I simply couldn’t resist. This video was taken yesterday. I hope it cheers someone up out there!

They really, really like playing together. This went on for a while yesterday and I just stood there, smiling.

Also, sorry about yesterday’s cryptic and grumpy post. I was having a “throw your hands up” sort of day. Today looks much better.

I’ll be doing quite a bit of traveling starting Thursday (with the baby) and I think that has me sort of nervous and excited. I’ll try and update here, but I will most likely use Twitter a bunch. Either way, I’ll be back next week armed with stories from a rocky coast.

Toby and I hired a maid. We made the appointment two weeks ago. She was to begin Monday.

On Saturday night I began to freak out about the logistics. (How would she get in the house? Were we supposed to leave? Did she need to use our supplies? If we left the house, how would she lock up? Am I supposed to tip her? Does she do laundry? Am I supposed to tidy up the house first? What if she’s allergic to cats? Oh my crap! Murray!)

I voiced my concerns to Toby starting with the more reasonable.

“Do we stay here while she’s cleaning?”

“We don’t have to.”

“Do we need to move things around so she can get to certain areas? Does she do the closets?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to ask.”

Realizing that he wasn’t going to suggest that we cancel, I dove right in.

“What about Murray?”

“What about him?”

“What will we do with Murray?”

“Nothing. He’ll probably eat her.”

“Well, what if she uses poisonous cleaning supplies? I think we should cancel. I’ll clean instead.”

“Whatever you want.” He rolled his eyes.

On Sunday I canceled the arrangement and asked Toby to keep an eye on Em so I could clean up. I started with the counters and the stove and worked my way down. Just as I began to mop the kitchen floor, I was attacked.

Murray leapt into the air—all four feet off the floor, arms spread wide, eyes wider—and bear-hugged the mop with all his might, deploying a move we liked to call “The Grizzly Bear”.

The mop gave way beneath his weight. As his hind legs touched the floor again, he slid full force into the mop bucket, spilling water everywhere. Unsure of how to regain his composure on the slick surface, he tried running, which sent him sliding all over the linoleum surface.

I looked down at the wet, hairy mess. The kitchen was dirtier than it had been before I started.

“See!” I said from the kitchen. “This is why we can’t hire a stranger to come clean our house!”

I am in South Jersey for a few days visiting my parents. I’m relaxing. We’re going deep sea fishing. It’s gonna be awesome. Right now, I’m sipping coffee, eating my daily allowance of Weight Watcher’s yogurt (Strawberry today), and catching up on the plethora of ways I normally waste my time. (Hello, Internet!)

I gotta tell you, unplugging for a few days really sets a person back. I feel as though I have no idea what is going on (out there) anymore. And I’m not sure if I feel out of it or liberated.

It seems most of Twitter is filled with blurbs about iPhone gadgetry, heat waves and travel. The national news seems to be about iPhones, the Clintons, and the price of gas per gallon. And of course our local news is about baseball, subway outages and heinous acts of torture. Flickr has been fairly consistent. Travel, dogs, babies, more travel, macro shots, and more dogs, throw in a few mouthwatering shots of meals and you get a pretty great idea of my daily “Friends and Family” Flickr stream.

My Net News Wire RSS feed reader is down to less than 20 feeds. Sometime last month I decided—out of nowhere—that I was spending too much time trying to keep up with other blogs. That said, I have no idea what’s been going on in the (I hate this term) Blogosphere lately.

And then I got to my email. I had a lot of email waiting. I’m still nowhere near caught up, but I’m trying.

I heard from Karyn (my old boss) and Nico (who’s coming to see me on Friday). I heard from many of you about Weight Watchers and how you either hated it or love it. I also had an email from Lisa, our cat sitter extraordinaire.

Part of her email read:

“Tucker said hello then hid, but Pookum came right out to eat and sat for some pets and headbumps. Murray was Murray. He knocked my coffee over and tried to steal my Entenmans. You can’t trust him for a second can you?”

It’s nice to know that while the internet may be full of surprises, twists and turns, Murray remains exactly the same. You can always count on Murray even if it’s about how little you can trust him.

After last week’s dramatic post about Murray and the future of this blog, I figured a video might be nice.

This is a video of Emory (his hand, mainly) trying to help Murray lift his own leg so Murray can lick his neuticals. And Murray needs help in that department given the belly and all.

Enjoy!

(Worry not, Murray’s nails are short and he doesn’t have them out when dealing with his buddy, Em.)

PRELUDE

I had a great deal of trouble putting aside a post I’ve been writing for weeks in order to keep with Tuesday’s theme. The post in question is about how I plan on ending this Web site. It includes reasons why as well as ideas for what I could do with it. I’m still very much unsure about its future. I know only one thing for sure: mihow.com the “mommy blog” part will cease to exist.

And so I battled with this. I contemplated taking the day off.

But it’s TUESDAY! I thought. It’s Murray’s day. You have to write about Murray!

TUESDAYS WITH MURRAY

I receive a lot of email about Tuesdays With Murray. Even email not specifically about Murray usually includes a mention of how much the person loves him or how much they enjoy reading stories about him. Several people have told me Tuesdays With Murray is their favorite part about mihow.com. I’ve had people write letting me know how much their cat has in common with Murray. I had one person ask if Murray could be her lady cat’s baby daddy (a suggestion I may have entertained had he not been fixed). I guess the email boasting love for Murray shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. My stats alone speak volumes. For a year now, Tuesday has been my busiest day. I receive thousands more individual visits on Tuesday than any other day of the week.

Murray is loved. How can you not love something so much that loves so much for nothing?

I also get a lot of email asking me why I seem to like Murray more than the other cats. Some folks aren’t even aware of the fact that we have two other cats. I guess I do kind of give off that we-keep-two-red-headed-step-cats-chained-up-in-the-basement sort of vibe. But I assure you all, we love all three of our cats, and yours as well.

But this has me thinking about why Murray is kind of special to me. It’s not that I don’t love my other two cats—I do, I love them very much. But I think I take Murray love to Nicole Kidman, stalkerish levels. And I think I finally know why.

Let’s talk about the book this series was inspired by.

TIME TRAVEL

(This is part of the story where if it were a motion picture the image before you would fade a bit, a sepia-like tone would envelope the screen. There might even be some Wayne’s World “doodly doodly” music to stress that we’re going back in time.)

When I was 23-years-old I was doing an internship with Lifetime Television. I stayed in South Brooklyn with a friend from college. He and his girlfriend let me sleep in a small storage room off their bedroom for the duration of my stay.

My boyfriend remained in State College. We talked late at night and on weekends over the telephone. I paid for our chats whenever the bill came. There were no cell phones boasting rollover or unlimited nighttime and weekend minutes. There were no consumer Macintosh laptops to purchase (at least not that I knew of) which meant there was no email. He was studying to be a chef. His hands were too busy stirring pots of Hollandaise sauce to type an email, anyway. I was too busy commuting to and from a temporary job, all the while lining my shoes with Band-Aids and toilet paper to pad the blisters I grew during grueling lunchtime job searches.

I got turned away from so many different design firms. So many Art Directors shrugged and said, “We just don’t do many logos here.” I was so perplexed as to why good logo work meant I couldn’t do direct mail, brochures and annual reports but these folks were wiser than I.

“Get some experience first!” They’d say. “We’ll hire you after you get some experience.”

How does one get experience if everyone wants it first?

I was in New York. I was 23. I was in search of my own professional identity. I was full of hope, pipe-dreams, and excitement. I was naive but happy.

And I didn’t find a job.

My internship came to an end on a Friday. I took the F Train uptown one last time that morning, put in a full day’s work, and then took it back into South Brooklyn later that day. The following morning, I packed my bags and headed for Midtown. Along the way, I grabbed something to read, hopped on a bus and headed for central Pennsylvania.

It was during that bus ride I read “Tuesdays With Morrie”.

RIGHT NOW

I, like many people who spend a lot of time online, wrestle with it constantly. When my 23-year-old self looks at the me now, there’s a part of her who wants to slap me a few a times, knock some sense into my head. On the one hand, I am happier now than I’ve ever been. On the other hand, somewhere along the way I become a person living in fear, indecision, anxiety, cowardice, and (during my weakest hours) jealousy.

I’m in neutral. I’ve been in neutral for long time.

I have known for a while that once Emory got to be a certain age I’d shut this site down, at least in terms of how much and what I write about him. And the meat of this paragraph really demands much more attention and care than I am giving it now. I will go into it soon. I promise. But I will say this much: Emory shouldn’t be exposed the way he has, sans consent. I just don’t feel right about it.

