Shutterbugged

I am well aware that I have been neglecting my minions for the last week or so.

It is not my fault.

I shall explain:

The two leggers have decided that my reign should be documented through photography, and so they sent for The Royal Photographer, Erica. Oh, they will say that since Erica is one of their offspring and she and her mate, Kelly were only visiting for the holidays, but it is a ruse. They simply told me that so that I would "relax and act naturally".

The members of my FaceBook fan club are already familiar with Erica and her talent for taking picture thingies, but for those of you who are not, allow me to tell you about her.

Erica and her mate live in a place called North Pole, Alaska. The United States Air Force banished them there just over a year ago. Alaska is a place in the farthest region of the North American Continent that is home to bears, mooses, eskimos and other assorted wildlife. It is cold, dark and it snows 425 days a year.Within a few weeks of her arrival, she was bitten by a parisite that is common in those parts and as yet incurable: Gottitakus Picturus. Otherwise known as the "shutterbug". This parasite causes its host to go out and buy photography equipment and take pictures of all they see. It is a relatively harmless condition and can actually become beneficial if the patient is exposed to a subject worth taking pictures of. (such as myself).

Since being infected, Erica has spent most of her free time wandering the great wilds of the north snapping away like a woman possessed. She has photos of stars, auroras, moose, eagles and various other subjects. She has even been able to document the behavior of Alaska's native tribe of aboriginal hockey players. (Homo Erectus Puckien) These natives are very shy and reclusive. One must be very careful when studying them. Often, if they suspect that they are being observed, they will suddenly throw off their gloves and begin fighting among themselves. Some have been semi-domesticated and can be identified by the dents in their heads and the utter lack of teeth. Erica's mate, Kelly, has attempted to "go native" and has been accepted by them and is often allowed to participate in their rituals.

So anyway, for the last week, Erica has been happily snapping away. Every time I raise my head, she is there. Every time I wake from a nap, she is there. She is there when I am eating, she is there when I am bathing. She is there when I am preparing to smack Tiger Lily (this falls under the heading of "evidence" and will be destroyed at my earliest convenience).

And it's not just me, she has been taking pictures of everyone. Tiger Lily, Jaq, Ivan, even the deer thingies have fallen victim to clicky-click of the shutter and the flashy-flash of the ....well,...flash.

 Jaq has been working it. She struts around acting all sweet and demure while singing "Eye in The Sky" under her breath. Tiger Lily has been whining about it non-stop because she soon realized that I will not smack her with all this surveillance equipment laying about (she'll pay later, trust me) Ivan is confused. This led to some amusement after I convinced him that Erica hid a camera thingy in the litter box and made him too paranoid to potty.

In the meantime, I have decided to make lemonade from the lemons that this has handed me. I have invented a new game. I call it: "Mission Imposeable". Basically, I strike a regal pose, wait for Erica to grab her camera, focus..... wait for it........and using my keen feline senses, a nanosecond before she takes the picture, I turn away. This is followed by a great wailing and gnashing of teeth, (hers, not mine) and then I resume the pose. I could play this for hours. I mix it up at times, laying in an unusual manner, feigning sleep, listening as she attempts to stalk me, and then when all is in place, I jump up, lift a leg and clean my nether regions. I suspect she curses me and cries when I am out of the room.

I have nothing against my picture being taken, so occasionally I will allow her to take a usable photograph. It gives her encouragement to continue amusing me.

If you would like to see Erica's amazing talent as well as The Royal Portaiture, please feel free to visit and "like" her FaceBook photography page: Erica Jansen Photography.

She leaves my Kingdom tomorrow, so I must now go and cause as much mayhem as I can before she and her mate depart.

I wish all my minions a very happy and blessed New Year! I assure you that my quest for Universal Domination continues.

One last thingy: If Ivan should ask, the CIA has developed surveillance cameras that resemble litter nuggets.

All pictures courtesy of Erica Jansen Photography

The Stench That Stole Christmas

Up in the vast rainy region
Of the Pacific Northwest,
There lived Ivan The Tolerable,
An orange, stinky pest.

He was constantly grumpy.
Always wearing a scowl.
If anyone dared pet him,
He'd give them a growl.

Ivan hated everything
For no apparent reason.
But the thing he hated most
Was the Christmas Season.

He hated the decorations.
He hated the lights.
The fat guy in red,
His elves wearing tights.

The sounds of two leggers
Enjoying their party,
Would turn Ivan's stomach
And make him all farty.

What made Ivan so surly?
I'd often stop and wonder.
What had taken Ivan's spirit?
And torn it asunder?

Was it a lack of heart?
That gave him such disdain?
No, I felt it went much deeper.
Perhaps his lack of brain.

Change confuses Ivan,
Confusion makes him mean.
And during this time of year,
 Many changes can be seen.

Two leggers treat each other nicer.
A smile on every face.
They greet each other with handshakes
Or a warm, heartfelt embrace.

They decorate their houses,
They fill the rooms with glee.
All of this goodwill
Makes Ivan want to flee.

Since I am Ivan's boss,
I knew what must be done,
We'll have an intervention,
And restore his sense of fun.

I said "Hey Ivan, lookit me"
As I tore a Christmas stocking.
"Christmas can be so much fun!"
As I set the tree to rocking.

"Try smacking a shepherd!,
 Let's eat an elf!
We'll knock all those fairies
 Right off of that shelf!"

I knew I was making progress
When Ivan started to grin.
He poofed his tail, began to trill,
And then he jumped in.

He bit, he chomped,
He kicked and he slashed.
And when he was finished,
My whole house was trashed.

Finally exhausted,
He lay gently and napped.
Laying upon a tree branch
He'd recently snapped.

As I sat watching him,
I knew I'd done well.
As I looked at the carnage,
I felt my heart swell.

My eyes have been opened.
At last I can see.
The true meaning behind
Those lights and that tree.

It is not about stuff,
Not about a game or a toy
It is about doing all those things
That give your heart joy.

To all my minions: Have a very merry and safe Christmas. I hope all your Christmas wishes come true. (Especially if your Christmas wish is for me to finally attain my goal of Universal Domination)

The Sum of All Fears

Once again, it is time for me to dig deep into the mineshaft of my wisdom and present to you yet another shiny nugget of knowledge.

Tonight, after many requests, I shall share with you the secret of one of the many mysteries that continue to confound two leggers and amuse their feline superiors.

Scientist thingies over the years have reached the conclusion that the average house cat weighs between 12 and 15 pounds, stands approximately .85 tailspans in height and is around 1.68 tailspans in length. Given these measurements, a cat that is fully sprawled, completely relaxed and totally spread out, should cover no more than 2.4 square feet of real estate on any given surface.

Any two legger that has ever been enslaved by cats knows that though the math may be correct, the result is erroneous. In reality, a cat of the above mentioned size and weight is actually capable of covering 80-90% of any bed, chair, couch or kitchen counter.  The area of the surface does not matter. If a two legger has need of the surface, whether it be for sleeping, sitting, lounging or cooking, the resident cat is capable.....nay...required...to occupy as much of the surface as is suitable in order to disrupt the activity that the two legger wishes to accomplish.

We do this through the simple application of Cathmatics. Cathmatics is the feline ability to flatten and spread oneself out in order to maximize coverage. We implement a series of very scientific formulas to figure out optimum sprawlage. I could tell you the exact cathmatic calculations we use, but I choose not to. Suffice it to say that it has a lot of numbers, letters and little squiggly signs that professors put on chalk boards at major universities because they look cool and confuse the janitors.

I will however, let you in on one of the secrets of maximum sprawlage.

We do not actually cover as much area as we appear to. We also take advantage of The Corona of Claws and Effect. The CCE is an region of space extending approximately six inches beyond the tip of an outstretched paw. Anything entering the CCE is capable of being slain, mutilated or smacked without warning. The two legger brain thingy subconsciously perceives this region and causes the two legger to see us as being larger than we actually are. This is a self preservation trait that has evolved in the two legger brain thingy over eons of living with cats.

I sincerely hope that this answers some of your questions.

If you find it confusing, well, that's just a bonus.

The Big Booper

It occurs to me that my minions come in a variety of different shapes, sizes, markings, languages, nationalities and species. From fellow felines to those who are subjugated by them. (pretty much everyone else)

There are even a few lovers of dog thingies who read my blog. (they will be assimilated at a later date)

In the spirit of educating those who have been enslaved by their feline betters, I have occasionally used my blog thingy to inform and advise those who may remain uninformed and unadvised.

This post is just such an occasion.

Booping 101 (Worth 12 college credits in most feline based universities as well as The Arkansas Community Veterinary College and Rib Shack) Given that I hold an M.B.A. (Master of Booping Arts) degree, I shall be your professor thingy today.

Booping is an integral function in feline behavior. It is a simple action that has an incredibly simple, yet complex set of meanings and uses. It is probably the most least understood of all feline gestures.

