On Monday, Jason sent me this text.

I suppose seeing a large turtle in the back yard is exciting for some people. Personally, I’ve seen a lot of them in my lifetime, which is how I immediately knew what this one was intending to do.  When I was a kid, my dad caught a snapping turtle the size of Gamera that barely fit into an oil drum, and the memory of that beast snapping a tree limb in half has stuck with me all my life. Since then, I have preferred to maintain what I call a “preserving my digits and extremities”-type distance from snapping turtles.

Jason texted me a little while later. She’s still out there, he typed. I’m going to take more pictures.

This concerned me a little bit. I didn’t feel that Jason was paying this turtle the amount of respect she deserved. Please leave her be, I texted back. The worst possible time to approach a snapping turtle is when it is a female laying eggs. Guess what that is?  A FEMALE. LAYING EGGS.

About an hour later, Jason called me on my work line.

“The turtle’s digging holes in your flower bed,” he announced.

“Okay,” I said.

“I thought you’d be upset. She’s already dug up a half-dozen flowers,” he said, surprised.

“General rule of thumb that I like to live by: let snapping turtles do whatever they want. If she starts weaving a lei out of the flowers and inviting all the other turtles to dance the cha-cha with her, please let her.” The memory of Oil Drum Gamera still crunched in my head.

“She’s dug, like, three or four holes already,” he said.

“Okay. She’s just looking for exactly the right spot. I would advise letting her. Snapping turtles are allowed to be fussy. Also, and I can’t reiterate this enough, do NOT approach or touch her,” I said.

“Sheesh, I know already! I’m gonna go watch her,” he said, hanging up.

A short time later, I noticed that Jason had posted a video online of our snapping turtle laying her eggs in my carefully mulched flower bed. The video ended with an angry turtle charging at Jason’s phone. He did text me to assure me he still had all of his fingers and toes, so I felt a little better. Then he asked if I was okay with the fact that the flower bed was now a turtle hatchery. Baby snapping turtles, I texted back. Can’t wait.

He was off to work that afternoon, and of course, our girl hadn’t left the lawn yet. Can you please check the yard when you get home to make sure the snapping turtle didn’t get caught in the deer netting around the garden? he texted me. I read it twice and texted him back: And if she is caught in the netting . . . what, exactly, would you like me to do about it?

Nature: sometimes, it’s better to give it the healthy, hands-off respect it deserves.

It's no fun when your animals get sick. This week, Pugsley decided to express his displeasure with either my housekeeping, his food, or Cliff Robinson's early exit from Survivor, by power-spraying the house with diarrhea. (Sorry, gentle reader, but when I suffer, I want you to suffer with me, even if it's just by reading revolting descriptions of runny cat poop.) Not one for subtlety, he first let loose on the bed. Jason stripped the sheets while I chased the cat into the bathroom and dumped him in the tub. Cats, as you might have heard, don't particularly enjoy water, and before we were done, the walls (and I) were covered with cat hair and smears of poo. This did not bode well for the rest of the evening.

Were Jason and I smart enough to lock the cat out of the bedroom after that first incident? Heck, no. Pugsley jumped right back on the bed and started slinging more mud, looking slightly mortified as he did so. We were up all night, Jason shampooing the carpet, me showering with the cat. Wednesday, in the meantime, was hiding in the basement ceiling to avoid getting splattered herself. She's always been the smarter of the two cats, and in this instance, significantly brighter than the two humans involved. Jason managed to get Pugsley to the vet the next day. The vet thought Pugs might have gotten into something he shouldn't have (and, surprisingly, did not think that the Cliff Robinson Retaliation Theory was plausible). He put the cat on medication . . . which would not take effect for at least 24 hours.

By this point, I was trying hard not to get mad at the cat—after all, I'm sure he would've controlled it if he could—so to amuse myself, I started coming up with hilarious nicknames for him. He quickly graduated from Muddy Waters to something that rhymes with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (hint: I didn't change the "Bang Bang" portion of that) and found it hilarious when I could actually text Jason to tell him that Chitty Chitty (. . . but not "Chitty;" are you getting it yet? Funny, right?) backfired on the recliner. Maybe you consider this stupid, but honestly, I had to preserve my sanity somehow. It was a looong, excrement-filled night during which Poopsley and I showered four more times and we finally made good use for those aromatic Yankee candles I'd been collecting for years.

Pugsley's feeling better now, though he's lost some weight. The good news is that I started Weight Watchers again this week, and after Pugsley released the Kraken, so to speak, on our kitchen floor (twice) while I was making dinner, I can report that I've lost both my appetite and three pounds.

