Lawful

I could have told you that involving the RCMP wouldn't work. If she were a feral or wild cat, then maybe. Or better yet, if she were human. Now, you’ll have a permanent file with words like “disturbed” and “urine”. You know that won’t end well.

What you probably didn’t know, having abandoned her at such a tender age, is that Lola's been a member of the Li'l Mountie Fan Club since 2000. She's made quite the impression!




She's even performed mascot-like duties during public appearances:



And now you've really made her angry. Don’t try and tranquilize her though; it’ll end badly too, trust me.

Legalities

As promised, I informed the police about Lola's recent activities, to protect myself and to hopefully get Lola and M in really deep shit. Unfortunately, it did not go as planned. This is the reply I received this morning.



Who knew that citizens of this country have so little protection?

Exposed!

I was sure that H exaggerated her so-called threat, but no, I'm mistaken. Damn. Last night, I came home to this sight:

Aw, Lola thinks she's people.

My naughty cat is putting her many talents to use by threatening H. While I approve of that in theory, I’m feeling a slight twinge of guilt that I didn’t make any effort to prevent it, that I let it go so far. I know that my cat can be intimidating, fluffiness and pink-pawed calling card notwithstanding. Then again, maybe H deserves a little scare for picking on a cat. And I’m also feeling pride: who knew she could work those paws? What dexterity! What careful attention to detail! How amazing that she didn’t get glue in her fur!

I don’t know how you’ll get yourself out of this one, H. May I suggest imported catnip?

The Threat

Something arrived in the mail today. And I'm freaked out.

Honestly, I have no -- or at least very few -- enemies. The only major drama in my life occurred during that feud with M when I was under siege by the media for some stupid comments I made about M. (Or was it for being a bitch? I forget now.)



I'd recognize that menacing pink paw print anywhere. Plus the faint odour of diet cat vittles that clings to the paper is a dead giveaway.

I'm not sure what to do about this. When she was little, I could have just locked her in the bathroom for 15 seconds and all would've been forgiven. But now, she's all grown up. And out. And I'm scared... What could this mean? If she can spell, and use scissors and glue, there's no telling what else Lolach the Destroyer might do.

The Next Best Thing to "Sister For Sale"

OK, yes, my cat is big but beautiful, and not quite as evil and challenging as H would have you believe. (Transference, anyone?) My fluffy Lola coexists peacefully with my free-running dwarf bunny; that should count for something.

But moving on. It's interesting that H continues to push my buttons when I'm in possession of most of her worldly goods. (Granted, she does it well and kudos to her creativity.) But when I look at her boxes sprawled about my basement, I sometimes think of what I could do with that space, if only I didn't have her stuff. It would be somewhat freeing, not having to worry about it, not having to maneuver around it, or what might possibly happen if, say, I experienced financial constraints, as homeowners often do, and needed extra cash and found someone interested in a 27" TV. Or a table. Worthy charities often solicit donations too. Basements also flood.

M would never... or would she?

See H, what wicked thoughts pop into my head when you make fun of my cat and use me for storage? Mainly, it's about my cat.

Lola's Metamorphosis

Since most of my stuff is in M's basement (and after the diary incident I'm beginning to wonder if that was really the hot idea it once seemed to be), I don't have easy access to all the photographic evidence that I once did. But as luck would have it, I managed to find Before and After shots of Lolach The Destroyer, so you can see her impressive transformation.

I was just remembering how Lola and I used to fight when she was a kitten. She would claw at the drawstrings on my pyjama pants and scratch and bite my legs. Then I would get angry and lock her in the bathroom, only to let her out 15 seconds later because she'd start meowing pathetically. Then we'd do it again. M never took my side.

As a 1-lb kitten, I could cup Lola in my palm like a dinner roll.



As a 20-something-lb cat, picking her up is like hefting a sack of flour -- but that's only if you can get close enough.

Lolach: The Destroyer

Thanks, M, for sharing my private grade 9 diaries with the rest of the world. Luckily, I was not a very exciting kid, so I doubt they contain much worth reading. (Please, please, please.)

And now (until I get my hands on M's grade 8 grad photo) I'd like to introduce her cat, Lola.

M is truly devoted to her animals, which is especially impressive because her animals are rather "difficult," much like M herself. But Lola is the most difficult of them all. Perhaps the most difficult cat anywhere. You know that character from the Drew Carey show who is rather calorically blessed and has a mean mouth? Lola's a feline version of that, minus blue eyeshadow. In fact, I call her Lolach The Destroyer (say it in a Darth Vader voice for maximum effect).



As you can see, Lola is, well, really fat. Usually, people's first reaction to Lola is "Wow" and their eyes get really wide. She weighs over 20 lbs. Lola doesn't like to be picked up. She doesn't like to be snuggled. She doesn't like being looked at in the afternoon. She doesn't like being touched unless the moon is aligned a certain way. If you try, she hits you. And she hits really hard.

Further proof of M's devotion is her wall of worship. That's right. She actually cut out dozens of tiny photographs of Lola and made them into fridge magnets.



And the ultimate proof? M uses baby wipes to clean Lola's bum every day. It seems Lola's spherical shape makes it impossible for her to do the task herself. Wiping someone's bum is, like, the ultimate thing you can do for them. Ugh.

(NB: Before anyone blasts me for making fun of a "helpless" cat, know that I love Lola very much. In fact, I picked her out and lived with her for most of her first year of life. But c'mon. Look at the picture again. Also, Lola is one tough bitch. She'll get me for this.)


(Lola only tolerates her sister, Sadie the Bunny, when she's asleep.)

Dear Diary

The start of a new month signals a new chapter in sisterly torture.

While H has been traipsing around the country, living it up in the land of milk and honey, finding herself, shirking her bloggerly duties - whatever you want to call it - I've been storing her possessions at my place. I'm the proud guardian of her furniture, dishes, books, cleaning supplies and gorgeous shoes that I would totally wear if only her feet weren't so freakishly small. Having spent a lot of time with H in the past, I know her stuff well. That still hasn't stopped me from poking around the boxes. Thanks to her, I've found some excellent reading materials. Probably the sweetest find of all? Her old journals.

A few years ago, we laughingly read her youthful entries and admitted how silly we were. (The wine only made it funnier.) Since I don't have any embarrassing or unflattering stories to tell about H, I thought, what better way to celebrate September than a back-to-school excerpt from H's journal?


This is the genuine article, folks. I'll pay for this later, but right now, it's worth it. More to come!