Basically a boop is performed by the booper walking up to the intended boopee. After an appropriate amount of staring, the booper then places their paw upon the nose or head of the boopee. The amount of force used during the booping process is correspondent to the purpose of the boop.

So there is no mistaking a boop, one must always use more force than a caress, but not enough force to be mistaken for a smack. Any blurring of these lines may result in confusion on the part of the boopee.

There are many types of boop. I shall now describe just a few:

The How Do Ya Do? Boop- This is a greeting given to a minion or lesser feline that communicates the sentiment of  "Though you are beneath me, I acknowledge your presence". It is a straightforward nose tap followed by a flick of the tail.

 The Strike One Boop- This is a warning that I am somewhat miffed and if you do not wish to feel my wrath, you will either retreat or bring me a catnip mousie thingy to appease me. It is the most forceful boop and if unheeded may mature into a smack. It is best to lay one's ears back for maximum effect.

The Shooby Dooby Doo Boop- This boop has no real purpose other than the fact that I like saying "Shooby Dooby Doo" and have always wanted to use it in my blog thingy.

The Call of The Whompus Boop- This boop is guaranteed to cause a large, stinky, easily confused, orange tabby to go into a large, stinky, easily confused rage generally known as "Whompus Mode". It generally results in much chaos and mayhem. I recommend a strategic retreat after utilization of this particular boop.

The Measuring Boop- The gentlest of the boops, it is used to determine the optimum distance for an upcoming smack. I find that this boop is best employed against whiny gray tabbies that have annoyed me or may annoy me in the foreseeable future.

The You're In My Spot Boop- The most common of all boops, it is used to evict any unwanted napper who may be napping, sitting or otherwise occupying any space that I wish to nap in, sit in or otherwise occupy. "My spot" is defined as any spot that belongs to me, even if I am physically unable to reach it. This may be limited to, but not restricted to, any spot that I may, or may not, be able to observe.

There is one boop that I reserve strictly for my two leggers. I call it The Smell My Paw Boop. The Smell My Paw Boop is always performed immediately after using the Royal Litter, by placing my paw upon the the nose thingy of my male two legger.

It serves a dual purpose: It demonstrates that the male two legger is an honored minion and it allows him to check my paw for any litter stragglers.

O' Tannenbomb

My apologies for not posting lately, but it is not my fault.

Blame the two leggers.

Though I am The Ruler of All Universes (both known and unknown) Grand Poobah of All Thingies, Benevolent Dictator of The World Thingy and Menacer of Squirrels, I must still rely on my minions for certain services.

One of these services is turning on the computer typey thingy.

Unfortunately, the Thumbed Ones work very long hours during the Christmas season and have been neglecting their duties in regards to keeping me electronically connected to those who thirst for the sweet water of wisdom that fills the oasis of my mind.

I have now smacked, bitten, scratched and generally annoyed them back their duty. I assure you that they will be more mindful of their responsibilities in the future.

Now for news from my kingdom:

This weekend marked the beginning of my favorite time of year.

The time of year that the two leggers erect the best cat toy on Earth. On a chosen day in early December, the two leggers begin rearranging my furniture. This in itself is a good thing because it reunites me with the 483 catnip mousie thingies that escaped under the couch during the rest of the year. Then the male goes to the storage shed and laboriously carries in 36 large boxes while Jaq sings "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot".

Working as a team, the two leggers then construct a seven-foot tree thingy that was harvested from the legendary Forest of WalMartia. The WalMartian Forest is famous for its trees that consist of tubular steel trunks, twisted branches made of wire and green plastic needles. These genetic anomalies obviously evolved as a defensive mechanism against termites, woodpeckers, squirrels and lumberjacks. They are also segmented for easy storage and portability.

Some may say that they are "artificial" or "non-living". However I know that this is simply not true. An artificial tree is incapable of reproducing or new growth. But every year, after being stored in darkness for eleven months, it returns to my house sporting a full set of needles even though Ivan, Tiger Lily and I  had completely destroyed it the previous year. Once again, there will be fresh, green plastic pine needles garnishing our hairballs and litter.

Once the tree thingy, Arborius Polyvinyl WalMarticus is erected, the male two legger is banished to the talking box thingy to yell at the football game and the female proceeds to hang all sorts of cat toys from the boughs of the tree thingy. She has a particular way of hanging them that is apparently pleasing to her eye. Every ornament must be placed in just the right  place. It must hang just so. It must catch the light in just such a manner.

She starts with the lights. Some sparkle, some twinkle, some flash while others just glow. The strands of beads are draped in subtle arcs in a totally random but strategically placed manner planned out years in advance.  Finally, she hangs the ornament thingies. She hangs these according to their value (both monetary and sentimental) with the most precious near the top and descending to the cheap ones at the bottom. She never uses tinsel. The two leggers have boycotted tinsel ever since Ivan's techniclolr hairball of 2008. She places the plastic (presumably "unbreakable") ornaments at the bottom. As she places the lower decorations, she looks directly at me and says "Let's see you break these, you little monster".

Challenge accepted.

I understand her commitment to perfection. I am not immune to the allure of art. I enjoy aesthetically pleasing stuff. Truth be told, I can appreciate the time, thought and effort she expends in making my tree beautiful.

 I just hope she appreciates the time, thought and effort I'll expend destroying it.

Operation: Cuddly Kitty

I am greatly annoyed.

I will translate for my minions in other countries:
Mexico: "Mi es muchas annoyedo."
Italy: "Mea biggo maddo."
Great Britain:"I say there, I'm a tad miffed."
Arkansas: "Ah'm more ticked than a coon dog avisitin' a parasite farm."
Canada: "Hockey, eh?"

The other night, the two leggers announced that they were invited to their friends house for dinner. I authorized this because they had already fed me and therefore were no longer needed. They were gone for about four hours.

This is not the reason that I am annoyed. In fact, I was rather pleased that they were finally beginning to develop relationships with other two leggers. Constantly keeping them entertained was starting to become monotonous. It's about time that they begin hanging out with other lower lifeforms.

However, they would be well-advised to exercise a degree of caution.

I am annoyed because when they returned, I immediately knew something was amiss.

Upon their entry, I began my inspection. My post-visit inspection was, as usual, misinterpreted as being a "welcome home" sniff. I always begin at the shoes and work my way up. It was obvious from the start that my two leggers had been visiting other cats. This was not mentioned when they begged permission to leave. In retrospect, I suspect that they deliberately concealed the fact that they were planning to have an evening with other felines.

 From the first sniff, I detected the scent of a least two ragdolls, (one male, one female) and another as yet unidentified male shorthair. Upon further inspection I was able to determine that the ragdolls had long silky hair. Given the amount of hair they deposited on my two leggers, I concluded that they were very large. Possibly 20 pounders. They smelled young. The unidentified male shorthair had a kind of geriatric smell and therefore posed no threat.

The ragdolls on the other paw, irritated me.

The two leggers spent the rest of the evening talking about how "sweet" and "cute" and "cuddly" and "well-behaved" the ragdolls were. They spoke of how their house was undamaged, their drapes were unshredded, their upholstery unmarred. They talked in quiet whispers of the house that was free of chaos and filled with peace and tranquility.

I suspect they may even secretly covet such a life.

I held a conference with the other felines in my domain. I explained my dilemma. I told them that we must behave ourselves. We must refrain from destroying all that we deem destroyable. We must act in a cute and cuddly manner. We must not chase, slap, bite or generally abuse one another. We must purr quietly when they pet us and resist the urge to draw blood in the face of an exposed ankle.

We are now 48 hours into Operation Cuddly Kitty.

The two leggers think we are up to something. I know this because the male keeps saying "I think they're up to something". They take turns sleeping while the other stands guard with the water squirty thingy. They sneak down the hallway expecting an ambush at every corner. The female has locked all of her shoes in boxes buried deep in the closet. The male's nervous tic has returned.

They cannot last much longer. I give them another 24 hours before they break.

Has it been difficult? Yes.

Will it be worth it?

Definitely.  

The Grapeful Dead

This morning as they were making their lunch in preparation for going to work, the two leggers inadvertently released Ivan's worst nightmare.

A grape.

I kid you not. The Great and Tolerable Ivan, Slayer of Moth Thingies, Menacer of Ankles, Shredder of Upholstery, Worrier of Mouse Thingies, Muncher of Bottle Caps, Launcher of Air Biscuits and Scourge of the Hallway (between the hours of  3 and 4am with a forty-five minute break at 3:15) is totally spooked by a grape that fell on the floor.

As I said before, the grape in question fell on the floor unnoticed by all but myself, (I see all) while the two leggers were bagging their lunch this morning. It was my intention to wait until the two leggers had left and then relocate it to a more suitable place that allowed for more chaos. (Inside one of the female two legger's boots was a likely spot)

As they departed, Ivan was finishing his breakfast. It takes Ivan longer to eat due to the fact that there is a golf ball in his food bowl. The golf ball was placed there intentionally last year to force him to eat slower. This works amazingly well because between bites, Ivan sits there trying to figure out why that golf ball is in his food bowl. Sometimes, he even talks to the golf ball. Mostly he asks the golf ball "Who are you and why are you in my food bowl?"

