I look over at my clock, 4:07AM it says.  I wonder for a moment why I woke up, and then I hear it:

A loud meowing coming from downstairs.  I can tell immediately that it is Scrappy, my cat.  She is the one that does this goofy “purr-meow” when she wants to be picked up.  However, she normally only does it when I’m awake.

In a moment, I’m stumbling downstairs.  Scrappy is sitting on the couch and meowing, loudly, at my sliding door with the curtains drawn.

“What?” I say, picking her up.  She stops meowing, and contents herself with purring and staring at me as if she knows something that I don’t.

I walk over to the sliding door and peak through the vertical blinds.

And, of course, that morning I could help but detect a hint of excited giddyness of a five-year-old as both the radio announcer and the woman who does the weather on the news said excitedly, “It looks like it’s going to be a white Thanksgiving!”

Does anyone else see something wrong with that statement?!

Now, excuse me while I go and make a snowman. :-)

Yeah, yeah, I know: I’ve been quite scarce around here lately.  Since I put up my new template I haven’t really blogged since then.  I lead a boring life, what can I say?  Although, it may get mighty interesting come the next few weeks, now that I’ve settled in…

“You be brushing zee kitties?”  My vet says.  I hold up a box with Sara in it, vocalizing her thoughts of being shoved into a box after I woke her up.  You would probably be meowing like someone is tearing your limbs off, too, if you were sleeping that soundly on a comfy bed just moments ago.

“Yes,”  I practically have to yell over the loud meowing noise.

“What be zee problem?”  The vet talks easily over my cats piercing meows as if he does this a thousand times a day.  I can’t place his accent, sounds kind of German and Indian mixed.  He doesn’t have air conditioning in his tiny, two-room office, but who cares, he hasn’t killed my pets yet and, the prices are average.

I explain my problem to the vet, and he nods.

“I see,”  He says, carefully opening the box and lifting Sara out of it.  Her discontent reaches it’s highest pitch; as my cat looks at me, I realize: if looks could kill, I would be engulfed in flames right now, screaming.

He places her on the exam table, which also doubles as a scale.  She lays down immediately on the cold steel, looking around wide-eyed; the meowing has finally stopped, at least.

“Twelve-point-nine ‘ounds,”  He says quietly to a woman nearby.  She jots down a note.

“I’m sorry did you say erm…12 pounds?” I ask.

“Yes, last time you were here when you feerst got her, she was 9 ‘ounds,” He says, frowning, “Zis…zis is too much.”

“Uh, maybe they didn’t feed them enough at the shelter? She was probably scared…”  I start.

“Four pounds in 4 month’s, zis too much,”  He says, cutting to the chase.  Then, he turns to his assistant, “I said did you get zee 12.9 pounds?”

She nods.

“Alright, alright, how much should I be feeding them?”  I ask, making a mental note to read the back of the dry food bag.

“Depends on the type of food,”  He says, shrugging.

Both general and specific at the same time; that takes talent.  Pretty soon I’m done, and I have new pills for my cat.  Once I get home, Sara immediately runs under my bed and doesn’t come out for the next three days, except, of course, when I’m not around to eat food and use the litter box.

Welcome to my life.