‘Tis the season of marathons. I am torn today, alone, between the Big Bang Theory and the Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations marathons that are running – with their commercials synced like the cycles of ohmigawd BFFs and so I have no hope of getting to see both Johnny Galecki and Anthony Bourdain.
Not cool Comedy and Travel & Escape networks. Not cool.
Mr.Q, however, has been watching the nightly airings of My Cat From Hell.
A little context:
- Mr.Q has newly professed a secretly held allergy to this cat we have now had for a year and half. It’s not a bad allergy, but something bothering him none-the-less.
- This comes on the heels of the Magpie and I stalking the local shelter web sites and feeling bad for Bhoda the cat and her quiet days while we are at work.
- The cat is not a cat from hell.
Yet, in the advice of My Cat From Hell’s Jackson Galaxy, she was attended to and treated like a cat all Christmas. She gets brushed. She gets new toys and new scratch posts. She gets her own new bed. She was given [more] run of instincts and tired out before bed time. And she remains a kind creature who listens [most of the time] and doesn’t scratch the carpet [much] and only wakes us up occasionally [ish] during the night.
Now, it’s all sorts of good that the dear cat is getting all this good cat stuff.; gods know, we are still getting used to having a cat that doesn’t act like a dog. And it’s all sorts of good that the tv fixation has moved away from Storage Wars to Animal Planet. But the timing is all sorts of suspicious.
So, what does that leave me with?
A husband complaining of a stuffed nose and refusing to look at internet cat photos.
And a happy cat.