Not a Creature was Stirring: Holiday Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat

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Twas an early Sunday morning, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

The holiday decorations had been tossed aside-in-a-tizzy
In hopes that caffeine would kick-in and make-me-get-busy

The teenagers were unconscious, asleep in their beds
While visions of Xbox polluted their heads

With the pooch at my feet, I guzzled my Java
A feeble attempt, to deal with-the-days drama

When out in the hallway, arose an overexcited pup
So, I sprang from my chair, to see what was up

When what to my wondering eyes, did appear
But a motionless rodent – in asystole – I fear

My infamous cat, was so lively and quick
I knew in a moment, it was that-serial-killing prick

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Out leaped ThatGoddamnedCat, in a quick graceful bound

He was pure feline badass, from whisker to toe
With a rap sheet so long, it could be tied in a bow

His ears they were pointed, like the tips of a star
His vision acute, so he could stalk from afar

His instincts were primal, his senses were keen
His pounce when airborne, was… stealthy and clean

He mewed not a word, as he glared at his prize
Pride and contentment, gleamed in his eyes

Then he sprang to his feet, and bounded away
Like a satiated feline, who’d gifted us prey

But I knew he was thinking, as he leapt out of sight
Happy Christmas lowly humans…

I’m done for the night!

Read more stories from The Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat!

Meet Max aka ThatGoddamnedCat

Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx

Meet LuckyBastard my Chipmunk Friend

Here Birdie Birdie

Twas the First Day of School

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Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat – Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx

I’m posting this for those of you who are following and are-not-horrified by the Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat. This particular episode was tucked away in Junes draft folder somewhere around Father’s Day.

However, this is not exactly a Father’s Day post, because I very wisely had ThatGoddamnedCats testicles decommissioned as a kitten.

God knows one of him is enough.

The world is most welcome!

Anyway,

The serial killing feline asshole… has strucketh again.

In my defense, several weeks ago I swear that I absolutely wrote, “Buy collar with bell for asshole cat” on my TO DO list.

I just hadn’t gotten around to crossing it off yet, and for that I’m very sorry Mr. Rabbit.

May you RIP.

I didn’t actually find him all festively decked out in a party hat waving a magic wand. I took the liberty of adding a few photoshop extras, so he’d appear less gruesome and… dead in a somewhat happier light.

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He probably would’ve wanted it that way.

Bunnies are promiscuous party animals from way back.

The quarter however, is the real deal though. The shiny disc, is in fact, 25 cents that I deliberately placed on his shoulder so you could better comprehend just how freaking ginormous bunnyzilla is.

Relatively speaking I mean – in relation to TGC’s body weight.

I’m not exactly sure how many ounces my Jack-the-ripper feline has on this guy, but I’m guessing not too many – making Mr. Rabbit by far his largest kill to date.

I do feel bad about Mr. Rabbit I really do, but nonetheless I’m pretty impressed.

When I carefully instructed my son to bury Mr. Rabbits remains with the 25 cent piece, he wittingly replied, “Good, he’ll need it to pay his toll to the river Styx.”

Me – you don’t say.

This apparently, is a toll paid upon ones demise – in order to travel to the underworld of the afterlife… or something like that.

I shit you not.

My bright offspring are full of obscure trivia.

Who knew?

That guy is damned lucky I found him and thought to provide him with underworld fare.

The moral of the story – never leave home without a quarter in your pocket or it’s possible you’ll be up Shits creek or possibly the river Styx… without a paddle.

Chapter Two – The Unexpected

I bet you weren’t expecting a sequel to “The Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat- Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx, because… neither was I.

I had hoped it was the last we’d seen of Mr. Rabbit after I’d carefully instructed my son to bury him WITH his shiny quarter that-was-actually-toll-for-the-river-Styx.

But nope.

His saga lives on, although you won’t see him again, because he’s vanished.

By vanished I mean Mr. Rabbit has vacated the garden… did like a baby and headed out, blew that Popsicle stand, did like a tree and leaved(?)…

Since I KNOW-for-an-absolute-fact that my diligent children did not let our German Shepherd indulge in a bunny snack that was not a tidy approved canine snack shaped like a bone from a colorful box, I’m going to speculate what happened to him.

