Writer's Note: Yeah, yeah. Cats can't talk. But if mine did? This is pretty much what he'd be saying.
Andy: Mom? We need to talk.
Me: What about, hon?
Andy: See, I'm the oldest kid and even though I'm furry, walk on four legs, and am the equivalent of a 62-year-old human (Which, by the way, I'm still waiting for my Just-For-Cats, a convertible Corvette, and a trophy wife even though my parts don't work but, no rush. Just, you know, before I die.) I would really like to live out the rest of my life without the hairless monkey brats.
Me: Now, Andy. They're not brats.
Andy: Whining BUT THEY ARE! And I don't like them. They scream my name and chase me around the house.
Me: You're over-exaggerating. They don't chase you around the house. You run too fast for them. They chase you for two feet and you're already halfway to Vegas.
Andy: Whatever. I've taken the liberty of calling the local no-kill shelter. They said you could drop the monkeys off tomorrow afternoon.
Me: WHAT?!? I'm not dropping my children off at a no-kill shelter! You are out of your damned mind!
Andy: Me?!? I'm not crazy. You're the one who pushed kids out of her... you know... then proceeded to allow them to latch on to her... you know... and listen to them squall and fuss for over four years! GAH! Just promise me you won't miss that appointment I made for you at the vet.
Me: What appointment?
Andy: To have you fixed.
Me: ANDREW!!!!!!
Andy: Running to Vegas. Nothing left but a puff of fur.
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
09 March 2010
30 November 2009
The Worst Sunday. Ever.
When I woke up yesterday morning, I figured I had just another day of toddler potty training to look forward to (That story coming soon to a blog post near you!). You know, poop and pee on every surface of the house except the inside of a toilet. The usual. But it ended up so much worse than that.
I've always been a cat lover, but I've never been lucky with cats. My first cat, Pounce, had a heart murmur and at the tender age of 8 we had him put to sleep due to complications from said heart murmur. Sulu, our second cat, died very young at 3 because of a lymphatic system that leaked fluid into his chest cavity. Pirtuk, as you all know, had himself a mental breakdown earlier this year, and decided the best way to deal with toddlers was to poop and pee in our basement. He's now happily living with two retirees in Decatur, Georgia. Andy is the only cat I've ever had that seems to be indestructible. He's never sick, never mean, never hurt anyone, and he's lived to be the ripe old age of 11 1/2 years. So, one out of four. Horrible odds, if you ask me. I should be banned from every adoption facility and cat breeder in the Southeast. Now the odds are even worse.
I gave my mother a cat nearly seven years ago as a Christmas present. Bandit was to keep her company and be her best friend. My mother wasn't dealing very well with the loneliness of widowhood and short of finding her a lonely senior citizen, I got her a four-legged fuzz ball. Mom and Bandit bonded instantly and were two peas in a pod. When Mom moved from West Virginia to Georgia four years ago, Bandit came back to his native state and decided he'd had enough of the solitary, sedentary life. So, he started destroying furniture whenever Mom left him alone to go work or go out with friends. See, Mom found something here in Georgia she never had in West Virginia: a social life. And that made Bandit a bitter cat. A month or so after we found Pirtuk a new home, Bandit came to live with us. He was a social cat who loved the chaos of our house and the never-ending attention from our kids. And we've been happy.
Until yesterday.
I always took pride in how much I paid attention to my pets. I knew when they didn't feel well. I could tell by the tail-angle alone how happy/sad/sick/pissed they were. If I didn't see the cat during the day, I went in search, sussing out every hiding spot to make sure said cat was just sleeping and not sick. Now? I barely have time to take care of myself much less my pets. They get fed and watered every day and I go "treasure hunting" in the litter box. But that's about it. My day is full of kids and the mundane tasks of a SAHM and housewife. I didn't see the warning signs that Bandit was sick until it was too late. Mom rushed him to the vet yesterday and what I thought may be a simple urinary tract infection became renal failure and a last good-bye.
I once posted about how I was dreading the talk with the kids. Not the sex talk, the death talk. Having to explain to my children that yes, people they love are going to die, that I am going to die, that they will die, and there's nothing we can do about it, is not a topic of conversation I've been looking forward to. At all. And I wasn't expecting to have that talk yesterday. According to the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, you should always be honest when explaining what happened to your pet, don't use euphemisms, don't lie, and don't be vague. They may not get it, but you as the adult need to be honest.
