And The Winner Is........

After observing and pondering the two leggers for the last four and a half years, I have reached a conclusion:

All two leggers require validation.

They are always seeking praise in the form of awards, certificates and trophy thingies. They have entire walls dedicated to the display of such things. While most of these trophy thingies are made of metal and therefore hard to break, they do make a satisfying clunk when they hit the floor and if properly aimed, can even cause cranial damage on any unsuspecting gray, whiny tabby that happens to be walking below the shelf where the trophy thingies are displayed.

They spend hours watching programs on the talking box thingy where wealthy two leggers hand out awards to other wealthy two leggers. Afterwards, still other wealthy two leggers sit around and criticize what the honored wealthy two leggers wore.

Two leggers receive awards for everything. Acting, singing, sports, giving money to others, taking money from others, selling stuff, buying stuff, learning stuff, I even saw an awards show where they handed out trophies for being the "worst" in their prospective fields.

We feline types need  no such validation. Our success or failure is evident in the number of minions we subjugate, the size of our sphere of influence, and the amount of catnip mousie thingies we have stashed in various hidey holes throughout our house.

However, after much pondering, I have decided to keep an open mind. I have decided that we should have our own awards. The recipients of these awards are chosen by the National Organization for Determining Occasional Goofiness. (N.O.D.O.G.S.) Without further ado, I present to you:

"The Cujos"

The first Cujo Award goes to Ivan for Stinkage Above and Beyond the Call of Decency. On May 21st, 2011, Ivan laid a clump that was so far beyond the pale that the spare bedroom had to be quarantined and ventilated for three days before it was considered safe for habitation. The airing out of the spare bedroom also killed the rosebush that used to live outside the window and caused the squirrel to don a gas mask. 

The next Cujo Award goes to Tiger Lily for......you guessed it: Meritorious Whining. On several occasions, Tiger Lily's whine has served to create chaos and mayhem within the confines of my kingdom. One instance in particular was when she emitted an ear splitting, constant drone during the last two minutes of last year's Superbowl thingy. This caused the male's eyes to bug out of his head and the tips of his ears to turn a brilliant shade of scarlet. It amused me greatly. I still smacked her, but I was amused none the less.

Jaq receives The Cujo Award for Extreme Manipulation of Two Leggers. In an amazing display of intuition and strategic planning, Jaq has not only been accepted into my house, she has convinced the two leggers that she is "the sweetest little kitty they have ever met".  What they don't know, is that while they are at work, she laughs about how gullible they are, how easily she ingratiated herself to them and how little time and effort was required.

As for myself, I require no award. A simple crown, throne and scepter will do nicely. Oh, and one of those feather thingies, I love those.

Spring Cleaning

I knew something was up.

The two leggers woke up early this morning. This is one of the two days each week that they generally sleep late and do not leave my house.

So I knew something was up.

They came out of the bedroom. The female was totally alert and obviously excited. The male looked as though he had just won a contest where the grand prize was free membership in the "Colonoscopy of The Month Club".

The female then made an announcement to my household: "Commence Spring cleaning!"

This confused me on two counts.
A. I was unaware that we had springs.
B. I was unaware that the springs we have were dirty.

It soon became apparent that the female was on a mission.

In a flurry of frenetic activity, she proceeded to open every window in my house. She then produced gallons of cleaning solutions and bales of scrubbing rags. The Hoover sucky thingy was placed in the middle of the living room. She instructed the male to move every piece of furniture away from the walls. Rugs were rolled up and moved outside. Buckets of water appeared.

Tiger Lily started whining about the disruption, Jaq curled up on a convenient pile of laundry, and Ivan sat in the middle of the living room repeatedly smacking the hoover sucky thingy. Ivan is very brave when the hoover sucky thingy is turned off, but once it awakens, he invariably poofs, bolts from the room in a skittering of tiny claws and attempts to disguise himself as a large orange dust bunny in the back of the nearest closet.

 Therefore, it falls to me to provide the proper feline supervision of the ongoing operation.

The first thing I noticed was the fact that the two leggers were attempting remove all traces of cat hair from my kingdom. This annoyed me greatly. It has taken me all Winter to lay down a copious covering upon all surfaces in my house. Cat hair is not only very decorative, it serves as a layer of insulation. I guarantee the couch, chairs, drapes, entertainment center, various knock knacks, clean laundry, window sills and various other furnishings all appreciate the warmth that a properly distributed layer of cat hair provides. (It is also instrumental in the breeding of dust bunnies.)

