Cats in Ceilings

This last week I seriously started to question why I am the parent of two cats. Two injured, somewhat retarded cats.

As you know, Mael is diseased. And I was starting to feel pretty confident about his foot healing, up until he figured out how to move the cone so he could reach said food and lick it. With his sandpaper tongue. Which means it's taking forever for it to heal because he won't leave it alone.

Nevertheless, I was okay dealing with his foot.

Then, a chunk of fur fell off his rear right leg and revealed a new inflamed spot.

Effing cat.

To make kitty matters that much more interesting, Opal (who was loving and cuddly before the baby came, and is now hesitant and distant mixed with "You must hold me NOW") was in a fight (read attacked) with some tomcat and has two bites above her tail on her rear. They ooze. And the battle must have been quite the thing, because all the hair surrounding the bites is gone, like she was shaved.

So not just one injured cat, two. I keep looking at Stella and waiting for her to come up with something new (please dog, just don't).

And when Opal is sick or feels gross she prefers to hide. She spent a couple days in the cabinet with my baking pans. Another day with the towels (admittedly, she was accidentally closed in with them, so she couldn't have gone anywhere else if she wanted to). She also hid in JG's wardrobe, but that seems to be a kitty favorite.

Then, she found what to her must have been the celestial door to our basement ceiling (it's this weird opening at the back of our lazy-susan in the kitchen that gives her direct access). I wonder if she hears angels sing when that happens? The best part about her finding her way into the ceiling is that she really doesn't know how to get out. So I can be sitting there checking email or sewing, and hear her scratching, or meowing, from the heavens (read ceiling).

Whenever this happens (yes, this was not the first time) Alex starts to lament how she'll probably die up there and then we'll have to deal with the smell, and how will we find her corpse (by stink, I'm assuming) and blah, blah, blah.

She was in the ceiling for 48 hours.

Then Alex got the carpet knife (razor blade with a handle) out. Thank Jesus we have our awesome 70's acoustic tile ceiling, because it made it that much easier for him to cut out tiles (3), find her, and drag her out by the scruff.

Let me tell you, ceilings are dirty places, and she was one dusty kitty.

And my loving husband was very close to killing her. As was I. Doesn't she know I only have enough emotional real estate for ONE sick animal?

The best part? She got into another part of the ceiling the next morning.

Even better? Alex didn't have to cut anything to get to her.

Oh, man, I'm not sure I'm ever owning another cat.