So I sat there, with my 2-year-old's arms around my neck and my twin 4-year-olds watching the tears streaming down my cheeks, and I told them that Bandit is gone, that he's never coming home, that he can no longer see, or hear, or move, that this is permanent, forever, and that we love him and will miss him and that they can talk about him whenever they want. My heart broke as I remembered just one hour before holding my Mom while she held and cried over her cat, her best friend, the companion who gave her joy after Dad's death. I remembered that I signed the paper that ended Bandit's life, and I felt so very guilty for not paying more attention to him, making sure he wasn't sick, looking at his tail, his eyes, his fur.
I hate that I'm a person who can't keep track of everything, all the time. And I sit here and woulda-coulda-shoulda myself some more.
So, they'll ask. Miss-Miss will probably run downstairs in the morning, expecting to feed Bandit some treats and realize he's not there. J-man will ask where Bandit is. And Bubba will point out his toys or his bed. And I will have to explain again where he is and where he isn't. And I will cry some more. And I'll hate every second of not lying to my children. Of feeling guilty for not being more observant.
Because all I want to tell them is that we'll all live happily ever after. I just want to lie like a rug.
I've always been a cat lover, but I've never been lucky with cats. My first cat, Pounce, had a heart murmur and at the tender age of 8 we had him put to sleep due to complications from said heart murmur. Sulu, our second cat, died very young at 3 because of a lymphatic system that leaked fluid into his chest cavity. Pirtuk, as you all know, had himself a mental breakdown earlier this year, and decided the best way to deal with toddlers was to poop and pee in our basement. He's now happily living with two retirees in Decatur, Georgia. Andy is the only cat I've ever had that seems to be indestructible. He's never sick, never mean, never hurt anyone, and he's lived to be the ripe old age of 11 1/2 years. So, one out of four. Horrible odds, if you ask me. I should be banned from every adoption facility and cat breeder in the Southeast. Now the odds are even worse.
I gave my mother a cat nearly seven years ago as a Christmas present. Bandit was to keep her company and be her best friend. My mother wasn't dealing very well with the loneliness of widowhood and short of finding her a lonely senior citizen, I got her a four-legged fuzz ball. Mom and Bandit bonded instantly and were two peas in a pod. When Mom moved from West Virginia to Georgia four years ago, Bandit came back to his native state and decided he'd had enough of the solitary, sedentary life. So, he started destroying furniture whenever Mom left him alone to go work or go out with friends. See, Mom found something here in Georgia she never had in West Virginia: a social life. And that made Bandit a bitter cat. A month or so after we found Pirtuk a new home, Bandit came to live with us. He was a social cat who loved the chaos of our house and the never-ending attention from our kids. And we've been happy.
Until yesterday.
I always took pride in how much I paid attention to my pets. I knew when they didn't feel well. I could tell by the tail-angle alone how happy/sad/sick/pissed they were. If I didn't see the cat during the day, I went in search, sussing out every hiding spot to make sure said cat was just sleeping and not sick. Now? I barely have time to take care of myself much less my pets. They get fed and watered every day and I go "treasure hunting" in the litter box. But that's about it. My day is full of kids and the mundane tasks of a SAHM and housewife. I didn't see the warning signs that Bandit was sick until it was too late. Mom rushed him to the vet yesterday and what I thought may be a simple urinary tract infection became renal failure and a last good-bye.
I once posted about how I was dreading the talk with the kids. Not the sex talk, the death talk. Having to explain to my children that yes, people they love are going to die, that I am going to die, that they will die, and there's nothing we can do about it, is not a topic of conversation I've been looking forward to. At all. And I wasn't expecting to have that talk yesterday. According to the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, you should always be honest when explaining what happened to your pet, don't use euphemisms, don't lie, and don't be vague. They may not get it, but you as the adult need to be honest.
So I sat there, with my 2-year-old's arms around my neck and my twin 4-year-olds watching the tears streaming down my cheeks, and I told them that Bandit is gone, that he's never coming home, that he can no longer see, or hear, or move, that this is permanent, forever, and that we love him and will miss him and that they can talk about him whenever they want. My heart broke as I remembered just one hour before holding my Mom while she held and cried over her cat, her best friend, the companion who gave her joy after Dad's death. I remembered that I signed the paper that ended Bandit's life, and I felt so very guilty for not paying more attention to him, making sure he wasn't sick, looking at his tail, his eyes, his fur.
I hate that I'm a person who can't keep track of everything, all the time. And I sit here and woulda-coulda-shoulda myself some more.
