Saturday, December 31, 2011

Slappy New Year

Today marks the last day of 2011.

The two leggers are all agog at this news.

I am unimpressed.

What is this obsession two leggers have with the passage of time? Why do they feel that beginning approximately six hours from now, the whole world gets a reboot of its hard drive thingy? Everything that has happened in the last 364 days is suddenly irrevocably in the past? Everything that is to come in the next 365 days is suddenly filled with unicorns and granted wishes?

Their optimism amuses me.

It is the same optimism that drives them to accept their furry little masters into their house and then expect these little hell beasts to conform to their lifestyle. They take us home with them and proceed to tell us to not scratch the furniture, not shred the drapes, stay off the counters where they prepare our nourishment, they even expect us to get along with other four leggers in the household. They bring us home with all these noble expectations even though bazillions of scientific studies, experiments and simple common sense have proven that these expectations are completely ungrounded and silly.

Yet, just like when they adopt a cat, the two leggers will wake up tomorrow after a wild night of celebration fully convinced that the next twelve months will bring wealth, health and happiness.

I suspect that there is a defect in their brain thingies.

Perhaps not a defect, but certainly there is evidence that somewhere within their brain thingies there exists a gland, or a node, or perhaps a small organism that is stimulated by a change in the calendar. Maybe it is a side effect of Christmas. It always seems to kick into high gear within a week of Christmas. The gland/node/small organism releases a chemical called "Tohellwithitol" which causes all two leggers gather in large groups, drink copious amounts of alcohol and then watch the talking box thingy until someone drops a ball and sets off fireworks.

If tradition holds, they will then spend the next 52 weeks pining for the "good ole days" of last year.

In my opinion, they should all simply emulate their feline betters.

Enjoy the moment.
Amuse yourself when it suits you.
Allow others to amuse you with their odd behavior.
Do not worry about what tomorrow may bring, it is unwritten and unavoidable.
Do not worry about what happened yesterday, it is written in stone and unchangeable.
Appreciate what you have, but do not fret about what you don't have.
If life gets you down, find a whiny gray tabby and give her a smack. (It is very therapeutic)

And most of all, enjoy the sunbeam while it lasts. It may go away later, but remember, if you keep watching the bay window, it will return.

 To all my minions I wish a very Happy New Year and thank you for a very amusing Old Year.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

In The Words of Jaq

Many of my loyal minions have been writing and requesting more information about the newest addition to my kingdom, Jaq.

At first, I resisted, owing to the fact that this would take effort on my part in an endeavor that benefited me in no way whatsoever.

However, upon further reflection, I have come to the realization that I could satisfy the curiosity of my minions and gain valuable insight into the mind of Jaq by simply delegating the chore to her and allowing her to educate my readers in her own words.  What follows is the story of Jaq, as told by Jaq.

Before I turn over the computer thingy to her however, I must state that what follows are the solely expressed opinions of Jaq and I accept no responsibility for any silly, stupid or squirrel loving expressions contained therein. She relays her story without any fear of retribution on my part. (unless she says something I disagree with, and then either she or Tiger Lily will pay the price for her insubordination.) I also reserve the right to censor, edit, block out, obliterate and burn any subversive statements. If such statements are found, Tiger Lily will be flogged publicly.

And so without further ado, I give you Jaq:

Hi everyone. As His Royal Big Headedness, Master of The Universe, High Poobah of The Whatever, yada yada yada, told you, I am known around here as Jaq. Jaq has not always been my name, I have had three names now. Jaq is just the name that my current human types have given me.

When I was but a wee kitten, I was known as "Goldie". Not a very imaginative name, but my first human type was an adolescent girl named Cyndy. I don't know how old Cyndy was when she brought me home, but she was at that stage that all little girls go through when they become bipolar. They wish to be treated as adults, but with none of the responsibilities that adult human types have. She was okay as far as human types go, with the exception that she enjoyed dressing me in doll clothes and having "tea parties". However, I was well fed and allowed to eat scraps, so the trade off was acceptable.

