Flipped Over and Spit Out

The hype about the dangers of four-wheeling might not be hype after all. Just ask my husband and 6-year-old son, who together accidentally yanked a full revolution in the air on one over the weekend.

Lucky. Relieved. Pissed. Annoyed. Guiltfully validated that "quads" are as trashy and unsafe as I always thought.

My son walked away, literally, from the quad-totalling wipe-out with scratched up knees and road rash all over his back and shoulders. He didn't even cry. My husband was knocked unconscious (our friend tried to kick him awake -- I don't think they teach that move at the Red Cross) and is now the owner of a bruised hip bone, a sprained ankle, at least a dozen road rash scrapes and a laceration on his ankle that you could fit an apricot pit into (I tried to stuff one in there to stop the blood -- and I don't think they teach that at the Red Cross either ... Just kidding). I'm pleased to report that Bounty paper towels are the "quicker picker upper" of blood, that is. Masking tape works too.

So on Mother's Day I spent the day doing what mother's do (hopefully) best, nursing my wounded pups back to health. I have some bizarre ER stories to tell when I'm not busy shuttling kids out the door to school (my husband usually drives The Lawyer to kindergarten in the a.m.) and "Itsy Bitsy" preschooler basketball practice (Cheeks' Jordan training).

For now, the Hubster seems perfectly sedate and pain free on his codeine that I scratched up ... from one of four pharmacies I hunted down after midnight last night. What happened to all the 24-hour pharmacies around here? So I can get a greasy burger after midnight in the city but not a handful of legal narcotics?

Also, wonder cat Trixie, who has now morphed in my opinion to holy high Hell bitch face cat, mauled Pigtails' face again and just missed her eye. I moved her and her litter of four kitties into the garage. Ousted. Exhiled. Kicked the Hell out. Right now she's stalking our playroom sliding glass door, meowing like a wild feline banshee. I keep on singing, "Keep on knocking but you CAN'T come in." Her fate as a member of this household is up in the air, just like a quad that unexpectedly dropped a bolt and my two biggest boys.

More later ... No time to spell check ...

Shoulda', Woulda', Coulda' (Meow/Hiss)

First no-brainer lesson of the day: Never tamper with a postpartum pussycat.

Second no-brainer lesson of the day: Never crawl to a spaying and neutering advocate for help when your fecund feline bubble finally bursts.

Both my family learned the hard way today, but especially my daughter. The puncture wound in her right nostril and raised claw marks on both her forearms serve as sharp reminders that I should have had Trixie the wonder tiger cat spayed after all.

I can see the droves of spaying and neutering advocates already, nodding in agreement that I’m the dumbest cat owner ever. Perhaps “nodding in agreement” doesn’t scratch the surface of their outrage, forgive the kitty cliché.

“How weak to think teaching your children about de’ birds an’ de’ bees is de way with de' kitty having de’ babies!” an animal behavioralist I called in a panic admonished me over the phone. “Dees’ attacks on your doubt-er', let dat’ be lesson enough ‘dat you should spay cat NOW!” Her thick Italian accent kept time with her increasing fury and volume, intensifying every rebuke she hurled in my direction.

"I suppose I wanted to teach them about the miracle of life," I said in response, feeling the need to defend my choice not to "fix" Trixie. "Birth can be a beautiful thing."

"Well, if you don't find homes for dees kitties, well, den' you have just teach your children de miracle of DEATH at de' pound, ey!?" Maryam, the animal "feelings" expert, shouted into the phone. "You have shown your children nutt-eeng but irresponsibility." (An expert in human feelings, perhaps Maryam is not.)

Poor Trixie, nervously adjusting to new motherhood in an environment not even I – one who gave birth to two of three children at home in bed – would choose. Children are loud. I didn’t allow them at my births for several reasons, noise being the first. Perhaps my home's continual din of irritating noises, as well as this morning’s jarring screaming fit from my moodiest child, Cheeks, have driven Trixie to emerge from her darkened, towel lined corner of the hallway closet to attack my two-year-old daughter.

Poor Pigtails. Trixie’s first clawing attack on her shocked me. I shook with nerves for a good fifteen minutes afterward. Pigtails took the clawing better than me, crying only for a minute or so, only to return to her beloved thumbs for some heavy self-soothing sucking (much like the time I accidentally shut her favorite thumb in the sliding minivan door).

Trixie's second attack was worse. She leapt up onto the black arm chair Pigtails quietly watched a Happy Feet DVD from. Out of the three children, the cat seems to have a vendetta for Pigtails only, which seems unfair because Pigtails hasn’t touched or disturbed her four kittens. She's the least interested in the kittens in our family of five.

If anyone should be assaulted in defense of Trixie’s new brood it should be me. I stupidly switched her bloodied towels out for fresh, clean ones and moved the kittens in the process. Major mistake.

Trixie’s instinctively protecting her young in a relatively hostile postpartum environment -- Hostile because of kid rackets, stomping feet and temper tantrums. My young are interfering with her young. This is Mother Nature at her most primal. My children are being children and our cat is being a cat.

While Trixie defends her young, I defend mine. Fearing another unprovoked scratch attack on Pigtails, I’ve shut defensive Trixie in the closet with her sleeping kittens. A Web cam my husband set up moments before her labor points a glowing eye in her direction. I’ll be able to see her claw at the door when she needs to get out to go to the cat box and will immediately respond. I’ll have time to put my daughter in her room behind closed doors, out of Trixie’s wary eyes and dodgy reach.

This is how I’m paying for my mistakes today. “That’s what you get,” spaying and neutering activists might censure. It’s true. But I never expected my daughter to bear the brunt of it.

Third no-brainer lesson of the day (and for the coming days): There are no winners when owners don’t fix their cats.

This Bitch Be Stinkin' Up da Whole House

Something's wrong with Trixie the cat.

This bitch is horny. She's running around the house with her ass in the air, calling all the Tom cats in the 'hood to her cat-gina. I can't take her high-pitched whining any more.

I halfway feel like I could just set her loose on the neighborhood, just to get her the hell out, away from my three kids, who she keeps waking up with her horny cat-calls.

I've punched my friends and loved ones for lesser offenses. I don't care if the four male cats waiting on my stoop with their lipstick units still fur-sheathed, at least for the moment, tear little Trixie to bits in a kitty battle royale for the gift that's impossible to Indian give.

My couch, my beloved microfiber sage colored slouchy couch, stinks like rotten cat crotch. It's not even funny. Trixie's outta' hand. Purring. Rubbing. Licking herself into feline oblivion.

We let her out for five minutes. Five hot minutes. She came back in a changed kitty. Disheveled. Confused. Dirty and fluffed.

Anyone want kittens?