So, they'll ask. Miss-Miss will probably run downstairs in the morning, expecting to feed Bandit some treats and realize he's not there. J-man will ask where Bandit is. And Bubba will point out his toys or his bed. And I will have to explain again where he is and where he isn't. And I will cry some more. And I'll hate every second of not lying to my children. Of feeling guilty for not being more observant.
Because all I want to tell them is that we'll all live happily ever after. I just want to lie like a rug.
12 March 2009
Watching Ghost Hunters
My fellow ghost-nerds and I gather every Wednesday to watch/critique/break-down Dave Tango's EVP questions or Steve's pranks on Tango or Jason's thermal camera skills.
Last night, there was no watching. There was only talking. About pet names.
I mentioned to my friends The Bloggess and how she wanted to name her dog MyVagina so she could hear her male vet say Someone hook up an IV to MyVagina, among other things.
Here's what we had to add to that:
I think I'm going to get MyVagina declawed.
MyVagina likes to play with balls!
MyVagina buries bones in the backyard.
MyVagina hacks up hairballs all the time!
MyVagina bit me!
Watch out! MyVagina has sharp teeth.
MyVagina is here for a grooming.
And on. And on. And on. The TAPS team remained unscathed. The mythical cat MyVagina, it turns out, likes to meow. A lot!
Many thanks, Jenny, for our highly-entertaining conversation.
Last night, there was no watching. There was only talking. About pet names.
I mentioned to my friends The Bloggess and how she wanted to name her dog MyVagina so she could hear her male vet say Someone hook up an IV to MyVagina, among other things.
Here's what we had to add to that:
I think I'm going to get MyVagina declawed.
MyVagina likes to play with balls!
MyVagina buries bones in the backyard.
MyVagina hacks up hairballs all the time!
MyVagina bit me!
Watch out! MyVagina has sharp teeth.
MyVagina is here for a grooming.
And on. And on. And on. The TAPS team remained unscathed. The mythical cat MyVagina, it turns out, likes to meow. A lot!
Many thanks, Jenny, for our highly-entertaining conversation.
11 March 2009
I Shoulda Bought an Iguana Part 4
Today, we say good-bye to our cat Pirtuk.Oh, no. Don't worry. He's fine. Healthy as a horse. Fat and sassy.
And still pooping and peeing on the basement carpet despite three litter boxes and a prescription of kitty Prozac. And we can no longer deal with it because the behavior has escalated to the point that our basement, no matter how much it is cleaned, stinks. And we don't want the main floor to become a minefield where our children can't play.
And so today, I'm driving Pirtuk 25 miles to Hiram, Georgia, to a local purebred cat rescue organization. And I'm dropping him off so that hopefully, he can find a better home, a home without toddlers who are constantly terrorizing him. And I'm most likely, at this moment, crying and making a blubbering idiot of myself over a cat.
We still have Andy, sweet steadfast Andy who is a senior citizen but has stuck by us for 11 years with no fuss. But I know the kids will ask about "Tucker" - where is he, what happened, why did you take him away? And what do I say? Well, Pirtuk was pooping and peeing on the floor, so we gave him away to another family. And this is a warning! If you starting pooping and peeing on the floor, I'm dropping you and a bag of food off at DFACS! I just don't know how to explain it to them without sounding like a failure. A horrible failure.
I'm just crushed. Pardon me if I use up a box of Kleenex because I truly feel like the worst cat-mom in the world.
27 February 2009
Cat Barf*
This is Andy:
I haven't ever blogged about Andy because he's not as blog-worthy as Pirtuk. He doesn't bounce himself off shower doors, fall down stairs, or take kitty Prozac. That's because Andy is pretty laid-back. He's a senior citizen (10, people! He's 10! That's like.. 1 times 10 plus 9... carry the two... divide by pi... 56! I have a 56-year-old neutered quadruped in my house!). I did at least submit his picture to Lolcats. See?
But, Andy does have one special talent. And a nickname to go along with said talent. He barfs more than any animal I have ever seen. And considering he's the first cat I've ever owned that has made it to senior citizen status? Then I suppose this whole feline nervous stomach/anorexia thing must be working for him.
My problem withBarf Bag Andy is this. My carpet is this color:
And Andy's food is this color:
Are you telling me we can put men and women on the top of a rocket and send them into space?!? We can bullet-proof a Caddy for the Prez?!? We can eradicate smallpox?!?
But we can't develop off-white cat food? Seriously?