For three years, I thought this would be my lot in life. I would be "Goldie", she would continue to treat me as her best friend, and we would be together always. But it was not to be. Cyndy's dad was a sailor and they moved often. Every once in a while, large unshaven human types would come to our home and put everything in boxes. They would then load the boxes in a truck and we would all move to a new house in a far away place with strange, new smells. 

It was during one such relocation that I was accidentally left behind.

I wandered for several days through the unfamiliar outside world. This was the first time that I had ever had to worry about where my next meal would come from. When it rained, I sought shelter. When the sun was shining, I found patches of grass to nap in. I quickly learned where the predators lurked and where other cats considered their territory. During this time, I acquired my second name: 

"Svetlana, The Squirrel Worrier"

But it wasn't long before I realized that I was not cut out for this vagabond existence.  Worrying squirrels, while fun and beneficial, did not put tuna in the bowl.

I began to seek a better way of life.

I learned from listening to other animal types that there was a house nearby that accepted and fed almost anything that wandered into its yard. It was mentioned that once, they spent a week attempting to feed a teddy bear that had been blown into their yard by a windstorm. They said this house was ruled by a small tuxedo cat that spent his days scowling in the window and yelling " BOW TO ME, PEASANTS!" every time someone entered his yard. He was often seen in the company of a large orange tabby that was rumored to be "sharp as a spoon".

The house was easy to find. All you had to do was follow the parade of deer, raccoons, marmots, muskrats, moles, voles, birds, goats and the occasional wildebeast to the location. Sure enough, there was the little blue house, set in the woods surrounded by animals of every shape and size. And yes, there in the window was a small, easily annoyed tuxedo cat. 

Upon spotting me, he yelled "Geez! Look over there! Do you not see the bane of my existence?? Go! Irritate that squirrel!" Wanting to ingratiate myself, I did as he bade.  Apparently, this pleased him, because an hour later, he ordered his male human type to feed me. He even made them erect a small structure with a blanket for me to rest in at night. This was fine, but it bothered me that he slept indoors, ordering me around, while I slept outdoors doing his bidding. I needed to change things.

I began to understand that the male human type would do anything for the female human type. Thus I began to ingratiate myself to her. Whenever she exited the house, I would mew plaintively and rub against her legs. I always made sure to act sweet and cute in her presence. My plan soon bore fruit and she began her campaign to bring me inside. 

One day, the male human type came out, caught me and put me in the kitty carrier. I was whisked to the vet where I was pronounced healthy, if a bit malnourished. Upon our return, I was given my own room and a new name: Jaq.

Since that fateful day, I have enjoyed all the benefits of being Cujo's newest minion. 

To the rest of his minions, he may seem a callous, sneaky, vain, narcissistic chaos loving, trouble-making little egomaniac. However, after getting to know him first hand, I assure you of this:

It is all completely true.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

A Cujo Christmas Carol

I was awakened from a most curious dream this morning. I shall endeavor to describe it for you.

In this dream, I was much older, approaching the twilight of my life. It was in the evening, the male two legger had just requested that I vacate the couch so that he could spend some time in front of the firebox thingy and thaw out after taking the royal leavings from the royal litterbox. I, of course, refused his request and swatted him for his forwardness,

Shortly after the two legger left to go huddle under a tattered blanket in his bedroom, a bell began to toll. Suddenly a glow appeared at the end of the hall. As it neared I realized that it was the female two legger holding a candle thingy in one paw, and the water squirty thingy in the other.

"COOJ! COOJ!" She moaned, "Ye must repent of your evil ways. Ye must stop smacking, clawing and biting everyone ye meet. Ye must atone for your sins and use your remarkably beautiful countenance and your unparalleled intelligence to better the world and its citizens."

I reached out and knocked over the nearest vase to display my complete disregard for her words.

"Oh Cooj, ye know not what ye do." She wailed. (I've no clue why she kept saying "ye" instead of "you") "Before the alarm clock thingy wakens thee, ye shall be visited by three ghost thingies". She then giggled maniacally and ran from the room.

