heat

So. My adorable, almost six month old cat Maeby is feelin' frisky. I think. She goes into the center of the house, making sure that all can hear her, and lets out this...yowl that sounds like she's being stepped on by Nazis. The first five times she did this, I rushed to her anticipating her impeding death. 

But now I know. The vet told me I had six months. But Maeby had a different time table. The worst thing about it is that there's nothing I can do. It's best to wait for her to die down before we go in and chop those ovaries. And much like my experience with my male cat, Koba, I can't wait to chop em off. 

Koba was the first cat I had ever been around longer than a couple of hours. He and his brother Otto were (and still are) awesome, badass cats.  When we first got them, I recoiled at the thought of chopping their balls off. As soon as they started spraying everything in sight, I changed my mind. And just like them, Maeby's time has come. 

The funny thing is Koba hates her more than usual now. I think he's kind of upset there's a girl who's good to go and he can't do anything about it. Sorry fella- you're the one who peed on my stereo seven years ago. 

I had some more reader feedback on the blog. It was suggested I spend less time on cars, and more on delicious yardwork. Well I have little to report, other than a perilous oil change for the lawnmower. But that will change. Because sitting on my couch is an 18" chainsaw. I call it ChainMaster X. Well not really. I just made that up. But when the weather's nice and I get a chance to read the manual, there's going to be a culling. If you're a small tree in my backyard, and you somehow can read these words, then know that they are the harbinger your doom.