And don't tell me to cover my floors in hardwoods. This house is loud enough with three screaming toddlers. I don't need the screams reverberating off hardwood floors. I need them to be absorbed by soft carpet.
Guess I'll be buying stock in Spot Shot. And contemplating brown carpet.
*Yeah. Cat barf. Because I am begging for some really weird search stats.
I haven't ever blogged about Andy because he's not as blog-worthy as Pirtuk. He doesn't bounce himself off shower doors, fall down stairs, or take kitty Prozac. That's because Andy is pretty laid-back. He's a senior citizen (10, people! He's 10! That's like.. 1 times 10 plus 9... carry the two... divide by pi... 56! I have a 56-year-old neutered quadruped in my house!). I did at least submit his picture to Lolcats. See?
But, Andy does have one special talent. And a nickname to go along with said talent. He barfs more than any animal I have ever seen. And considering he's the first cat I've ever owned that has made it to senior citizen status? Then I suppose this whole feline nervous stomach/anorexia thing must be working for him.
My problem with
And Andy's food is this color:
Are you telling me we can put men and women on the top of a rocket and send them into space?!? We can bullet-proof a Caddy for the Prez?!? We can eradicate smallpox?!?
But we can't develop off-white cat food? Seriously?
And don't tell me to cover my floors in hardwoods. This house is loud enough with three screaming toddlers. I don't need the screams reverberating off hardwood floors. I need them to be absorbed by soft carpet.
Guess I'll be buying stock in Spot Shot. And contemplating brown carpet.
*Yeah. Cat barf. Because I am begging for some really weird search stats.
15 August 2008
I Shoulda Bought an Iguana Part 3
Oh, yes. There's a part three. There may be a part four, part five, who knows. Yeesh.
As Ty-man marched upstairs for yesterday's morning constitutional, I heard Heather, could you come here, please?
Uh-oh.
And there is was. Cat piss. On the living room floor. Uh-oh indeed.
All I could think was That's it. Ty-man has absolutely had it and I'm going to come home from dropping the twins off at school and Pirtuk will be gone. Poof. A smear on the floor. Little tufts of white fur here and there. And then I'll have to get out the shotgun. Or the steak knives. Or some such method of quick Ty-man death that will make a huge mess, but retribution will be had if he does away with my cat. Crap. It's going to be such a cluster. You know, the usual: blood, guts, and whining kids.
Crap.
So, off I went to the vet, 16-pound cat in tow (don't ask) to make absolutely sure the furball didn't have some sort of, well, urinary tract crud.
Turns out? No crud (duh). It's all behavioral as in I'm pissed you brought those hairless monkeys home instead of pawning them off on some other unsuspecting family because, after all, it is all about me (and that other cat, Whatshisname) and since you haven't figured that out I think I'll miss the litter box. On purpose. Cha-cha! And put me Lolcats already! What is your damage?
Joy.
The vet reiterated the need for multiple litter boxes and then? Here comes the best part. Are you ready?
Vet: We can prescribe him Prozac.
Me: *blink*
Vet: It will help with his anxiety over the obvious changes in the house that are causing him to pee and poo all over the place.
Me: *blink*
Vet: And it might keep him from doing this any more.
Me: *blink*
Vet: It's only $7.50 for a month's supply.
Me: Really? Could you plop me down on that scale and prescribe me some of that for $7.50 a month? I could piss on the floor right now.
Vet: *blink*
So, to re-cap; my cat is now medicated, I am now the proud owner of three litter boxes, a trip to the pound has been averted, I'm currently eye-balling a $7.50 bottle of kitty Prozac and wondering if thirty half-pills would get me through one afternoon, and I didn't need a crime scene clean-up service after all.
For now.
As Ty-man marched upstairs for yesterday's morning constitutional, I heard Heather, could you come here, please?
Uh-oh.
And there is was. Cat piss. On the living room floor. Uh-oh indeed.
All I could think was That's it. Ty-man has absolutely had it and I'm going to come home from dropping the twins off at school and Pirtuk will be gone. Poof. A smear on the floor. Little tufts of white fur here and there. And then I'll have to get out the shotgun. Or the steak knives. Or some such method of quick Ty-man death that will make a huge mess, but retribution will be had if he does away with my cat. Crap. It's going to be such a cluster. You know, the usual: blood, guts, and whining kids.
Crap.
So, off I went to the vet, 16-pound cat in tow (don't ask) to make absolutely sure the furball didn't have some sort of, well, urinary tract crud.
