Marcy was supposed to go to the vet tonight—she goes once every other month to get an antibiotic shot for her tumor-thing :(—but Henry said that she was hiding under our bed so he had to reschedule so she wouldn’t get stressed out. He said she was hanging out downstairs all night and he hadn’t even brought out her carrier yet. HOW DOES SHE KNOW THESE THINGS. When I used to make her grooming appointments, she would GLARE at me while I was on the phone and then stalk off to stew somewhere alone. I mean, glaring at me is not unusual for her, but still. Cats are fucking smart.
Here she is sun-bathing. (Can you imagine if I had a legit projector and made everyone come over to watch slides of Marcy licking herself and sleeping? That would be fantastic.)
It’s weird only having one cat. Marcy is totally up our asses now which never would have happened before. She follows me around everywhere in the mornings and even shows an inkling of interest in Chooch. Again, never would have happened before.
Granted, she’s not exactly rubbing against my ankles in a purring fit. But she’s not ignoring me like she typically would, either! I think she’s just trying to make me even more attached to her so when she dies, it’ll hurt me even more. She always has an agenda. ALWAYS. God, why do I keep falling for it.
Meanwhile, one of the choices Chooch had for his science project was to survey his family members regarding their music preferences, whcih of course filled me with glee. Chooch, always contrary, was all, “I don’t want to do that one,” because god forbid Mommy is ever fucking happy. But I just kept whining until he yelled FINE and was just going to put down “rock” for both Henry and me; actually, he wanted to put country for Henry and Henry was all, “I don’t know why you two are laughing like that; it’s not THAT funny when people like country music.”
(Newsflash: Henry went through a country music phase and LOOOOVED Martina McBride, apparently. Thank god that was before my time.)
I think Chooch should have listed “nu-metal & Ted Nugent” for Henry, but whatever. I’m not the stupid surveyor.
Chooch was royally irritated when I kept rattling off one genre after another sub-genre. He wrote down the first five I spat at him, but I WASN’T EVEN FINISHED! Ugh, I like talking about music and I nearly choked on my saliva at the opportunity. Thanks for kicking my soapbox out from under me, Chooch.
And then of course, Marcy: silence.