THE REALIZATION

And so that brings me back to Murray, the book this series is based on, my life and me when I read it, and all three of my cats.

Tucker is The Orange One. He’s a bit skittish, paranoid and at times vindictive. A lot of the decisions he makes are fueled by jealousy. I still love him and he’s still very needy, but he can be a real bastard. Tucker is sneaky. Tucker is not to be trusted. This is how he got the name “Orangemani Terrorist”.

I’m a little bit like Tucker whenever I spend too much time away from doing the things that I love. I act like Tucker whenever I’m having a “nobody-likes-me!” kind of day. I may come off as unapproachable, mean and bitchy, but all I really want is a great big hug and some lovin’ behind the ears. I act like Tucker right before I act like Pookum.

Pookum is old and grumpy and at some point she kind of lost her ability to laugh. She’s overweight and lives in fear of the other cats. She thinks they’re out to get her even if they’re playing. Unless we break inertia for her, she just sleeps, eats, and poops. And I reckon that if we were to let her she’d probably give up on all the things that make her happy; she’d give up on life entirely.

I’ve been Pookum before. (Hold on, I have to go pet her.)

And then there’s Murray.

Murray is the hand stirring a pot of Hollandaise sauce, the smile that moves across a person’s face when no one else is looking. Murray is New York City before 9/11, the sound of the teenagers skateboarding out back. Murray is laughter among friends, that first sip of white wine, lightning bugs at dusk.

Murray is me before I exchanged my naivety and hope for experience and cynicism.

Murray is youth.

Murray is a fixed number of minutes and a computer you leave at home.

Murray is joy.

Murray is the you you thought you would be, and the you you still can.

We went out of town for a few days and had Lisa (cat-comber, petter, nail-clipper extraordinaire) watch Murray, Pookum and Tucker while we were gone.

Every time we go away, Murray decides to let us know exactly how uncool it is by destroying something we own. Last time, it was the lamp in our bedroom. This time around he turned his message up a bit.

The good news is, all pieces have been accounted for making heavy poop-policing unnecessary.

Murray is getting fat—like really fat. It’s hard to believe that just a year ago he looked like this:

And now he looks like this:

Tobyjoe has accused me for years of making everyone I live with fat. Which is just absurd since he’s always been the one to cook. (I do bake, but Tobyjoe doesn’t really eat sweets; it ain’t me!) I’ve always brushed it off. But lately, as I look at Murray, I’ve been asking myself: did I make Murray fat?

Murray loves to eat. He loves to eat more than any other cat I’ve ever known. Murray even puts Schmitty’s eating habits to shame. Pancakes? Yup. Chips? Yes. Bread? Muffins? Cupcakes? Yes, yup and you betcha. But Murray eats vegetables, grains and eggs as well. The only item I’ve seen him turn his head away from and bury with his paw has been fish.

I feed our cats one can of wet cat food twice a day. They split one can twice a day. They also have some low cal hard stuff that I put out all the time, which they simply refuse to eat now that they know there’s good stuff on the way. Even Pookum, our eldest, eats the wet stuff now.

Two days ago, I woke up to my same morning ritual. I filled the kettle for the french press. I opened my computer on the way to the bathroom. I peed. I brushed my teeth, tied my hair back, and washed my face. I returned to the kitchen, made Em’s morning bottle and prepared his solid meal. I got a can of food out for the cats and fed the fatties in three different bowls. I moved one out of the circle a bit for Pookum (who gets harassed otherwise). I sat down to read email.

A few minutes later, Murray jumped up onto the sofa next to me. He was soaking wet. I checked to see where it was coming from, and to get a better idea of what this mysterious liquid was. I discovered that his entire underbelly is sopping wet.

“What have you done, Murray?” I asked. “Did you fall in the toilet again? Is this pee? Were you in the sink? What have you done?”

I followed the trail of water from the sofa to the food bowl in the kitchen. A giant puddle of water surrounded the now empty water bowl. You see, Murray had decided that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. So, instead of moving his body and positioning it around the water bowl in order to eat, he plopped his belly down right overtop of it. Because God forbid Murray have to walk a little out of his way in order to start eating. God forbid Murray should potentially arrive late for the morning buffet. God forbid someone else get to his bowl before he does. God forbid he get some exercise on his way to eat. God forbid all of that.

And so it brings me great pain to write what I’m about to write but Murray has to go on a diet. The problem is, I am not sure how to put a cat on a successful diet. The last time I tried this, I created the grumpiest cat in the world.

Is he going to stop loving me? And with that comment, perhaps Tobyjoe is right.

Today is a special day and I only just realized it halfway through writing this post. It’s special because we adopted Murray one year ago today. I know this because tomorrow marks the anniversary of when I announced it on mihow.com.

I haven’t ever admitted this before, but I kind of feel sorry for Murray. Sometimes he has to deal with an annoying amount of affection. You see, every time I get word of someone doing something horrific to an animal, or whenever I witness an animal in distress, I dig him out and hug him. Sometimes I hug him so tightly and for so long he very nearly passes out. (Only, not really). I fool myself into thinking that Murray is powerful, powerful enough to transfer all the affection we give him on to more needy creatures. I imagine that somehow, through powers unbeknownst to me, he’s able to pass love around—the almighty Murray, my creature extraordinaire.

I realize this borders on absurd, but love knows no logic.

Murray fetches. Did I ever tell you that? He fetches. I know that many cats fetch. For example, my cat, Pookum fetches tampons, but Murray will fetch until you give up. He doesn’t get distracted. It’s just him, you and whatever balled up piece of trash you can find. In fact, I have no idea how long he’ll fetch before giving up because I’m the one who always ends the game. He’s sporty. If there were a fetching league for cats, I’d let him enroll.

On Saturday, we watched the egotistical Kentucky Derby prematurely ejaculate all over our TV screen. The event deemed “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports!” made my heart stop for almost that long.

I used to love horses. I still like horses but when I was a kid, I loved them. I wish I could express to you just how much I loved them. Only my mother could do that. Like most little girls, I begged my parents for a horse. I even prayed for one. I once asked my mother that if one should wander into our backyard, could I then keep it? She said yes. And so I waited for that miracle. I’m still waiting.

But I digress.

Whenever Eight Belles fell to the ground, my childhood emotions bubbled up like vomit and sucker punched me right in the gut. I simply could not control myself. My hands covered my face and I began crying.

Tears fell into my soup and onto my salad and Emory looked over wondering where my smile had gone. I wanted to tell him that sometimes people do horrible things to animals for “fun”, but that overall we’re pretty good! I wanted to reassure him that we named him after Saint Francis, the patron saint of animals, and that his best friend right now is a cat.

“Turn this off!” I yelled, covering my eyes. “Turn it off! I can’t watch any more!”

Toby grabbed a hold of the remote control and turned the channel.

“Now, say something to make me forget.” I cried.

“Look at this.” He said. Murray had his belly up and his legs spread wide, a position he has grown very fond of lately.

Needless to say, I cracked up. And then I Pepe Lepewed my cat until he wriggled free. Unfortunately, eight thousand hugs and kisses couldn’t save Eight Bells.

So, in honor of sporty animals everywhere, I shot a video of Murray playing fetch. The director’s cut is over 4 minutes long but I shortened it because it’s just a video of him and me and a balled up napkin. Pretty boring, right?

But after you watch the video I think that you’ll agree that the title “The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports” no longer belongs to the Kentucky Derby. It belongs to Murray—the almighty Murray, my creature extraordinaire.

Now, run along and smooch on some animals.

I save flowers. I dry them out and I save them. I have kept a bouquet in a homemade vase for several years. The picture below was taken of our place before we had a baby, before we moved the futon from the guest bedroom (now the nursery) into the dining room (now the makeshift guest room/storage area).

The flowers and the vase are outlined in white. And at some point it moved to where the food processor sits in the picture above. (Also outlined.)

The bouquet has grown a lot since then. It grew larger each and every time Tobyjoe bought me flowers. Sometimes I’ll add one or two from a bouquet, sometimes more. It represents a timeline of moments and holidays.

For example, there was that really difficult day last year. I was very pregnant and becoming more and more immobile by the minute. I had just discovered a massive band of stretch marks all over my underbelly. I called Tobyjoe to complain about it. He asked me if I wanted anything, needed anything. What I really wanted was a cupcake, but cupcakes are what got me there in the first place, so Tobyjoe brought home flowers instead.

One might assume, given what I just wrote, that I’m really attached to said bouquet. It does cover years worth of loving memories after all. And to some degree that assumption is true, but probably not to the degree that it should be.

