Cat's In The Cradle

I've been watching my stepmother's kitty cats while her right knee is being replaced with spare parts from a '67 Mustang. At least this would explain why the nurses have been calling her 'Shelby' for the first couple of days in rehab.

I guess I was having so much fun test-driving my entirely artificial hips [some days I just feel the need for speed] that she wanted in on the excitement of my new life as a robot. In four months we've removed, replaced, and re-habbed three complete body parts between us. I wonder what the value of titanium is up to on eBay these days. Actually, I would like to know if RoboCop has a profile on Match.com. . .

But this entry is for the kitties.

I have forgotten the power of salmon breath to wake me from a sound sleep. The pain of being mistaken for a scratching post. And does one ever forget the experience of cleaning the kitty litter?

Despite the flood of repressed cat memories, I do notice that kitty litter cleaning has improved considerably. Not that it will ever replace a vacation in the Maldives. But I confess that I have become absolutely fascinated by the technology that has overtaken the field. Somewhere there are people who have spent their entire lives, or at least the last couple of decades, worrying about what to do with kitty peep and poop.

Which reminds me -- the R & D guys [hereafter referred to as "poor schmucks"], who work on feminine hygiene products never say "period." They say "menses." And they always use blue fluids to test their products.

As I wallow in thoughts of pets and products from the past, I am also reminded that a kitty litter CEO once enthusiastically introduced himself to those of us in a meeting by saying, "We're No. 1 in the No. 2 business." But I digress.

Since the demise of my last kitty, Ebony, who was sent to the great cat box in the sky only to be returned to me as a cup of ashes in a tiny little metal container not suitable for anything, another bunch of R & D types has managed to invent a kitty litter product that turns cat urine into bricks.

No longer does kitty pee sink to the bottom of the container [casserole dish, fondue pot, whatever] to fester and fume in dampness until the odeur of cat begins to waft through the house, causing everyone who walks through the front door to ask, EEEWWWW, what's that smell?

Au contraire. That toxic waste dump at the bottom of the basement stairs can be turned into a profit center. Ordinary kitty litter now has extraordinary properties. Watch it transform regular old cat pee into rock hard, hockey-puck sized clumps suitable for building homes. I smell stimulus package.

After the cats have finished eliminating waste and contributing to our country's jobs program, they sit and watch me while I eat. When I finish eating, they follow me to the bathroom to sit and watch me while I brush my teeth, while I take a shower, while I read the LL Bean catalog. They sit and watch me while I'm sleeping, although it's hard to sleep knowing that something is just sitting there watching you. With salmon breath. They sit and stare at me while I'm on the computer, while I'm on the phone, when I play the piano. I can't do anything alone.

Which makes me wonder, what do they do when I leave?

Time to end this riveting entry.

I have to get up at 4:30 [that's AM] to be at Union Station for a Christmas Holiday gig put together by Disney to promote a new movie. Snow. Carolers. The whole nine yards.

Apparently nobody got the memo that it is July.