Turns out? No crud (duh). It's all behavioral as in I'm pissed you brought those hairless monkeys home instead of pawning them off on some other unsuspecting family because, after all, it is all about me (and that other cat, Whatshisname) and since you haven't figured that out I think I'll miss the litter box. On purpose. Cha-cha! And put me Lolcats already! What is your damage?
Joy.
The vet reiterated the need for multiple litter boxes and then? Here comes the best part. Are you ready?
Vet: We can prescribe him Prozac.
Me: *blink*
Vet: It will help with his anxiety over the obvious changes in the house that are causing him to pee and poo all over the place.
Me: *blink*
Vet: And it might keep him from doing this any more.
Me: *blink*
Vet: It's only $7.50 for a month's supply.
Me: Really? Could you plop me down on that scale and prescribe me some of that for $7.50 a month? I could piss on the floor right now.
Vet: *blink*
So, to re-cap; my cat is now medicated, I am now the proud owner of three litter boxes, a trip to the pound has been averted, I'm currently eye-balling a $7.50 bottle of kitty Prozac and wondering if thirty half-pills would get me through one afternoon, and I didn't need a crime scene clean-up service after all.
For now.
12 August 2008
I Shoulda Bought an Iguana Part 2
You all know that I have two cats. I really don't blog about them because they're cats. They have the same facial expressions, the same attitudes, no matter the time of day or happenings in the house.
Food dish re-filled? Pissed.
Kid mauling? Pissed.
Cuddles? Pissed.
Me sucking on a self-inflicted paper cut? Maybe the slightest of smiles but still pissed one of them didn't inflict it instead.
You know, the usual state-of-being for our four-legged feline friends. It now seems that one of our cats has added a new dimension to our relationship.
He is shitting. on. the. floor.
Now, let me put your minds at ease. He's taking dumps just a couple of feet from the litter box. In the basement. Well away from the kids. Whew. I know, but it's still just nasty.
I swear I don't get it. Every cat we've ever owned has been litter-box trained and we've never had a problem and suddenly out of the blue (or brown - whatever) this one little corner of the basement is his happy little shit spot. I'm not following the feline reasoning.
I've watched various celebrity reality shows where the dogs are pissing and shitting everywhere and the pets are just out of control with their bodily functions. And while watching, I've archly thought to myself These people have just no idea how to train and take care of their animals and my pets will never do that. Never.
Um, yeah.
Hi, my name is Heather and I'm not a celebrity. I'm just a harried mother of three who doesn't get around to cleaning out the litter box every day. And Fresh Step recently changed their litter formula. And my cats still aren't used to their hairless monkey siblings. And now my cat shits on the floor.
Crap.* And the best part? Oh, this is great. To fix this? Requires multiple litter boxes. Filled with multiple types of litter. To determine my cat's litter preference. And placing food and water dishes on his favorite poop spot so maybe he'll stop pooping there because who wants to eat their own poop, right? Hmmmm, yeah, OK, this cat will crap in his food dish. I just know it, I feel it. Although that might not be a bad thing since he may just recycle his own crap and I won't have to scoop it ever again.
I might be on to something. I'll get back to you.
* No pun intended. Well maybe completely intended. Bite me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Don't forget! One more day (today, to be exact) to enter my fabulous one year blogiversary contest! Woo hoo! Adoration! Fabulous prizes! Celebrity writers.... how'm I kidding? I'm probably just going to send you my mom's 30-year-old Richard Nixon toilet paper. But? You'll be the coolest kid on the block, wiping your butt with some Tricky Dick!
Food dish re-filled? Pissed.
Kid mauling? Pissed.
Cuddles? Pissed.
Me sucking on a self-inflicted paper cut? Maybe the slightest of smiles but still pissed one of them didn't inflict it instead.
You know, the usual state-of-being for our four-legged feline friends. It now seems that one of our cats has added a new dimension to our relationship.
He is shitting. on. the. floor.
Now, let me put your minds at ease. He's taking dumps just a couple of feet from the litter box. In the basement. Well away from the kids. Whew. I know, but it's still just nasty.
I swear I don't get it. Every cat we've ever owned has been litter-box trained and we've never had a problem and suddenly out of the blue (or brown - whatever) this one little corner of the basement is his happy little shit spot. I'm not following the feline reasoning.
I've watched various celebrity reality shows where the dogs are pissing and shitting everywhere and the pets are just out of control with their bodily functions. And while watching, I've archly thought to myself These people have just no idea how to train and take care of their animals and my pets will never do that. Never.