My first reaction upon witnessing this was to ignore her, but upon further reflection, I decided to aggressively ignore her. On the surface, aggressively ignoring someone seems identical to simply ignoring them, but aggressively ignoring someone involves more malice.

As I lay there pondering, I became aware of a presence. On the floor below me I saw Tiger Lily. My smacking paw was already twitching when it occurred to me that she had been gone for many years. Was this one of the spook thingies that the female had moaned about?


Curious, I decided that instead of smacking her, I would see where this led.

"COOJ, COOJ!" She whined, "You must follow me now". She then poofed and ran down the hallway, disappearing into the gloomy darkness of the guest bedroom.

I followed, but as I entered the bedroom, I found that it was no bedroom at all. I found myself back in the Vet's office. I stood beside Tiger Lily as she pointed at a cage filled with kittens. As we watched, a much younger version of my male two legger walked past us and approached the cage. I swung at him, but my paw passed through his leg as if it was only a shadow. Within the cage, a tiny little tux kitten climbed the side of the cage and took a swipe at the two legger, snagging a claw in his upper thigh.

"This little one shows promise." I whispered to Tiger Lily.

"Does he not look familiar?" whined Tiger Lily. "Continue watching".

The two legger then gave the Vet some money, loaded the handsome little bugger in a kitty carrier, and left.

I blinked my eyes and found myself back on my throne in front of the firebox thingy with the sound of whining fading in the night.

Vowing to lay off the organic catnip, I lay my head down and decided to nap. Once again, I was awakened by the sound of a bell ringing. It was the doorbell. The door flew open and revealed The Stephanie wheeling through the threshhold.

"COOJ, COOJ! Hop upon my lap and allow me to show you something" she spoke unto me. She then pulled out her iPad and changed her Facebook status to "Showing Cujo something- It's Complicated".

We rolled into the dining room where we witnessed the two leggers sitting down to dinner. Their faces were aglow with joy while they feasted on a ham with salad, and one of the bajillion dishes that the male two legger cooks, all of them involving potatoes and cheese. Ivan, Tiger Lily and Jaq were under the table enjoying the crumbs that the two leggers allowed to escape from their plates. Everyone was having a thoroughly delightful time. But then the Stephanie pointed to the sliding door thingy. Crouched beside the glass, staring out into the backyard, cursing the squirrel thingy, was me. I was not participating in the revelries of the aforementioned peasants. I held no truck with celebration whilst the squirrel cavorted totally unmolested in my backyard. Everyone else appeared to be enjoying themselves and the fellowship of each others company, but the crown weighs heavy and I take my duties seriously.

The Stephanie shook her head slowly and whispered "Tsk.....tsk". She then pulled out the laser pointy thingy and pointed it into the living room. I, of course, could not resist the red dot and chased it accordingly. Reaching the living room, I discovered that the scene had changed once again.......

The house was once again quiet and dark. I returned to my throne to ponder what I had just witnessed.

I was just drifting into a nap when once again, a bell began to toll. Okay, not so much a bell ringing as a wine glass breaking. I scampered into the kitchen to investigate. Upon entering the kitchen, I beheld a sight that almost caused my stony little heart to stop. Upon the kitchen counter stood Ivan. He was tangled in a towel and doing his best to appear spooky and all knowing.

He failed miserably on both counts. But I must admit that given the fact that Ivan had met his end in an unfortunate catnip mousie thingy, toilet bowl. and ill-timed flush by the male two legger incident two years earlier, I was somewhat intrigued.

"Boss......I mean COOJ, COOJ!" Ivan stuttered, "You gotta see some stuff." He then ate the last cheese doodle before jumping down and running into the bathroom. As I followed him into the bathroom, the scene changed yet again.

I found myself outside. The two leggers were standing over a hole in the ground. They appeared oddly relieved. In the trees surrounding the clearing, squirrel thingies were dancing and singing, waving tiny flags, obviously celebrating some kind of vermin holiday.

Ivan and I approached the two leggers. The male was beginning to fill the hole with dirt.The female had a single tear in her eye, the male was making sure that whatever he was burying would stay buried. As the male finished filling the hole, topping it off with rocks, a large piece of plywood and finally pouring cement over the disturbed ground, the female laid a small engraved plaque on the very top. They then ran back into the house yelling "Whoopee! It's margarita night!"

