Tuesday, March 9, 2010

The Cat's Out of the Bag

Greetings, Dear Readers:

Here's a picture of me after my mom told me a story that was too frightening to even think was true. It's really a Cat-astrophe, so much so, that I can barely use my paws to craft this craftily spun blog posting.
But I am courageous (and handsome), so I will tell my story.
My mom apparently has this incredibly gifted Humanities class. They analyze literature well, and they have awesome intellectual discussions about the literature. It seems mom enjoys spending time with them -- even if it is on a Tuesday night.
So far, so good, right? Not so. Onto the disturbing part that set my magnificent tuxedo fur into a frizzy tizzy.
Apparently, a few students were making some snide remarks about how a cat cannot blog and were joking around about me during class discussion. Now I don't know what I have to do with world literature -- other than I am a worldly sort of cat and am very well-read -- but these comments are unwarranted.
I keep trying to figure out why some students have difficulty with the idea that 1) yes, cats can blog; it's called a cata-blog and that 2) cats can be eloquent and 3) no one is as handsome as me.
All I can say is a big Me-ouch for now,

Saturday, November 28, 2009

A Tragic Love Triangle

Hello friends. It's been a long time since I wrote my column, and I'm sorry I've been remiss.

Truth is, I have been going through some issues -- issues of the heart. As you can see by the photo, I've put myself in self-imposed exile, all because I am a tail of unrequited love.
See, the object of my affections is an adorable baby girl who joined our family about four months ago. See, whenever I see her, I go all pet-and-purr me!!
However, although I demonstrate affection to her and although I let her pet my coat, Manx tail, and try to win her affection with my wiley ways, she forfeits my affection in favor of the brown tabby of the house, Cosette.
This is what I don't understand; Cosette never seeks her out and, at the likelihood of sounding snobbish, I must say she's a common brown tabby furball, nothing special like me, a tuxedo Manx. Cosette does have rabbit-soft fur, but that's all there is to her.
And yet, I watch in dismay as the little human girl turns away from me and toward Cosette. The baby keeps greeting her with "Hi," and "Hey." Cosette always turns the other way.
Yet, the baby human is enamored of Cosette and not me.
And that's sad.
But I haven't yet given up hope. Once the baby human is acclimated to her environment more, I'm sure she will choose me as her favorite cat-in-waiting.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

The Bee, The Battle of the Bay Window, and The Sill

This is a guest post from my pal, Cosette. We've been getting along better lately and just having fun playing, so I asked her to guest blog for me this week on issues pertinent to the most important members of the household -- us.


Dear Readers,

There's been a lot of excitement in our household over the last two weeks or so. First of all, we are happy to welcome the human baby back to our family. Her and mom were in Florida visiting the grandparents, and mom's good friend took very good care of us.
The big drama that unfolded was when a bee got into the house. I'm a tad ashamed to admit it, but I was never taught to hunt by my mother, and contrary to what most people believe, for cats, hunting is a learned skill. Hemi has that skill.

But the bee crossed MY path, not his.

So I swatted it, it got back up, I swatted it, it got back up, I swatted it, it got back up. Mom's friend wound up killing it, but I'm proud of my prowess. The way I view this incident, if I didn't keep swatting the bee down, the human wouldn't have been able to kill it, and it would've stung her. I instinctually knew that the human was allergic to bee stings, so I technically saved her life.

I'm a cat -- hear me roar.

In a few weeks, I expect a Medal of Honor to come to my door.

On another matter, Hemi and I have become buddies and comrades in arms. We work as as a tag team to get more food from mom, and we love chasing each other down what Hemi calls "The Hemi Highway," a long wooden-floor hallway, where our paws resonate as we run full-speed. Baby must think she's at a horse racetrack, but truth be told, running cats are more beautiful and compelling than running horses.

That's my opinion, and I'm sticking to it.

Despite my friendship with Hemi, the Battle of the Bay Window rages on. Hemi is larger than me, but I still put the fear of hiss in him. One might even say I'm full of hiss and vinegar.
We both love this window, so we have to take turns basking in the sun. It works nicely for both of us, but if I'm at the window first and Hemi the interloper comes sniffing around near the window, I just have to give him one dirty look, and he's gone. Kind of embarrassing behavior for an acclaimed hunter.

Remember the posting where Hemi and I have complained about no window sills in this crazy house? Well, mom and her friends must've heard us because now there's a prime piece of real estate in our home: a "kitty sill," as it is called. However, it's my job to educate readers on the term "kitty." It is politically incorrect. We prefer the term "cat."

Anyway, the sill is up on one of those freakazoid windows, and it is truly marvelous. It is so beautiful, I would one day like to write a poem about it. Now here's the dilemma. Both Hemi and I love the sill, and our friendship is sometimes in jeopardy because that stubborn tuxedo cat is so long, and when he's on the sill, his legs often hang off it, and I find that irritating.
I believe that since I have been the first adopted being in this household, that I should be the priority with sill time.


But Hemi believes because he has a precious tuxedo coat and he's the newest cat in the household, he should have more sill time.

But overall, we are both thrilled that we have a sill to sit and lay on. We are both grateful to have it. Now Hemi has a nice alternative whenever I kick him of the bay window or the sill.

Anyway, I wish to thank Hemi for giving me guest post space. And enough about me, what do you, my dear readers, think about me? Comments (of praise) are strongly encouraged.
-- Cosette

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Thinking Outside the Box, Drooling Problems

litterbox Pictures, Images and PhotosBefore you hear anything from Cosette, I admit it: I pooped outside the litterbox -- but with good reason. Cosette is a bully and tends to rush me out of the box even before my turd has made its final exit. Sometimes she just stares at me, and even if she doesn't mean to do so, she intimidates me.

