That Cat Pack Attack

I suck and will try to do a better job of posting my "misadventures" more regularly. I posted these updates to my Facebook page back at the end of February and into March when my lovely neighborhood was overtaken with a pack, neigh, a gang of wild cats.  

(Additional commentary: According to wikipedia, these are not called "gangs" or "packs" but "clowders of feral cats." You learned something new today! You're welcome.)

Day 1:
Since returning from my trip, a pack of wild cats have moved into the neighborhood and are terrorizing any dog under 30 pounds. They’re brazen. They’re evil. This will not end well. In fact, I can almost guarantee based on my history that one or both my dogs (perhaps even me) will end up in emergency care.

(Additional commentary: My neighbors were actually warning me against cat attacks and one Ukrainian woman explained that her dogs would not go near the grassy knoll because they were scared. P.S. Who uses the term grassy knoll unless you're referring to an assassination in Dallas? I was pretty sure based on the angry uprising from my neighbors that I was going to see wanted posters of these horrible cats.)

Update: I discovered that the "Cat Pack" terrorist cell is based out of the dumpster. How did I discover this you ask? Well, when disposing of what I had just picked up, one of the "Cat Pack" leaped from the dumpster at me as I was dropping the bags in - causing me to throw poop-filled plastic in a rather festive fashion while screaming like an idiot. That's right, my day ended with me literally getting scared shitless.

(Additional commentary: I was not wearing my pajamas at the time of the attack but I totally went home and started making wanted posters to start tacking up on trees and posts.)

My attempt at a wanted poster. It's awesome, no?!?

Update: The level of animosity between the dogs and the “Cat Pack” has now escalated from that of the YLO and the NHP Bloods to that of the Israelis and the Palestinians. And our walking route is now the Gaza strip. Not sure which side is going nuclear yet, but it's going to happen. Bank on that.

(Additional commentary: At this point, the neighbors and I would hear horrible hissing and screeching noises from the trees, bushes, parking garages, trash cans, etc. And every dog was either on high alert or totally terrified. Riley would just stare in the opposite direction of where Paris was pointed and barking. Poor little blind man. I do love him.)

Update: Anyone bet on the Pug getting cat-attacked first? One of the"Cat Pack" went all Mission Impossible on Riley's ass jumping on him from a tree like Tom Cruise leaping from a building. Riley suffered a couple scratch marks and a wounded ego before Paris and I got the cat off him (you don't mess with Riley's bitches). Their strategy to attack the weaker member of our party was a low blow...

(Additional commentary: As you know, Riley is mostly blind so he never saw the attack coming and couldn't understand why he was in so much pain all of sudden. He had three or four bite marks on him as well as a barrage of scratches which ultimately put him in a plastic cone of shame while his wounds healed. Paris and I heard the attack but before we could intervene and get the cat off the Pug, I had to wield and unruly Dalmatian away from the fur pile. It was not my best day. But I think Riley's was worse.)

Update: Now the dogs get all crazy and rush any trash dumpsters (since that’s where evil cats reside), so I've taken to hissing or barking every time I throw away poop bags or go near a dumpster. This precaution is actually working quite well, except now it's becoming a bad habit and my neighbors think I’m crazy. Like batshit crazy. But maybe it’s because I’ve started carrying a water bottle filled with my own mixture of pepper spray while walking my dogs in my pajamas AND barking at trash cans?

(Additional commentary: This look is just as hot as you think. I rock that look. Period).

So here's where my story ends: My sister was listening to this series of cat traumas and asked if I'd called Animal Services.

Shit. Ummmm...no.

This is why she's a Vet. And clearly brilliant.

I encouraged my neighbors to help me with my "save the puppies" campaign by calling our local Animal Services office and the building next door (where the dumpsters - aka cat condos - were located).

About three weeks later, the dogs and I were cautiously walking our route when a small cage buried in the bushes caught my eye. Riley made his way towards it with his nose to ground until the damn thing let out a screech and hissing noise - complete with cat claws reaching through the opening. Riley promptly turned around, lifted his back leg and peed on the cage and the cat.

I'm pretty sure he was thinking "Enjoy your new home you little bastards." Well played Riley. Well played.

Breaking Bad Habits

First, a declaration:

"Hi. My name is Jenni and I'm addicted to pilots. My addiction started innocently enough but then it became an issue. I sought them out in airport lounges, flirted with them upon entering or exiting the airplanes and occasionally exchanged numbers with them. It's been two months since my last date with one. I think I'm doing really well..."