They then attempted to erase all the paw prints that I had painstakingly placed upon the window panes. These paw prints are placed there as a warning to squirrel thingies and other vermin that "we" are watching them and they had better straighten up and take their shennanigans elsewhere.

Now, I was TRULY annoyed.

Obviously sensing my growing agitation, the male then decided that he valued his ankles and decided to offer me a metaphorical olive branch. He moved the couch and uncovered the only thing that would appease me:

"The Haven of Escaped Catnip Mousie Thingies"

The Haven of Escaped Catnip Mousie Thingies, (HECMT) is a region that exists in every feline ruled household. It is a place that cat toys dream of fleeing to. They plot their escape and will often sacrifice the weakest of the herd in order that the younger, stronger toys may find freedom. It is usually located under a couch or other equally immovable piece of furniture. It exists exactly one inch beyond the paw reach of the longest limbed feline resident.

The male, in an uncharacteristic fit of intelligence, realized that the sudden return of 42 of my favorite toys may appease me, swept them into the middle of the room.

I don't recall exactly what happened next. I do have vague memories of flying paws and a little foil ball, but the rest is a blur. The next thing I remember is waking upon my throne in front of the firebox thingy smelling of stale catnip.

My kingdom is scrubbed. Not a cat hair in sight. (Other than those still attached to the Royal Body) No paw prints on any glass surface.( I've no doubt the squirrels are plotting already) My house smells of flowers and disinfectant, and three of my toys have already found refuge under the couch once again.

So now I must get back to work.

This cat hair is not gonna spread itself.
 

The Egg and Ivan

I am amused.

At first I was annoyed, but now I am amused.

The source of my amusement is complicatedly simple.

Ivan has decided to become a "Mother".

Well, truth be told, Ivan has always been a "mother" in the context that he loves to eat moths, but now he has decided to become a "Mother" with a capital "M" and all that it implies. A "Mother" as in: One who gives birth to, and nurtures young".

Now I know you may argue that Ivan is incapable of becoming a "Mother" due to his lack of the bits and parts that are required to become a "Mother". However, one must never underestimate the power of ignorance.

No, no, Ivan is not planning on having a litter of kittens. That would be ridiculous.

Ivan is attempting to hatch a mouse thingy.

This may, or may not, be my doing.

It started this morning. I was awakened by the sound of Ivan rolling a small white ball up and down the hardwood floor of my hallway. This small white ball is of the variety that the male two legger likes to take to a park and punish by smacking it repeatedly with various sticks until it finally surrenders and hides in a hole. He then picks it out of the hole and continues smacking it until it finds another hole to hide in. He does this about 18 times before returning home and vowing never to do it again.

He calls it playing "goof".

Anyway, Ivan woke me while playing with this "goof" ball. However, it occurred to me that this was an opportunity to kill two bird thingies with one swipe.

I asked Ivan why he was playing with that mouse egg.

"Mouse egg?" Ivan replied.

"Duh" I said. "Where do you think mouse thingies come from?"

Ivan was confused. So I explained that mouse thingies are hatched from small, dimpled eggs that the two leggers (in their eternal hatred) smack around with sticks on sunny weekends. They smack them around to keep them from hatching. However, if one was to lay upon a mouse egg, keeping it warm and above all quiet, within 72 hours, the mouse egg will hatch and provide a tasty snack. I told him that if he wished to hatch it, he must guard it and let no one disturb it. The hall closet would be optimal for its development.

So, for the last ten hours, Ivan has been sitting in the hall closet on a "goof" ball. He hisses at anyone that comes near. He gets up every hour or so to make sure his mouse egg is warm and protected. He dreams of the munchy goodness he will enjoy once it hatches. The two leggers are confused, but not particularly worried. They have learned that Ivan is odd.

Sometimes I find it amazing that Ivan is so easily misled. I mean, thinking that mouse thingies are hatched from eggs? How gullible can he be?

Anyone with half a brain thingy knows that they are formed by dust bunnies.

String Theory

One of my loyal minions recently asked: "Why do cats love string?"

This is a common misconception. Cats do not love string. Cats hate string.

We of the feline persuasion have very few natural enemies. But of the 2,653 natural enemies we do have, string rates as number 34. Right between dust bunnies and Dorito's advertising execs.

It is in our evolutionary makeup that any feline upon spotting a piece of string is genetically predisposed to destroy said string with extreme prejudice.

All string lives on borrowed time.