The golf ball seldom answers.

So anyway, Ivan finished his breakfast and began his daily kitchen crumb vacuuming. As he approached the fridge thingy, his eye fell upon the stray grape. The sight of the grape startled Ivan so badly that he poofed, crooked his tail and scampered from the room. Amused, I decided to watch from the dining room table to see what Ivan might do next.

I was not disappointed.

A few minutes later I observed Ivan skulking around the edge of the oven. He was in full "stalk mode". I got the distinct feeling that he intended to inflict great bodily harm upon the grape, but was somewhat reluctant to commit himself to a full frontal assault. He continued to slowly approach the fearsome fruit.

Just as he was about to commit to his pounce, Jaq in a fit of Irish folk dance, began "Riverdancing" in the hallway causing Ivan to beat another hasty retreat. Okay, "Riverdancing" may be a bit of an exaggeration, but it did sound a bit like tap-dancing and she was singing "Danny Boy" as she ran down the hall.

The grape seemed unimpressed.

 Once again Ivan began his pseudo-stalk. This time he approached from the dining room. Crawling in a very low crouch, stubby little tail twitching erratically, he approached the bad berry. He began his pre-pounce preparation, wiggling butt, ears flattened, both muscles tensed, all was ready. Like a bow drawn to its limit he quivered with anticipation.

The misguided missile launched!

His ample weight landed squarely upon the grape catching it completely by surprise. It didn't even attempt to defend itself.

Smashing the grape into nothing but pulp and juice, Ivan began to strut away. I immediately jumped down and smacked him. 

He had it coming.

Everyone knows that I don't tolerate wining.

Communing With Goats

This morning Ivan laid the Mother of All Stinkies.

I mean this thing was FOUL. Nasty does not even begin to describe it. It was so bad that upon laying it, Ivan jumped out of the litter box and stood in the doorway hissing at it. As the smell wafted through the house it caused widespread panic and destruction along its path. Tiger Lily passed out. Jaq hid in a box and started singing "In The Air Tonight" by Phil Collins. Several panels of wallpaper began to curl and peel away from the wall. Three eight leggers dropped from their web thingies, dead.

However, this post is not about Clodzilla.

It is about goat thingies.

The only reason I mention Ivan's All-Star Air Biscuit is that it caused the two leggers to open every window, door and any other possible means of ventilation in an attempt to expel the offending odor as quickly and efficiently as possible.

And so I found myself sitting in the window of the guest bedroom, nose pressed to the screen, gasping for sweet, precious, clean, untainted air. As my dizziness began to subside, I beheld the goat thingies standing not twenty tailspans away. This window is the closest window to the enclosure in which the goat thingies live. It is not a window I frequent because it is also perpetually shaded by a large fir tree.

 Cujo Rule #34, Section V, subsection 14.6, Paragraph 5, line 2 under the heading of "Window Regulations and Practices" clearly states: "No Sunbeam, No Cujo"  

Therefore, I have seldom had occasion to sit in this particular window. Ergo, this was the first time I had ever been close enough to the goat thingies to attempt to establish verbal communication.

Over the years, I have often pondered what I would say to the goat thingies if the opportunity should ever arise. I also have many questions that I'd like to ask them. And of course, I have orders to convey.

Since we had never verbally communicated in the past, I was unsure whether we even spoke the same language. So, I began simply:

"Hello goat thingies, it is I, Cujo, your Lord and Master, Giver and Taker of Life, Worrier of Squirrel Thingies, Slammer of Mouse Thingies and Whacker of The Whiney. You may bow to me at your convenience. Now, I know that you two chewers of cud have observed me in yonder bay window. Through various gestures, tail twitches and the like, I have made my wishes perfectly clear. I have reiterated my desires by pawing and sometimes even smacking the window to recall you to your duty. Yet you seem to ignore my mandates. I hope that you are not intentionally disobeying my orders. If you were indeed being insubordinate, I'm afraid I would be compelled to kill you as an example to the other minions. So I have decided to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that goat thingies have some sort of learning disability when it comes to understanding simple commands. Or perhaps your eyes are incapable of seeing me so far across the yard. So now that you can hear me, now that there can be no misunderstanding. Now that there can be no doubt or misinterpretation of my wishes, I will give you your orders:
       "Kill, harass and maim any squirrel thingies you encounter. There are at least three in that tree behind you. They come down every morning and raid the bird feeders. They return every afternoon by the same route. Ambushing them should be easy. By tomorrow evening, I fully expect to see the carcass of a squirrel hanging from each of your horn thingies. Do not suffer them to live. Eradicate them. I have every confidence that you can accomplish this task. Now go forth and menace."

The goat thingies looked at me. They looked at each other. They looked at a butterfly passing above their heads. Seeming to reach a conclusion, Gracie, the boss goat thingy, turned to me and said:

"BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I googled this word to no avail. However, a guy from Wikipedia was pretty sure it meant "Okie Dokie".

Cooking Up Chaos

Sometimes, when you least expect it, something wonderful can happen.

Of course by "something wonderful", I mean chaos, mayhem, two leggers running in panic and the semi-monthly two legger ritual known as "The Bandaging of The Wounds".

Last night just such a fortuitous phenomenon occurred.

As per usual, it started out innocently enough. The two leggers arrived home from work around half past dark. They must have stopped by the place where they gather their food because their paws were laden with bags full of the stuff.

SIDE NOTE: Two leggers carry their food in bags that were not actually invented to carry food. They were invented to amuse cats. Evidence of this lies in the fact that they break if burdened with anything heavier than a tomato and two grapes, yet they provide endless hours of entertainment for any bored feline within a five-mile radius. (I prefer paper over plastic for its noise making and bushwacking potential.)

Anyway, as I was saying, the two leggers came home and began sorting their foodstuffs, placing them in various cabinets and cupboards. Some they placed in the fridge thingy. As per their ritual, they left a few items that belong in the fridge thingy on the table. (They do this every time so they can make an offering to the garbage gods the next morning.)

Upon turning a knob on the oven in preparation for incinerating their evening meal, the two leggers offered us food and retired to their bedroom to change their clothes.

Now begins the fun.

As I ate, I noticed a fog bank begin to form in the hallway. Though I have often pondered the fog outside my bay window on many an early Autumn morning, I had yet to witness fog banks within the confines of my home. Curious, I decided to investigate.

I soon discovered that the fog was rolling in from the West, or to be more specific, the kitchen. It would seem that the oven thingy was the source of this unexpected weather event. As I sat there pondering, an extremely loud BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPP!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPP!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPP!! sound began issuing from the two small round thingies that sit upon the ceiling of the hallway.

Jaq immediately jumped into the nearest box and began singing "Burning Down The House" by The Talking Heads. Ivan jumped up from his meal and with his stubby little micro-legs all a blur, skittered down the hallway, tripping the male two legger who was rushing toward the kitchen. Ivan misjudged the turn to the bedroom and slammed into a closet with a resounding crash, leaving a permanent impression of his nose and forehead in the wood of the closet door. Tiger Lily, who was in the litter box at the time, found her visit somewhat redundant at this point and retreated under a bed.

I watched eagerly as the male two legger opened the oven door. A large flame shot out of the oven followed by a large billow of fog. He quickly grabbed a pan and using some tongs, he pulled a small flaming mousish shaped ball of burning material out, carefully placed it in the pan and ran out the back door. The female scurried through the house opening windows and turning on fans.

Unfortunately, peace and tranquility soon returned to my kingdom. 

In the aftermath, the two leggers reached the conclusion that a silicone grippy thingy had fallen from a pan and onto the heating element.

I am unconvinced.

Why?

By examining the evidence, I have reached another conclusion.

The evidence:
A. The smell of burned catnip still permeates the air.
B. The mousish shape of the burning lump that the two legger extracted from the oven.
C. The apparent absence of one of my catnip mousie thingies (Larry)

And finally.......

D. The fact that I may have "accidentally" dropped Larry down the oven vent when I was playing atop the stove about five minutes before the two leggers got home.

Cujo's Collection of Curiosities (Concealed in The Corner of The Closet)

I have noticed that my two leggers have a propensity for "collections".

My female collects glass vases and art. My male collects aviation memorabilia as well as old tools used in his profession as a goldsmith. I enjoy the female's collection due to the fact that expensive vases seem to make a much more satisfactory sound when I knock them down and break them. The sound of a Chihuly piece shattering is so much prettier than the sound of a vase purchased at Walmart. Trust me, Ivan and I have experimented with this extensively. The male's collections are not nearly as entertaining given the fact that they are mostly metal and not so easily destroyed.