You call it denial. I call it creative writing therapy so-I-don’t-wig-the-fuck-out.

*He hitched a ride to Pet Semetary for a proper burial. (Can’t blame him)

*He was actually the Jesus Easter Bunny and he rose from the dead.

*He turned into Zombie Rabbit and will be coming for TGC soon. (In which case, this story is about to get good!)

*The Jehovah’s witnesses saw him as they headed down my walkway and decided he needed to be saved.

*The postal carrier decided to mail him back to Max and Ruby, so they could have closure.

*A bald eagle swooped down and carried him to Bunny Heaven, but kept his party hat to conceal his middle-age male pattern baldness.

*Elmer Fudd finally bagged him, in which case he’s on display over at Acme Caskets.

Anyway,

He’s gone and I’ve convinced myself beyond the shadow of a doubt that he. will. not. resurface. in. doggy. vomit.

No.

The end.

 

Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat- Meet LuckyBastard my Chipmunk Friend

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Let’s face it, a nurses job is never done. This morning I’m having coffee with my new furry chipmunk friend who’s convalescing from an unexpected play date with ThatGoddamnedCat.

I affectionately named her LuckyBastard for obvious reasons, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to make it, as there’s no evidence of broken skin or internal bleeding. Unfortunately, I can’t completely rule out internal injuries because my rodent CT machine is down.

Plus, I’m obviously bullshitting you, because I don’t actually have that much needed piece of equipment that every cat owner should totally own.

And yes, I praised ThatGoddamnedCat for bringing dinner home.

He knows I hate to cook on Fridays.

Brownie points to ThatGoddamnedCat.

The dogs are going absolutely berserk at the moment, because I have LuckyBastard on the kitchen table hanging out in nurse Gina’s ICU for-unfortunate-play-dates-of-ThatGoddamnedCat, which is actually just a warm towel in a tall Hollister bag.

Her yummy chipmunk smell is driving them both batshitcrazy.

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Actually, Sketch who’s three is the one who’s pacing and nosing around like a juvenile spider money on crack. I honestly don’t think Tucker (12y/o German Shepherd)  even cares, because he’s retired from hunting prey and all other unnecessary dog related nonsense. Also, the poor guy can’t see or hear very well. He lives to chill out and protect the house.

I’m pretty sure he’s only anxious because he’s picking up batshitcrazy little dogs vibes. In fact, his poop just fell out, so I’m like 100% convinced it’s pure anxiety.

*Poop falling out is distinctly different than pooping on the kitchen floor, because this particular dog would never ever do that. He’s simply a well-mannered geriatric fellow who got anxious and well… shit happens.

Truth be told, I think this brainy canine who’s uber awesome in every way, had like one (maybe two) accidents in his entire lifetime.

We brought him home at 6 weeks and POOF! he was potty trained. He’s smarter than most people and a helluva lot easier to train than a human child.

I’m pretty sure he’s still humiliated over that one or two accidents he had when he was a pup, because if I remember correctly, his expression was all like…. “Ohhhh… you want me to go out there?? Why didn’t you just say so, master… I understand over a hundred different languages. Where’s the paper towels and carpet spray? I shall clean it up.”

And that was that.

The little guy on the other hand, who’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel was obviously bred exclusively for companionship and keeping humans warm because his only assets are a viable heart beat, cuteness and ability to snuggle.

End of story.

I’m not complaining though. Adorable, snuggly companions who don’t sass, talk back or ask for money are hard to come by.

Back to LuckyBastard. She’s resting comfortably nestled in her Hollister bag where this strapping young beach dude is protecting her. Her breathing is fast, but regular and reflexes seem to be intact.

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I think she’s going to be fine.

I’m glad she stopped by to visit.

Mornings are anything but boring around here.

The following has been yet another adventure from… The Chronicles of ThatGoddamned Cat.

The end.

 

For more adventures starring ThatGoddamnedCat click here Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat and here Toasted Mouse and here Here, Birdie Birdie

 If you like this post, feel free to comment and most importantly – don’t forget to SHARE on Facebook! Your friends will thank you for putting a little FUN in their newsfeed.

