In some cases, "going parental" is quite a lot like "going postal."

Take this evening, frinstance. I'm here trying to type an email to a friend when the furkids suddenly remember that they hate each other and must fight. I tell them to stop. More fighting. I clap loudly and yell at them to stop. More fighting. They nearly knock over my glass of water on the table. I had had enough: I scooped up one cat in each arm, marched them into the bathroom, put them in the tub together and closed the shower doors.

"You two can spend the next five minutes figuring out how NOT to kill each other!" I told them. "And if you do end up killing each other anyway, well, I'll miss you."

And with that, I set about doing some litter box maintenance and other stuff close by for about five minutes before paroling them. Ah, parenthood!

And we're back on Poop Watch with He Who ATE THE DAMN STRING. He didn't go yesterday and it doesn't look like he has today. At any rate, I have yet to see the string pass, so I'm back in Fretful Mother mode. But, then, it's not like his appetite has suffered, and he feels well enough to play and fight with Billie. I won't rest, though, until I see that string!