Turning back to the plaque, I read the message engraved there:

"Cujo, Gone, But The Scars Remain"

Suddenly, this entire evening made sense. My old minions were trying to tell me something. They had come back to pass on a warning.

Now I knew the true meaning of Christmas.

I awoke on my throne. I ran through the house, waking everyone and calling them to gather in front of the firebox thingy. As they all stood, heads fuzzy with sleep, I told them all of my dream and the message it conveyed. I then approached each and every one of them, my loyal minions.......

And smacked the Dickens outta them.

I'd rather be feared than loved.

It's just the way I am.

Suddenly Jaq jumped up and squeaked: "God bless us everyone!"

I smacked her twice.

To all of my minions, I wish you a very merry and blessed Christmas.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Here Comes Santa Claus (Everyone Look Busy)

Some of my minions, (You know who you are) have been requesting that I venture into poetry once again. Okay, you asked for it, do not blame me for the results.

Twas the week before Christmas,
Not a sound to be heard.
'Cept Ivan in the window,
Being teased by a bird.

The tree thingy was decorated,
By the two leggers with great care.
In the misguided belief,
That the ornaments I'd spare.

Tiger Lily and Jaq,
Lay asleep on their beds,
I consider waking them,
And smacking their heads.

But for now I leave them snoozing,
I've bigger fish to fry.
That big jolly two legger,
I've decided must die.

He annoys me every year,
Spreading his message of joy.
Rewarding "good" behavior,
With the treat of a toy

He seems to dislike me,
Down deep in his soul.
All he ever brings me,
Is a large lump of coal.

But what Santa doesn't realize,
What soon will be known,
These large, black rocks he sends me,
Are easily thrown.

So come next Saturday,
Me and Ivan will wait.
As the big fat two legger
Approaches his fate.

We will hide in the tree thingy,
Not making a peep.
Then jump out and ambush
The white bearded creep.

I hope this week he sleeps well,
His rest unencumbered.
Without the least suspicion,
His days on Earth are numbered.

While the two leggers slumber,
All snug in their bed,
Ivan and I will be bouncing coal
Off Santa's large head.

Come Christmas morning,
Instead of decking the halls,
I'll be on my throne,
Picking Santa out of my claws.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Kitty Kong

It has always been my belief that a coward dies many deaths, but a brave person dies but once. I have found this to be true, but not dying many deaths is not necessarily exclusive to cowards. It also applies to two other entities:

Catnip mousie thingies...........

 And Christmas trees.

Once again the two leggers have erected their annual act of futility that they call The Christmas Tree. Every year as the wind blows, the temperature drops and the squirrel shivers, the two leggers bring in a large box thingy and begin to erect the one thing on earth that they know we feline types are unable to resist.

They install a tree thingy in my living room, and then expect me not to climb it.

But wait, it gets better.

They then hang highly prized, sparkly, and best of all, FRAGILE thingies all over it.

In a fit of completely unjustified trust they tell me to leave it alone and retire to their bedroom leaving us, the furred residents, with the aforementioned mass of temptation.

While they are at it, they should just fill their shoes with catnip and tell us to stay out of the closet.

I once heard it said that the definition of insanity is the repetition of identical behavior with the expectation of different results. Using this standard, I have determined that my two leggers are certifiably looney, nuts, sanity challenged and furthermore out of their head thingies. Every year they erect this huge cat magnet and expect that it will remain intact until dawn.

It would be sad if it were not so amusing.

Over the years,we have created many games that involve the tree thingy:

Ground the Angel Thingy
Jingle Ball Bash
Icicle Hockey
Elf Neutering
Santa Slam
Light Snacks
And my personal favorite- Hide and Seek and Destroy.

Feeling charitable, I decided to allow Ivan to pick the first game of Tree Season this year.

I was pleasantly surprised when Ivan did not choose the same game he chooses every year, ( Knock the Tree Thingy Over and Eat Everything We Can Until the Two Leggers Squirt Us) instead he opted to make up a whole new game. Before I explain Ivan's new game, I must provide some background.

