Before I regale you with tales of my poor cone-headed Mildred, swing on over to check out today’s Craftastrophe. I’m going to learn how to crochet and make one of these for everyone on my Christmas list.
You’re right, my lazy ass will probably end up sticking red and green bows on cans of Coors Light and calling it done, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pretend. Why do you have to crash my dreams like that, Interwebz? I swear, you’re such a party pooper.
Milred hate her cone. HATES. Her every waking moment is an epic battle against the dreaded Cone Overlord. Fortunately for the cone, she sleeps a lot.
When she’s not napping, she drags the cone everywhere – along walls, against the furniture, across the floor – hoping against hope that the cone might snag on something and liberate her. She’s worn a kitty-height line down the wall of my hallway. The sound of the cone on the wall is a harsh squeal/scratch combo that has me thinking about stealing her pain meds.
She may have inherited the family flair for the dramatic.
But today she’s feeling better. I know this because she insists on chasing Lucy, who hates the cone even more than poor little Mildred. The thing is, due to the size of the cone, Mildred can’t lift and bend her front legs as she normally would. They clunk right into the hood as soon as she starts the familiar motion. So not only does the bathing impaired cat smell like death, she’s adapted this awkward straight legged zombie walk/run that makes her look like a long lost cast member of the Thriller video…or Kate Moss. I can’t fault Lucy for running.
Also, I’m pretty sure I now know where the word “catwalk” came from.