I gotta admit, I think they’re kinda weird. Trying to get all the cats into a family photo is fun I’m sure. And posting continuous updates of what the cats ate, drank, or puked up that day to Facebook must be interesting some of their friends, judging by the “likes” and “aww how cute” comments. But I just find it annoying.

Don’t get me wrong: I love animals. But there’s a line between child and pet. My pets are not my “fur babies.” They’re animals. I think it’s disrespectful to their animal nature to treat them like mini-humans. But that’s just me. Live and let live. Call them your fur babies if you want.

But for the sake of all those furry little neutered balls, can you please at least put the “fur” in there? There’s nothing more confusing than talking to a colleague about their “baby” and halfway through the conversation realizing that it’s not a child you’re talking about.

Sometimes there are tip-offs. Like if you don’t have a birth story. Let’s face it–every woman who has labored has a birth story these days. And a FUPA to go with it. Despite what daddies and some pet-owners might think, witnessing the birth is not “practically the same as” giving birth. Unless you have a wretched story involving multiple hours of pain and pushing, I’m not going to believe your “baby” is real.

Another clue is when you don’t talk about the breastfeeding debate. Or the co-sleeping debate–’cause for some reason it’s way more acceptable to let your dog sleep in your bed right up to old age than it is to let your child sleep in your bed for the first few years. If you’re not bemoaning the high cost of and lack of reliable daycare spaces, that’s a pretty big tip-off too.

But the easiest way to tell if someone is talking about a human child or a “fur baby” is to listen for judgment. If your little darling eats straight off the table, wakes up four times a night, poops in the neighbor’s yard and is constantly tearing apart your flowers and no one accuses you of being a bad mommy, I know we’re talking about a pet, not a child. It’s sad but true. No one judges a fur baby’s mommy like they judge a real mommy.

Photo Credit

Purchased from the local Petsmart, Ernie quickly became a treasured member of the family.

The Boy especially loved Ernie, and, oh, how Ernie loved living in his cage by the TV.

Until one sad morning.

Mommy was asleep when The Boy whispered in her ear, “Ernie is seeping.”

Mommy mumbled back a thoughtful, “mmm hmmm” while attempting to roll over and ignore The Boy.

But The Boy persisted.

“Mommy, Ernie is seeping on the bottom of his cage.”

Instantly, Mommy’s eyes flew wide open. Ernie sleeping on the bottom of his cage could mean only one thing.

Mommy leaped up and sprinted to the cage.

And there was Ernie lying feet up, dead as a doornail.

Already rigamortisized, Mommy silently thought to herself, “When was the last time I fed that damned bird?”

But there wasn’t any time for ruminating and regrets. The Girl had woken up and wandered over to The Cage to see what was going on.

The Boy said, “See, Mommy? Ernie is seeping.”

Mommy felt very sad. It is one thing for a cheap little parakeet from Petsmart to kick the bucket, but quite another thing to watch your children face death for the very first time.

Mommy wished Daddy was home to share this special moment, but Daddy wasn’t. Mommy was going to tell them all by herself.

So Mommy pulled her children in close and said in her saddest voice, “Ernie isn’t sleeping; Ernie is dead.”

“What?”

“Ernie is dead. He’s in heaven with God.” (Because what the hell else are you going to say?)

Within moments, Mommy had two sobbing children on her lap and a dead bird to deal with.

Where was that damned Daddy, anyway?

Mommy, scrambling for some way to comfort her heartbroken children, offered, “We’ll have a funeral for him. Okay?”

Of course, The Girl and The Boy likely had no idea what a funeral even was, but instantly thought this meant something positive and stopped crying quite so hard.

Daddy was called with the bad news. Overwrought with emotion, he asked Mommy, “When was the last time you fed that damned bird, anyway?”

Daddy came home and the funeral commenced.

Mommy hadn't realized that Ernie was a Christian.

Grandparents showed up to pay their last respects, and the long procession across the yard was made to Ernie’s final resting place.

It was an open-casket funeral.

Ernie was laid in his final resting place.

Ashes to ashes; dust to dust.

Farewell, Ernie!