My male two legger is both a pilot and an aviation nut. Given his obsession with flying machines, he has coerced the female two legger into decorating the tree thingy with lots of miniature airplane ornaments. In the male two leggers mind, Santa's sleigh has wings and a turboprop.

Back to Ivan's new game. After watching a movie on the talking box thingy about a huge mutant monkey whose hobbies include grabbing female two leggers, climbing large buildings and smacking airplanes, Ivan climbed to the top of the tree thingy grabbed the Angel and then began crashing all the airplanes.

It was a thing of beauty. As the rest of us watched, Ivan reenacted the movie to perfection. I only wish the two leggers had been awake to appreciate his attention to detail.

There was only one discrepancy. The big monkey did not eat the head of the two legger at the end.

I like Ivan's ending better.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Stupor Powers

Today was a particularly boring day in my kingdom.

Tiger Lily was hiding, Jaq was sleeping in a rare midwinter sunbeam and Ivan spent most of the day menacing a doorstop.

Finding myself at loose ends, I decided to catch up on some long overdue pondering.

For some time now, it has been my intention to ponder the two leggers obsession with "super powers". I have often noticed that the two leggers spend an inordinate amount of time entertaining themselves with stories about other two leggers that have special powers or talents.

This is just another example of what I have always averred:

Two leggers envy us. Their fondest desire is to be more like us. You doubt me? Let's take a moment and examine these "powers".

Super Strength- A 10lb. cat can knock over a 30 lb. table. (My two leggers will attest to this)

Ability to Leap Tall Objects in a Single Bound- duh.

Super Speed- Ever see Ivan appear when the door thingy to the food closet is rattled? The sonic boom occasionally wakes the neighbors.

Ability to Emit a Noxious Gas That Incapacitates Anyone Within a 10 Tailspan Radius- Once again, I refer to Ivan.

Invisibility- All felines are capable of this, especially when being sought by two leggers attempting to remove them from a room.

Super Hearing- Try opening a tuna can, five miles away while simultaneously listening to a Grateful Dead CD thingy and watching a political debate on the talking box thingy. I promise, you will have at least four cats at your feet in 2.635 seconds. (See also Super Speed)

Mind Control:

Breathing Underwater- Why the heck would we want to breath water? That's for fish thingies.

Debilitating Sound- Tiger Lily's whine can cause mass confusion and hysteria among all intelligent lifeforms. (Ivan is impervious)

Given the aforementioned evidence, it is obvious to me that the two leggers simply dream of being more cat-like.

One last note: Though I see no advantage in breathing water, at my next opportunity, I intend to teach this ability to the squirrel.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

The Visitation

I  am not amused. 

Earlier tonight I was awakened from my post-afternoon/ pre-evening nap by the back sliding door thingy opening. When I decided to investigate, this is what I beheld:

It appeared to be a representation of a deranged two legger. Though it was a bit creepy, my first inclination was to ignore it. But when I turned my back, it moved.

This went beyond creepy but fell shy of threatening. I decided to resume my nap and leave plotting my revenge against the squirrel thingy for another time. However, when I decided to look at the interloper once more, I discovered its true purpose:

The squirrel thingy seems to be holding a grudge. It would appear that he has taken exception to a few of the things I have said about him in the past. I have no idea why the mangy little tree rat may have been offended, but some vermin are so sensitive.

Sending his little minionette to harm me displays just how cowardly and dishonorable the varmint is. Seriously, using a minion to do your dirty work? Absolutely shameful and despicable.

 So I sent Ivan.

Needless to say, the threat was neutralized with extreme prejudice. After I allowed Ivan to have his fun, I approached and administered the coup de grace.

Believe me, this assassination attempt will not go unanswered.

Sleep lightly squirrel thingy, sleep lightly.

And next time you send something to harm me, please include some gravy. This one was a bit dry.

Sunday, November 27, 2011


I have decided to invent a new game.

I call it "Whack-O-Rama".