String is not without its defenses. Not unlike mouse thingies, string has developed an increased rate of reproduction in order to battle its high rate of mortality. Their method of reproduction is akin to that of eel thingies that I have observed while watching Animal Planet on the talking box thingy. All the strings gather in one place, (generally a dark, rarely opened drawer) and form into a knotted ball of reproductive ickiness. This is called: "Unified String Theory." The two leggers often try to keep the string from reproducing by removing the ball and attempting to remove the knots. (This is why two leggers refer to reproduction as "being knotty") After several attempts at untangling the string, the two leggers simply give up and throw the ball of copulation to the experts:

Us.

This is when string is at its most vulnerable. It is easily slapped around, batted and chewed. I have also developed a procedure for dealing with this menace:

Step one: The Stalk- This requires stealth and planning. Once spotted, the string ball is to be approached slowly and silently. Moving from hidey hole to hidey hole, you must circle the prey evaluating its size and intent.

Step two: The Pounce- The pounce is only initiated after step one has been thoroughly performed. The pounce consists of launching oneself from a distance of 2.5 tailspans at a 38.7 degree angle and landing squarely upon the ball's Point of Greatest Mass. (PGM)

Step three: The Torment- After pouncing, the string must be taught a lesson. It cannot be dispatched quickly like a common dust bunny, it must be tortured, teased and ridiculed. This is accomplished by securing it in one's forepaws while simultaneously biting it in the area where it's head thingy should be and kicking it with  the hind legs. After tearing it up a while, it should be released for a moment in order to offer it a glimmer of false hope.

Step four: Repeat step three.

Step five:- The Kill- The kill is accomplished when the string is saturated with cat spit and offers no more resistance. One can then stalk away with the satisfaction of a job well done.

The two leggers will be along later to clean up the carnage.

Knights of The Broken Table

Chivalry is not dead.

It may be on life support, surrounded by mournful looking relatives, shaking their heads at the impending loss of one with so much left to give to this world. It may have already filled out its' last will and testament thingy.  It may be comatose with a rivulet of drool leaking out of the corner of its' mouth while the nurse flirts with the doctor.

But it is not dead.

Chivalry lives in my kingdom.

I know this because I watched a show on the talking box thingy.

It was about a two legger named King Arthur. He lived in Britain a very long time ago. (I suspect around 1980). One day he found a sword thingy stuck in a rock. He pulled it free of the rock and the other two leggers made him King.

The logic of this method of choosing a king escapes me. Apparently the two leggers back then held in high regard anyone who was adept at sword removal. Personally, I  would have been more impressed with the guy who stabbed the rock in the first place.

Be that as it may, the peasants gave Arthur the crown and set him up in a nice castle.  Arthur then bought a big circular table (probably from Ye Olde Ikea Store) and invited a bunch of his buddies to sit around it.  He told them that the shape of the table indicated that they were all of equal status.

Litter nuggets.

First of all, if they were all of equal status, why was he called "King" Arthur?  Why did they always meet at his house?

Anyway, they were all called "knights" and addressed each other as "Sir" this and "Sir" that. They spent their days doing Arthur's bidding, slaying dragon thingies and rescuing damsels in distress. Once all the dragon thingies had been slain and all the damsels in distress had been rescued, they grew restless.

Deciding to cash in on their fame, they left Arthur and formed a band that became known as "The Boogie Knights".
                                                        The End

 I've decided that Arthur was a wuss.

I never pulled a sword out of a rock. I was not crowned by unanimous decree of the peasants. I was not "given" a castle. I never "asked" my minions to come serve me.

Everything I have, my throne, my kingdom, my minions and my rightful place as ruler of all things, both known and unknown, I earned the old fashioned way:


I took it by force.


 

Aggravation

I woke up on the wrong side of the litterbox today.

For the most part, I am a generally cheerful sort. I go through life causing chaos and mayhem wherever I go, but I usually do it in a cheerful  and good natured manner. I have found that if I break things with a cheerful disposition, it makes it difficult for the two leggers to stay angry with me. I do not break things out of anger, I break things simply because they are in need of, or deserving of, breaking.

One must enjoy their chosen calling.

However, once in a while, I find that I must release pent up aggravation.

This aggravation can be caused by a number of different things:

The two leggers did not carry out my orders in a timely and efficient manner.
The two leggers allowed the royal litter to sit unscooped for more than 3.6 hours.
Tiger Lily whined.
Ivan did something so extraordinarily stupid that it confused me.
I caught Tiger Lily breathing again.
I was unable to bring myself to smack Jaq again.
The two leggers did not provide me with a suitable lap upon which to lounge when I was ready for it.
The laser pointy thingy did not appear when I wished for it to appear.
The sunbeam made no appearance.
I visited my food bowl and found it less than 3/4  full.
The squirrel still lived.
Did I mention Tiger Lily?

