We call her the bitchpuss for a reason. But before I get to that, a little early biography . . .
She came to use a few weeks after our first anniversary at our first apartment, way back in 1999, when Clinton was still president, gas was 99 cents a gallon, and I had just turned 21 and finished my first semester at college. This tiny voice in the bushes outside our apartment building started mewing at me as I headed off to class. Stooping to peer through the bushes, I discovered the tiny furry black source—and she discovered me!
About six-weeks-old and all black except for a white star on her chest, she came tottering out of the bushes and straight toward me. I picked her up and gave a little rub on the head, but being that I was running late, I quickly put her back down under the bushes and convinced myself that she must belong to the people in the apartment behind the bushes (never mind that it was vacant).
When I returned from class I didn't see or hear her, so I figured her owners had realized her escape and after a heart-wrenching search, were reunited in joyous joyousness. I flipped on the television content that she was safe and I didn't have to rescue her and watched some Comedy Central something-or-other (we had cable at this point, before the cable companies became really evil; they were only quasi-evil at the time).
Then Tim came home. I heard him coming up the steps, along a with a certain familiar, plaintive meowing that grew louder with each step. He opened the door and came in with his keys dangling from one hand, the kitten in his other hand, and peered over his sunglasses at me with that "please don't murder me" look of someone who had just brought a stray kitten home.
"Can we keep her?"
And so that is how she came into our lives. We paid a pet deposit, went litter box and food dish shopping, and named her Ezry after the character Ezri Dax on "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine," albeit with a different spelling.
Come to think of it, 3/4 of our mammalian pets are named after TV characters. Hmmmmm . . . I wonder what that says about us . . . but I digress.
So with Ezry started our family. At first we called her the timeshare kitty because she would sit in one of our laps, purring, and being petted for a few minutes, then jump down and run to the other person to get in his lap for more petting and purring, repeating this every few minutes. She did this for the first couple of years, but then stopped being so obvious about it. As she's aged, her quirks have multiplied and diversified, and she's getting, shall we say, eccentric. Evilly so. She'll be all lovey-dovey, letting you pet her and rub her belly, purring the whole time. Then she'll disagree with a thought that may have just crossed your conscious or subconscious mind and flip around to devour your hand, arm, and face. Sometimes Ez'll sit across the room from you and stare with the cold calculus of a demon trying to extract your soul for sustenance. But she is our little girl and we love her dearly.
I once kicked a good friend of ours—we'll call her Truvy—out of our apartment for smacking Ezry. I kept telling Truvy to quit getting all up in Ezry's business or she was gonna attack her. Truvy didn't listen and kept putting her face in Ezry's. So Ezry bit her on the face, natch. Truvy smacked Ezry on the head so I started yelling at Truvy and kicked her out. We didn't talk for weeks. Everything is fine now, though. Truvy has a new respect for Ezry's psychotic ways and even patched things up with her somewhat.
When we moved into our house in December 2005, Ez did not handle it well. She started using the downstairs carpet for her litter box (this was probably a combination of the moving stress and the dried remnants of the previous owners' dogs' urine saturating the carpet and pad), and nothing we tried succeeded in altering this behavior. She wasn't ill, just ill at ease, apparently. So we cat-proofed the fence and reluctantly kicked her out of the house and into the backyard, where she lived for the last two and a half years. We have felt terrible about doing that and swore that once we replaced the downstairs carpet with tile and wood, we'd let her back in for another chance.
Considering reflooring that area would be quite expensive and with no end to our financial woes in the near-term, we decided on letting her back in and working with her while we were home on vacation a couple of weeks ago. The carpet's already ruined, so there isn't much she could do to make it ruineder. She has done remarkably well, and at the risk of jinxing things, she hasn't had a single accident, going back to using the litter box like nothing had ever happened to the contrary. However, not all is a rosy picture of Leave It to Beaverness.
Remember how I said she's getting eccentric in her old age? Evilly so?