Dear Female Human That Lives In My House,

Pugsley the Cat here. You foolishly left your laptop open while taking a shower (and who do you think you are, anyway? Too good to lick yourself all over like the rest of us?) which has allowed me this opportunity to get a few things off my chest.
Let me remind you that I am gracious enough to let you live in this house with me. I don't even charge rent. All I ask for in return is complete run of the house, food on demand, and the understanding that if there's a lap available, it's my God-given right to jump on it. Which brings me to Abuse #1: How dare you insist on shutting the bathroom door every time you use it, even though you know darn well that you're denying me a perfectly good lap to jump on whenever you sit on the toilet? The nerve! No matter how loudly I meow at the door and swat my paw underneath it to remind you that I'm supposed to be in there with you, you ignore me. This is exactly the reason why I've been chewing on all of the electrical cords in the house--frustration at being locked out of the bathroom. It's your fault, really.
Second on the list is the stupid pet names. I'm getting pretty tired of being called "puddin' face" or "fuzzy britches" when you come home. As in "Get out from under my feet, fuzzy britches!" I find it demeaning and rude. My name is Pugsley, thank you very much, and I will walk wherever I please. If you don't like it, go move in with a dog person. Like your friend Kathy. You think I can't smell her dog on your pants leg every time you come home from visiting her? I bet you even pet that dog, too. I guess what my mother told me is true: once a cheater, always a cheater.
I also didn't appreciate your reaction the first time my sister, Wednesday, went into heat. She's the one who came on to me. Sure, hump your sister just once, and it's off to the vet for both of you! It's going to take a few more cans of tuna before I forgive you for that very unpleasant visit.
Just a side note: when in bed, I prefer to jump on the purple fleece blanket. Please stop using the Holstein-print microfiber blanket. It itches my whiskers.
I would also like to address the issue of television. Just because I don't have opposable thumbs, it seems like you don't think I should have any say in what we watch on TV at night. Quite frankly, I'm a little tired of Survivor and The Walking Dead. Both of these shows are extremely prejudicial against cats. How can you possibly have a whole show about life after the zombie apocalypse without mentioning once how cats will ultimately save the day  with a zombie-crippling bout of cat scratch fever? Not one person on your stupid show has even referred to that. Plus, if you mention one more time how cool it was to meet Richard Hatch, I'm going to vomit into your slippers. Your taste in television sucks. Would it kill you to throw on Shark Week once in a while?
Finally, if I am staring at you with wide eyes and mewling softly while nibbling on your eyelid, would it be too much to ask that you maybe pet me for an hour? Honestly, I just want to be loved. How am I supposed to know that it's 2:30 in the morning? I really feel that your threat to feed me to the coyotes was unnecessary. I want you to remember this when you discover that I've been piddling behind the couch for months now.

Well, I can hear you downstairs on the phone telling your mother about meeting your favorite Survivor, so it's time for me to go barf up a hairball into your slippers. You were warned.

Pugsley

I love pets. I've owned a ton, and for this reason alone I like to pretend I'm an animal expert. If you're thinking about getting a new addition, here's a guide to some animals I've owned. Take a look to see what might be the best fit for you:

CATS
Who doesn't love cats? Besides people who are allergic to them, I mean. There's nothing sweeter on a rainy day than to have a purring cat in your lap whilst reading a good book. Open a pint of Ben & Jerry's, though, and that sweet little kitten will turn into a velociraptor hunting small children in a kitchen. Deny him a lick of Chunky Monkey, and your face will become his new scratching post.
PROS: Self-cleaning; poops in one place and buries it
CONS: Withholds affection; hairballs
WHERE'S MY CAT NOW? I do own two cats, but mostly I've been known to adopt a cat and then let my parents take care of it.

DOGS
Who doesn't love dogs? Besides cat people, I mean. A dog will be your loyal companion, your security alarm, and your faithful bed-warmer. However, he will also chew up your shoes, ruin your hardwood floors with his claws, and sniff all of your friends' crotches when they come over.
PROS: Dogs think you're the greatest. person. ever!
CONS: Poops wherever it wants; friend may not want crotch sniffed.
WHERE'S MY DOG NOW? Mom eventually got tired of walking the dog and feeding her and gave her away to a nice home. I think.

SNAKES
Who doesn't love a good snake? Besides squeamish people, I mean. And that kid in Lonesome Dove who was attacked by water moccasins. But otherwise, who else, really?
Snakes are a fairly low-maintenance pet. They don't demand attention and they poop, like, once every two weeks. What they do require, however, is for you to feed them live mice every once in a while. Also, they need a cage with a secure lock, or else "Snuggles" might try to eat you as you sleep. He probably won't succeed, but still, he'll try. Unless he's poisonous. Then you're going to die, which you deserve, because owning a poisonous snake is just stupid.
PROS: Controlled shedding; chicks will dig you because you own such a cool pet.
CONS: This is a wild animal that really should be living outside. Each time it stares at you with its sad, trapped eyes, your soul will die a little.
WHERE'S MY SNAKE NOW? Mom selfishly refused to let me dump this pet on her, so he traveled with me until he died of boredom.

