It’s so sad when it comes to this:
Annoying your cat is simple, fun and hazardous. You can either imitate the techniques contained within this video, or simply play this video. Either way, you end up with an annoyed feline. At least, I did.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must tend to my wounds before they turn septic.
He made it through the Clinton era, the Bush years, and caught a glimpse of the age of Obama, but that’s as far as he goes. Cancer just caught up with Socks, the former First Cat.
It’s not many cats who’ve had such long, rich lives, or got to have their say in the White House press room. Appropriate that a superstar feline ended up in Hollywood, eh? Even if it was Hollywood, MD, not CA. He spent his final years in quiet, happy retirement, getting fed chicken dinners by Bill Clinton’s former secretary, Betty Currie, and putting in the occasional celebrity appearance to help less fortunate felines. He was an awesome cat, and he’ll be missed.
Hasta luego, muchacho. Salud.
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.)
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.
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….
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?
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….
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:
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
Me new brudder, Spook.