I have also noticed that my two leggers are not alone in this compulsion to gather things that have some symbolic meaning to them. The talking box thingy is chock full of shows that seem to celebrate the joys of assembling large piles of seemingly useless items. Some collect for sentimental reasons. Some collect in the forlorn hope that their collection may make them wealthy someday. Some collect because of an obsession with a particular person, show or event. Some even take it to the point that other two leggers are forced to step in and hold an intervention thingy.
 
Alas, I am not immune to the allure of a well thought out collection. However, I restrict my collection to things that have real meaning. My collection consists of various items that either amuse me, or represent trophies of my mayhem causing activities. The other difference is that my collection is not put on display. No, my collection is kept hidden, concealed and under wraps. It is strictly for my own enjoyment. That being said, I am willing to share with you Dear Reader some of the contents of my menagerie. I shall present them according to their classification:

Trophies
A sliver of glass from the very first wineglass that I broke during The Great Wineglass Massacre of 2007
A mummified mousie thingy tail from the first mousie thingy that I ordered Ivan to slay.
Eight straws that I have purloined from the female two legger.
14 dress socks of 14 completely different types that I have removed from the dirty clothes hamper. (These are not really trophies, but it confuses the two leggers and they continue to blame the dryer thingy)
Threads from the 37 sets of drapes that the two leggers have replaced since I came to rule them.

Amusements
Three gray stripes that I have smacked off of Tiger Lily over the years. (see also "trophies")
Two obsolete keys that I leave out on occasion causing the two leggers to attempt to use them without success on every lock within my kingdom.
A Lego that serves to maim any bare-footed two legger that chooses to walk my halls in the wee hours of the night.
An old smoke alarm with a dead battery that chirps intermittently. This results in the two leggers performing a fruitless search for the source of the sound.
Glitter. Once glitter is introduced into an environment, it can never be eradicated. The only cure for a glitter infestation is the burning of the contaminated structure.

Curiosities
A dried dust bunny that bears a striking resemblance to absolutely nothing. I find this curious because like clouds, dust bunnies coupled with an active imagination can always be found to resemble something. However, this particular dust bunny defies this theory.

A hairball in the shape of Miley Cyrus. Now I know what you are thinking, it is true that most hairballs resemble Miley Cyrus, but in this case, the shape of the hairball coupled with the fact that Ivan sounded exactly like Miley Cyrus singing when he produced it made the resemblance uncanny.

But the Pièce de résistance of my collection is this:

A small picture of my male two legger when he was in kindergarten. He thought he had destroyed it, but I "rescued" it. He basically looks the same as he did when he was five. Granted, he is taller now, he has less hair and his stomach is a bit larger.

But the main difference: His mustache is much grayer now than it was then.

Unintelligent Falling Object

Two leggers never fail to amaze me.

Just when I think that they have reached the apex of the pyramid of folly, they build another level and continue their climb.

Their most recent attempt at summiting Mt. Duh came this weekend. The entire population of two leggers watched as one of their own climbed into a balloon thingy that was then released. This balloon thingy rose until it reached the approximate altitude of Jupiter at which point the two legger in question let go of the balloon thingy and.........get this............

Fell.

And fell.

And just when you thought it couldn't get any better........

He fell some more.

 Oh yeah, he pulled a string thingy which deployed a sheet that brought him gently to the ground. And the world gave a collective gasp and applauded him.

My male two legger jumped up and yelled "This guy is incredible!"

I disagree. He was not incredible. He was simply a law abiding citizen.

He was obeying the Law of Gravity.

Big fat hairy whoop.

I admit, if he'd suddenly sprouted wings and performed a rendition of Swan Lake at 86,000 feet while simultaneously playing Beethoven's Ninth Symphony on the accordion, I may have been somewhat less nonplussed, but he didn't, and I wasn't.

Once the balloon thingy was released, the bravest step of his stunt was over. From that moment on, his options were somewhat limited. He could either fall, or he could float around the stratosphere until he was shot down over an Arkansas trailer park by a guy with a high powered rifle fearing that another UFO was attempting to abduct his dog thingy again.

Was this done for the gain of scientific knowledge? If so, what did he learn? We already knew that if taken to a great altitude and then released......things fall. If taken even higher, they fall....faster. Cats on knock knack shelves have proven this time and time again. Two leggers have launched themselves higher and fallen further and faster. So we can rule out "science".

 The two legger in question has jumped from many high places and must have already reached the same conclusions.

Did he do it because no one had ever reached that altitude? No. Two leggers have been going higher and  faster for over 50 years. So we can rule out "exploration".

Did he do it for fun? Perhaps. Two leggers often put their lives in mortal peril for kicks. They jump off bridges with rubber bands wrapped around their legs, go over waterfalls in barrels and the bravest have even been known to bathe cats.

But, I have a theory.

I believe that this particular two legger is inflicted with a certain Ivanish logic. I'll explain:

Last Winter, I began noticing that the lights in my kingdom would suddenly flicker at odd times during the day. This flickering was often accompanied by a zzzzzzzzzzzzzztt sound and the odor of singed hair. This phenomenon remained a mystery until one day when I caught Ivan licking an electrical outlet thingy in the hallway.

After he regained consciousness, I asked Ivan "Why are you licking the electrical outlet thingy in the hallway? "

"Because all the ones in the bedroom taste the same." He replied.

"Why should you care how they taste?" I inquired.

"Ummm, because they might taste different."

I considered this and reached the conclusion that it was time for a nap.

This theoretically suicidal two legger seems to use the same philosophy in his hobby of testing gravity.

A couple of days after the two leggers caught Ivan licking the electrical outlet thingies, they installed little plastic guard thingies. This put an end to Ivan's "power naps".

 The fuses were becoming expensive.

Ivan's Hobby

Ivan needs a hobby.

Now that my subjugation of the two leggers is complete, his talents as an enforcer are being greatly under-utilized. Though he wakes every day at the crack of noon, bright-tailed and bushy-eyed, eager to chomp the insolent ankle or smack the sassy six legger. He often finds himself at loose ends with nothing to occupy his day.

Make no mistake, this idleness does not bother Ivan in the least. On the contrary, it allows him more time to devote to his other occupation, namely that of being a large, stinky orange rug that the two leggers often mistake for a large, stinky orange bathmat.

However, I find that Ivan is setting a new standard for lethargy. At times he is so relaxed that he would require five shots of espresso to rise to a level of consciousness where he'd be considered "comatose".

Granted, he is not completely insensate, within .692 seconds of the sound of the cupboard door opening, Ivan instantly appears next to his food bowl. As a matter of fact, two legger scientists who are trying to construct a teleportation device thingy have been studying Ivan in an attempt to discover how he is able to accomplish this.

He still participates in our nightly chaos causing escapades, but I sometimes get the feeling that his heart just isn't in it. He can still break a lamp or chew a pillow into submission with the best of them, but he seems to lack purpose.

He needs a hobby. A way to stimulate all three of his brain cell thingies.

So I promoted him.

Ivan is now the Official President of The North Whidbey Island Wild Elephant and Wild Giraffe Spotters Association (Oak Harbor Chapter). As President of the NWIWE&GSA it is Ivan's duty to spend at least 7.2 hours a day watching for any wild elephant or wild giraffe that may wander into my yard. Tame elephants and giraffes do not count. He is then to observe and report their behavior to me at once.

Those of you familiar with the Pacific Northwest may be aware of the fact that wild elephants and giraffes are exceedingly rare in these parts. They are so rare that the Washington Department of Unnatural Resources has declared them "endangered and ludicrous".

And so Ivan now has a hobby. He spends most daylight hours sitting in the bay window peering through his binocular thingies, (actually, he has no binocular thingies, but he thinks that if he cups his paws around his eyes and squints, it works just as well) keeping constant vigil.

So far he has yet to spot one. He got excited yesterday when he was sure he spotted a wild giraffe.

But alas, it was tame.

The High Life

Today I tackled my Mt. Everest

Anyone who has ever been subjugated by cats is well aware that we will always seek the highest vantage point within our kingdom. There are many theories explaining why we do this. Some believe that we feel less vulnerable, in effect "taking the high ground". Some assert that it enables us a better view of our kingdom. Many are convinced that it is a physical manifestation of our natural tendency to philosophically look down our noses at all creatures we feel are inferior to us.

Basically, everyone.

All of these theories are completely inaccurately accurate.

They are so totally wrong that they verge on being right.

Wrap your head thingy around that one. I dare you.

While it is true that I prefer the higher altitudes within my kingdom for napping, observing and bushwacking unsuspecting gray, whiny, large-faced girl tabbies, that is not the whole story.

Two years ago, at my request, my two leggers completely gutted the back half of my house. They doubled the size of their sleeping quarters as well as the bathroom where they keep their porcelain litter box. At my direction they installed heated floors suitable for napping and all new wooden cabinets suitable for the sharpening of my claws. They generally frown upon my marring the wood, but as always, their opinion matters not. They also installed a new vanity. Next to the vanity, they built a tall cabinet to hold their bottles of stinkum, medicines, grooming implements, (why they don't use their tongues for grooming is beyond me and I will probably address this in another post) and various other arcane objects.