So, other than those few small irritants, I am a very easy going example of laid backness.

I take what life hands me, chew it up, digest it for a few hours, and then re-deposit it in the female two legger's boots.

But this morning, I felt downright surly. Disturbed. Annoyed. Amusement challenged. Lacking of goodwill. One could almost call me pissy. (But not if one wished to go unsmacked)

I spent the morning pondering this and have reached a conclusion.

It is Tiger Lily's fault.

I have evidence.

While I was sleeping last night, I had a dream. In this dream, Ivan and I were doing our afternoon rounds, going from window to window, casting aspersions upon any squirrel thingies we saw in the yard, slaying errant dust bunnies and snacking on eight leggers. When suddenly Tiger Lily appeared in front of us. She spoke in her usual whining manner and told us that the secret of  a happy life was spending it in service to others.

I have always suspected her of dog like sympathies, but until now had never had proof.

Now it all made sense. The whining, the constant need for attention, the aversion to other felines and the cowering demeanor.

Tiger Lily is a dog thingy.

Oh sure, she may be able to fool the two leggers, but I am not so easily misled.

So to prove my hypothesis, I decided to put her to the test. I ordered her to go into the computer room where the two leggers keep their book shelves and knock over several books. She whined about it but complied. After hearing the crash, I went in to inspect.

Just as I suspected, she knocked down the male's entire collection of Garfield books while leaving Snoopy, Old Yeller and Benji sitting safely upon the shelf.

The prosecution rests.

Smack In The Box

Today a most unusual thing occurred.

My two leggers amused me.

They often try to amuse me, but generally fail miserably in their feeble attempts.

But I must give credit where credit is due. Today they succeeded.

This afternoon the male two legger left my house for a little while. When he returned, I saw that he had brought me a large box. As soon as he brought it through my door, I jumped upon it and proclaimed it mine.

The box was rather large. Standing approximately three tailspans by two tailspans, it also appeared quite heavy, if one were to judge by the vein popping out of the male's forehead.

I patiently waited for him to empty the box. I had no idea nor interest in what the box contained.( It didn't smell of catnip or treats.) For some reason that I have yet to fathom, two leggers tend to fill boxes with all sorts of useless items. They stuff them with electronic thingies, appliances, shoes, blankets and the occasional assortment of candies. (The female especially enjoys these)

After pondering this, I have reached the conclusion that they fill the boxes with these things in order that the box may maintain its shape and structural integrity while it is being transported. Without the filler, the box may be damaged or mangled, leaving it an unacceptable heap of bent cardboard, good for nothing except sharpening ones claws upon.

Therefore, I allow the two leggers to remove the filler and do with it as they please..

As long as they do not damage my box.

Boxes are possibly the most important and useful contribution that the two leggers have ever provided to modern feline society.

Their versatility is astounding. A resourceful feline can find any number of uses for a good box. It can be used as:
A portable hidey hole.
An unexpected ambush site.
A place to hide your catnip mousie thingy from other felines in your kingdom.
A trap.
A safe haven.
A launch pad to reach knock knacks that were previously unreachable.
A percussion instrument to be used in the wee hours of the night.
A place to spend a little "me" time.

Above all, I enjoy the prospects for chaos.Every box, no matter its size, comes equipped with an unlimited supply and variety of smacks. It is up to the individual to decide how they should be used. Here are a few of my favorites:    

Tiger Trap

I crouch behind the box and make small squeaky noises. Tiger Lily, thinking that perhaps the box may contain a mouse thingy, jumps into the box at which point Ivan and I begin slapping the sides of the box. This causes her to panic, poof and scramble to flee. Oh, the fun! 

   What Lurks Below 

This requires the box to be upside down. I hide inside and simply wait for anyone passing by. As they approach, the White Smacking Paw O' Death claims yet another victim.

                                        Boogity Box

This is best utilized at night in the hallway between the two leggers bedroom and closest bathroom. It requires patience, but I guarantee your patience will be rewarded. (You may wish to bring a snack) It relies on the fact that no two legger over the age of 35 can possibly sleep an entire night without at some point having to visit their litterbox. If your box is positioned correctly, two things will happen during their sojourn in the darkness:

1. They will stub their toe on the box in the darkness.

2. They will do everything in their power to stifle their scream in an effort not to awaken the other two leggers.

This is the optimum time to leap from the box hissing and squawling. In so doing, you will force them to wake every  two legger in the house.

Plus, their reason for visiting the bathroom will suddenly become moot.