Somehow, This Does Not Come as a Surprise


The only surprising thing is that her score was this low. I blame her age – she sleeps more, which leaves less time to plot.

Well. Forewarned is forearmed, I suppose.

And this goes a long way towards explaining those strange observing-owner-from-the-bookcase spy moments we’ve experienced of late.

How many of you have felines plotting your imminent demise?

(Tip o’ the shot glass to Phil Plait.)

Please Stand By… We Are Experiencing Technicatal Difficulties


The sound you hear like a thousand boulders rhythmically being ground together: a cat’s contented purr.

The whisky-whispering sound: the cat’s paw being repeatedly ushered off the touchpad by the cat’s personal servant.

The sudden scream: the cat registering displeasure at having said paw removed from said touchpad by trying to bite off the servant’s hand.

Yup. It’s getting cold outside, so every time I sit down, I end up with a feline draped across both arms. I reserve the right to blame any late posts, bizarre typos, or inexplicable non-sequitars on this fact.

I Come Bearing Cats

One of the things I looked forward to most going home was seeing my siblings again. My parents have three delightful cats. So, of course, I had to whip out the camera and catch them in moments of catastrophic cute.

The biggest shock was seeing Jimmy, who’s become the Famous Shrinking Cat. When I left Arizona in 2007, Jimmy was not just Garfield’s color, but roughly his size. He looked like he’d swallowed a big round watermelon. My wicked stepmother had told me Jimmy had lost weight due to the new kitten keeping him busy, but she hadn’t let on that Jimmy’s about 1/3 the cat he used to be. That lean, mean playing machine you see in the photo above batting at Spook bears little resemblance to the enormous sleeping machine of yore.

I even saw him running through the house. Jimmy. Running. And leaping. And acting like he’d lost five years. Note to people with obese felines: try the Hyperactive Kitten Diet, and watch the pounds just melt away!


Max and I are old buds. When she was a little girl, I allowed her to spend a night in the Forbidden Room with me, and she’s adored me ever since. This time, the Forbidden Room was filled with model airplanes, so she and I sacked out on the couch. She seemed to think that having the sheets from the Forbidden Room was sinful pleasure enough.

Me baby brudder is growing up, but he’s still a wee little thing, and seriously is the cutest kitten I’ve ever seen in my life. Even Misha never attained this pinnacle of unadulterated adorable. He fetches mice, but instead of bringing them back and dropping them at your feet, he takes an extra moment to hide them in your shoes. He makes a great game out of getting scared. And he likes to climb my knees at night as if they’re Everest. He woke me up Sunday morning by licking my eyebrows. I almost sneaked him into my luggage. He makes me wish Misha were more amenable to the idea of having a sibling, but she’s already made her views on that crystal clear.


And, really, what more do I need? Just my little girl, snoring like a bulldog in the bed behind me. Yes, snoring. Something about the humidity up here, I think, because she never snored in Arizona. We’ve had a good time lazing around together as I catch up on the gargantuan amount of sleep I missed. Now that she’s managed to get her scent back all over my stuff, sticking it to those other three who had the termity to believe they could establish ownership, she’s a happy cat indeed.

And, with so many cats in my life, I’m a happy human. Awwww….

Chin Trout Palin Welcomes You to Spackle Camshaft Palin

This is entirely too much fun.


dana hunter, if you were born to Sarah Palin, your name would be:

Chin Trout Palin

Heh. Lessee… what about the cantina?


en tequila es verdad, if you were born to Sarah Palin, your name would be:

Spackle Camshaft Palin

I could be here all night. What else, what else… I know! The cat!

Misha, sweetie: how would you feel if Mommy renamed you Duct Idaho?

Not too happy about that. Okay. How’s about Clamp Noodle?


Well. If that’s the kind of reaction Sarah Palin elicits from cats, no wonder she fears them.

Just remember, Sarah, they hate you more than you hate them.

So, my darlings. It’s your turn for some fun. What name would you have got saddled with?