 

 

Twas the First Day of School…

‘Twas the first day of school and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring…

Not even a mouse?

But, not because ThatGoddamnedCat was diligently guarding his post.

Nope.

ThatGoddamnedCat is never around when you actually need him, which is partially how he earned his fitting name ThatGoddamnedCat.

Not a creature was stirring, becauuuuse…

Stewart-the-stupid was camped out in the bottom of the family toaster gorging himself on bread crumbs and chocolate Pop tart sprinkles.

Why didn’t he just eat off the floor where there’s almost always a generous buffet containing three square meals?

My extreme theory is this- he must be a teenaged mouse, because everyone knows teenagers are know-it-alls who don’t listen to their elders, which in this case happens to be Mr. & Mrs. Little. (who, incidentally, are most likely still ALIVE, simply because they know enough to stay the-hell outta the toaster)

Unfortunately for their son Stewart-the-stupid, Diva #13 happened to be in the mood for TOAST on this particular dismal morning.

On a similar note, yet completely off on a tangent- one Easter morning, Diva #13 was in the mood for cinnamon buns and turned on the oven where the dumbass Easter Bunny had recently hidden her brothers Easter basket.

The dumbass bunny even saw her do it, but wasn’t caffeinated or conscious enough at the time to process, let alone react to the situation.

By conscious, I mean the dumbass bunny’s body was standing in the kitchen but her brain was still in REM sleep most likely having a Channing Tatum-dipped-in-chocolate-wearing-bunny-ears dream.

And, yes the bunny still hides my kids Easter baskets even though the eldest is 20, because it’s FUN for her, THAT’S why.

Anyway, back to this episode called… Of mice and hungry-girls-in-the-mood-for-toast-on-the-first-day-of-school.

Enter Diva #13.

“Mommmmmmmm!!!!! I think there’s a mouse behind the toaster… I heard a SQUEAK SQUEAK!!”

BEHIND the toaster would’ve been a semi-acceptable location for a mouse, says my half-asleep brain.

I grab my mom cape and fly into the kitchen where I immediately smell burn.

The electrical kinda burn.

I’ve put out at least one of every imaginable type of appliance fire, so my nose knows.

The example below was called the French fry incident of  2012.

“Pheeeew!!” says my brain assuming the dumb furry golf ball sized intruder gnawed through the cord that’s on the OUTSIDE of the toaster.

My mom vision diverts to the toaster.

It’s in the DOWN position and it’s still toasting away.

Sonofabitch.

I quick unplug it with my Inspector Gadget mom arm and NOTHING scurries out.

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit!!!!

Double-triple-quadruple SHITTTTT!!

I just KNOW.

Diva #13- Ohhhhh my God… Did I toast the mouse???!!!

Me- No No No!! (fibbing to spare her from certain emotional turmoil)

Enter #16- Oh my God… she toasted a mouse!!!! Noooo waaaay!!!!

Me- No, he just got… stuck (giving him the evil mom eye that says STFU and walk away. He knows that look)

Breeeeeeeeathe….

Think.

The crisis has been averted temporarily.

Toaster unplugged… check.

My brain flashes back to- it’s the first day of school and we’re already going to miss the damned bus.

Bus missing happens to be the story of our life, minus today’s very acceptable excuse of having a fuzzy morning intruder stuck in our toasting appliance.

Quick run outside and take a few token first-day-of-school pics where hopefully nobody’s facial expression will look anything like the SCREAM guy.

Him.

I generously allow (Big Kahunna’s) #16 to drive my van to school for the first time, so my expression probably does resemble the SCREAM guy.

My nerves say so, anyway.

Diva #13 takes the bus.

Status- Two off to school ON TIME.

Life is good, right?

Wrong.

Now it’s time to deal with how-bad-is-the-carnage-in-the-toaster? situation.

Did I already say SHITTTTTTT!!!!!???

I know I have to, so I insert new batteries into my CSI wannabe flashlight (that’s actually just a regular flashlight owned by people who are me and usually love solving a good mystery, except for when it happens to involve crispy rodents) and examine the scene.

My conclusion- Stewart-the-stupid rodent…. in the far right toaster slot…. smooshed by up&down mechanism…. by Diva #13.