The rules are very simple. Using any means available, the "Team Captain" (Me) must smack the rest of the team (Ivan, Tiger Lily, and Jaq) whenever and wherever possible.

I suppose as games go, this game has very little structure, but it does require much strategy and planning. I employ various strategies, dependent on which victim,.....ummm, I mean teammate, I intend to strike.

For instance:

If I intend to strike Tiger Lily, I simply stand as close to her as possible, give her the stink eye and wait. Sooner rather than later she will begin to whine. This is the time to swing away. The two leggers seldom fault me for braining her when she whines and consider it "justifiable tabbycide".

For Jaq, I delegate the smacking duty to Ivan. The two leggers are still extremely protective of her and are very liberal in their utilization of the water squirty thingy. That which does not kill Ivan, only serves to make him wetter.

If I intend to put a hurtin' on Ivan, I must be somewhat more devious. It is not that the two leggers will chastise me for rattling his cage, it is the fact that he outweighs me by about sixty pounds that causes me trepidation. I must either convince Ivan that he deserves it, or that I was not the source of the smack. Given Ivan's severe lack of cerebral capacity, this is not as difficult as it may seem. I've lost track of how many imaginary fleas I've smacked off of his tiny head. There is something extremely gratifying in hearing him thank me for punching him in the noggin.

     Once, I challenged him to a contest to see who could resist smacking the other during a staring contest. I "lost" about three seconds into the competition. He strutted away extremely proud of himself for finally winning a competition.

The best smacks of all are what I like to call the "Puppetmaster" variety. These happen when I am able to manipulate them into smacking each other. Once in a great while, the opportunity arises where I am able to with a subtle gesture or simple flick of my tail, convince Ivan that Tiger Lily is hoarding food beneath her pillow thingy. This causes him to clumsily stalk her and attempt to confiscate the rumored food. As soon Tiger Lily spots the big orange dope, she lets out a high pitched whine. This whine forces an involuntary response in Ivan's forepaw which swings of its own volition and knocks the litter out of her.

Enter the two leggers wielding the water squirty thingy spraying everything in sight.

They find me in the living room, curled up on my throne in front of the firebox thingy.  Astounded that I was not involved in the chaos, they give me treats and praise me for being such a "good kitty". Though I am insulted by their language, I take the treats.

I love this game.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


I am not amused.

Actually, I am beyond being "not amused". I am quickly approaching "being annoyed".

Earlier this week, The Stephanie arrived. For those unfamiliar with The Stephanie, she is the offspring of my  two leggers. She is a two legger that moves through my kingdom on four wheels. As I have stated in the past, her wheelchair thingy is the mortal enemy of any four legger in possession of a long tail.

This does not cause me any particular concern owing to the fact that I have trained my tail to be wary of the wheelchair thingy and stay out of its way. However this constitutes a key ingredient in the recipe of my annoyance.

The arrival of the Stephanie coincided with the approach of a two legger holiday called "Thanksgiving".

From what I understand, Thanksgiving is an annual celebration that commemorates the gathering of two different groups of two leggers. One group wore large black hats and were called "Pilgrims". The other group wore the remains of bird thingies and owned casinos. I am unsure of the significance of this gathering, but it seems to herald the time when two leggers start a mass migration to malls.

Thanksgiving does not annoy me. It is a somewhat boring holiday as far as holidays go. My two leggers generally spend the day munching an unnaturally large bird thingy and then watch football. By early afternoon, the male is usually asleep on the couch and the female sequesters herself in my bedroom with a book thingy. However, the arrival of The Stephanie seemed to portend a new twist in the Thanksgiving routine.

Sure enough, the two leggers started preparing food tonight. I assumed that this indicated a large gathering at my house tomorrow.

I immediately started plotting many activities designed to disrupt the gathering. Ivan immediately started drooling, thinking that the house would be filled with food and ankles to munch. He launched into his "happy dance" which consists of him walking in a circle saying "Oh yum yum yum". It's not much of a dance, but it is uniquely Ivan. Tiger Lily began whining about all the noise and Jaq took immediate possession of The Stephanie's lap.

I remained un-annoyed.