For starters, they are dust magnets. I haven’t ever seen any other household item gather so much dust. And they’re impossible to clean. If you touch them, they crumble. But they’re sentimental, right? And so I have held onto them because throwing them out feels like burning books, trashing art, shredding old love letters.

Plus, we’re moving soon. The idea of moving a bouquet of dried flowers doesn’t sit too well with me. I knew that once we moved, the flowers would have to be destroyed. Tobyjoe and I would have to start anew.

The point is, the flowers had a lifeline. I just had no idea how short it’d be.

Two days ago, I was in the kitchen cooking chili cheese tofu dogs for Tobyjoe and me. Murray was sitting on the back of the futon, watching me move to and from the kitchen. At some point he grew bored with me and decided it was time to play with my memories.

I’m not going to go on and on about how it happened. I think I’ll let the picture below sum up the aftermath. (Keep in mind, this was taken after I removed the still whole branches, some of which were still covered in thorns. Ouch.) The really good news is the vase I so lovingly threw while living in Washington was still in tact. The flowers weren’t as lucky.

I’m a little relieved that I don’t have to figure out a way to get rid of the memories, throw out the dried flowers. Murray took care of that for me.

Now if only he could do something about the memories my body saved from eating all those damned cupcakes.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to make a sandwich only to discover we were completely out of bread. As I cursed at Toby for finishing off the bread and not letting me know, I heated up some soup instead. Later that day I purchased two loaves of bread at our local Key Foods.

A few days later I was lying on the floor playing with Emory when I noticed something peculiar underneath the couch. At first it looked like it might be Murray’s red catnip pillow. But we got rid of that a long, long time ago. What was this mystery object under the couch?

I put the loaf of bread back where it belonged and noticed that TobyJoe had finished off the other loaf. We were down to one loaf of bread that loaf was punctured by cat teeth and paw prints.

Our apartment isn’t exactly baby friendly. We live in a railroad apartment where one room leads into another making it impossible to have any closed off area for a baby. It’s just a big open space—no definite barriers, no doors to shut, nothing. It’s a great for giving the illusion of open space, but horrible if you have a baby. It’s just not possible to close off an area in a railroad apartment.

This means that on any given day I spend the majority of my time with one eye on him and the other on the laundry, cleaning, bathing, cat feeding, Internet writing, bill paying, etc. etc. etc. It’s not easy. I’m not trying to sound like a big ol’ whiney bitch, but it’s not easy.

Some areas of the apartment are just all out dangerous, take the computer desk for example. There are more wires leading to an from that desk than one might find at Clark Griswold’s house at Christmas time. I refer to this area as the Gaza Strip.

There are, however, a few areas where I can take one eye away from him for a second. For example, the rug in the living room is really safe. It’s usually covered in toys, wooden spoons, spatulas, and plastic containers for amusement. I call this area The Green Zone.

So, yesterday I was hanging out with Emory in the Green Zone letting him play and babble. I didn’t worry too much about his getting into trouble since it’s such a safe area. But then he started to crawl away from the Green Zone. That’s when my left eye began to wander.

If you have a toddler and/or a baby who crawls, you are very aware of the moments of silence that erupt when they’re not supposed to. Perhaps your little one stops moving suddenly, all babbles come to an end. It’s at that moment you realize he or she is up to a degree of something less than positive. It doesn’t mean there’s something horribly dangerous taking place either. It’s probably more likely that you’ll interrupt your little guy stuffing a handful of cat hair into his mouth or sucking on your very filthy sock. Or maybe you discover that he’s remoistening a slice of very stale bread taken from a loaf of bread that’s been stored in an otherwise empty side table.

Why Murray is storing loaves of bread, I haven’t the slightest idea. But he’s making childproofing this apartment all the more difficult. I really am starting to believe baby and cat are in cahoots.

And our bread is now being refrigerated.

This is my 40th week doing Tuesdays With Murray. I can’t believe that. To celebrate this milestone, I put together another video of clips featuring the furry beast. Enjoy!

(P.S. This is a work in progress. The final video will be up later today whenever Emory takes his nap.) I’m sorry, but what’s a nap? We don’t know what “nap” means.

^{This post is dedicated to Jen and Mike who had to say goodbye to someone very special last week.}

I have a bad habit of not realizing how much I’m going to miss a part of my life until it passes me by. I get nostalgic over everything even “bad” times, depressing times.

For example, I found myself fondly remembering the time right after Emory was born where sleep had become non-existent and I was pumping breastmilk around the clock. I started to miss 3 AM pump sessions where I’d sit listening to the hum of a breast pump while reading I Can Has Cheez Burger. I was so chemically imbalanced back then, it’s amazing to me now that I can remember it so fondly. Yet I do.

I can glorify even the most depressing moments of my life, the only requirement is that they are in the past, which doesn’t particularly narrow down my options. I can renovate my history no matter how beat up and ugly it may seem.

Today I want to take a step back and look at a snapshot of my life 12 months ago because 12 months ago, I was about to enter a time of my life that I consider to be one of the happiest.

A year ago today, we were getting ready to say goodbye to a beloved (fuzzy) family member. We were days away from being told that he had incurable cancer that had been killing him for several months.

Saying goodbye to Schmitty was very, very difficult and with the anniversary of his death quickly approaching, we’ve been talking about him more than usual. We have discussed the fact that we’ll soon be leaving the last place that he ever lived. We’ve discussed that he won’t get to retire in a house like we always wanted him to. It brings me great sadness that I’ll soon walk on a floor that his paws have never touched. It bothers me that we won’t walk common ground ever again. It bothers me that we’ll be leaving behind a wall that holds his footprint and reminds us of the fact that he once used it to help him down from the windowsill.

When Schmitty died, I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover from it. It just hurt so, so very badly. (I have done my fair share of renovations to this memory and it still hurts.)

But day by day things started to look up and before I knew it, I was feeling happy in the present tense.

I was six months pregnant. I was putting on weight like a champ and growing more and more immobile by the minute. I was looking forward at a very hot and potentially daunting New York City summer but that didn’t bother me. I was staring my first ever child-birthing experience directly in the face and that both scared and excited the hell out of me. I was being pumped full of happy hormones. I was eating cupcakes without a care and craving an alarming amount of fruit. I watched entirely too much Live, Ellen, and The View. I went to the gym every day and really enjoyed the walk to and from. Every day I stopped along the way for a decaf cappuccino. I even enjoyed riding the bus whenever it got to be too hot and my feet began to swell beyond the confines of shoes.

I was really happy, like unbelievably happy. I even knew it at the time.

Right around the same time, I was introduced to one of the most hilarious creatures ever born. We named him Murray after Bill Murray because he was covered in stripes and he made us laugh. He was no bigger than a hamburger bun. He was small and therefore a champion hider.

Every day I would walk home from the gym in anticipation of trying to find him. He had several hiding places. My personal favorite and the one behind the books on the bottom shelf of our bookshelf. It took me forever to find that one. There was also the hiding place behind the VCR, under the bed pillows, in the shoebox in my closet. There was one that was so good, we never, ever figured out where it was.

Every day I looked forward to finding Murray. It was a game he and I would play. I’d come home, call on him, look for him and then he’d climb on my growing belly for some scritches.

So, what happens whenever a memory doesn’t need renovation? A Super Memory is created, the God of all memories, a memory that will likely comfort me right before I say my final farewell, one lacking regret or necessary reconstruction.

Those days bring me an inexplicable amount of joy.

Of course, there is also a song associated with that time. This isn’t something you’ll hear on the radio. In fact, only three people have ever heard it. Ever. Every day on my way home from the gym, I’d sing a song in anticipation of seeing the creature I once referred to as “My Little Person”.

Here are the lyrics.

Murray Man

He is a furry man.

He’s Murray Man.

From Furrymanistan.

He’s my Murray Man.

He is a furry man.

I love my Murray Man.

From Furrymanistan.

What I’m trying to say is this: on this day last year, I was about to say goodbye to one of the kindest creatures I’ve ever known. I was nearing a time that would bring with it an inexplicable degree of sadness.

But unbeknownst to me then was that right as that time was coming to and end, a time that would hurt so badly no amount of renovation could ever fix it, another section of my life was about to begin, a really happy time, one that wouldn’t need any work done to it at all.

If somebody from Animal Planet contacted you about taking part in a reality TV show about pet weight-loss (Biggest Loser for pets) would you consider it? Murray’s so fat! Speaking of Murray…

TobyJoe and I have talked about how Murray will most likely be considered Emory’s first childhood pet. Tucker and Pookum are much older and unfortunately, he probably won’t get to know them very well. But Murray should be around for a while.

Lately, Emory and Murray have started to actually play with one another. They have their toys mixed up a bit. For example, Emory really likes to play with the blue cat toy shown above but it doesn’t really bother Murray too much considering they can knock the ball around together. And they do.