About the Writer:

Chloe is the writer of The Chloe Chronicles and an overall nice person. When she isn’t blogging or watching Anissa Mayhew eat chocolate cupcakes, she moonlights as an L&D RN, which is how she acquired the moniker: The Vagina Whisperer. 

All photos are courtesy of Chloe.

Meet Zoe.

She would meet you back except she’s too busy sleeping all the damn time.

And no one bothers her about this.

No one.

The Kid isn’t all: can I have a snack? Every 2.5 seconds. And Mr. Kitty doesn’t waltz over to announce there’s no minimum on something he MUST HAVE on eBay.

Because there is no Mr. Kitty. And eBay for cats is called the animal shelter.

Plus, a snack to Zoe is a bug she never actually eats because, and this is just a guess, it’s too many calories.

See, Zoe is lazy as a mofo, thin as anything, and eats as much as she pleases.

Um, what the hell?! Why am I not a cat!

What I should have done while I was at the Halloween store was pick up a headband with some cat ears. Lots and lots of them: black ones, leopard ones, throw in some devil horns, and a cute grey/pink combo. Whenever I sat down at my laptop, the kitty bands would come out. This would signal to the family unit: kitty time = don’t bother me, ever.

The devil horns would come out when they did, in fact, bother me.  Which would then lead to a hiss and a breaking news update that: kitty has claws.

But what I’m really pissed about is that Zoe is lazy as a mofo and svelte. What kind of metabolism does this cat have? And more importantly, why is she hogging all of it for herself? Share the wealth, bitch.

Zoe: pretty please with a bug you’ll never kill on top, what is the secret to eternal laze and no muffin top?

Don’t get me wrong, I love my curves. But she’s flashed her shit way too many times for me to not ask the question. I’ve no carbed- it, weight watched-it, walked away the pounds-it, and Zoe has slept right through my grunts and groans and fat-positive picture taking. Unless she’s having Jillian Michaels nightmares, the jig is up. I’m on to you, Zoe. You can’t have your undisturbed laze and flat belly. I’m waking your ass up.

On the regular.

And you’re going to kill those bugs. The stink ones have your name written all over them.

Oh, who am I kidding? I totally dress my cats up in handmade clothing. When I do it, though, it’s funny, dammit, and not at all depressing.

In all seriousness, though, I really do love all three of my kittens, but there was a time when the Palinode and I were just starting our collection of monsters cat family, and that first little kitten was Oskar:

He was the quietest little kitten at the human society, which is why we brought him home with us after weathering all the desperate rat impersonators screeching and grabbing at us through their cage bars.

It turned out, though, that “quiet” actually meant “on his way to death”. We’d only had him for a couple of weeks when he pretty much stopped responding to stimulus. The vet said he had an upper respiratory virus, gave him a shot to bring down his fever, and told us not to hold out hope.

I did hold out hope, though, because I simply could not handle letting this little guy die on my watch. I had killed many plants, goldfish, snails, and even a hamster, but I could not let this this kitten go, too. He had winnowed his way into my heart, and I was going to save his life.

I took the next two days off work to nurse him back to life. I kept him warm next to me on a pillow. He was too weak to walk the distance to his water dish, so I carried him to the bathroom every half hour so he could suckle from the dripping tap like he liked. He couldn’t smell his food to eat it, so I fed him microwaved food in a gravy of tuna juice to pique his interest.

I babied and cuddled and took butt temperatures and cooked and worried and paced, and when he finally raised his own head and let out a mew two days later, I cried. The little dude was going to live!

If only I’d known then that he was going to turn into this:

I used to think that the only family you could pick were your pets. I have since learned that this is only partially true. You can pick your pets, but only once. After that, you’re stuck with a whiny depressive who lords over your bathroom with territorial yowls and a cloud of melodramatic angst.

At least the poor bastards are capable of play.

It probably stems from my general love for language, but I get a real charge out of signage.

While driving, I’m constantly scanning the roadsides looking for entertaining billboards, street signs, business placards: anything with words. I carry on witty dialogues with myself, responding to questions proposed by advertisements, supplying voice-overs for the people in the images, adding alternative catch phrases. I’m not going to lie: I crack myself up.

This is often a real highlight of my day.

