Cat scratch fever

One of the funniest things I have ever read. This ranks right up there with the Chili Cook-Off story, which I'll post another time.

From a great site, List of the Day, this is one of Craigslist's Ad of the Day features.

My Cat Sprayed Ass On Me
Reply to: anon-60160142@craigslist.org
Date: Thu Feb 17 11:14:50 2005

This morning, I was assaulted by my cat in a way that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

My kitties and I have a morning routine that involves saying goodbye before I walk out the door. I was suited up, ready to go, and I walked over to my dresser to retrieve my keys. As usual, my male kitty was lounging on the dresser, waiting for his goodbye scratches. He stood up to give me my usual nuzzle goodbye, and then the most unholy of acts took place.

The friendly feline stretched, and the force of his stretch caused his anal glands to express....all over my face and in my mouth.

Now, a little biology background for those of you who aren't in the know. Dogs and cats have these glands in their anus that get expressed, usually when they defecate. The smell is somewhat akin to rotting bodies that have been dry-rubbed with gorgonzola cheese and then spit-roasted over a pile of burning feces.

Yum.

Plus, like all organic smells, it tends to bind to fabrics, which makes for a pleasant surprise when your cat rubs its butt on your sheets or couch. But, nothing compares to being sprayed full on in the face with this heinous slime.

At first I thought there was a drip coming from the ceiling. I looked up, puzzled, and then the smell and taste hit me like a ton of bricks. I stumbled blindly to the bathroom shouting, "I've been hit! I've been hit!, puked my breakfast up, and scrubbed my face, including my tongue, for 10 minutes.

The smell was still there.

I called Michele in a panic and she suggested I called the vet. I threw up again, composed myself, and made the most embarrassing phone call of my life.

Me: "Um...hi. My cats are patients over by you and uhhh...ok. This is going to sound crazy. Heh. Never thought I would make a call like this. Long story short, my cat expressed his anal glands on my face and I can't get the smell off."
Receptionist:" Hmm. Um. Let me get one of the techs on the phone for you."

I was then passed along to about 4 people in the office to explain my story, all the while trying to ignore the howling laughter in the background. The best they can come up with is for me to try rubbing vinegar on my face. Desperate, I try it out. After wincing through the sting and rinsing it off, I realize that I now smell like a delicious ass salad.

My face rapidly begins to dry out, making my skin feel tight and itchy. I slap some cream on and scream as the sting intensifies. Scrub, scrub, wash, wash.

More panic ensues, and I hop on the horn to Michele once again. I need to get to work, but I can't go out in public smelling like I bathed in eau de cat-ass, can I?

We decide to pull out the big guns, and my final attack on the funky face problem is to dab Febreeze on my face with a cotton swab. Sure, my face is blotchy and itchy from the chemical warfare it endured, but at least I smell predominantly like freshly washed laundry with a slight undertone of a tossed cat ass salad.

I am sure all of the odors will wear off eventually, but the mental anguish of unwanted anal play is sure to stick with me for a long while.

Man vs Beast

When you think of "animal control," you think of the person who scrapes possum off of the road so it doesn't splatter on your tires.

In some places, that person is called "Dad" and the event is called "dinner."

However, that is not the case here. I need animal control, no matter who they are or what they do, for there are squirrels in the attic of my house.

Yeah. Squirrels. Cute little acorn eating furry f&%king rats who are invading my house, digging through my insulation, running amok above my bedroom and aren't even paying rent!

I would like them to be gone.

I don't want them killed, so if any of you fair readers are with PETA, just settle down and go nibble on some tree bark or something. I have no problem with the little bastards staying on our mortal coil, I just want them to explore the rest of the Earth outside of my house.

Now, where was I? Oh, right. Squirrels.

My wife and I weren't sure at first. We called an exterminator to come out and take a look. He saw mouse droppings. Put down a few traps. All done.

But the critters kept crittering. And loudly.

Upon hearing them above us, I looked at my wife and said, "If those are mice, we need a gun, because those are the loudest, heaviest mice I've ever heard."

(Not that I'm an expert or anything, but still...)

Later on, out of curiosity, she went up to the third floor of our house, opened the door to the attic and shined her flashlight around. Upon doing so, she was greeted by 4 friendly eyes as the squirrel version of Chip and Dale said hello.

So much for mice.

Today, I met with a representative of an animal control company. Fifteen minutes and $95 later, he tells me we have squirrels.

Oh enlightened buddha of the vermin, your words ring throughout the land as the truth and the way.

He asked me what kind of trap I would like him to use...a cage trap or a kill trap. He would have offered a third choice if we weren't in city limits, he said. It consisted of a chair, some Mountain Dew and a rifle.

Needless to say, I stuck with the cage trap.

So there are two cage traps in my attic, both slathered with peanut butter. The traps should have occupants by this evening. A quick call and he'll come back tomorrow to relocate them "to the country." Then he'll put some metal over the hole they dug to keep them from calling on Casa de Scott again.

For $275.

Yeah. 275 bones. For squirrels to go back to nature, be at one with the wilderness, in harmony with the winds and the light.

Hmmmn. Maybe I should have called PETA instead.