Now we come to the point of this post thingy.

The cabinet which I just described presents a unique challenge. The cabinet rises approximately four tailspans from the surface of the vanity. Between the top of the cabinet and the ceiling is a space that measures .75 tailspans.

Now we come to the point of this post thingy. I must reach this space.

I have spent the last two years studying it. Every night while the female two legger takes her nightly bath, I sit upon the vanity and ponder this space. It is not the height that concerns me, four tailspans is nothing compared to some of the jumps I have made. The Great Refrigerator Leap of August 2011 was at least six tailspans. It is not the small landing area that gives me pause, Last December I stuck a landing on the shower rod from the cabinet. (This jump caused the bathing two legger to have a mild cardiac event.) It is the awkwardness of the transitory area between the top of the cabinet and the ceiling which is causing me trepidation.

     The vanity and sink negate the possibility of a running start. Therefore I must begin this feat standing at the base of the cabinet, jump vertically four tailspans, judging my altitude and momentum perfectly and moving horizontally .278 tailspans, clearing the crown molding at the apex, and stick the landing.

I have worked this out mathematically:

.429(4ts-39%)+(ó*325y)[429837-9x]=(SUCCESS)

Unless there is a stray crosswind over the shower curtain and then my calculation would have to be altered to:

2+2-7=(SUCCESS)

After much pondering, it is time to make the attempt.

Like any good leader, I decided to ask my "team" for any advice they may offer before I take my life into my own paws.

Ivan asked me to look for noms while I was up there.

Tiger Lily claimed dibs on my catnip mousie thingy after I fall to my death. (I'll smack her later)

I found Jaq sitting inside the box that the new satellite receiver arrived in, softly singing the soundtrack from the Broadway musical "Rent" and decided not to bother her.

The time had come. The female two legger was bathing. The male was sitting on the bench next to the tub thingy talking to her. I assumed my usual position next to the cabinet, gazing at my goal. All the conditions were right. Two years of planning had boiled down to this moment. My muscle thingies tightened......... my tail adjusted just so........ a quick check of the wind....and to the accompaniment of my two leggers screaming "CUJO NOOOO!!!" I leapt.

Finding myself atop the cabinet, completely unscathed, I surveyed my new perch. Other than a single small dust bunny whose growth had been obviously stunted by the thinner air at this extreme altitude, the space was completely empty. Though the view was magnificent, the two leggers looked like.....well I can't honestly say ants, they certainly looked shorter from such a lofty height, I quickly realized that the opportunities for amusement were somewhat meager. Though my forepaws are longer than most, they are not long enough to lay a smack upon any minions from up there. (Unless the male two legger is standing while using his litter box) The best I could hope to do was glare at the two leggers from on high when they go to use the porcelain litter box.

I can do that just as easily from the vanity.

Do not misunderstand me, I consider my day and all the planning that went into it to be an unqualified triumph. Not only did I claim the last undiscovered territory within my kingdom, I showed my minions what I am capable of.

Plus, now the male two legger will never be totally at ease on the porcelain litter box knowing that I may be lurking just above his head.  

Curiosity Killed The Two Legger

My male two legger watches many programs on the talking box thingy. The topics of these programs vary widely: sports, history, drama, comedy, bad science fiction and even a little Disney Channel when he thinks no one is looking.

But the one topic he seems to gravitate to (pardon the pun thingy) is science.

Mostly I am indifferent to his choices, but last night he watched a couple of programs that peaked my interest.

The first program was about "Schrodinger's Cat". According to some egg-headed two legger named Schrodinger, if you place a cat in a box and seal it up, the cat could be considered both "dead" and "alive" at the same time due to the fact that the two legger conducting the experiment would be unable to observe the state of the cat.

Stupid.

No, I take that back, what I meant to say was: "STOOOOOOPPPPIIIDDD!!!" (with a tail twitch at the end)

First of all, it has been proven beyond reasonable doubt that no two legger ever born is capable of forcibly placing the smallest kitten or even most geriatric cat inside a box.

However, for argument's sake, let us suppose that Schrodinger realized this before beginning his experiment and instead placed a box in the middle of a room and then told his resident feline that under no circumstances were they to be allowed inside the box. This of course would result in the aforementioned resident feline immediately jumping into the box.

Okay, now we have a cat in a box.

Now the cat must be sealed inside the box. This would take at least six lab assistants as well as a syringe of industrial strength tranquilizer stuffs. After Schrodinger sleeps off the tranquilizer stuffs that was inadvertently injected into his own thigh during the melee, Schrodinger is now free to observe the theoretical cat in a box.

What Schrodinger would observe at this point is a box that has suddenly become animated. It is bouncing across the floor while emitting a great squawling and hissing sound that would make any squirrel thingy within a five mile radius drop dead in fright. Within two minutes, a claw would appear along one of the seams of the box, quickly followed by a ripping sound that would herald the "releasing of the beast".

This would not end well for Schrodinger.

So what has Schrodinger learned?

While one may not be able to determine whether a cat sealed inside a box is alive or dead, one can safely assume that it is highly miffed.

The next show the two legger watched was about a Russian two legged scientist named Pavlov.

Pavlov figured out that if he rang a bell every time he fed his dog thingy, the dog thingy would begin to associate the ringing of the bell with being fed. He "proved" his theory by ringing the bell and observing that his dog salivated.

Apparently, Russian science had yet to discover one basic fact.

DOGS DROOL!

It is what they do. It is the one thing that they excel at. Pavlov's dog didn't drool because he heard a bell ringing, he drooled because he's a dog. Pavlov could have just as easily played a minuet on the bongos and the dog would have still drooled.

However, this particular show had a happy ending.

Pavlov was later eaten by a polar bear while attempting to ring a bell at it. It seems that bells make polar bears hungry too.

Knowledge In The Air

I receive around 30-40 email thingies per day from minions requesting my advice, knowledge or help in dealing with unruly minions. Most of these I answer privately, but on occasion I feel compelled to post my answer in my blog thingy.

Sometimes I do this because I believe my answer will serve the greater good. Sometimes I do this because it may cause embarrassment to the two leggers of the writer. Mostly, I do this because it amuses me.

What follows is one such piece of correspondence.

"Dearest Cujo, High Poobah of All Universes, (both known and unknown) Grand Pawed Potentate, Sheik of Shredding, Master of Mayhem and Crown Prince of Chaos,
    You have often described how felines communicate through the use of body language, vocalizations and liberal use of hairball thingies. However, I once read on the interwebs that some animals are able to communicate through their sense of smell. Do cats use this form of non-verbal communication as well?
    Thank you in advance for any words of wisdom you may choose to impart upon my lowly brain thingy.
                          Sincerely, your loyal minion,
                                                 Ching Pao O'Rielly-Martinez"

Dear Ching Pao O'Rielly-Martinez,
       First of all, your name is too long, so I will call you "Barb".
Barb, you bring up a very good question. As a matter of fact, a large part of inter-cat communication is indeed accomplished by use of olfactory processes. Our nose thingies are acutely tuned to pick up and interpret various scents emitted and spread by other felines.

These scents are called hairymones. Very subtle differences in the chemical make-up of the hairymones can convey different messages and are known by several different names according to the message they are intended to convey. Here are just a few:

If a cat wishes to communicate his displeasure, he will emit scare-amones. This is intended as a warning to others to bother him at their peril.

The annoying party is then expected to produce fear-amones and skedaddle immediately.

If he suspects that his scare-amones are being ignored, he may begin to give off don't-you-dare-amones.

If this warning fails to get your attention, the smell of your blood will be infused with the scent of tear-amones.

As the source of his annoyance lays there bleeding, he will saunter off reeking of I-don't-care-amones.

There are far too many hairy-mones to list here. From the common, everyday "how do ya do?" scents to the much more complex and scarcely known rare-amones.

However, there is one scent that those who love in close proximity to Ivan are all too familiar with. It is triggered by the sound of Ivan scritching in the litter box. It is commonly known as: Don't-breathe-the-air-amones.

Rated Arrrrrggg

I have been informed that today is International Talk Like A Pirate Day.

Never one to buck convention, I will therefore continue this post in a pirate themed manner.

Avast ye lubbers! Harken yer ear thingies and listen to me tale!

Today me mateys and me set sail upon a sea of chaos.

It began at four bells in the forenoon watch. Ivan (pirate name: Tabby McOrangebutt) awoke with a squall a-blowin from his stern and set a course for the litter box, but before he could beach himself upon the grainy shore, I crossed his bows, gave him a broadside, and distracted him from burying his bonny treasure. This set his hawse athwart and put him in a mood to pillage. He altered his course to starboard and set sail down the hallway.

With a prodigious following wind, he swept down the hallway where he encountered the HMS Whinetanic. Captained (sat upon) by Tiger Lily, (pirate name: Gray Squall) the HMS Whinetanic is actually a pillow thingy that was set adrift by the male two legger last night. Ivan immediately boarded her and after some paw-to-paw combat, forced her to strike her colors.