It was then that I discovered the ugly truth.

The two leggers were not planning to gather at my house. They are taking all the food, ankles and potential mayhem elsewhere.

This annoyed me.

Once again, the two leggers have thwarted my plans to unleash chaos upon them and their fellow lower lifeforms. They are circumventing my well thought out blueprint for badness. They are withdrawing from the field of battle without a single shot being fired. It's almost as if they don't trust me to behave.


I have reached a decision. Tomorrow, after the two leggers have left for their gathering, we will launch "OPERATION: HOUSEBREAKER".

We will allow no knock-knack to remain unknocked! Dishes left on the counter shall be dealt with accordingly! We will destroy any and all things destroyable! Let no carpet go unblemished! No drape unshredded! Upholstery shall become downpolstery!

To all my minions celebrating Thanksgiving, I hope you have a safe and wonderful holiday. I know I will.

Well, except the "safe" part.

Monday, November 14, 2011

A Bard Days Night

This morning when the two leggers left my house, they left the talking box thingy on.

If they had left it tuned to one of the stations that show uncensored violence ( Animal Planet and C-SPAN come to mind) I would have been amused.

They left it tuned to PBS.

For those of you unfamiliar with PBS, it stands for Painfully Boring Station. PBS is a station that broadcasts everything that turtleneck sweater and Birkenstock wearing people think is enlightening or vital to spreading militant hippiness.

Today they featured a six hour study of some ancient two legger that apparently thought he was a writer.

His name was William Shakespeare.

From what I gathered, it would seem that there are several requirements to being a literary genius:
1. Always speak in metaphor.
2. All characters must speak in a British accent. (Even if they are Roman, Danish or Scottish)
3. Kill off at least half of your principal characters.
4. Use as many words that end in the letters "th" as possible.

Thus having endured six hours of "cultural education", I have decided to show this upstart what a "real play" looks like. I present to you:
A Midwinters Afternoon's Taming of MacBeth

Strikingly handsometh young Hamlet (me) entereth from the hallway. Upon his regal entry, he noticeth yon fatty. (Ivan) 

"Hail thee yon fatty!" He speaketh, "What be thy name yon fatty?"

Yon fatty replieth: "I am knownst as King Leer. But what is in a name? Does not a nose by any other name not smell?"

Hamlet retorteth: "Thy scent and aroma maketh me wish for no nose at all"

"Nay, nay" King Leer sayeth apparently thinking himself a horse.

But what light through yonder doorway breaketh? It is the spirit of the laser pointy thingy...eth. 

"Out! Out! Damn spot!" Yells Hamlet as he scurrieth across the floor vanquishing the scarlet pimple.


The curtain riseth to reveal Ophilia. (Jaq) Ophelia is lounging upon the balcony. "Hamlet, oh Hamlet! Wherefore art thy catnip mousie thingy?"

"If catnip mousie thingies be the food of love, play on my sweet" Hamlet sayeth.

"Catnip mousie thingies die many times before their deaths" Squeaketh Ophilia.
"Tis true, tis true" saideth our young hero, "But wouldn'st thou have a cheesy Danish Prince than a common cheese danish?"
Entereth Lady MacBeth (Tiger Lily)
"Alas poor yorkie! I knew him well!" she whineth, remembering a dog thingy she once met.
Hamlet realizing that the quality of mercy is not strained, but instead bent, folded and mutilated, striketh the lady down. 

The striking of the Lady causeth King Leer to poofeth and bolteth from thy living room. Upon his exit he doth slay the last working lamp thingy. All that glitters is broken glass.

What's left is darkness.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

The Running of The Eight Leggers

It is officially Fall.

Fall amuses me for many reasons.

The squirrel thingy though still annoyingly cheerful, is constantly soaked by rain and blown by a chill northern wind. I can see him from my bay window, holding on for his dear useless life while the wind blows his tree to and fro like a teeter totter gone mad.

The firebox thingy is turned on nightly for my basking pleasure.

The hours of darkness have been increased giving us more time for nocturnal mischief.

Wet shoes and boots are left by the front door offering us more opportunities for hairball concealment.