Murray and Emory tend to find the same things amusing, take the Swiffer, for example. Both of them love the Swiffer! Which I find really quite strange and since neither one of them speak English, I can’t get a straight answer as to why.

I thought today might be a good day to put together a video of clips featuring how Emory and Murray interact. I want to share it with you today to thank you for all your support lately. (I received some pretty great email last night and when I find the time, I do hope to write everyone back personally.)

Lastly, and this may sound a little silly, but when I watched the final video, it brought tears to my eyes. I hope you enjoy it as well.

UPDATED TO ADD: Lisa posted a video of Murray when he was just a wee little man. Check it out.

It takes anywhere from five to 15 minutes for Murray to take a poop. It’s never an easy, in ‘n out kind of deal. I think he plans for it, actually, like a vacation or a picnic in the park.

I’m usually in bed or watching something REALLY IMPORTANT on the television whenever he decides it’s time to unload. Never in my life have I met a cat with such a noisy poop ritual. (Incidentally, this is the main reason we got a DVR. The TV must be paused for the duration otherwise we miss everything.)

I guess it’s a good thing the noise I’m complaining about doesn’t actually come from within or due to anything passing from one place to another. According to TobyJoe, that’s not even possible since cats are incapable of making fart sounds on the account of their having only one sphincter.

The things you learn while married to TobyJoe.

No, the noise doesn’t come from Murray’s butt itself. The noise comes from his inability to carve out the perfect dirt dent. No doodoo dent is good enough for Murray. He probably creates anywhere from 5 to 35 holes before doing his business. Perhaps it’s the feline version of searching for that perfect magazine? I have no idea what type of hole he considers good enough to envelope his poop. They always look the same to me.

I realized today that (if I’m lucky) I’ll probably know Murray for another 15 years and in that time the only thing I can be absolutely sure of is that I’ll never, ever figure him out.

I was going to write a story to go along with this photo, but I think the photo speaks for itself. Murray does this every single time we bathe Emory. Even after Emory begins to flap his arms and fling water everywhere, Murray remains.

Someday when Emory’s older and he and his friend Jim Brown are going through the Brown family photo album and they stumble upon the family photo staple featuring all three Brown toddlers in a bathtub, Emory can pull this image out in comparison.

I’m not sure if that fantasy makes me laugh or cry. Maybe both.

(Tub courtesy of Jen.)

(Please note: what appears to be soap scum along the rim of our tub is not soap scum at all. It’s actually the outcome of a poor caulk job done by our cheap landlords. That is all.)

As of March 1, 2008, Murray is one year old. March 1 may or may not be his real birthday since he was orphaned, found and rescued. March 1st is a guestimate, one we’re sticking with. Unfortunately, we were out of town and thus unable to celebrate his first birthday with him. I feel terrible for scheduling a vacation at this really important milestone. I have apologized profusely.

Well, it just wasn’t good enough, all of my apologies were simply not good enough. This was an image sent to us by our beloved cat sitter, Lisa.

We’re not sure if this is the aftermath of an actual throwdown, a message letting us know just how angry he is that we weren’t around, or an attempt to make us believe he threw a party so that we’d think we missed something unbelievably special – the party of the century. Murray’s first birthday party.

Murray received his first ever gift yesterday from one of his adoring fans.

We’re calling him Mister Snuggles for now, although, he’s new so that name will most likely change. He’s full of catnip. Murray is both stoned and pleased.

Mister Snuggles is awesome and so is his maker. (Whom, as soon as she writes back, I’ll give proper credit.)

Murray has made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want us having anymore kids. He doesn’t outwardly dislike Emory. As a matter of fact, he and Emory have teamed up a few times to ransack the place. I don’t think he’s particularly upset with Emory on a personal level. I think he’s just really annoyed that he’s no longer the baby.

He hasn’t come out and said, “Hey, Michele and Toby, no more of these pale, bald things, OK?” He is way too passive aggressive for that sort of declaration. Instead, he’s letting me know in the most painful, and Murray-like way possible: by trying to shred my crotch.

Here’s my crotch.

I realize that’s not want you wanted to see when you stopped by here today. It’s not what I wanted to see today either, and it’s my crotch. But it plays the leading role in this particular story.

Lately, I have been doing a lot of yoga. It’s not that I necessarily want to do yoga. I do enjoy it very much. But I’m also (still) having a really difficult time right now. In fact, had there been a mental health facility within walking distance to my house yesterday, I would have had myself committed. Yesterday, was a very, very bad day. Today is better. That’s the problem with this postpartum stuff, it’s unpredictable. Not knowing how I’m going to feel from one day to the next has me feeling more uneven and nervous. It’s a vicious cycle.

Point is, I am still very much actively sorting out my postpartum situation. (But that’s a post for another day. This one is about Murray.)

Shall we? We shall.

I basically live in yoga pants. They’re comfortable, sure. But wearing yoga pants without actually practicing yoga is way too depressing, so I force myself to go as much as possible. I have about three pair of pants that I rotate through. Each pair of yoga pants have ties that wrap around the waist. But I don’t need the drawstrings because my belly, hips and ass do their job well. My pants defy gravity thanks to the effortless support I get from my ass. (Too bad my ass doesn’t specialize in postpartum support as well.) It probably doesn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone to read that I don’t usually tie the drawstrings since my pants pose zero threat of actually falling down. Plus, why tie them when I can prove to myself repeatedly of how thoughtless I am?

At least three times a week, Murray lunges at me with every bit of feline force – nails out, teeth exposed, eyes crazy – and tries to attack the dangling pant strings, which give way like dust to his paws. It’s like that scene in Edward Scissorhands, my crotch the small dog or block of ice, his paws are Edward’s hands. Only it’s a lot less visually stimulating and Winona Ryder is never present. (Bloody shame, too. I could use an extra pair of hands around the house when Toby’s at work.)

At the rate we’re going, I’ll be incapable of having kids by summer.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post entitled Waging War Against Bisphenol A. It’s in reference to how TobyJoe and I are cutting down on the amount of plastic we use. It led us to purchase these pacifiers from Zoe B. Emory enjoys a good pacifier every now and again.

I didn’t expect Emory to love them but not because they aren’t lovable. Emory is VERY picky when it comes to pacifiers. He will only suck on one shape, just one. He doesn’t have any interest in oddly shaped pacifiers. (He’s a pacifist. Ha! I just made myself laugh out loud). We have purchased a great number of pacifiers for Emory and he always prefers the cheapest, most mundane version money can buy. But I had high hopes for the Natrusutten.

As soon as I received them in the mail, I tore open the package and gave him one. And he quickly spit it right back out. I tried several more times thinking that maybe it’s like putting clay on a wheel, you just gotta keep trying until it’s centered. To no avail, each and every time the pacifier flew further and further away from his head.

Needless to say, he didn’t like the Natursutten pacifiers. But I can’t say I’m surprised. We purchased a bunch of Haba toys for him recently and he spent more time playing with the catalog. (I played with the toys.) If he had his way, he’d happily spend hours chewing on the remote control (which used to be filthy but has since been cleaned with organic baby spit). He’s just like our cats: the more we spend on something, the less he seems to like it.

But they didn’t go to waste entirely.

I guess I should be thankful they didn’t become Emory’s favorite pacifier because this could become really expensive.

The whole ordeal has me thinking. I think today I’m going to buy Murray one of these:

I think baby and cat are in cahoots.

P.S. I may have added this to LOL Cat. (Thanks, Nico!)

Putting the Super in Tuesday.

(Poster was originally designed by this person. I think.)

Murray is fodder for hundreds of stories. But for whatever reason, the stories that make us laugh the most – the things that stop us dead in our tracks, uproot our days with comedic relief – have to do with food. To be honest, I’m not sure if these stories are even remotely funny when they stand alone. I think it’s whenever you put them together that they begin to individually stand out a bit more, warrant a chuckle or two.

And so today I have yet another story about Murray stealing food.

TobyJoe went away on business last week and since I am having some trouble holding it together these days, my mother came to the city to keep Emory and me company. She came bearing cookies and soup. She even watched Emory for a few hours so I could attend a yoga class. What more can a gal ask for?

On Wednesday night, we were sitting on the sofa talking and snacking when a loud THUMP! echoed throughout the kitchen.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.” She answered.

“Shit! Where’s the cat?”

The moment the word “cat” came out of my mouth, but before I could get up from the couch, Murray rounded the corner carrying the entire bag of cookies my mother so kindly baked and brought along with her. (The picture below was taken after the fact. He reenacted it for me today with a much lighter bag because he’s Murray; he’s predictable yet totally bonkers.)