Um, yeah.
Hi, my name is Heather and I'm not a celebrity. I'm just a harried mother of three who doesn't get around to cleaning out the litter box every day. And Fresh Step recently changed their litter formula. And my cats still aren't used to their hairless monkey siblings. And now my cat shits on the floor.
Crap.* And the best part? Oh, this is great. To fix this? Requires multiple litter boxes. Filled with multiple types of litter. To determine my cat's litter preference. And placing food and water dishes on his favorite poop spot so maybe he'll stop pooping there because who wants to eat their own poop, right? Hmmmm, yeah, OK, this cat will crap in his food dish. I just know it, I feel it. Although that might not be a bad thing since he may just recycle his own crap and I won't have to scoop it ever again.
I might be on to something. I'll get back to you.
* No pun intended. Well maybe completely intended. Bite me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Don't forget! One more day (today, to be exact) to enter my fabulous one year blogiversary contest! Woo hoo! Adoration! Fabulous prizes! Celebrity writers.... how'm I kidding? I'm probably just going to send you my mom's 30-year-old Richard Nixon toilet paper. But? You'll be the coolest kid on the block, wiping your butt with some Tricky Dick!
30 October 2007
You're Looking for What?
I'm addicted to Sitemeter. It's this great little service that tracks who visits my blog and how they found it. Lately, people have been performing Google searches for costumes (that time of year, of course!) and if someone Googles Tinkerbell costume or coal miner costume they find my humble blog entry regarding Miss-Miss dressing up as Darth Tink and my blog's title page with the obvious banner title. Cool. OK, I can dig it.
Two days ago, I log onto my Sitemeter account to see what's up. It seems that someone in Canada performed a Google search and found me. What was their search criteria, you ask? Well, allow me to elaborate. This person Goggled, "Where is my cat's clitoris?" WHAT!?!?! I'm not sure what is more disturbing about this, that someone wants to know the location of their pussy's pussy (oh, we're going downhill fast!) or that asking about said location led them to my blog. Holy crap. NC-17 indeed! I would rather someone Google the terms funny or hysterical or pithy mom of three or even hot hillbilly mom who makes people snort coffee through their noses each and every day. Those are the Google search terms I had hoped to find. Not some lame-ass Canadian looking for their cat's clitoris.
Through all of this, I feel horrible for the cat. Poor kitty. I'd hate to see that gynecological examination. I can see the headlines now, "Barrie, Ontario Cat Owner Cleans Hospital Out of Blood Supply - Offended Cat Found Licking Blood From Her Paws." Film at 11!
19 October 2007
I Shoulda Bought an Iguana
I love my cats. Really, I do. I love my cats. I love my cats. If I just keep repeating that, then maybe I won't be so traumatized about what just happened. Shiver.This is Pirtuk (His name is the Inuit word for blizzard.) He is a Ragdoll. He's also fat, lazy, and VERY furry. Why did we get this very hairy cat? I have NO idea. I've been asking myself this same question everytime I bend over to pick up tufts of hair off the floor, pull tufts of hair out of his mouth, and clean up hairballs. I guess because he was such a cute kitten. Little did we know that this laid-back cat was also dumber than a rock and little did I know that Ragdolls not only hork up (a technical term) hairballs, they also poop them.
Case in point, today. I put the twins and J-man to bed and returned to the kitchen to clean up lunch. I spy something on the floor behind one of the high chairs. Looks like a piece of hot dog. Where did that come from? They didn't have hot dogs for lunch. Oh, wait, nope, that's a piece of cat poo. Joy. I scoop it up and chuck it, then I go over to Pirtuk and lift his tail for inspection. There, as I suspected, is a dingleberry (yet another technical term). So, I pick him up, shut the two of us up in the half bath (no escaping this time, Buster!), and grab a piece of toilet paper. I pin him down, grab the dingleberry, and pull. The whole time, I'm gagging and he's wailing. Out comes poo attached to the biggest damned hairball I've ever seen. He's still wailing and I'm flushing the offending poo-ball down the toilet.
Now, I'll post pictures of Bubba covered in yogurt and I'll include a Wikipedia link to female genitalia, but I will not take a picture of my cat's latest crap creation. Nope. Nada. Not going to happen. Instead, I will give you this picture of a sphinx cat we thought about buying four years ago. Sigh. Ugly as hell, but no hairballs.
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