She does this thing—well, its a series of things that are all related—while we're trying to sleep. I guess she doesn't feel we deserve to sleep after locking her outside for two years in all but the most extreme weather conditions. Revenge is a dish best served up with purrs and claws and teeth and reckless abandon. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "why don't you just lock her out of the bedroom?" Ezry doesn't do closed doors (unless, thankfully, it's a bathroom door). She'll destroy the door, trim, and floor within minutes.
First of all, she doesn't want me to get to sleep. As soon as I get in bed, she jumps up and starts kneading the comforter next to me and purring as loud as she can while licking my arm and head-butting me. I have to completely bury myself under the pillows and bedspread to make her cease and desist. But the fun doesn't stop there; it is but the first step in what has become our nightly waltz of wit, agility, speed, and insanity.
She likes to mess with me when I'm in my deepest sleep. Tim tries to stop her, but he has to sleep, too, so he can't be altogether insomniously vigilant. Her enhanced sleep deprivation techniques vary from night to night, and last night she added to that repertoire. Usually, she likes to run across my head, put her front paw over or in my mouth or on some other part of my face (sometimes with a little claw, but usually just paw), sit on one of the nightstands or the dresser and push things off onto the floor (like my glasses, rings, wallets, phones, etc), or madly licking my arm, hand, or face.
When she succeeds in completely rousing me, I try to catch her and throw (read: gently toss) her off the bed, at which point Sebastian (our other cat and the only exception to the TV name rule) chases her downstairs, giving her a sound thumping the entire way. But she comes back. She always comes back. Most of the time she's too fast for me and disapparates into thin air only to reappear the moment I drift back to sleep. The times I do catch her I manage to either make her stop completely for the night, or at least buy myself a few hours of uninterrupted REM.
Last night after running across my head and me failing to grab her, she pulled a new trick out of her bag a little while later: she bit my elbow. So I pulled out a new trick of my own (admittedly borne of instinct rather than malice) and punched her with my other arm. I didn't hit her hard, but I felt her jolt into the air and leap from the bed, Sebastian on her tail. She didn't bother me anymore after that, but the damage was already done. She succeeded in her mission and I didn't sleep very well the rest of the night.
And so the dance continues.
She came to use a few weeks after our first anniversary at our first apartment, way back in 1999, when Clinton was still president, gas was 99 cents a gallon, and I had just turned 21 and finished my first semester at college. This tiny voice in the bushes outside our apartment building started mewing at me as I headed off to class. Stooping to peer through the bushes, I discovered the tiny furry black source—and she discovered me!
About six-weeks-old and all black except for a white star on her chest, she came tottering out of the bushes and straight toward me. I picked her up and gave a little rub on the head, but being that I was running late, I quickly put her back down under the bushes and convinced myself that she must belong to the people in the apartment behind the bushes (never mind that it was vacant).
When I returned from class I didn't see or hear her, so I figured her owners had realized her escape and after a heart-wrenching search, were reunited in joyous joyousness. I flipped on the television content that she was safe and I didn't have to rescue her and watched some Comedy Central something-or-other (we had cable at this point, before the cable companies became really evil; they were only quasi-evil at the time).
Then Tim came home. I heard him coming up the steps, along a with a certain familiar, plaintive meowing that grew louder with each step. He opened the door and came in with his keys dangling from one hand, the kitten in his other hand, and peered over his sunglasses at me with that "please don't murder me" look of someone who had just brought a stray kitten home.
"Can we keep her?"
And so that is how she came into our lives. We paid a pet deposit, went litter box and food dish shopping, and named her Ezry after the character Ezri Dax on "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine," albeit with a different spelling.
Come to think of it, 3/4 of our mammalian pets are named after TV characters. Hmmmmm . . . I wonder what that says about us . . . but I digress.
So with Ezry started our family. At first we called her the timeshare kitty because she would sit in one of our laps, purring, and being petted for a few minutes, then jump down and run to the other person to get in his lap for more petting and purring, repeating this every few minutes. She did this for the first couple of years, but then stopped being so obvious about it. As she's aged, her quirks have multiplied and diversified, and she's getting, shall we say, eccentric. Evilly so. She'll be all lovey-dovey, letting you pet her and rub her belly, purring the whole time. Then she'll disagree with a thought that may have just crossed your conscious or subconscious mind and flip around to devour your hand, arm, and face. Sometimes Ez'll sit across the room from you and stare with the cold calculus of a demon trying to extract your soul for sustenance. But she is our little girl and we love her dearly.