FISH
Who doesn't love fish? Besides people who bore easily, I mean.
Fish won't jump on you, won't poop in your shoe, and won't try to eat you in your sleep. They won't do much of anything, really, except swim, poop where they swim, and eat foul-smelling flakes. Sometimes, they'll eat each other, which can add some excitement to the day, until you're left with just one (rather content and well fed) fish.
PROS: Fairly easy to maintain; just keep their water clean and feed them. Also, easy to dispose of.
CONS: There's not a lot going on with fish. Plus, cleaning their tank sounds suspiciously like work.
WHERE'S MY FISH NOW? Mom admirably kept my two kissing gouramis, Bill and Hill, alive for a good year after I left them with her. Eventually, however, they wound up flushed.

We are deep in the dog days of summer, which begs the question: why do dogs get all the glory?  

Think about it. There’s the dog days of summer, three dog nights in the winter, letting sleeping dogs lie, and, of course, dog tired.  All of these terms conjure up images of sleepy, happy, tail-thumping black labs (that’s what I picture, anyway) giving the canine nation an unfair advantage in the whole cats vs. dogs debate. All of the phrases about cats, for instance, have negative connotations. Letting the cat out of the bag. Curiosity killed the cat. Raining cats and dogs, as if to  imply that if it was just raining dogs, it would be a warm, gentle sprinkle, but throw some cats in there, and you’ve got an out-and-out Nor’easter on your hands.

I’d like to suggest some new, feline friendly sayings for some of these old adages. For instance, instead of the dog days of summer, why not the lazy cat cooling off on the basement floor days of summer? See? It practically rolls off the tongue. And instead of a three dog night, why not a thirteen fuzzy kittens night? (Simple mathematics dictates that one would need considerably more kittens than dogs to warm up on a cold winter evening.) I think it’s excellent advice to let sleeping cats lie, unless you want a claw to the eyeball. And why do we always have to be dog tired? Can’t we be more tired than a cat chasing a laser pointer?

I have decided to personally head the Elimination of Canine Adages Committee, in an effort to gain more positive recognition for our feline friends. We could hold sit-ins at Nathan’s Hot Dog chains and boycott episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter.

What’s that, you say? They've already cancelled Dog the Bounty Hunter?

It seems to be working already! I’ll be doggoned.

Jason and I have been at a writers' conference for the past few days.  While it was a blast vacationing with a bunch of dark, twisted sickos just like us, inevitably, the fun had to end.  We returned home tired, inspired, and smelling slightly of charred hot dogs.

We should have known better, daring to leave town for a few days.  The cats were the first ones to display their displeasure with us as soon as we walked in the door.  They had apparently both target vomited on the floor mat, so as soon as I stepped inside, I was ankle deep in warm, half-chewed Kit-n-Kaboodle.  I had clearly chosen the wrong moment to peel off my flip flops and go barefoot.  To further emphasize her displeasure, Wednesday immediately jumped up on the table in the hallway where I'd dropped my purse and yakked a hairball up on my car keys.

When I threatened to trade the cat in for a nice ficus, this reminded me to check on the plants out on the side deck.  We'd had a heat wave while on vacation, and I found the foxglove in a strangled, withered heap.  It had apparently put up more of a fight than the morning glories, which had wrapped their yellowed vines around a post on the deck and hung themselves from their pot.  Apparently, when I'd asked my sister to check on the cats while we were gone, I'd forgotten to request that she water the plants, too.

I decided to check on the back lawn, which was supposed to be mowed and watered by a service while we were away.  Walking in the yard, I noticed that the grass seemed really uneven in parts.  Our lawn guy is usually excellent, so I went inside to give him a call and make sure he hadn't had a stroke while on the lawnmower.  While standing at the kitchen sink, listening to his voice mail message and looking over the whole of the yard, I realized we'd probably forgotten to pay him before going away.  He'd left us a lovely two-word message, mowed right in to the lawn, indicating how he felt about this oversight.  It hadn't been easy to read while I was actually walking across the grass, but it came across loud and clear from the window (and, I'm assuming, to low-flying planes.)  I realized that not only was I not going to be able to have company with small children over for the next week, but that vacationing itself had been a bad idea.

The cats are still not speaking to us, I found a piece of fish in the garbage that I'd forgotten to dump before we'd left, and we'd accidentally left the air conditioning on upstairs, which means our next electric bill will be about $800 - just about the cost of the writers' conference fee for both of us.  

I think I'm finally starting to understand the appeal of staycations.