Like a corsair let loose amongst a Spanish treasure fleet, Ivan continued his marauding.

As the sun crossed the mizzen, Ivan came afoul of Jaq. (pirate name: Jack) The Scourge of The Hallway found himself facing a formidable foe. Though Jack be of smaller tonnage, her armament is not lacking in the least. Her speed and maneuverability allow her to sail circles around the larger, slower lubberly Ivan. Refusing the engagement, Jack set her sails aloft and alow and found refuge in waters unknown to Ivan. (under the bed in the guest bedroom, where she immediately began singing various sea shanties)

It was at this point that I felt it was high time for Commodore Cujo (pirate name:....duh, Blackbeard) to step in and bring him to a lee lurch.

I approached him under a flag of truce and requested a parley.

As soon as his defenses were down........I smacked him upside his buckin ears.

Veterinarian Affairs

As I mentioned in my FaceBook Fan Club, I went to see the vet thingy yesterday.

It was not my intention to write a post about it, but in retrospect, it was simply too amusing not to blog about.

For those Fan Club minions who are already aware of this, please consider it a review.

For those Fan Club members who are not aware of this, your inattention miffs me.

Anyway, I became aware that the two leggers were plotting behind my back when I received a post card from the vet thingy on Thursday. It was a picture of the vet thingy and his entire staff dressed in hockey pads, motorcycle helmets and welding gloves. They were also armed with tranquilizer darts and what appeared to be one of those "tazer" thingies. The card read: "We THINK we are ready for Cujo's appointment."

I found this somewhat surprising given the fact that I had never actually met this particular vet thingy, nor had I ever been a patient at his clinic. The mystery was soon solved when I overheard the two leggers talking about my former vet thingy referring me to this new clinic after my last visit.

Apparently my former vet thingy closed her practice after my last visit and chose to go back to the U.S. Army where she felt that her life would be safer and less chaotic serving in Afghanistan. However, before deploying, she felt it her duty to "advise" her successor on the best way to deal with small, unassuming tuxedo cats.

It was a slow day and I was curious, so I allowed myself to be placed in the kitty carrier and driven to my appointment. Ivan was worried, but I assured him that vet thingies do not intimidate me. Quite the opposite, I intimidate them. "Fear not my rotund, odiferous friend, I shall return and I assure you, I will never don the plastic funnel of recovery." I told him.

I arrived at the clinic and was immediately escorted into a private room. I felt that it was a bit excessive that they asked my two legger to bring me in through the back door, bypassing the waiting room completely, and quite frankly the SWAT team attempting to conceal themselves in the potted plants was just ludicrous, but if it made them feel better, who was I to question?

I quickly decided that a more subtle plan of attack was called for. They were obviously well prepared and a full frontal assault would only lead to massive bloodshed....

Again.

As my two legger carried me into the exam room, a voice came over a loudspeaker and said: "Put the carrier on the table, unzip the top and step away slowly."

My two legger did as he was told.

I instantly jumped out and proceeded to clean myself. This apparently startled one of the staff as evidenced by the tranquilizer dart that passed over my head and lodged in the wall behind me. I ignored the dart and continued my grooming. Finally, after fifteen minutes, I curled up on the table and pretended to nap. Another five minutes passes and I heard someone stealthily entering the room. Still "playing possum", I allowed the vet thingy to reach out and tentatively touch me.

I acted startled and stood up.

After spending 30 minutes under the exam table, I was able to coax the vet thingy out long enough to continue his examination.

I continued to play the part of "sweet wittle putty tat". (though it sickened me greatly) My strategy relied on convincing him that the rumors of my dangerous disposition were totally unfounded. Unfortunately, I may not have been as successful as I wished. I fear that he may have seen through my little charade.

As my two legger paid for my visit, I overheard the vet thingy referring him to another, ANY other, vet thingy.

Bowled Over

Ivan is annoyed.

Of course this is nothing new for Ivan. Ivan was born annoyed. I have it on good authority that when he was born, he came out and immediately bit his mother on the leg because she interrupted his in utero nap.

Even though Ivan is often annoyed, he seldom stays annoyed for any great length of time. It is not that he doesn't hold grudges, it is the simple fact that he quickly forgets why he was annoyed in the first place.

Which annoys him.

But this time it is different. Ivan has now been annoyed for a full week.

What could have angered Ivan to this degree?

His food bowl.

That's right, Ivan is angry with his food bowl.

It is a mystery. We don't know what the food bowl did to deserve Ivan's ire, but whatever it was, it must have been unforgivable. For the last week, Ivan has totally ignored it. This is unprecedented. I have never known Ivan to ignore any food bowl, especially if it contains even a molecule of food remaining in it. The food bowl has always been Ivan's dearest friend. He whispers endearments to it when he thinks no one is listening. Given the option, Ivan would rather lose a paw than give up his food bowl. (Ironically Ivan did lose a paw once, but later found it in the litter box where he had inadvertently buried it.) So for Ivan to snub his food bowl was a truly curious development.

At first I thought he was simply off his feed. Perhaps his ample tummy was bothering him. Maybe he'd eaten something that disagreed with him. Ivan eats most things that disagree with him. In fact, the quickest way to get eaten by Ivan is to disagree with him.(As most widowed eight leggers will attest.) However, I noticed that Ivan was still eating regularly.

He just wouldn't eat from his own bowl.

There was nothing different about his bowl. It was the same bowl he had used for the last four years. It is round, (duh) maroonish in color and it has a cartoon picture of an orange tabby in the bottom with the words "Cool Cat" printed in colorful letters. It has not changed location since 2009. It is regularly cleaned and we are fed the same food that we have been fed since 2008.

How could it have possibly offended him?

Being a cat, I am required by the Federal Curious Cat Statute of 1823 to be curious about all things. This law was passed early in the 19th Century when the townsfolk of Peedunken, Pennsylvania suddenly noticed that most of the feral cats in town had become decidedly uncurious thereby disrupting the natural order of things and causing rumors of witchcraft, paganism and other tendencies often associated with squirrels.

I observed Ivan for several days. Even under close scrutiny, Ivan gave no clue as to what could have caused the estrangement from his food bowl. I decided that this had gone on entirely too long and it was time take extreme measures.

I was going to have to perform that most undesirable of activities. To proverbially soil my paws. To perform an extraordinarily distasteful duty. No matter how I wished to avoid it.....

I was going to have to talk to Ivan.

If you have ever been required to have a conversation with Ivan, you understand.

Just saying "Good day" to Ivan can cost you 50 IQ points. Ivan is a furry little black hole thingy that sucks intelligence from normally smart people where it disappears, never to be seen again. Proof of this can be seen in the male two legger who speaks to Ivan often.

Finally, I approached Ivan.

"O' Lumpy One, why are you angry with your food bowl?" I asked.

"That's not my food bowl." he replied. "The kitty in the bottom is standing on its head and the words are in a foreign language"

I reached over and turned the food bowl 180 degrees.

Ivan is amazed. He almost broke down in relief now that his food bowl has been repaired.

Now I can claim "Food Bowl Repair Technician" to the long list of talents in my repertoire.

The Un-Painted Lady

Pondering the two leggers once again.......

For the last week, the female has been laboring away on my back deck. The male on the other paw, has been watching her.

This is most unusual.

Those who know my two leggers are aware that they are inseparable. They always work together whether it is at home or at their vocation. If one is mowing my yard, the other is pulling weeds in my yard. If one is doing the dishes, the other is doing laundry. If one is cleaning the Royal Litter, the other is supervising the cleaning of the Royal Litter.

Today was different.

The female was on the back deck painting it brown. The male was inside advising her to drink more water. According to the talking box thingy, this is generally considered deplorable behavior on the part of the male two legger. However, it quickly dawned on me that he was not helping her by her own request. This became apparent to me after the third time that she said to him: "Doug, put that brush down and step slowly away from the paint!" This was delivered in the same tone of voice that she uses when she says: "Doug, one gallon of lighter fluid on the charcoal is more than sufficient to start the grill."

I investigated this strange affair and discovered that the male dislikes painting greatly. When he and the female first became paired, they decided to re-paint the interior of my house. Living by the philosophy of : "If you do it wrong the first time, you'll never have to do it again" he made a total mess of the job.

That's HIS story.

I disagree. I think he is attempting to hide the fact that he suffers from Acute Psychromopigmentatosis. This very rare condition causes any non-dried paint product to be attracted to the sufferer and thereby spread, smeared and splattered across any surface that is not intended to be painted. Most victims will naturally grow out of this condition upon completion of kindergarten. However, in some extreme cases, they may find themselves afflicted for their entire lives.

Early in their marriage, the female realized that the male was afflicted with AP and decreed that he would never again be allowed in the vicinity of even slightly damp paint.