It would appear that the roasting occurred after Stewarts demise, therefore enhancing the dismal scene with aromatic extra crispy dumbass mouse, which by the way, ABSOLUTELY multiplies the ICK factor by like a gazillion.

The moral of the story- always check the toaster before you pull the trigger.

There.

I’ve made you paranoid for life.

I’m sorry and you’re most welcome.

Ps- Just so you know my level of dedication, I spent 99 cents on an app to turn Channing into a chocolate dream bunny.

 

For driving stories involving Big Kahunna’s #16- click here…

 

https://extrememom.net/2013/04/11/big-kahunas-goes-driving/
https://extrememom.net/2013/07/02/cruisin-in-the-jesus-mobile/
https://extrememom.net/2013/06/08/dumb-shit-my-son-says-when-im-teaching-him-to-drive/
https://extrememom.net/2013/07/10/testosterone-powered-vehicles-and-jackasss/

 

For mouse stories involving ThatGoddamnedCat- click here…
https://extrememom.net/2013/07/20/that-goddamned-cat/

https://extrememom.net/2014/05/28/chronicles-of-thatgoddamnedcat-here-birdie-birdie/

https://extrememom.net/2013/09/08/twas-the-first-day-of-school/

https://extrememom.net/2014/06/06/chronicles-of-thatgoddamnedcat-meet-luckybastard-my-chipmunk-friend/

https://extrememom.net/2014/07/16/adventures-of-thatgoddamnedcat-bobbing-for-bunnies-in-the-river-styx/

 

 

Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat- Meet Max

There’s red splatter all over the family room carpet and it doesn’t remotely resemble anything I’ve served in the kitchen over the past week.
All clues point to ThatGoddamnedCat.
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If you’re new here, I affectionately refer to my cat as ThatGoddamnedCat, because he’s earned that title at least 100 times over.
Plus, I thought That-mutherfuckin-cat was a bit too abrasive.
I rescued ThatGoddamnedCat from the woods of no-mans-land Pennsylvania something like seven years ago.
His blood is feral and he’s a killing machine, which would be all well and good if he didn’t bring his trophy’s in the house.
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Especially when they’re undead and able to run around and reap havoc.
Sometimes ThatGoddamnedCat actually has the audacity to leave his live conquests under the sofa while he catches some zzz’s.
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Cats are rude.
I surmise he’s saving it for later, which by the way is absolutely forbidden by household law.
Household law clearly states- No playing with your food and absolutely no saving shit for later that still has a heartbeat.
Just no.
If you want to run around like a saber tooth tiger from the prehistoric era, you will do it outside, mister.
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I’m not entirely sure how to calculate cat years, but I do know they tend to outlive dogs by (sometimes) up to 10 years.
That’s an entire lifespan for a dog and totally unfair in my dog-loving opinion.
I’ve never actually had a 20 year old cat, but apparently it’s possible (and it would be just my luck <– I said that part under my breath, which is why it’s in parenthesis)
Of course I love my psycho feline beast. I really do.
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He’s different just like everyone else in this family, so he’s the perfect misfit.
Believe it or not, ThatGoddamnedCat has some positive attributes.
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Like, he doesn’t require a litter box. That right there is a BIGGIE.
He takes care of business almost exclusively outside.
I said almost because last winter was a bitch, so we were forced to bring the litter box inside.
*By bitch, I mean the snow was so deep he couldn’t navigate further than the front porch.
Although, he did try.
Bonus points to ThatGoddamnedCat for trying.
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No litter box is a big selling point for a cat. It almost gives them almost human-like self sufficiency.
The other perk is that he’s not a picky eater. In addition to bird, rodent and squirrel he eats mostly dry non-stinky food.
No nasty cat food cans is a another BIG plus.
I have one of those ginormous feeders that are meant to be used when you go on vacation and leave your cat to sulk and act out.
I call it the lazy feeder because you only have to tend to the cat like every 10 days or so.
Best. invention. ever.
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So, ThatGoddamnedCat isn’t all that bad.
If only, he had more useful skills like folding laundry or cleaning up his own bloody messes…
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