It is very apparent that my life has become boring as hell. This lackluster-ness of my existence can probably be blamed directly on my children, those ungrateful darlings who dared to grow up and move out on their own, thereby leaving me to find my own things to write about. That’s when I made a few discoveries: my children’s antics made up a good portion of my blog and…
…and I’m boring.
Aside from work, the hat shop, and writing, I don’t do a hell of a lot. I don’t go out with friends very often (mainly due to finances, but also due to lack of oomph and no one around to make sure the damn fire doesn’t go out when I’m not looking). It isn’t like I can’t start another one…oh, wait… no, I can’t start another one. Not without significant amounts of kindling and napalm.
There you have it. I’m duller than Aunt Maude’s bleach-blond bouffant. Sorry, Aunt Maude, but have you LOOKED at that thing lately? Anyway, every night during NaBloWriMo, I ask Tam what I should write about and she’ll come up with some suggestions, most of which don’t ring any bells with me. Pumpkins?!? A whole blog about Pumpkins? No. Not tonight, anyway. I’m sure before month’s end I’ll be waxing poetic about the orange gourds, but not tonight.
No, tonight I’m going to talk about… um… pets! Which was another suggestion of Tam’s, but I’m going to expand on it and write about that goddamn pet bed. It’s not just any pet bed, it is supposed to be one of the best! Man-made fleece-that-looks-almost-like-wool, and a lovely outer shell of durable fabric that looks like, um, fabric.
It is a pet bed. It has a history. When I brought it home, I tossed it onto the floor and walked away to finish bringing in the rest of my purchases. Upon my return to the living room, there was the ancient cat, sound asleep in the bed. She claimed it and the other cats honored that claim.
Then something happened and we’re not sure what, but the ancient cat deserted the wonderful bed, leaving the others to try it out. Soon, they too abandoned it and the bed lay empty for months. But sadness befell our home and the ancient cat began to succumb to her age. Her last days were spent in that bed, and when she finally crossed the rainbow bridge, she left her body behind… in that bed. That bed got tossed into the futility room to await whatever fate had in store for it.
Not being one to enjoy wasting money, I decided to make the bed usable again by giving it a good cleaning and allowing the other kitties to use it. I picked it up and looked at the washing instructions.
“Spot clean only.”
I don’t have a Spot. I don’t even have a Fido or a Rover. I don’t have a cat named Spot, either. I looked for a pet named Spot, but none of them were interested in cleaning the damn cat bed. So I threw it in the washing machine and hoped for the best.
Thankfully, my machine was able to wash the death off the bed, and I was a good girl and didn’t put it in the dryer, because I have a feeling that thing would have shrunk down to the size of a hat that would fit a
That would not have pleased me. It’s bad enough neither of my current felines
will even give it a second sniff. “Because
Ce-Ce DIED in that bed, asshole!” is the look they give me.
Now the bed sits in the living room, empty while the cats find other things on which to sleep, sticks of firewood, tiny cardboard boxes six sizes too small, or on me, but not that bed.
I’m seriously considering getting a small dog. One that will fit in that bed and can be trained to stay in that damn thing until it is well used and I will feel better about discarding it to the landfill. Personally, I think that’s a perfectly good reason to get a dog, don’t you?