Pain in the Rump

I love cats.

All growing up, there was never a cat-less lull in our house.

Probably because Mom couldn't turn away the fuzzy felines that wandered into our lives (except for Ugly Kitten that I found on a walk one day, that Mom absolutely refused to let me keep...I was severely disappointed, but, chances are, if I found Ugly Kitten cute BECAUSE he was so ugly, someone else was bound to think so, too...right?).

Jeremy grew up with birds.

Yes.

Birds.

Smelly, biting, loud, annoying, poop-anywhere birds.

So, it took some convincing for me to get a cat when we had the opportunity (usually, I would just sneak out of the house and get whatever I want and then hope that Jeremy's love for me will prevail and he will forgive me. Like when I bought new bedding, kitchen linens and bath towels a few years back during our destitute college days, or when I showed up at our apartment with a cage, bird food, and two society finches...or when I came home a few weeks ago with $80 worth of nail polish.).

And, as I knew she would, our little kitty has wormed her way into Jeremy's heart.

EXCEPT...

Jeremy, who inherited his love of birds from his mother, also inherited a certain yellow couch from his grandmother.

And Pepper has made it her personal scratching post.

So, Jeremy, in the heat of passion, announced to me that we were going to get the beast declawed (plus all the scratches she was inflicting on Lily when she used her head as a spring board weren't helping her case...and while it made me sad to think of Pepper in any sort of pain that I had a hand in, I was happy with the thought that she wouldn't be poking holes in my shirts anymore...I am not kidding when I say that 75% of my wardrobe is now punctured irreparably).

I called the vet, and set up the appointment.

When the fateful day arrived, I ushered my little beastie into the kitty carrier, and carted her off to get her fingers chopped off.

Of course, when I brought her into the office, her eyes immediately dilated and she hunkered down as small as she could get. I don't blame her. As Emily put it, "Vet offices smell like antiseptic and fear..."

After a brief check up, we left her in the hands of the vet, and went home.

Why am I talking about this? Be patient and I will explain...

So, after this whole incident, I had a baby.

Yes..

I did.

And, like the stubborn twit I am, I disobeyed orders and decided to vacuum my house.

But in my defense it was THAT bad and I couldn't wait for Jeremy to get around to doing it. I felt like I was swimming in a sea of dried bread crumbs, courtesy of Lily.

Now, the human body does something after you have a baby. It gives you a false sense of well-being and a boost of energy. So, I thought, "Gee, I feel great! I'm gonna clean my whole house!"

So...I did.

And apparently I called my body's bluff.

Because I really, really, really, really, really, really, really hurt my back.

BAD.

Like, I walk down the hallway and I am on the verge of tears it hurts that bad (which is why I am sitting writing this blog because moving makes me want to curl up in a ball and die).

I think the sciatic nerve was a stupid idea. I don't know who came up with it (perhaps Satan), but it is a truly horrible thing.

So, back to the cat...

I don't know if it was one of those "cast you bread upon the waters" things, or a "what goes around comes around," or if the universe has a perverse sense of humor or what...

All I know is that I found the subtle irony that my cat and I were in the hallway yesterday both struggling to move far from humorous. To her credit, Pepper looked up at me with complete empathy as we made halting, painful progress down to the kitchen.

I suppose she has it worse, though. I mean, nobody cut my fingers off.