We made eye-contact, the cat and I.

The bag of cookies was difficult for him to carry around in his mouth. They weren’t nearly as difficult to carry as the sack of diapers he decided to move from below Emory’s crib to under our bed a couple months back, but the bag was still unruly. In order for Murray to carry these heavy things, he walks with his two front legs really far apart so he won’t trip as the loot can swings freely from side-to-side. There is nothing funnier than watching a small cat walk like he has a giant load in his pants.

“MURRAY!” I yelled out from across the room. My angry voice was spiked with laughter and did nothing to convince the small creature to drop what he had stolen. Instead, he began to trot, his legs spread even further apart, and he ran directly under the sofa with the bag and (most) of the cookies in tact.

My mother and I laughed heartily. And methinks that Ziplock is missing one hell of a advertising campaign here.

(P.S. Murray is for hire.)

We’re going away in March and we’re going to have to find someone to take care of our cats for 7 days. Instead of burdening one person with all seven days, we’ve been entertaining the idea of splitting the time up between two friends and paying both.

“Maybe Lisa would want to do it. We could get Meredith and Andy to watch them for some of the time and Lisa the rest.” Toby suggested.

“Yeah, maybe. But I am not sure about Lisa.” I answered.

Toby looked confused. “But we like Lisa! She’s responsible for our having Murray.”

“I know.” I answered. “But I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“I’m worried that she’ll take Murray away from us.”

“That’s insane! Why?”

“Because I made him fat.”

Over the holiday, Emory spent a lot of time napping in his crib. Usually, we’ll let him nap around us, but the holidays around the house were busy and therefore loud. So, we hooked up the Graco monitoring system and put him to bed in his crib.

Whenever Emory naps in his crib, I’ll usually take the microphone and place it in the far, bottom right hand corner of his crib. That way, I know that chances are I will hear his sounds only. You see, living in a city like Brooklyn, where people are right on top of one another, it’s not uncommon to hear another baby’s cries. To avoid such a thing, we put it close to him but not so close that he’s right on top of it.

The projector is put in our living room, which is off of our bedroom, which is off of his bedroom. It amplifies throughout our entire, railroad apartment. It’s kind of funny, really because not only can you hear the trucks barrel down the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway (BQE) live but you get an amplification of such as well. I often hear my mother’s voice, “When you guys were babies, you were up stairs, on the other side of the house. I used to listen for you from time to time from the foot of the stairs, but that’s about it.”

(These devices we buy now, I think they add to an overall feeling of anxiety, perpetuate worry. We may say they make us feel better, we may even believe it, but I think some of us spend more time questioning if it’s working or not, checking it every five seconds to see if the red lights are flashing. I guess I just don’t fully trust it. But without this particular piece of baby equipment, this story couldn’t be told.)

One day, TJ and I were doing some cooking and baking. We were in the kitchen, which is at the very back of the apartment. I mentioned before that we live in a railroad. I’m not sure if this term is used outside of Brooklyn. I imagine that it is, but I hadn’t ever heard of it before moving here. Maybe that’s because so many Brooklyn apartments are considered railroad apartments. But if you’re unfamiliar with the term, it’s basically an apartment where all the rooms train one right after another, hence the name. It’s great for fooling a tenant into thinking the place is bigger than it really is. It sucks if you want to hide a litter box. It also means the middle rooms are very dark, dreary even.

I had just put the cookies in the oven when I heard a noise. It was a strange noise, new to me entirely. It sounded like a motor, like someone was distantly hammering into pavement, only it wasn’t a sound I’d describe as annoying, not at all. I stood in the living room and tried to figure out what it could be. That’s when I realized that the sound wasn’t coming from outside at all. It was only coming in through the monitor. It must be some sort of interference, I concluded. But I decided to check on the baby anyway.

I walked through the rest of the apartment and the sound all but diminished. I peaked into his room. Emory was sound asleep as was Murray. Murray was not only in the crib with Emory, but he was on top of the microphone. The sound I heard was his amplified and insanely loud, and amazingly soothing purr. I now know what an Emory must have experienced every time Murray slept on my belly and he was still in the womb. (Picture below does not show the scenario described. It’s just a picture of Murray snuggling with Emory on the couch.)

I think we might move closer to world peace if we could figure out a way to project a purr so that everyone could hear it. It’s one of the most soothing sounds on planet Earth.

^{(I couldn’t let a Tuesday go by without a Murray.)}

Whenever we first got Murray, he used to spend a lot of time standing on my belly. It worked out really well, because he grew as my belly grew. Every time I’d leave the house the moment I returned I’d say, “Murray! Want some scritches? Scritches?” (Pronounced Sker-etches.) He’d always meow from the depths of somewhere and come running.

After he’d position himself just so, I’d run my fingernails up and down both sides of his body. He’d lean in every now and again for a forehead kiss. His eyes would squeeze shut from all the love and sometimes, if I got him just right, he’d drool on me.

These daily meetings became something I really looked forward to. I used to say, “What are we going to do once my belly is gone? I’m going to have to drink a lot of beer to maintain this!” (Whenever I was in labor, I yearned for this such meeting.)

Now Murray is bigger and my belly is much smaller and all the beer in the world couldn’t get me to the size I was whenever I was pregnant. But Murray is determined to keep this going, as am I. I still yell, “Murray, want some SCRITCHES?” and he continues to crawl aboard. And he still drools on me. Now I bend my knees and put my feet up on the coffee table and he sits with his butt up against my thighs. And this works out well. He’s able to reach my face and I’m able to scratch his sides.

We’re a team, he and I.

Lately, I have felt kind of bad for Murray because most all of my time is spent holding or playing with Emory so whenever Murray decides it’s time to climb aboard, I’m not usually able to accommodate him. So, about a month ago, I made a deal with Murray and TobyJoe. Murray would get at least two SCRITCH meetings per day no matter what. This has worked. I try and do one in the morning before TobyJoe goes to work and one at night whenever he gets home. If that doesn’t work, I try and squeeze one in while Emory naps. And if that doesn’t work Murray squeezes himself in while I’m on the computer.

“Murray? Want some scritches? SCRITCHES?”

See? Here he comes.

The cats used to sleep with us. Now we have to close the doors at night so they don’t walk all over the baby. One of our four legged roommates can’t seem to figure out that the baby is alive. It just so happens that he’s the smallest of the three cats which is a good thing because whenever he does walk on the baby the baby doesn’t even flinch. It’s quite the opposite, actually. One morning I woke up to find Emory laughing because Murray had a paw against Emory’s side. (Before you call the ACS, we don’t actually let the cat walk all over the baby.) Unfortunately, Murray is starting to put on weight, which means we’re going to have to keep an closer eye on him whenever he’s near Emory. It also means I’m going to have to put him on a diet. And I hate that idea because living with Murray is like living an episode Fear Factor. Only he doesn’t do it to show off his enormous, fake tits. He eats everything just for fun.

Now we shut the folding doors that separate the living area with the bedrooms, a decision Murray is not very pleased with. And he lets us know about it each and every night repeatedly. It starts whenever we first close the doors. And I generally give in if we’re still reading or watching TV. I let him in just to prove that he’s not missing anything. Eventually, he either gets bored or we have to toss him out. But the cries do not stop. The cries return at least twice during the night and they come on strong at 5 AM. The cries are much more desperate at 5 AM.

Murray has always visited me at 5 AM. When he was a kitten and we first brought him home, he’d climb into bed and curl up on my ear or around my neck. One night, I had a dream I was having my teeth drilled and I haven’t ever even had my teeth drilled. I woke up to find Murray asleep and purring loudly against the right hand side of my face. I miss him a lot. But it has to be done.

A few days ago, we were sleeping soundly. At around 4 AM, Emory woke up and wanted something to eat. I fed him and changed him and we were asleep again by 4:30. At 5 AM Murray started. He cried and cried. I guess he wondered where we had gone. They were up a minute ago, where have they gone? Why have they locked me out again? He continued to cry and we continued to ignore him. This went on for roughly 15 minutes.

“MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!”

Silence.

SCRATCH. SCRATCH. DOOR HEADBUTT. SCRATCH. DOOR HEADBUTT.

“MEOW! MEOW!”

DOOR HEADBUTT

“MEOW!”

DOOR HEADBUTT. DOOR HEADBUTT.

“MEEEOWOOOWWW!!”

Silence.

At some point he realized that a simple MEOW wasn’t going to work and so he moved on to a more abrasive tactic.

This is what the tactic sounded like. (Click below.)

