Donde pongo el ojo pongo la bala.
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On why I am not yet ready to be a parent.

George went in to work at midnight on Wednesday to be in the LCC for the 5:40am launch of Endeavour STS-127. There was a lighting storm which delayed tanking and then there was a leak in the gaseous hydrogen venting system between the launch pad and space shuttle, so the launch was scrubbed. I kind of have mixed feelings about this. I’m bummed, of course, but a tiny part of me is also excited, since the launch has been postponed until July 11th, and my sisters will be here and they will get to see their first launch! Tell me that’s not awesome.

But I digress.

George went in super early/late and came home around 8:00am, meaning he didn’t wake up until some time in the afternoon. When I went to wake him up, Leo Tolstoi (no, I am not, in fact, calling my cat by his full name, as he is a cat named AFTER Leo Tolstoi and not the actual LT, so Leo Tolstoi is not his name and last name, it’s his first name, and his last name is Hatcher, since he’s our baby, and yes, I’m fully aware of the fact that that makes me sound like a crazy cat person, yagottaproblemwithat?) pranced in the room with me. So George and I are joking around and suddenly we hear this SLAM! into the wall of something heavy…

“Something heavy” turned out to be LT. He BIT the lamp’s power cord and the shock of it slammed him into the wall. He started freaking out, crying like crazy, crouching low on the ground and walking like that, hopping around everywhere, and being generally paranoid about everything in our room (he’s still doing all of this, by the way). We called the vet, made an emergency appointment, and took him in. But not before he scratched the crap out of me, which he NEVER does. TOTALLY freaked out.

Now, let me just say one thing. They took his temperature, right? They stuck a thermometer in his butt to do it. A thermometer in my THREE POINT THREE POUND CAT. Basically, that would be the equivalent of someone taking your temperature by roughly, when you weren’t expecting it, shoving a BROOMSTICK up your butt. A fat broomstick. Needless to say, he was not pleased. And I don’t blame him.

Anyway, after the scare, turns out he might be OK, we just need to check that he’s eating and if there’s any weird behavior we need to call the vet. George keeps reassuring me that he’s “returning to normal” but THIS IS NOT NORMAL, I WANT MY LOVING KITTY BACK. This LT? He seeks affection for a couple minutes, freaks out if a piece of paper rustles, scratches the crap out of every surface of my body while trying to escape the hostile, evil paper, and makes scary crying noises while standing in the middle of the room… at nothing. And no one.

Basically, he wants to be near me all the time, but I’m terrified that someone will knock on the door or that the FAN will click the chain against the metal part or SOMETHING and he’ll go all psycho-cat on me and attach again. (Sidenote: George and I keep singing, “Psycho Kitty, qu’est-ce que c’est?” à la Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” to him.)

So basically, this whole post was written to say that I was so freaked out and upset about not being able to keep a CAT safe and keep him from biting something that could have killed him (and he’s a CAT! imagine if he was a HUMAN!)… that I am clearly not yet ready to be a parent.

So quit asking me when we’re having kids. 😉