To read signs.

And talk to myself.

While driving my grandmother’s 1990 Honda Civic.

Sigh.

This is one notch above entertaining one’s self with one’s own flatulence.

Not that I do that.

And I wouldn’t even think about rating and categorizing my farts based on volume, pitch, length, odor, and moisture content while driving alone and carrying on a discourse with myself concerning signage.

Because that would be weird.

Anyway, there’s one particular sign I’ve driven by for years that really gets me:

Double dumbassedness. Bummer.

Let’s be clear: I think parents coming to grips with their children’s weaknesses and shortcomings is healthy. After all, nobody’s perfect.

But to publicly shame one’s offspring by pointing out their lack of intelligence is harsh. I mean, the sign may as well read “Our Kids Are Idiots” or “Parents of a Clearview Middle School (Non) Honor Roll Student” or “The Oldest Daughter’s ACT Score Was 13: Thank God We Never Started That College Fund.”

Heck, why stop at intellect? If you’re going to throw your kids under the bus, don’t hold any punches. “What Do You Call a Club-footed, Pock-faced Bed Wetter with Chronic Halitosis? Our Bobby” is a sign that lets passing motorists know exactly how big of a loser your child really is.

And if it isn’t bad enough that these people’s kids are morons, their pets are simpletons, too. Dogs incapable of conjugating the simplest verbs. Cats dumbfounded by basic addition. Parrots stammering through tw0-syllable words.

As I drive by this sign, I look at the house in the background and envision a dad sitting at the kitchen table trying to explain long division to his 17-year-old son for the thirty-third time while a cocker spaniel lying near the back door stares blankly at a book that is way above its reading level and a Siamese lounging on the back of the sofa struggles to solve a beginner-level Sudoku puzzle.

It’s so, so sad.

The fart rating thing, I mean.

The sign? It’s freakin’ hillarious. Cats and Sudoku puzzles! Goodnight!

So, any signage that make you laugh?

Living with a kitten is like living with the rugby roommate.

I know because I have a new kitten and this is how it goes…

Kittens like to sleep all day and party all night.

You settle into bed for the night and the kitten will find something – a stray Lego or a penny – and use it as a hockey puck. It will bat that thing all over the house. If you confront the kitten about this, it will simply stare at you blankly like, “Wassssssup?”

Kittens will eat your food and drink your beer.

You grab a beer and some hummus and curl up on the couch to watch a movie and the kitten will be all over your stuff. It will put its little head in your beer glass and try eating the hummus right out of the bowl like a savage. The worse part though? Kittens never replace what they take. They think food and beverages magically appear because they are entitled jerks.

Kittens don’t want you to read.

You’re quietly reading a good book and the kitten will be all, “Dude. Let’s hang out.” You tell the kitten that you don’t want to hang out but it will be stupidly persistent and you know it’s thinking, “Come on! You read last night. Can’t we just do a little catnip together tonight?! It’ll be fun!”

Kittens will crawl into your bed without asking.

You’re asleep in bed dreaming about [insert favorite celebrity crush here]. It’s the good kind of dream and you feel a warm body next to you and you and the crush are getting closer and closer and then you’re like, “[Celebrity crush]! I can’t believe you wear fur!” You wake up with a start to find the kitten all over you. So, you’re like, “What the f%*#, kitten?!”and the kitten is like, “Oh come on! We’re young and carefree…” NO, kitten. No means no.

I might have to request a room change. Of course, it could be worse – it could be a dog.

The kids named her. They chose Princess Sprinkles Cookie. It was originally Sprinkles, but my four-year-old felt like she needed a middle name, so they added Cookie. Then my three-year-old felt left out, so she stuck Princess on the front end.

So, my dog has a porn name.

If she were in porn, though, it would be S & M type stuff.

Because my husband? He’s Princess Sprinkles Cookie’s bitch.

She’s the sweetest little dog. She loves all of us equally. She adores the kids and responds well my bitchiness authority. She doesn’t whine when I put her in the kennel and she sure as hell doesn’t beg to climb up into bed with me.

But while she loves all of us equally, she loves my husband…differently.

It started off innocently enough, I suppose. He carried her around newborn style, baby talking, cooing.