In spite of her vigilance, by the time that the painting of the deck was completed, there were no fewer than 12 footprints (male, two legger, size 9) in the paint. The male, who had not come within 20 feet of the paint can, was covered in chocolate colored gooiness and banished to the tub thingy with a bottle of turpentine.

The female remained unspeckled. Not a drop of paint upon her entire body.

She plans on painting the front deck this weekend.

She also gave the male an all expense-paid golfing vacation to Florida.

For this weekend.

Coincidence? I think not.

Executive Decision

Once again, many of my minions are encouraging me to run for President of The United States.

Once again, I must respectfully decline.

Although I am extraordinarily qualified to lead this country, (as well as all the others) my particular form of leadership may not sit well with citizens that enjoy living in a "democracy" thingy.

Since many of my minions live in other countries, I will now explain how our government works. (Heheheehehheehe, seeing the words "government" and "works" in such close proximity always makes me chuckle)

We have three branches of government:

1. The Legislative Branch- This consists of two groups of two leggers. There is the larger group called the "House of Representatives". They are a bunch of people that were deemed unfit to stay in their own states and were therefore banished to Washington, DC to sit in a big building called "The Capitol" and do nothing but belittle each other. They are experts in "Financial Linguistics". "Financial Linguistics" is the art of using $100 words to express $5 ideas. The second group in the Legislature, known as the "Senate" does pretty much the same as the first, but there are fewer of them and they use bigger word thingies.

2. The Judicial Branch- This is a group of two leggers that, well, okay, other than wearing black dresses, I have no clue what they do, but I am sure that they do it very well, except when they do it very poorly. But trust me, I'm sure they do something. I'll get back to you on that one.

3. The Executive Branch- This consists of the President and Vice President. The President is supposed to rule over the country with wisdom and integrity. The very fact that the President is always a politician proves the absurdity of the job description. The Vice President''s job is to make silly statements, be socially inept and generally act in a comical manner thereby making the President look better in comparison. In a monarchy, he is called a "Court Jester".

In theory, these three branch thingies are supposed to work together and make life better for all Americans. In practice, they argue, fuss and do very little but make life easier for themselves.

If I were President, I would immediately declare that anyone in government that disagrees with my policies would be sent to the nearest animal shelter to be used as a scratching post for underprivileged kittens. If they continue to question my administration, they would be forced to wear dog suits and sent to Michael Vick's house.

I would solve the economic crisis by converting our monetary system from dollars to squirrel thingies. That way money would literally grow on trees.

Anyone convicted of animal abuse will be forced to serve a one year sentence in a 1978 Ford Pinto in New Mexico with the windows rolled up. (Unless it can be proven that the abused animal was whiny and then they'd be given a medal and a pension)

Trust me, my "Presidency" is better suited for a dictatorship. Therefore, I will stick to my goal of becoming Supreme Dictator of All Universes Both Known and Unknown, Grand Poobah of All I Survey and Royal Smacker of All Things Whiny.

Commercial Success

Jaq, who has appointed herself my publicist, has suggested that I enhance my public image. She recommends that I have a commercial thingy made.

I am unsure whether I agree that my image needs enhancement, but have decided to ponder the idea.

After taking a six hour nap only interrupted by several sessions of snoozing, I have come up with an idea for an ad thingy:

Cue slideshow of pictures of me-

Voice of Antonio Banderas: 
"Some have plastic flamingos in their yard, he has live peacocks"

"His ego is visible from space."

"Dogs refuse to chase him, for fear of catching him."

"He drinks from a bidet."

"He has people to cover his litter so that his paws remain unsullied."
 
"He once neutered a squirrel using only a sharply worded email."                                            

"His smack has been classified as a weapon of mass destruction."

"His purr has inspired symphonies."

"He speaks in calligraphy."

"Mice volunteer to become his toys."

"Sunbeams go in search of HIM."

"He once made a mime scream."

"Elephants try to forget him."

"His litter has been sold on Ebay."

"Fleas refuse to bite him."

"His thoughts are so deep that they occasionally strike oil."

"He once smacked the stripes off a whiny gray tabby."

"There are movie credits at the ends of his daydreams."

"He's been known to abduct aliens."

"HE IS THE MOST INTERESTING CAT IN THE WORLD"

My voice-

"I don't always use catnip, but when I do, it's organic."

"Stay frisky my friends."  

Ivan's Thought

I am amused.

Today the two leggers went outside to work in my yard. As they left, they neglected to turn off the talking box thingy. 

The channel that it was tuned to featured a two legger yelling about how we could improve our lot by simply "thinking" our way to happiness. I was beyond bored and decided to supervise the two leggers from the sliding door.

However, I found it increasingly difficult to maintain my vigil with the constant drone of the two legger touting the "Power of Positive Thinking".  I quickly grew annoyed and turned to give the talking box thingy a proper tongue lashing when I noticed that Ivan was enraptured by whatever snake oil this two legger was attempting to peddle. 

Intrigued, I began paying attention.

It was his theory that by imagining good fortune, good fortune would naturally ensue. If one wishes to become rich, one need only imagine that they have money. If one wishes to be healthy, imagine it and you will never be sick again.

Rubbish. I have often imagined the squirrel's demise, and yet he still breathes. I have plotted, planned and even solicited his murder, and his mangy little heart beats on.

Yet Ivan was hooked.

I found this ironic because I was "positive" that Ivan was incapable of "thinking". Ivan is now convinced that if he thinks hard enough, he will become one of the world's great thinkers. 

I asked Ivan for a demonstration of his new technique. 

After five minutes of "thinking", Ivan's whiskers began to twitch. He developed a tic in his left ear. His right eye leaked a tear and a small rivulet of drool escaped his mouth. Without warning, his body went rigid and he fell over on his right side where he lay unmoving for five minutes. Just as I was about to start dividing up his toys, he sat up and yelled "I'VE DONE IT!"

"What have you done oh floofy one?" I asked.

"I had a thought!", he replied.

"And???"

"I think I'm hungry!"

I stand corrected.

Let The Games Begin

I have discovered that every four years, two leggers from every nation migrate to a preordained location and compete with each other in various athletic events. In two legger society, this seems to be a big honkin deal.

I have been observing the pre-olympic fooforah and find myself completely, totally and thoroughly unimpressed.

The two leggers run in circles, run in straight lines, jump into water, swim, jump over bars, swing on bars, dance and prance, throw things, jump over things, shoot stuff, ride horse thingies and a myriad of other activities. They do all this in the hope that they will be awarded a shiny thingy thereby earning the esteem of all the other two leggers.

For the most part, I find most of these competitions tedious and boring. However there are a few that pique my interest.

The one that features a pair of two leggers standing in a square enclosure (oddly called a ring) and punching each other repeatedly amuses me greatly. The event in which they attempt to poke each other with long, pointy, metal sticks showed promise until I realized that after 30 minutes not one of the competitors had bled. I considered this false advertising and bad form.

I now realize that the two leggers who are charged with organizing these competitions are in dire need of my counsel.

By adopting a few rule changes, the Olympics can be made truly entertaining:

1. Any event in which running is required, all runners should be encouraged to greater speed by the implement of either a lion or a bear or both.

2. All gymnastics should be performed over a burning lake of gasoline. This will discourage the competitors from falling.

3. Use of performance enhancing herbs such as catnip will increase the frisky factor and possibly cause slap fights and wrestling during all events.

4. Any two legger whose name contains more vowels than consonants should be instantly disqualified due to pronunciation issues.

5. New events such as "Javelin Catch", "Full Contact Dressage" and "The 100 Meter Smack and Scurry" should be introduced.

6. Any celebrity performing at the opening ceremony must be younger than the original Olympic Games.

7. In each event, there will be one "secret spoiler competitor" whose sole aim will be to screw up the performance of all the other competitors. (I would recommend the French for this role)

8. Reality television stars and politicians will be ridden in place of horses during all equestrian events.

9. Judges will be chosen from an undiscovered tribe of natives that reportedly live somewhere in the Amazon.

10. Athletes who fail to survive these games will be excluded from subsequent games.

I am confident that by implementing these minor changes, we can save the Olympics and make them popular again.

2nd Blogoversary Post Thingy

First of all allow me to thank everyone that was kind enough to send "Happy Blogoversary" wishes. To tell the truth, I had completely forgotten that it was on this day two years ago that I began my epic quest for world domination.

Looking back on two years of sharing my life and philosophy, there are a few things that stand out in my mind:
1. There seem to be a lot folks out there looking for the answers to all of life's mysteries.
2. There are a lot of folks out there who believe that I may provide the answers to all of life's  mysteries.
3. There are a lot of folks out there still in need of my answers to all of life's mysteries
4. There are a lot of folks who will benefit from my answers to all of life's mysteries.
5. There are still too damn many squirrel thingies.

Over the past 24 months,  I have disseminated my wisdom to minions all over the world. I have minions on all seven continents. Yes, even Antartica where a technologically savvy penguin named "Ralph" assures me that he has eradicated the entire Antartic squirrel population. (I encourage all followers to emulate Ralph's example.)