Murray is probably the only creature capable of making me laugh at 5 AM. And of course throwing the monkey against our door a few times not only woke me up, it brought him numerous early morning scritches as well.

TobyJoe suggested that I take a bath. I had just had surgery on my face and wasn’t feeling too well. A bath might do the trick.

I grabbed some candles and a book and ran the bathwater. Murray bolted in from wherever. Murray always bolts in from wherever whenever someone leaves the door open to the bathroom. He watched the water pool and swirl, curious as ever. I poured in some bubble bath and the two of us watched the suds bubble up. Steam filled the bathroom. I got in.

I leaned forward to shave my legs, a task made for a weed whacker. I grabbed the razor and dove right in. Murray stood on the ledge next to me dizzily slapping bubbles with his paw.

Minutes went buy and I switched legs. Murray grew more curious. He started to round the back of the tub, the skinny part where a normal, graceful cat might fair pretty well. But graceful, Murray is not. And I think it’s pretty safe to say he’ll never be a member of Mensa.

Perhaps he felt adventurous. Maybe he was just lonely and cold. Perhaps the bubbles confused him. All I know is Murray hasn’t ever smelled this good.

^{P.S. I am having some serious blog issues today. Lost a post. Found it. Lost it again. Finally, I decided that the blog was trying to tell me that I couldn’t let a Tuesday go by without a Murray. Please forgive me for the issues. But here’s a Murray.}

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^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), where one writes every day for the month of November, which is easier said than done.}

I’m dieting, which means we’re coming up with new and exciting ways to eat healthy foods. I began by purchasing this book and it’s pretty great. We’re eating a lot more veggies and more often. TobyJoe and I eat pretty well to begin with, him more so than me. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t the occasional pizza, the occasional burger with fries, and the occasional 13 cupcakes. It’s when you bring all the occasionals together that it starts to look less like an occasional and more like a habit. So, we’re cutting out the occasionals.

Last week TobyJoe cooked up some cauliflower. It was delightful. He cooked up more than necessary so I could continue to snack on it while he was at work. You see, my weakness since the baby was born, has been waiting until the very last minute to eat and I’m starving by that point. So I end up grabbing something less than healthy. For example, eating some Lite Cheese Curls is fine but when you finish the entire bag, well, that kind of kills the whole “lite” aspect.

By making that extra bit of cauliflower, I could snack on it instead. But we live with Murray and we left the pan unattended for a few minutes. And that was stupid.

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^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), where one writes every day for the month of November, which is easier said than done.}

TobyJoe and I have done some stupid things in our time. We picked up and moved to San Francisco (a place neither one of us had ever been before) for a job that ended up sucking. There was the time we played pool for 9 hours and drank at least a 12-pack of beer apiece. The next morning was the stupidest part of all. (Thank God those days are behind us.) We both signed up to run the NYC Marathon 6 months before the actual event without having much of a foundation at all. My right knee still hasn’t healed entirely and his running career came to an end because of it. We’ve made some dumb decisions over the years.

But the dumbest thing we’ve ever done happened when we bought this dangling gymnasium-like toy for Emory.

We may as well have taken pieces of string tied with tuna and hung them over the baby.

Emory barely gets to use it unless we lock Murray in the back room.

But that’s OK, because Emory recently found his toes! And who needs a colorful, portable gymnasium when you have your own two feet?

When Lisa first wrote to me about Murray, she said, “You have to meet this guy. I am holding him for you. You need to laugh.” The last bit was in response to our having just put our most beloved 14-year-old cat to sleep. An experience that would have sent me over the edge had I not been pregnant with Emory. I used to suggest that putting a pet to sleep while 6 months pregnant was just really bad luck. But I’m starting to believe that since it had to happen, it was sort of better that way because I had something positive to focus on. Regardless of its timing, the experience nearly knocked me to the ground. Lisa was right; I did need to laugh.

Hours after bringing Murray into our home I was in tears. And not the tears I had grown used to dealing with the weeks leading up to Murray’s arrival. I cried from laughing so hard. I have known hundreds of cats over the years, and not one of them has ever made me laugh as hard and as frequently as Murray.

Schmitty died on April 21st of this year. And only recently have I been able to talk about him without crying. Now I smile. There are still difficult moments. I think about him and my chest starts to hurt, like, my heart actually begins to ache. It starts from deep within, bubbles up to the surface gaining more power and force as it gets closer to the top and then it takes my breath away. Breathing and all the other bodily functions that usually happen involuntarily become obvious and therefore very difficult. Sometimes the heartache comes on so quickly it forces an audible sound from my throat. I guttural sound, like being kicked in the stomach, vomiting air, a sorrowful dry heave. I imagine it’s the way a window fan feels whenever the air outside moves through it faster than its blades can spin. I still wake up feeling that way sometimes when I realize I’ll never see Katrina again, my grandmother, and yes, Schmitty.

But now we have Murray. And while he will never, ever replace The Big Guy, he is always there to make me laugh. For example, that last paragraph took over 30 minutes to write because Murray jumped on my lap midway through and would not leave me be. Murray doesn’t like it when I’m sad. I swear. He knew I was writing about something sad.

Sometimes I think he works overtime at making me happy. And of course I had to take screen caps of this.

And so last night I finally had a talk with him about it. I told him he didn’t have to keep up all the clowning around, that TobyJoe and I feel better and that he could finally relax. I told him that I know that people and cats can’t be funny all of the time. I told him that he could ignore us if he wanted to, that he got the job. He’s here to stay. I told him that he could take a vacation from all the silliness.

And instead of taking some time off, in the middle of our talk, he climbed into the kitchen sink just as I finished the dishes and tried to bite the water. Murray may never replace Schmitty, but he fills a vacancy in my heart that needed a tenant.

We just got back from Pennsylvania and I have a lot of cleaning to do partly because of Murray and his two friends. He’s exhausted. They apparently threw a party while we were away.

Emory is happiest whenever he’s being held. So I hold him a lot, which usually leaves me with only one free arm. I’ve spent a lot of time discovering things to do with one arm. There aren’t many. Reading a book isn’t easy to do with a newborn. (At least for me.) Cleaning is impossible. And knitting is so far out of the question, not that I got the hang of it yet anyway. Writing on the Internet is too frustrating because typing with one hand makes me feel crippled. Although, I do it sometimes. Usually, my texts look like an LOL cat wrote them.

“k. cnt type mch. 1 hand. b crful. c u soon. sry abt the wrk load. get sum wine.”

One day I received a response back from Toby. It read:

“I really have no clue what that could even mean.”

I usually bring Emory into the bedroom around 9:30 PM every night, which leaves me with all the evening programs the following morning. And so I’ve been watching a lot of television because it’s easy to do with one hand. (Please note, judgmental parents of the Internet, I read to him every day as well. I sing to him too. I don’t just sit around blogging, watching TV, and eating chocolate. Well, that last part is sort of true. Producing breast milk takes a whole lot of chocolate. But I digress.)

No matter how much planning goes into my couch camping organization skills, I still manage to forget one key item in order to survive. I’ll have Emory in one arm, a beverage at my feet, a pacifier on my right, the next bottle within reach, pillows propped up and ready to go for my sore back, maybe a snack or two, snacks that can be eaten with one hand. I’m ready to camp out for however long Emory wishes. But! Where’s the remote? The remote is out of arm’s reach. And I’m left thinking about one of my favorite books from childhood. I could probably learn a thing or two from this kid:

The other day was not unlike the rest. Only this time the remote was on the chair with Murray.

Of course, I had to put the baby down for a minute, leave my campsite, and take a picture.

Now, if only I could get him to work it for me.

Some folks have asked me how the cats (specifically, Murray) have dealt with our new addition. In typical feline fashion, they’ve all dealt with Emory in very different ways. Let me explain.

Pookum is very aware of Emory. She looks at him as if she’s trying to figure him out. She rarely goes near him and whenever she does, she uses his head as a chin-scratching post or she’ll headbutt him for a hug. I think Pookum is grateful that Emory doesn’t bother her because every other member of the household does. Pookum is an old lady. If she were human she’d be living in Florida, playing Bingo every day, remarried to a millionaire.

Tucker is surprisingly gentle around Emory. He won’t touch him. And whenever he’s near, he slows his pace to that of a sloth. It’s kind of like when you’re nearing a sharp turn while driving and you slow down for safety. Emory is Tucker’s turn. He is very cautious. And I’m grateful for Tucker’s delicate demeanor if for no other reason than it helps counter Murray’s behavior.

