Dahlia Kurtz: Always Write!

My Dearest Lovelies,

I’m a very private person (who, oddly, will put my life in the most public of forums at times); nonetheless, today I write you, because I need your help.

By now, those of you who know me, or have read my bio, know that I am a dog-person. I love dogs – all dogs. Cute ones, little ones, big ones, fat ones, ugly ones… I love ‘em all.

My husband is also a dog-person. So of course, we have a cat.

Allow me to explain:

Both of us had dogs before we married. In fact, we each had two. All four lived long lives, and have since passed on.

With the nature of our lifestyle right now, in all fairness to our potential puppies, we have decided to wait before bringing any home.

But, a few years ago, my husband rescued a cat. Now, I want to un-rescue him.

The cat came with a name (and an attitude): Clive.

And with a name like Clive, I thought it only proper to give him a distinguished middle name: Clive Montgomery Schwartz. (Schwartz - my husband’s last name.)

But, I also call him Walnut, because his brain is the size of one. Not my husband, the cat.

If I were to call my husband a name to match his brain size, I suppose I’d call him (Large) Grapefruit or perhaps Pummelo?

(And if you want to know my husband’s real name, I challenge you to find it, it’s somewhere on this site.)

Anyway, sometimes I will also call Clive, Clove. After all, he was neutered.

Oh, and here’s an interesting piece of trivia that you probably don’t know, which I discovered shortly after I moved in, and (by default) inherited Clive-olemew…

Cat is not the full word for feline. Cat is actually short for “Catch-on-fire.”

Yup. Can’t even light a candle in our house. The cat will indubitably find a way to catch on fire.

(Just thought of another name for him: Smokey The Cat.)

I apologize if I’m rambling, but I really haven’t slept at all lately. Which brings to me to the “help me” part of this post.

About a week ago, my husband went out of town, and won’t return until the end of the month. Since he has left, He’s-Not-Dead-He’s-A-Clive has turned into all sorts of bad.

He’ll snap at me when I try to discipline him.

He’ll get into places and destroy things he’s never tried to destroy.

He’ll aggressively and relentlessly try to take food right off my plate.

He’ll push objects off my dresser, one at a time, in hopes I’ll awaken to feed him.

He’ll chew on my hair and pick at the sheets throughout the night, in hopes I’ll awaken to feed him.

And I don’t know what’s more annoying about him chewing my hair: the sheer destruction, or the chewing-on-a-banana-like sound it makes.

(Who knew that hair made the same sound as a banana when chewed upon?)

Some people tell me that with the typical “dominant-male” out of the house, Clive is simply asserting himself as the new dominant male.

Not that my husband is dominant, but maybe it’s just because he is hairy.

Should I stop shaving my legs?

I dunno.

So I ask you, Dear Readers, what should I do?

And please note, I can’t lock Cliveronomy out of any room, he’ll simply scratch a door and whine into oblivion.

Here’s what I have done:

I now have a water spray bottle by my pillow. Clivectomy tries to awaken me, I spritz the bugger. After one spray, he learned that he hated it. You’d think he’d stop trying to wake me up? Nope. Now he just darts away as soon as he sees me go for the bottle.

Actually, he gallops away. Yes, when he runs it sounds like he's galloping.

By the way, his fear of the water bottle proves the little Walnut is actually a quick study. He knows what no means; he just doesn’t give a Kitty Litter.

Also, I have read it’s not always good to feed a cat immediately upon wakening, as they associate you waking-up with the reward of food. (Which is indeed the way I interpret it too: “Yes, I’m up! I deserve food.”)

So, now I wait until about an hour after I get up before I feed the little cat-hole.

Though, I guess to be fair, Clive-a-saurus Rex has some good qualities.

It used to be that if he sat six feet away from you, he was “cuddling” with you. The day my last puppy died, Clive plopped himself directly on my lap for an hour.

To this day, he will now cuddle on laps – on his own terms, of course. Meaning, don’t talk, move, breathe funny, or even turn a channel… he may abandon ship in an instant.

Okay. So he doesn’t have good qualities. He merely has a good quality. But it’s a very dog-like quality and I love dogs.

Fine. When I come home he’ll turn over on his back to greet me. That’s dog-like too.

Good qualities – plural. (Now hopefully cat-people will keep the hate-mail to a minimum.)

But seriously, what can I do?

I cat take this anymore.

Help. Please. I need your advice.

-dahliaxoxo