I have met and communicated with two and four leggers from New York to Brisbane. I have even corresponded with dog thingies. (Unfortunately sarcasm does not work well in a text based medium thereby rendering my scathing responses to the dog thingies useless.)

I have published one book thingy and will be publishing a second this year.

I have made many friends and no enemies. (Unless you count squirrels, eight leggers, dust bunnies, moths, grammar teachers, Democrats, Republicans, historians, literature professors, animal rights activists, bunnies, clergy, atheists, veterinarians, politicians, farmers, plumbers, members of the Royal Family, bird thingies, and a housewife in Nova Scotia who is in desperate need of both a spell checker and a laxative.)

In closing, I would like to thank each and every one of my loyal minions for making these last two years the most amusing time of my life.

You guys are why I do this.

Now get out there and slay some squirrels.

Clouded Thoughts

The last few days have been interesting.

Weather here in the Pacific Northwest is predictably unpredictable. Consistently inconsistent.

I have it on good authority that our most accurate weather forecast teams use a method in which they study all the radar maps, trends and satellite photos, compile all this information, figure out exactly what the data is telling them is going to happen, and then play a game of full-contact "Rock, Paper, Scissors" to finalize their decision before telling the TV weatherman their predictions.

They also employ a strategy where all the local meteorologists meet once per day to drink coffee and bourbon and verify that they are all going to give completely different forecasts on the evening news. This ensures that on any given day at least one of them will be accurate.

This week, Mother Nature threw them a curveball that no amount of caffeine and alcohol lubricated guesswork could predict.

Thunderboomers.

We get hailstorms, windstorms, firestorms, snowstorms and the exceedingly rare brainstorms.

But we never get thunderstorms.

Well, maybe "never" is too strong a word thingy. Once or twice a year, a vagrant thunderboomer may sneak across the Cascade Mountains and strike terror into the hearts of the six elk, four marmots and three cult members that live in the mountains East of here.

According to the two legger scientific types, it has something to do with the geographipsychomitrology of Western Washington. These two leggers are obviously paid by the amount of letter thingies appearing after their names and the size of words that they employ in their reports.

So Friday after having watched thunderboomer after thunderboomer roll past my kingdom, I decided that in the interest of keeping my readers informed, I should educate myself on all thingies weather related. I looked at the National Weather Service website thingy and slept through an episode of "Storm Chasers".

I now consider myself the world's leading geographipsychomitrologist.

Stand by for some learnin':

First of all, let's talk about rain.
Here in my kingdom, we are accustomed to rain. I have counted over 432 different types of rain.
Drizzle rain.
Sprinkle rain.
Misty rain.
Gusty rain.
Pouring rain.
Spitty rain.
Fluffy rain.
Sparkly rain.
Sideways rain.
Dinky rain.
Spotty rain.
etc........

Rain comes from cloud thingies. Cloud thingies are big and poofy and not very smart.

If Ivan could fly, he would likely be a cloud thingy.

For the most part, they float around, minding their own business, drifting serenely across the sky. But once in a while, they gather together and begin throwing themselves at each other like goat thingies. When they collide, it produces a loud booming sound called "thunder". The effort exerted by the cloud thingies causes them to sweat and the sweat they produce falls in the form of rain.

Now you know the truth. Rain is cloud sweat.

Now to explain lightning:

Lightning is bright. I could tell you more, but I choose not to.

This report brought to you by Cujo Cat PHD of Geographipsychomitrology, DHEO, WKCFUF, PWVNM, PDQ, XYZ.

Leaper Colony

Okay, this is just ridiculous.

My two leggers are out of control.

Those of you familiar with my two leggers are well aware that they are a couple of "nature loving, do no harm, all creatures are sacred, granola munching, tree hugging hippy types".  But things are getting out of hand. (paw)

They are disrupting the natural order of things.

When they first started feeding the bird thingies, I assumed that they were attempting to lure the bird thingies to my yard and lull them into a false sense of security until the day that I would escape my house, wreak sweet carnage and leave the yard covered in a carpet of colored feathers and blood.

Soon, squirrel thingies arrived and my anticipation grew with each passing day. I began having dreams of slaying the nasty little tree rats and often awoke in the act of cleaning imaginary blood from my forepaws.

Then the deer thingies showed up. Though too massive to be brought down easily, Ivan and I working in conjunction should be able to take one of the smaller offspring.

It has been four years now, and I am still kept within the confines of my house.

The veritable smorgasbord just outside my window continues to grow.

I am beginning to believe that the two leggers may no longer be luring these creatures for my sake alone. I am beginning to suspect that they may have ulterior motives. It is entirely possible that they have developed a fondness for wild critters. They seem to consider them a source of entertainment as opposed to a source of nutrition.

To recap: I have watched as beast after beast have discovered that there is free food to be found in my yard. All they have to do is show up, act cute for a minute or two, and the two leggers rush out with a bucket full of seed, grain or fruit to lay upon the stumps in my backyard.

Now to the point of this post.

I awoke this morning to the sound of giggling outside my window. Looking out, I beheld a most disturbing sight.

Bunnies.

Lots and lots of bunnies.

Apparently word has reached the land of the hoppers and now they have all taken up residence in my yard. Bouncing around MY yard. Eating MY dandelions. Laying little bunny-berries in MY grass.

And giggling.

That's the most annoying part. Bunnies giggle.

Cats meow, Ivan grunts, Jaq squeaks, Tiger Lily whines, dog thingies bark, goat thingies baa, bird thingies chirp and eight leggers snicker. These are all natural and fairly tolerable. (Except whining, but I'll smack her later)

But giggling?

I voiced my great displeasure to the two leggers regarding the infestation. They immediately ran outside and laid some carrots on the grass. Soon the word had spread and my yard was filled with happy, hopping, giggling little nose twitchers.

Even the squirrel was annoyed and sat in a tree with a look of great disdain on his mangy little face.

So once again, I find myself trying to be patient.

All it will take is a loose window screen or a door carelessly left ajar and Ivan and I will spend a fun-filled day splitting hares.

Flight of The Intruder

Today sweet chaos reigned.

The day started out peacefully enough. The sun was shining, the two leggers were going about their two legged business, (cleaning and rearranging furniture) Ivan was menacing a day old potato chip that had annoyed him by not running when he hissed at it. Tiger Lily was sleeping in a most irritating manner. Jaq was on two legger supervisory duty.

Very little was happening, so I decided that the sunbeam in the bay window required my attention and I lay down for an afternoon nap.

I awoke a short time later to the sound of two leggers screaming and the scrabble of scurrying paws in the hallway.

All three of my fellow felines were in a tizzy.

Not wanting to miss out on any potential mayhem, I decided to investigate. I surmised from Ivan's constant chittering, Jaq's squeaky "mowr mowr mowr" and Tiger Lily's signature Whompin Whine that they were in pursuit of something. Just as I rounded the corner leading to the hallway I was bowled over by the orange tubbiness known as Ivan. He didn't see me owing to the fact that he was totally focused on his prey.

What prey could have Ivan so oblivious that he didn't notice me approaching?

A fly thingy.

Not just any fly thingy.

THE fly thingy

A fly thingy so incredibly huge that it requires a flight plan.

In the feline brain, there are a few things that will override every iota of sanity that a cat may possess and drive them into a murderous frenzy. They are as follows:

1. String. Or anything that appears stringy, string-like, stringish or even slightly stringesque.
2. Anything that is small, hairy and emits squeaking sounds. (Especially teacup poodles)
3. Wads of paper. (I don't know why, I just accept it.)
4. Anything with feathers. This includes everything from hummingbirds to Las Vegas showgirls.
5. Red dots of light that move erratically.
6. Flying six leggers.

And most of all, fly thingies.

I decided to grant my minions the courtesy of attempting to slay the intruder first. It was only fair, they had discovered it, they get first shot.

Ivan attempted to perform a "flying shark thingy maneuver". This feat is accomplished by launching oneself through the air with jaws wide open and ears laid back catching the prey in one's open maw. However, Ivan has an intimate relationship with gravity and was only able to "launch" about seven inches.

The fly thingy actually chortled

Tiger Lily took several swings at the fly thingy until she remembered that she has no claws and settled for whining to the two leggers to swat the cursed thing.

Jaq attempted an ambush by concealing herself in the drapes and waiting for the prey to come to her. She was subverted  by the sunbeam and thrown into an instant power coma.

As usual, the slaying of the fly thingy fell to me.

I chased it for several minutes. From room to room, window to window, knocking over three picture frames, four glasses and something that I couldn't identify even when it was whole. Finally the fly flew into the bathroom and out the hole in the bathroom window screen from whence it had obviously entered my house in the first place.

I turned to find myself alone. The other three had tired of the chase long before.

Fortunately, there was still an old wing left from a fly I dispatched last week. I sauntered from the bathroom and made a great show of picking the wing out of my teeth. The others gazed at me in awe of my prowess.

Sometimes you gotta fake it when your fly is down.