Diabetes.

More specifically, feline diabetes. Meaning her cat, Glade, now needs special cat food and insulin shots twice daily. It certainly explains why he’s taken to using her dirty laundry pile as his personal litter box. We thought he was just being spiteful.

This is an ugly cat that I painted for Aspen who declared it to be Glade. However, it is not an accurate rendering because Glade is pure orange and roughly the size of a large raccoon.

My friend Diane had a different opinion when it comes to treating pets for peopleish diseases.

Diane: wow I’m not a cat lover and that sounds like a lot of hassle and money so plug your ears I’d probably put it to sleep.

Or drop it off in a nice town like Mona.

Aubrey: DIANE!

You’re going to Hell.

And it’s going to be a room full of 2,000 cats.

All clamoring all over you.

Cat Hell.

Diane: No kidding that’s pretty close to my definition of Hell.

But Ashley is pretty compassionate when it comes to pets. I know this because when I was twelve, our sister dropped our Chihuahua and broke both his front legs, and Ashley held him on her lap afterward even though he pooped all over her. I wouldn’t say that’s love, as much as it was just an oldest-child obligation type of deal. But still, she wanted to do what she could for Glade so we trooped of to Target to get his medicine, and those Target people, they are really compassionate.

Pharmacy tech: What’s the patient’s date of birth?

Ashley: I don’t know. It’s for a CAT.

Pharmacy tech: Oh, you’re one of those people! How admirable of you! You know, I had a dog who was on Prozac once because he was depressed, and I swore after that I’d never do anything like that for a pet again, but that is just so nice of you. I hate that you have to go through that.

This is where I took the opportunity to remind Ashley that I wasn’t crazy when I almost bought a cat that had aids. His name was “Sunshine” and he would have been a great conversation starter. Sadly Kevin vetoed it. EVEN THOUGH IT’S TOTALLY NOT TRANSFERABLE TO PEOPLE, KEVIN, I was only going to leave that part out when people are over that I don’t like, or for people who piss me off, like don’t mess with me, my cat has aids. It could totally keep me from being kidnapped.

I fancy myself an okay dog trainer. I mean, my dog knows the commands, “get in your bed” and “go poop”, which will come in handy with kid-training some day. (I kid, I kid. Sort of). So I thought, you know what, I’m going to pull a Ceasar Millan and actually walk my dog. Become the pack leader, and bond and all that sort of stuff. He recommends an hour walk a day, but Ollie is a wiener dog with a dash of El Chihuahua, so I took his length, divided by his height, multiplied that by four short legs and walked him for fifteen minutes.

And you know what? It was wonderful. I found the prettiest tree. Kevin thinks I’m crazy because it happened to be swarming with bees, but some pictures are worth risking a sting for.

Also, I really wish the dog spoke English, and not Spanish or German (his ancestry) because then he’d know that I’m the one who truly loves him. Kevin called this picture ugly.

His exact words were, “it’s a face only a mother could love”.

Shoot, now that I think about it, I sure hope he was talking about the dog.

This is Kevin. The hope, the ambition, the joy, the wonder, the goals and dreams of the future.

Dogs have hopes and dreams too, okay? Roll with it.

(Not that I’m calling him a dog. Or a wiener. Well, yes to the last one but only when he steals my pillow in the morning and when he drinks the last Mountain Dew in the fridge).

(And when he bites his nails).

(QUIT BITING YOUR NAILS!).

On the flip side, this is me.

Ornery. Lazy. Content. Protective of my space. And yes, technically a cougar – because I’m six months older than him.

So we are, metaphorically speaking – the dog and cat. Learning to live in the same space, adjusting to each others habits and hoping to exist in the same space with the least amount of conflict possible.

Which, I’ll admit. It’s a bit more challenging than I thought it would be, this whole, “coexist and get-along” thing. Probably because I got a little too much sass in me. Probably because I’m stubborn. Probably because of a lot of things – men are from Mars, women are from Venus, why can’t he understand that I hate computers after five PM? Why can’t she just learn to try new foods? When will he put his dirty clothes in the hamper? When will she actually wash the laundry?

When the real problem is just that we think differently. He’s always looking ahead, I’m either looking behind (hi, past!) or in the moment. So we butt heads sometimes. Who doesn’t?

I tell you these things because well, I’m married. And you told me to blog. So I’m here, telling you about our lives, comparing us to animals. (This is the content I give you after two weeks of absence? For shame.)

My point is there really isn’t a point to this post, other than men are strange creatures, and they probably think the same thing about us felines females.

Boy!

Girl!

Boy!

Pain in the ass! (Well, that’s Kevin’s assessment anyway.)

And wouldn’t you know it – mom, Ashley AND Sam all checked three times each and the final feline verdict is GIRL!

Which means I get to call it Ginger and Kevin? Well, he’ll probably keep on calling it Pita (see above statement from Kevin) or Ron whenever he feels like it.

He decided to give Ginger/Ron a glass of milk the other night.

Yes I know, cats shouldn’t drink milk, it gives them the trots.

Can we discuss how funny the phrase, “the trots” is?

And I’m usually against pets being anywhere near something that I eat or drink off of but for one second I pretended not to care, because this was pretty darned cute.