Thinking Outside the Box, Drooling Problems

Before 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'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.

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.

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.

The Cat's a Brat

LIVE FROM HEMI'S HIDEOUT -- OOPS. IS HE STILL IN HIDING?



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)

Witness Protection Program

BROADCASTING TO YOU FROM H'S HIDEOUT:

Dear Readers:

It has been exactly a week since the disastrous lock-down incident of 2009. Although many paws and hands are pointing in my direction, I swear the crime was purely unintentional. Please let me explain my side of the story, as there is an unnamed striped individual who is misinterpreting the event.

First let me introduce myself: My name is Mr. H. The "H" is provided for my protection, and for your information, it stands for anything other than Hemi. As you can see from my picture, as I am a dangerous ladies' man, they are protecting my eye-dentity.

OK, here's what happened: Mom and a group friends were having a BBQ on the patio. They closed the sliding glass door so that smoke wouldn't get into my eyes and in the house through the screen door. Besides, I don't like having my tuxedo reek of charred mammal flesh in briquette.

Also, we cats tend to push on the screen door, causing mom to fear that I and a certain tabby individual by the name of "C" might venture outdoors. So she made sure the sliding glass door was unlocked, and she shut it.

From a previous experience, I have learned how to box quickly and furiously. I was using my newly found techniques and wily ways to get attention from the humans. So I rat, tapped, tapped fast and repeatedly on the sliding glass door. I've even improved my techinque by managing a good rhythm on the door.

The guests starting pointing and laughing, thinking I was "cute," and quite the little drummer boy. (By the way, I'm planning to start my own cats-only garage band, but that will be covered in a future posting).

Basically -- and I'm ashamed to admit it -- the lock to the sliding glass door that I was boxing jiggled shut, locking mom and her friends outside. The front door was also locked, and so was the garage door.

I overheard mom saying a certain feces word and scratching her head, wondering how she was going to get into the house. And I was thinking, I could use a head scratching. And I could use some food. And then, to my horror, I couldn't get either a head scratching nor a bowl of kibble until mom figured out the solution to HER problem.

After all, she didn't have to close the sliding glass door and should've repaired the lock so it could stay put.

Luckily, the key to mom's car was in her pocket, and she was able to get into her car, open the garage, and get into the house.

I was so happy to see her because I was hungry.

And I'm still in trouble and am on the lamb. Which reminds me that I'm hungry for lamb. Gotta go now.

M for now,

H (stands for anything but Hemi)

Not KO'd, but You're OK

....for now. I haven't KO'd the OK Kid, but I'm just letting him know who's in charge.

Recently, Hemi misinformed our dear readers that I was in a state of uncontrollable hissy-fitness. However, this self-proclaimed "genius," who never actually took IQ tests because we all know they're fake anyway, was doing things to deliberately provoke me.

Now after I take my boxing mitts off (I've been typing with my toes), I will explain.

There, all better.

Mom and her friends lavish all their love on Hemi since they are drawn by his "pheromones" and "wily ways." I hate to admit it, but the brat's got some kind of spell over them. He's like a magician who just wants me to "poof" and disappear from every room he's in.

He sits in the lap of luxury, while this mama's boy croons over mom's lap. He hogs the bay window as much as he hogs the food. This scrappy critter eats what should be my scraps, so it's no wonder we get into scrapes.

I am crabby because I am HUNGRY. And I am sick and tired of him bragging about all of his supposedly good qualities.

In addition, we must share the same litter box. He creates Hemi mountains of urine. When he pees, it sounds like the tropical rainforest after a monsoon. He just stands there and pees while I finish my novel.

Not reading a novel. Writing one on all things cat coming to a bookstore near you in summer 2010 LOL.

In addition, I always enjoy quiet, but Hemi runs on these wooden floors like a maniac. Back and forth, back and forth, and the noise is tromp, tromp, tromp from his crazy little gallop. Sliding on the mats, smacking into the litterbox, causing the litter to fly everywhere, wafting his pungent pee odor.

And frankly, I've been jealous that he's gotten so much of the attention and so much of the food.

I just wanted to feel loved.

But luckily, my mom is smart, and she knows her baby girl instinctively. She has been pouring extra TLC my way, and keeping the feline hound from my food bowl. Mom is being so good to me, that it's time to take off the boxing gloves and declare this round over.

It's Hiss or Miss

These days, I hope it's a miss.

As in Cosette missing my forehead with her steely paws.


Lately, I'm a feline bladder -- and it's not the pissing kind. It's the kind that boxers use, but my nemesis is the hissing kind. I've been on the receiving end of some of her blows, and frankly, I don't know what I could have said or done to deserve this type of Priss 'n Boots' mistreatment of me.

After all, I am the Ladies' Man and most every feminine feline is enamored of me for my charm and wily ways. Because I am, after all.... ME!

I don't mean to come off as conceited or self-centered, but I am a truth teller.

OK, back to Cosette. Yesterday she gave me quite a fright. I was snuggling and purring in mama's arms next to our beloved bay window, when all of a sudden, Cosette pounces seemingly out of nowhere from the bay window's curtains and jumps on mom's shoulders and rap-tap-taps me on the forehead.






If these antics keep continuing, I'm going to lose a few IQ points, which would make me a couple of points short of the genius level. Again, I'm not trying to brag, but facts are facts.

Speaking of short, that Cosette has really been short-tempered lately. Between the breakfast time growling and hissing and the midday butt whooping, she's mussing my fur and my tuxedo cannot be dry cleaned.

On the upside of this, mom has been feeling sorry for her little boy, whom she and a friend lovingly dub Mr. Man. Isn't that cute? After all, I'm the man of the house.

I'm so manly, that even without a tail or with my snip job, I still attract the ladies. My pheromones abound!!

Between her hissing, pissing, and moaning, I think she needs serious therapy or an animal communicator so there can finally be some peace in the house and my tuxedo unscathed.