Luckily, mom is very patient with me and realizes that I'm thinking outside the box -- and following through. While this may seem extreme, dear readers, it is not. If you did a statistical survey, you'd realize that only one of seven of my little dumplings are left outside of the box. The rest land on Hemi Mountain.

And lately I overheard mom joking with her friends about my drooling problem. If I were not a fancy ladies' tuxedo man(x), I would feel emasculated and devalued. But I notice that the baby drools a lot because she is doing something called "teething." I only drool when I'm purring, as any proper ladies' man should be doing. There's nothing wrong with a little saliva.

The problem lies in a certain cartoon with a drooling tuxedo cat that is poked fun of by people around the world:

sylvester Pictures, Images and Photos Sylvester's drooling is laughed at, and frankly, I'm fed up with this. How come when babies, such as our new little addition, drool, people think it's so cute?

Cat slobber is way more clean than human slobber. After all, ours has a cleansing agent, which is why we -- especially me -- are able to look so handsome. Since the little human has joined us, she has slobbered all over my tuxedo, making it a bit sticky and harder for my rough tongue to remove it.

Still, Cosette and I do love the little tyke. We especially can't wait for all her teeth to come in so the drooling can cease and desist. Of course, then she'll be biting us with her new chompers.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

This is Not a Toy



As you can see, I am sleeping with one of my favorite toys. It is my favorite lately because: a) it's new, b) it's mighty neat, and c) it's filled with catnip.

In a previous posting awhile ago, I extolled the benefits and well-deserved legality of catnip, so I won't be wasting time on this posting doing so. All I can say, is that a friend of mom's bought it for me as a consolation prize for the fact that I moved to second fiddle in a household with a newly adopted baby.

Cats don't like fiddles, which is why I'm stymied by the "Hey Diddle Diddle" poem where there's a cat and a fiddle. Humans spoon feed such nonsense to their kids.

Anyway, speaking of fiddling, I noticed the other day that Ari (the new baby) was playing with this catnip toy (pictured). The kid has enough toys, so I don't know why she feels compelled to get her grubby hands all over mine. There's human saliva and there's an occasional Cheerio left on the toy, so that's how I know who the culprit is.

I want to tell her, this is not a toy -- at least to humans. There's some serious catnip here -- my, er, stash, which I don't want to share with her. She gets the lion's share of all the possessions, so it's only fair that I get at least a cat's share of something.

Cosette is not a catnip type, so I'm happy about that, as I enjoy having it all to myself. And once again, I just want to remind you that catnip is not an illegal drug, but just a little feel-good somethin' that is sold at such stores (which I'll keep anonymous by leaving crucial letters out [I don't endorse certain pet supply companies]) as ETCO and ETSMART and ETS Supplies Plus.

Oh, and veering off the topic, Cosette was pressuring me to vacate the litterbox, so I vacated a long turd just outside of it. My mom was very understanding and scolded Cosette to let me go.

This brown tabby is a bully. I think she's overcompensating for her being a common tabby, rather than a sophisticated tuxedo man such as myself.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Cramping Our Style


About one week ago, mom came home with a human baby named Ari, short for Arielle. Being great with the ladies, I thought I'd introduce myself.

The problem was that the baby human was really afraid of me and Cosette and screamed. Now I would understand her screaming from fright at Cosette, but I'm so elegant, with my tuxedo and all, that I thought my snazzy outfit would mesmerize her.

Things haven't been the same in the household since this little cutie joined our family. Every night, the baby disrupts our 22nd hour of sleep by crying louder than any meow I've ever heard. Kinda makes me long for Cosette's hisses.

I will say this, though: I really try to be extra friendly to this child. I remember what it was like being adopted, and Cosette does too -- although she's older and probably remembers it less clearly. Yet the kid thwarts my sweet attempts to comfort her. I know that we will eventually be great friends, so I'm being patient, and I generally try to stay away from her knowing that for some inexplicable reason, I cannot console her.

Having sensitive hearing, I can tell you, her cries are really high-pitched. She's getting more used to us cats because her screams are now just whimpers. A few times, she reached out to touch us, but then she pulled back.

But today, there was a breakthrough: she reached out and touched my stubby tail and when I turned around, purring, she smiled and touched my face.

Then it got a bit uncomfortable, as she pulled my whiskers. I tolerated it very well, and only wished she stroked my soft tuxedo coat instead of hurting me, albeit accidentally. She stuck her fingers at Cosette's face, which amused me. My tabby companion tolerated it, but I could tell she wasn't happy.

If only the baby would understand that petting us nicely would give her the sheer joy of touching luxurious fur. Cosette's fur, I must admit, is softer than mine -- like rabbit soft. But tuxedos trump soft fur every time.

One thing Cosette and I simply cannot adjust to right now is the thing called the "poopie diaper." Now is the time for mom to teach this kid how to use a litterbox. Instead, the little tyke is expected to do her business in a weird papery thing attached to her bottom. Mom doesn't even seem disgusted, as she coos over this baby during "changing the diaper" time.

Mom sure gets disgusted when she has to fish out the little treasures we leave for her in the litterbox.

Friday, July 17, 2009

The Cat's a Brat



Hemi's in trouuuuuuubbbbblllle.

You know what? The cat's a brat. And that's that!

Ciao for Now,

"C" (which stands for Cosette... and nothing else)