“Ish my Pwincess Spwinkles Cookie happy? Does she wuv me?”

I asked him if he wanted a stroller or perhaps a doggy style baby carrier.

“Do they make those?!” he asked excitedly.

Fuck my life.

Then it escalated. What was previously baby talk became not-so-subtle complements. “You are soo pewtty! My Spwinkles Cookie is swwwwoooo pwetty.”

And as soon as she had the upper hand, she made him her bitch.

First it was the leg humping. All four pounds of Princess Sprinkles Cookie, showing a grown man who’s the boss.

Then it was the spooning. My husband would crawl into bed, the dog would run across the room to his side of the bed and bark out what I can only suspect was a mating call.

As soon as he’d scoop her up into bed, she’d assume the dominant position, curled around him like he was her little whore.

Then it was the arm humping.

“What the hell is she doing?” I asked. “She doesn’t do that to me.”

“Um, well, you know, um…we were playing and she just got a little wound up…”

We all have different definitions of playing, and I didn’t want to know his. Still, it appeared she was attempting to hump him into submission.

Apparently, she did.

Last night, as the two of them were “wrestling” on the couch, I heard, “Can you try not to hump my arm tonight? I have a headache.”

At least the honeymoon period is over.

(Photo Credit: Ed, aka Princess Sprinkles Cookie’s bitch)

The short answer? No, I have not. One of them peed on my boot today in retaliation after I wouldn’t let him sleep on a coat that he’d dragged off its hook and down the hall and mashed into a comfy kitty mattress. So, we’re going to make cat t-shirts decorated with HP iron-on transfers.

I asked Twitter for help with slogans for the T-shirts, because I was suddenly drawing blanks, and it turns out that the majority of the people I know on Twitter are filthy-minded. I’m not all that surprised, but I couldn’t really imagine putting a lot of those perverted suggestions on my sweet little snookumses. Luckily, a few less blue suggestions came my way that were much more appropriate for my G-rated cat friends, and I was ready to make them some t-shirts within a couple of hours.

How to Make Personalized T-shirts for Your Cats

1. Create the images and text for your t-shirts. If the images are smaller, paste them onto one page all together, if possible. This way you can print them out using a single sheet of the HP iron-on transfer paper.

2. Flip the entire image horizontally so that everything is turned in reverse. This is very important. The images and text, once laid against the shirt and ironed on, will come out the right way around.

3. Print them out using your printer’s highest quality print setting. I, of course, used my HP Photosmart eStation All-in-One Printer series – C510.

4. Cut out your images and text. Leave approximately a quarter inch of space around your images and text to avoid ink bleed.

5. Heat up your iron to its hottest cotton setting without steam. While the iron is heating, lay a pillow case over a hard surface that can handle the heat. Do not use a padded surface or an ironing board. This is important to ensure that the iron-on transfer properly adheres to the fabric.

6. Iron the t-shirt before hand to make sure that there are no wrinkles present to interfere with your design, and then lay your iron-on transfer face down on the fabric.

7. Iron the piece in slow strokes while applying extra pressure. Make slow, even sweeps over the iron-on transfer for no less than 45 seconds to one minute.

8. Allow the iron-on transfer to cool for at least one minute after ironing.

9. Peel back the paper beginning at a corner. I found that I had to pick at it pretty hard to lift it up, but the transfer is pretty hardy, so don’t worry about damaging it. If the paper begins to tear as you peel it back, start again at another corner.

10. Put your fantastic new t-shirts on your cats! They will freaking love you for it.

Here is Lula sporting her new “scratch ‘n’ sniff” t-shirt:

Onion’s reads “What? Me? I didn’t pee in your boot” on the front and “I peed in your boot” on the back. He failed to see the humour. I’ve now hidden my boots.

Oskar’s “this shirt is stupid and so is she” t-shirt was a smash hit. He thinks I am awesome.

And that,  my friends, is how you make personalized t-shirts for your cats. This was my first go at it, and it still took me less than half an hour to print, iron, peel, and herd and dress three felines, which makes this little crafty foray a raging success. It also means that I am very talented.

HP iron-on transfer paper FTW!