Whenever Murray acknowledges the fact that Emory is around, he totally disregards Emory’s personal space. He doesn’t want to hurt Emory, not at all. He’s more interested in playing with him or taking over his crib, stealing his food, or standing on his head and chest. Murray isn’t jealous of Emory at all. He’s merely trying to understand why he does what he does. For example, why does Emory do nothing but lie around the house all day? Why hasn’t he started running wildly through the house? Why doesn’t Emory know how to use the litterbox yet? What does the fat bald thing eat anyway? Does he like cupcakes? And why can’t he lick his own ass?

Emory perplexes Murray but not enough for Murray to air on the side of caution like Tucker does. Instead, Murray really believes that he alone can jump-start Emory by running up and over his squirming body, or slapping one of his moving feet, joining him in his crib, or running off with his dirty diaper.

We warn Emory about Murray almost every day. “Stay away from that guy, Emory. He’s crazy.” Or “You see the fuzzy grayish striped one? He’s insane and will eat your food if you’re not looking.”

Unbeknownst to Murray, however, is that in just 2 years, Emory could possible become Murray’s worst nightmare. Tails will be grabbed in spite of my instructing otherwise. Heads will be tapped, butts will be chased, favorite nap spots will be pooped, peed, puked upon. Murray is going to be Emory’s childhood pet. But we haven’t yet told Murray. We’ve decided to keep this a secret for as long as possible.

Well, I’ve actually been trying to get some work done today, which means I haven’t had a chance to write my weekly Tuesdays with Murray post. So, I’m gonna copout this week and post a video of him as a kitten chatting it up with me.

Murray says hello. (Video)

And here’s a picture I took of him yesterday while he was asleep on Emory’s soft blanket, aka Murray’s Mama.

Viva! La! Murray!

I was given a baby blanket as a gift. It’s the softest item I have ever laid my hands on. I was so excited to wrap Emory in it. I thought it might even become his blankie. I had one when I was a baby. I damn near ripped that thing to shreds I loved it so much. I called it “Icing” for some inexplicable reason and I constantly played with its soft edges. Here’s a picture of “Icing” 33 years later.

Up until Sunday, we had no idea that a lot of babies enjoy playing with tags, edges, and corners. So when Chandler’s mom gave us a blanket and added two white tags to the edges of it, we were confused.

“What the hell are those for?” Toby asked.

“I dunno. Maybe for hanging it up?”

“Maybe it’s for swaddling?”

“Not sure.”

We asked around and found out that the tags were added so Emory could play with them. Now that’s thinking like a baby! That’s something special right there.

It’s a good thing Chandler’s mother made us another blanket for Emory. Because Murray has claimed the other one as his own. I refer to it as his Mama. Because prior having met this particular blanket, Murray hadn’t ever made biscuits before. He nurses in his sleep, but he doesn’t make biscuits. That is until he met this blanket, his Mama.

Here is a video of Murray making biscuits on the blanket. This is the first thing Emory Francis has done to honor his namesake. He gave his blanket to a fuzzy man named Murray.

Speaking of Emory, here’s a photo of him. He’s so damned cute. I love him to pieces. And he’s long! He is 23 inches long and weighs 10 pounds 6 ounces. He’s gonna be a tall one, we think.

On Saturday, I got up at 5 AM. Tired and bleary eyed, I wandered into the kitchen for some water and a snack. My aunt dropped by last week and left me 6 pink cupcakes. I love cupcakes and that love has blossomed now that I’m breastfeeding Emory. I had been dreaming about these cupcakes for hours.

Breastfeeding hunger far exceeds any sort of hunger I experienced when I was pregnant. Now I eat around the clock. I don’t stuff myself with one dish like I did when I was pregnant. Instead, I crave mere tablespoon sizes of a plethora of stuff. I’ll scoop out a big dollop of peanut butter followed by a spoon full of jam followed by some ice cream followed by one ravioli followed by one plum followed by a cupcake followed by a spoon full of cottage cheese. The hunger is awesome. I have had dreams about catered parties, rooms filled with round tables, finger foods as far as the eye can see. (An hors d’oeuvre catered party is how I currently picture heaven to look.)

When I got to the kitchen, I noticed that there were only two cupcakes left. There were four when I went to bed the night before. And they were in Suran wrap in pink pairs. One of the pairs was gone. There were no crumbs, no plastic pieces. Just a clean table surface where my pink cupcakes once sat. “Wow!” I thought to myself. “My husband must really be delirious. He consumed not one, but two pink cupcakes!” I was proud.

Tobyjoe doesn’t like sweets. He rarely eats them and he never craves them. (It kind of sucks because I always want to split desserts with him when we’re out to eat. And he’ll either say no or agree and then not touch them forcing me to consume the entire thing thereby adding to the size of my already expanding ass.)

But who cares about a large ass when you’re breastfeeding? I grabbed the remaining pair of cupcakes, unwrapped them, and gingerly stuffed one of them into my mouth.

Hours went by. Tobyjoe was wide awake and filled with energy. I watched as he frantically cleaned, picked up around the house, washed things. He expelled energy I would have paid top dollar for. He finished the kitchen and then cleaned the dining room where we had a temporary second bedroom. Here’s what that looked like:

Tobyjoe decided that it was time for us both to return to our original bed. He decided that Emory was sleeping enough at night and we could start sleeping together again. So he decided to put the futon back up to couch position.

“OH MY GOD.” He yelled. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“What? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, there is some sort of pink massacre underneath the futon. Someone brought a cupcake under the futon.”

“I thought you ate the cupcakes! There were two missing this morning and I figured you temporarily lost your mind and ate them both!”

“Wait, there are two missing?”

“Yes.”

He moved the futon further away from the wall. “AH, yes, there are two missing.”

Beneath the futon were two, half-eaten pink cupcakes, some plastic wrap, a play mouse, a napkin, and an unopened bag of Dentek floss sticks. Murray had struck again.

^{P.S. I did take pictures of the massacre, but I accidentally deleted the entire SIM card.}

It was only a matter of time…

Murray has a bedroom. He claimed it the day he moved in. It’s right near the rear window that faces Manhattan. It’s down by the heater, tucked between the white radiator cover and the wall. It’s more of a corner than a bedroom but he doesn’t know the difference. And being a New Yorker, where square footage is a hot commodity, every little bit counts. It’s his bedroom. He brings stuff there. He steals napkins, crackers, muffins, crumbs, candy wrappers, candy, cookies, cheese slices, and pretty much anything else he can get his paws on. And nothing seems too heavy or unruly for him. He has a stuffed bear that he kidnaps and takes there as well. And that’s adorable. I have yet to get a decent photo of it, unfortunately. But you’ll just have to take my word for it. The stuffed bear is so big that once it’s in his mouth it covers his eyes and blocks his view. There have been a few times where he’s actually run into a chair leg or table leg on on his way to his room.

When we clean up, he gets very uppity if we go near his bedroom. And that breaks my heart. (It broke my heart even before I hopped on the hormonal roller coaster.) He looks at me as if to say, “What are you doing to my bedroom, Mama! Why are you taking away my collections?!” As much as I’d love to leave Murray to his crumbs, muffin tops, and candy wrappers, we’re not really given much of a choice in the matter. We live in New York City, after all. Leaving crumbs lying about is a surefire way to end up with bugs. And I hate bugs.

A few days ago, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table having some breakfast. I was picking up as much as possible while the baby slept. My mother made a funny sound. “He’s gotten into something again.” She said. I looked over to and found Murray on the small table that stands outside the kitchen. It’s about 3 feet away from his bedroom. The little thief had added something new to his repertoire, something a lot more important than a few crackers or a piece of candy.

Murray was stealing our money.

Emory is slowly being weaned off of formula and moved entirely over to breast milk. Unfortunately, we were forced to try formula during the first 48 hours of life due to some problems that arose after he was born. (A post for a later date.) Well, the formula seems to have an appealing smell to our beloved Myrtle Man. I’ll finish a bottle and Murray will sneak over, steal the thing from the dresser/table, whatever, and bring it to his den. Yesterday, I had my mother hold it up to see what would happen.

F.R.E.A.K.

A short, visual story about pancakes and kitty cats.

Murray and I snuggle. He stands on my great big belly and I scratch him all over. And he has trouble keeping his eyes open. Eventually, I hypnotize him and he falls over. He wraps himself around my neck and falls asleep. And he purrs, oh boy does he ever purr. His purr calms me greatly. It’s so calming I’m considering bringing a recording of it to the hospital with me when I go into labor.

Murray and Toby have a different relationship. They are playmates. They play hide-and-go-seek, a wicked game of chase, and tackle. My favorite is when they combine hide-and-go-seek with chase, which consists of Toby running from one room to the next and Murray tearing after him. Sometimes he runs so fast, his butt passes his head and that makes me crack up.

