom.
     "Oh, well Gidget, I'm sorry!"  The water I was drinking almost came out my nose, and she continued to pet the cat.  And then tell us about how her son owned a comedy club in town, and that we should go there, and they have specials on Tuesdays.  Mom and I gave up in correcting her, and resolved that his name would temporarily be "Gidget" until she left.

The rest of the day went smoothly, and Midg...er...Gidg...er...Fidget eventually got tired and crabby, ready for a nap.  That, or he was offended by the man who offered to give me 50 cents for him.  I took him inside and he curled up on the top level of the cat tree.  He was almost instantly asleep after some revving of his purring mechanism and I'm sure he went to sleep dreaming of price points and bargain signs...

Spider Wars

I suffer from Arachnophobia.  I. Hate. Spiders.  When it comes to the dealings of things that are not human, I have a rule:  four legs or less.  No legs?  No problem!  Snakes and eels and anything else that can be dragged don't freak me out in the least--I even like them, I think they're cool.  But if the 4-leg mark is crossed, forget it.  Things that have more than four legs are weird and scary and otherwordly and completely not worth my time.  Spiders clearly fall into this category, which is why I have a deep and impenetrable fear of them.  I've had friends who own tarantulas say, "Aw, but they're fuzzy!  You like fuzzy things!"  Trying to pull the Fuzzy Card does not negate the fact that they have WAY more than four legs, which means I will likely run away screaming if you try to hand it to me.  I am 100% sure that Fear Factor is the most ridiculous television show on the planet, due to the sheer percentage of things that they use arthropods for.

Fidget and Henry, on the other hand, are the opposite.  Bring another cat into the mix and all of a sudden everyone puffs up like a raccoon and are hissing like a nest of cobras.  But bring a creepy-crawly into their world and they are consumed with curiosity and prey drive.  I learned the hard way not to try and pull Fidget off of a spider or bug--as I tried to wrap my hands around him, he snapped his head around and YELLED in my face, as if to say, "MOM, I'M BUSY!"  He then proceeded to flail his claws in my general direction, so I released the fuzzy monkey.  He is like a tiger stalking a herd of gazelles...careful not to spook it, but completely focused and un-blinking.  Henry prefers to surprise-bomb things that he's interested in masticating.  He will sit on the dresser or bed, several feet above his target, and then leap directly on top of it.  He also does this to me while I'm sleeping, by jumping off of my headboard and pounding his whole body weight directly onto my solar plexus.

Last night, I remember waking up several times with an itch on my face.  It didn't bother me too horribly, and I fell back asleep each time with little trouble.  This morning I wake up to an accursed SPIDER BITE on my FACE.  Not only do I want to toss my cookies at the thought of a spider being on my face, but it also makes me infuriated with the whole damn spider population.  How long had they been planning this?  Why was I their target?  Spider logistics and rationale have never been my strong suit.  Nevertheless, I stormed away from the bathroom mirror with full intention on finding and killing my assailant...by, you know, throwing a shoe from 12 feet away.  I began gingerly searching my house, and eventually found that my cats had avenged me in the night!  There it was, curled into the "Grim Reaper's Ball," and completely lifeless.  I immediately scooped up Fidget and hugged him, telling him what a good cat, brave cat and precious cat he was!  ...And he responded by shoving a paw against my face and complaining loudly that I should put him the hell down.  Fine, I'll go hug my other hero.  Henry was much more accepting of my praise and wrapped both paws around my neck, returning my embrace.

Now that my revenge had been exacted, I was only left to deal with the giant corpse of my nemesis.  No, really, it's huge.  Like the size of a quarter...  Anyway, I couldn't quite decide on how I wanted to dispose of it.  Do I vacuum it?  Sweep it out the door?  Burn it?  Dump it at sea...*ahem*  I admittedly took the coward's way out and resolved to putting my backpack on top of it and leaving.  That backpack will probably sit there for at least a week and a half before I get up the nerve to send it to the depths of my vacuum.

To my brave heroes, I am forever indebted to you and will...oh, wait.  I feed you and house you and play with you and snuggle with you and let you sit in the shower with me and take you for walks and give you tuna on your birthdays.  I suppose I will just continue to do all of that as long as you both continue your creepy-crawly patrol.  The two defending Spider Gladiators:  Fidget the Crusher, and Henry the Ninja.