I have dated three pilots now (American, Delta and UPS - at least I don't mix airlines) and all have ended the same way. I'm neither shocked or disappointed anymore but yet I continue to repeat the same habits. WTF?!? So in order to help other women avoid the same pitfalls, I give you the top 5 reasons NOT to date a pilot.

5) They're not called the "friendly skies" for nothing. Airline pilots for the most part are friendly. And clearly horny. I was completely surprised when in one trip I managed to score three phone numbers and on subsequent trips did just as well. On one recent return into MIA, I struck up a conversation with a pilot on my way to to the parking garage and in less than 10 minutes, he was asking to take me out for a drink (I declined). Lesson: Give a pilot the opportunity and he'll take it.

4) You don't really want to know what they do during the flights. All three of my pilots shared that they read magazines (I don't think any of them read books short of a flight manual), did crosswords, played games on their iPhones, etc...DURING FLIGHTS. If you're as frequent a traveler as I am, this can be disconcerting. And the things they talk about?!? I can't even go there. Lesson: I want to continue to believe that the pilots flying my plane are doing more important things than I am (i.e. the Cosmo quiz).

3) They don't know how to take you on a date. Inevitably, after the first couple of dates, I was meeting all three of my pilots at off hours and/or in strange places. The airport employee parking lot at 4AM anyone? How about the Admirals Club at DFW for a make out session? And the ever so priceless, airport bar for a quick drink. My least favorite was the "I just got back from an international flight why don't you pick up dinner and wine and meet at my place and give me a back rub" date. Yep. All three of them did that. Their schedules were unpredictable at best so it was always easier just to meet at my place. Lesson: That's not dating. In fact, that borders on prostitution.

2) Bedroom Shenanigans. All three of my pilots thought it was funny to bring work into the bedroom. The first time my American Airlines pilot did the in-flight safety demonstration tailored to our bedroom escapades it was funny. When the Delta pilot insisted on wearing his pilot's hat, tie and nothing else but a smile I tried to play along but found it odd. But the kicker was the UPS pilot who kept making ummmm..."references" shall we say, to his package and on-time delivery skills - and he was completely serious about it. That's when I totally lost it. Lesson: It's just not okay to love your job that much.

1) It's a Lifestyle. If you're not a pilot or in the airline industry, you'll be hard-pressed to find this lifestyle appealing - I realize that holds true for many careers but particularly with this one. I didn't enjoy Skype-ing from Japan to Miami at strange hours, receiving weird chocolates from South Africa most likely picked up at an airport as a birthday gift or waiting for my pilot to shower before touching him because he'd been on a 14 hour flight in a tight compartment. All three of them had very laid back lifestyles when they weren't working that were care-free, schedule-free and child-free. Their responsibilities were around making sure they did laundry when they were home and managed to re-pack. None of them could find the time to meet family or friends, join me in things I wanted to do because that actually required making a commitment. Lesson Learned.

Yes, I still check out the pilots every time I get on my plane (or wandering the airports) but now I'm secretly making sure there are no Cosmo magazines (or worse) protruding from their luggage. 

Girl Down!



The scene of the crime and the two culprits.


In what can only be described as a laughable moment last night, the dogs managed to humiliate me while barking at a couple of ducks in the Bay. I fully admit that I was preoccupied chatting with a cute neighbor so I might not have been paying complete and total attention to their whereabouts...and this was my mistake. I know better.

In a matter of seconds, Paris and Riley circled me with such speed that my arms, wrists, knees and ankles were bound tightly. I specifically remember looking down at the innocent and sweet Pug face before the inevitable happened. Yes, I fell over backwards, flat as a board, without the ability to bend or catch myself.

I learned a little something about physics tonight. I’m a tall girl. This was not a graceful fall. As I lay there trying to get air into my lungs while the dogs thought I was ready to play with them, the cute neighbor was kind enough to unhook my dogs from their retractable leashes and free me. He had his back to me but I believe it was so I wouldn't see him laughing.

In related news, if I'm ever stupid enough to walk by the Bay again with my two dogs and you stop to laugh and remark, "Hey there, who's walking who?" (while I lay in the grass gasping for air and in pain) please know that once I catch my breath and untangle myself, I will cut you. (Gentleman with the schnauzer you know who you are!)

I suppose it could have been worse. I could be writing this from a hospital bed because I cracked my head open on the sidewalk. I should count my lucky stars that the only thing hurt was my pride (and my back, wrist and shoulder). Mostly my pride.

The face of innocence...