Usually Murray gets the game (or games) going the moment Toby gets home from work. Murray makes direct eye contact with Toby and then he TAKES OFF! running in the other direction. And since Toby is fluent in Catonese, he knows exactly what to do. And I sit and watch, wondering what our neighbors must think, as my boys run back and forth chasing one another like children. Tobyjoe giggles and Murray squeaks and meows. Watching them play has me so excited about having Toby’s son. I can’t put that feeling into words.

About a month ago we emptied the guest room in order to ready it for the baby. My mother is going to stay with us for a while once the baby arrives because neither of us has any clue as to what to do with a baby. I don’t even know how to hold one let alone feed one. So if things don’t work out, we’re just going to give my mother the baby and send her on her way. In the meantime, we decided to hold onto the futon so my mother has a fairly comfortable place to sleep.

One of the places Toby and Murray end up playing is the doorway separating the dining room from the foyer that leads to the bathroom. This is also where the futon currently lives. Tobyjoe hides behind the door jam and Murray hunts Tobyjoe from the futon. And this works out well for the two of them. It doesn’t really work out so well form me, however.

I use the bathroom a lot these days. I visit it every 90 minutes. And since I usually walk fast in order to get there, Murray often thinks I’m ready to play and assumes his position on the futon. It doesn’t matter that it’s me – the one he usually snuggles with. He wants to play! He makes it downright impossible for me to go directly to the bathroom. It’s like that game we played as kids where you have to pay a toll in order to do something. I simply cannot use the bathroom until I have played with Murray. Unfortunately his stamina and attention span is a lot larger than my bladder so I always feel like I’ve let him down.

Here is a brief video of what you have to deal with in order to use the bathroom at our house. When he runs off at the end that’s my hint that I’m supposed to chase him. Unfortunately, I can barely walk these days let alone chase a small kitten.

^{(The video is a .mov file because I can’t figure out how to export any other file format from iMovie because I’m retarded.)}

Murray was dumped at a construction site in Williamsburg. He was motherless and barely a week old. He was found by a Hasidic developer and dropped off at BARC in a box along with his brother and sister.

That’s how Murray came to be in this world.

Yesterday, Lisa Cat (of BARC shelter fame) put up this amazingly cute photograph of a very small, orphaned kitten. I was beside myself. (Click that link, I dare you.) As with many of the little guys, this baby will be bottle-fed by one of the staff members at BARC. Our Murray was bottle-fed by a gentleman named PJ for the first few weeks of his life. Later, Lisa fostered him and her job was to plump him up, play with him, and love him until he grew old enough to be neutered and adopted.

Right about the time Lisa was fostering Murray (at the time his name was Cherokee) we were saying goodbye to our most beloved cat, Schmitty. That was a really rough time for both Tobyjoe and me. A lot of tears were shed; we suffered through a lot of really sad days and a lot of sleepless nights. Saying goodbye to Schmitty was one of the harder things I’ve had to do to be perfectly honest. (It’s still hard.) One day, while looking at my computer screen through a blurry wall of tears, I saw this picture on Lisa’s photo stream. Distraught and missing my striped man, I left a comment asking if he was still available.

That’s how Murray was introduced to us.

What I didn’t know at the time of leaving that comment, was that Lisa had already emailed me suggesting we come to BARC to meet Cherokee, that he was an old soul and she thought he’d be a perfect match for us. But what I remember the most about her email was when she wrote, “You need to laugh.”

That’s how Murray came to be in our home.

I read recently that a cat’s personality is defined during the first couple of weeks of its life. I can’t say whether that’s true or not; I haven’t asked. But the more I get to know Murray and the older he gets, the more and more I’m starting to believe it. You see Murray is one of the most trusting animals I’ve ever met. He is not afraid of anyone. He is kind, playful, alarmingly snuggly, and needy as all hell. He looks to us for food, comfort, love, and companionship. It’s almost like he was raised by humans, humans named PJ and Lisa.

Like every other cat, when Murray sleeps he dreams. I watch tails flick wildly when it’s naptime. I watch their whiskers twitch, their eyes move rapidly, and their little feet move. Of course they’re dreaming about living in the wild ready to take down a large antelope or a New York City cockroach. Murray dreams like that as well, but he also does something much more peculiar and adorable. He doesn’t knead pillows and human bellies like Tucker does. He doesn’t make us biscuits like Pookum. He probably doesn’t even know what that means since he never had a mother. Instead of pushing on plump, soft things in search of milk, Murray nurses a bottle when he sleeps. And today I have video of it.

That’s how Murray makes me thankful.

^{To Lisa, PJ, and the rest of BARC, thank your for being so loving toward animals. You make me believe in angels.}

We made bean burritos last night. Tobyjoe made a salad to go on the side as well corn on the cob. I know. That might sound a little weird. It sounded weird to me. Corn on the cob doesn’t really go with bean burritos, does it? But Toby wanted to put corn in his burrito, which didn’t end up happening. The burritos were too filling so we decided to save the corn on the cob for another day.

There’s a discrepancy to the story at this point. Tobyjoe claims that he wasn’t the one who left the corn in a metal bowl on the windowsill in the kitchen. But I’m absolutely positive it wasn’t me. And I am always right. There’s no way I would have done such a thing because I know that the windowsill in question is Murray’s favorite launching pad onto bigger and better kitchen appliances, such as the laundry machine or the kitchen sink. But Tobyjoe is certain that I left the bowl there. And so it’s become a battle of he said, she said. Let’s just say that someone in this household left the bowl of corn on the cob on the windowsill in the kitchen all night long.

I got up at 7 AM today. The first thing I do when I get up is pee. The second thing I do is brush my teeth. The third thing I do is feed and water the cats. I checked their water bowl first and discovered little yellow things floating throughout it. “That’s weird.” I thought. “Wonder what that’s all about.” I fed Tucker and Murray their Merrick’s and checked to make sure that Pookum had enough dry food. It took me a few minutes to realize where the yellow bits had come from.

Unfortunately, he’s still too small to flip them over, so his snack came to an end once he’d gotten all the exposed bits. The best part is that I know that at some point during the night he tried to lift them up out of the bowl and onto the floor below. How do I know this? Because on Sunday night he crawled into our trashcan and tried to liberate two chewed cobs. We watched and laughed as he tried unsuccessfully to air lift each cob to the floor. The cob clearly outweighed the little guy. And so he was left with no other choice than to consume his meal in the trashcan while I took photos of it.

I can’t believe what this little guy will eat! I only hope our son feels the same way about food. But I’m hoping he doesn’t dig it out of the trashcan.

Murray really enjoys it when people (and cats) use the bathroom. Whenever Tucker or Pookum have to use the bathroom, he stands outside the litter box and stares directly at them. If it’s Tucker (who is a little more forgiving than Pookum) Murray will occasionally climb inside to get a better look, rate the turd, whatever. Pookum hates it. So whenever she goes to the bathroom I have to grab a hold of Murray so he doesn’t interrupt her. One time, Pookum jumped out mid-turd because he was watching her.

He follows us into the bathroom as well. I’m not sure why he’s so fascinated with bathroom stuff. He came that way. But he keeps me company whenever I pee. I’m huge right now and not at all very limber. So when I use the toilet, I let my trousers fall down all the way down until they hit the floor. A lot of the time he’ll curl up in between my legs right in the circle of my waistband; it makes for a perfect kitten holder. One time, he looked so comfortable I decided to sit there for a little while longer so he could get a full snug in. It wasn’t hard to accommodate. I mentioned a while ago that camping out on the toilet brings me great comfort regardless of its potential hemorrhoid hazard.

With Toby, well, that routine is a wee bit different. Tobyjoe pees standing up. He lifts the toilet seat before he conducts any business. And Murray joins him as well. But things move whenever Tobyjoe pees, so Murray doesn’t curl up in his trousers or watch from below. Instead, he likes to stand next to the toilet rim and watch the arc of urine fall gracefully into the bowl. And I think he probably enjoys the way it sounds as well.

The other day I was sleeping and Tobyjoe came into the bedroom and said, “You want to hear a funny Murray story?”

I always want to hear a funny Murray story. Although, Murray is funny without a story. (He most definitely lives up to his namesake of Bill. Although, we’ve been calling Murray other names as of late. He’s become Myrtle for some reason.)

“Sure.” I said.

“I was peeing and he came in and usually he watches me pee with his front two paws on the toilet rim. He jumped up this time and nearly fell in. And part of his body got in the way.”

“Are you telling me you peed on the cat?”

“And then he took his paw and began playing with it!”

“Why didn’t you stop!”

“Men can’t really do that.”

“So you peed on the cat?!“

“Yeah. But only a little bit.”