(Tip o’ the shot glass to Engine Nighthawk Palin over at – how odd – Spackle Camshaft as well. Whoops. Methinks I broked it…)

Update: No, I couldn’t leave it alone. And you’ll be glad I didn’t:

cantina, if you were born to Sarah Palin, your name would be:

Loin Falcon Palin

Excuse me while I go herniate myself laughing….

Cat-hater, Too? That Clinches It

Sarah Palin fears cats:

When asked to reveal something about Palin that no one knows, one woman offered, “She doesn’t care for cats very much,” and another chimed in, “Oh, yes, she’s afraid of my cat.”

As if the ten tons of lying, corrupt fuckery wasn’t enough, she’s afraid of a fucking housecat.

She’s afraid of this:


She doesn’t care for this:


‘Nuff said.

(Tip o’ the catnip to Paul Krugman, by way of Kevin Drum)

A Favor to a Dear Friend

Paul at Cafe Philos says, “I’m Feeling Insecure Because My Blog Lacks Cat Photos.”


I see all these blogs nowadays with adorable cat photos and I’ve begun to wonder if it’s still possible to be a dedicated blogger without even a single cat photo to speak of?

Maybe I should post a cat photo? For one thing, I myself can’t resist them. Cats are cute beyond words.

Of course, I’d need to find a cat first….

My darling, my joy, I’ve got your cats right here:

Misha in a Galaxy of Bedding

Cat in the Sack

Me new brudder, Spook.

Pointed catmentary.

There’s a bajillion more where these come from. Whenever you need adorable cat photos, you just let me know. I’ve actually got one of Misha sitting on a column that has just the right note of dignity and classical grace that would compliment the artistic beauty of Cafe Philos.

And yes, in answer to your question: it is possible to be a dedicated blogger without a single cat photo. You prove that every day. You’re not only a dedicated blogger, you’re one of the most beautiful bloggers I know.

The only thing you can’t be without cat photos is a dedicated catblogger… unless you filch cats from your friends. I think that’s allowed under the bylaws of blogging.

And if not, fuck it – filch anyway!

Pre-rant Catblogging

I’m a crazy cat lady: I own a crazy cat, and I am a lady. Well, female – the lady part is debatable.

My cat is evil. I have no idea why. I raised her from kittenhood, and I don’t remember any traumatic experiences that could have led this. She was always fed, loved, played with, and suffered no abuse, and yet she’s turned into a homicidal maniac. She cuddles up to new people and starts purring. This is because she’s found a guillable victim, not because she’s sweet-natured. People usually discover this just after they’ve told me, “She won’t bite me – look, she’s purring – ARGH!”

Indeed.

We do roughhouse, and I decided once that this must be the reason for her belligerance. So I resolved to be nothing but calm and gentle. We would play string and hair tie, but no kitty kung-fu. This state of affairs lasted three days. At the end of the experiment, she sat at my feet glaring. I murmured something indulgent, and she growled. When I asked her what was wrong, in the sweetest, most understanding tones possible, she leaned forward very slowly, very deliberately, and bit me.

We haven’t tried the “play nice” strategy since. It makes her miserable and puts my ankles in peril.

Most of my photos of my cat show her being sweet, innocent and above all sleeping, because it’s very hard to photograph a raging cat with one hand and fend off grievious bodily harm with the other. However, I did get lucky here:
No fingers were lost in the making of this photograph.

That is a far truer approximation of Misha’s general views on life, the universe and everything than this:

Note the expression. It says, “I would come over there and bite your face off, but I’m far too busy being regal at the moment.”

My cat is foremost among the myriad reasons I won’t have children. If this beast had been a human, I’d be on the local news about now saying, “I have no idea how I raised a serial killer.” And of all the phrases I envision myself someday uttering on the news, that’s not on the top ten most desired.

I’m afraid the next cat I own is going to be dead boring after this one, so I hope she lives forever.