I once kicked a good friend of ours—we'll call her Truvy—out of our apartment for smacking Ezry. I kept telling Truvy to quit getting all up in Ezry's business or she was gonna attack her. Truvy didn't listen and kept putting her face in Ezry's. So Ezry bit her on the face, natch. Truvy smacked Ezry on the head so I started yelling at Truvy and kicked her out. We didn't talk for weeks. Everything is fine now, though. Truvy has a new respect for Ezry's psychotic ways and even patched things up with her somewhat.
When we moved into our house in December 2005, Ez did not handle it well. She started using the downstairs carpet for her litter box (this was probably a combination of the moving stress and the dried remnants of the previous owners' dogs' urine saturating the carpet and pad), and nothing we tried succeeded in altering this behavior. She wasn't ill, just ill at ease, apparently. So we cat-proofed the fence and reluctantly kicked her out of the house and into the backyard, where she lived for the last two and a half years. We have felt terrible about doing that and swore that once we replaced the downstairs carpet with tile and wood, we'd let her back in for another chance.
Considering reflooring that area would be quite expensive and with no end to our financial woes in the near-term, we decided on letting her back in and working with her while we were home on vacation a couple of weeks ago. The carpet's already ruined, so there isn't much she could do to make it ruineder. She has done remarkably well, and at the risk of jinxing things, she hasn't had a single accident, going back to using the litter box like nothing had ever happened to the contrary. However, not all is a rosy picture of Leave It to Beaverness.
Remember how I said she's getting eccentric in her old age? Evilly so?
She does this thing—well, its a series of things that are all related—while we're trying to sleep. I guess she doesn't feel we deserve to sleep after locking her outside for two years in all but the most extreme weather conditions. Revenge is a dish best served up with purrs and claws and teeth and reckless abandon. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "why don't you just lock her out of the bedroom?" Ezry doesn't do closed doors (unless, thankfully, it's a bathroom door). She'll destroy the door, trim, and floor within minutes.
First of all, she doesn't want me to get to sleep. As soon as I get in bed, she jumps up and starts kneading the comforter next to me and purring as loud as she can while licking my arm and head-butting me. I have to completely bury myself under the pillows and bedspread to make her cease and desist. But the fun doesn't stop there; it is but the first step in what has become our nightly waltz of wit, agility, speed, and insanity.
She likes to mess with me when I'm in my deepest sleep. Tim tries to stop her, but he has to sleep, too, so he can't be altogether insomniously vigilant. Her enhanced sleep deprivation techniques vary from night to night, and last night she added to that repertoire. Usually, she likes to run across my head, put her front paw over or in my mouth or on some other part of my face (sometimes with a little claw, but usually just paw), sit on one of the nightstands or the dresser and push things off onto the floor (like my glasses, rings, wallets, phones, etc), or madly licking my arm, hand, or face.
When she succeeds in completely rousing me, I try to catch her and throw (read: gently toss) her off the bed, at which point Sebastian (our other cat and the only exception to the TV name rule) chases her downstairs, giving her a sound thumping the entire way. But she comes back. She always comes back. Most of the time she's too fast for me and disapparates into thin air only to reappear the moment I drift back to sleep. The times I do catch her I manage to either make her stop completely for the night, or at least buy myself a few hours of uninterrupted REM.
Last night after running across my head and me failing to grab her, she pulled a new trick out of her bag a little while later: she bit my elbow. So I pulled out a new trick of my own (admittedly borne of instinct rather than malice) and punched her with my other arm. I didn't hit her hard, but I felt her jolt into the air and leap from the bed, Sebastian on her tail. She didn't bother me anymore after that, but the damage was already done. She succeeded in her mission and I didn't sleep very well the rest of the night.
And so the dance continues.
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