But the thing that amuses me the most about this time of year, is the annual migration of the eight leggers.

Every year as the outdoor temperature begins to drop, eight leggers of all shapes, sizes and degrees of creepy crawliness, begin a migration. Just like their closest ocean dwelling relatives, the salmon, the eight leggers begin their perilous journey up the front steps of my kingdom. Driven by natural instinct to seek out the most arachnophobic two legger on the planet, they congregate outside my house and then commence a several week long siege and a final frontal assault upon the nerve thingies of my male two legger.

How can I not be amused by this?

But wait, there's more.

The annual running of the eight leggers not only causes the two legger to develop a nervous tic, accompanied by uncontrolled swatting at eight leggers both real and imagined, it also provides a rich source of protein.

Before I explain this last statement, please allow me to provide a little known fact regarding eight leggers:

They all snicker.

It is true. All arachnids snicker. The only eight legger that I have ever seen that did not snicker was one that I found in the closet and had died several months earlier. Even so, I can still hear his ghost snickering on quiet nights. They snicker because they are all basically evil. It is a fact of nature that all evil things snicker, ergo: all eight leggers snicker.

Back to the migration:

Once we hear the snickering of the eight leggers congregating in my yard, Me and my fellow felines line up like bear thingies on the shores of an Alaskan riverbed. Ivan is usually stationed right next to the front door. (The two leggers believe he is always there just to greet them when they return home from work) Being big and agility challenged, this is the best spot for him to catch the biggest and dumbest of the incoming eight leggers.

Besides eating them, Ivan enjoys playing a game he calls "Let's Eat Half of Their Legs And Watch Them Crawl In Circles". This game consists of Ivan eating four of their eight legs and then watching them crawl in circles. I once tried to get him to eat seven of their legs and play "Let's Eat Seven of Their Legs And Watch Them Hop" but numbers higher than five confuse Ivan and he lost interest.

Tiger Lily waits behind Ivan and whines about Ivan's spidey thumping technique around large mouthfuls of crunchy, mushy yumminess.

In the past, I have always waited in the hallway to trample the enthusiasm of the craftier eight leggers that thought they had made it through the gauntlet and survived to snicker another day. However, with the addition of my newest minion, Jaq, I have decided that a change in strategy is in order. Jaq has taken my position in the hallway, She is very stealthy and given her coloration, she blends quite well with the hardwood floor. The eight leggers never know what smacked them.

I myself will wait in the bedroom. Any eight legger making it that far deserves mercy. I will give most of them safe passage to the two leggers bed. I will direct a few to take up residence in the light thingy above the bed. I may even allow one or two to audition for the role of  "bathroom spider".

Of course I'll munch my share, but I find that a live eight legger can be much more amusing than a digested one.


Monday, October 31, 2011


It is the night the two leggers call "Halloween".

For 364 days of the year, two leggers constantly tell their spawn:
1. Never talk to strangers.
2. Never take candy from strangers.
3. Never go outside after dark.
4. Always be respectful of your neighbors.
5. The Devil is bad. (Unless he has a reality show)
6. Witches are bad. (Unless they have a reality show.)
7. Ghosts are bad. (Unless their name is "Casper" and then they are just annoying.)

Then on October Thirty-First, the adult two leggers say to their offspring: "Screw it, go out and do all those things, just make sure you wear a disguise so no one knows who your parents are."

We knew the day had arrived when my two leggers came home with ten large grocery bags of assorted candies. Eight of them were immediately hidden in the two leggers closet and declared to be the female's "Candy stash". The rest were poured into a large bowl shaped like the open cranium of a zombie thingy. This bowl seems to amuse the two leggers and they take great pride in showing it to all the little beggars that show up at my door.

The two leggers then don their costumes. The male dresses as a cowboy. (He's a native Texan with an overgrown mustache thingy, how hard can it be?) The female dresses as, well, a jewelry salesperson who has just returned home after a long day at work.

Within 20 minutes, the doorbell thingy rings. The micro-two legger is dressed as a fairy princess and appears to be approximately three years old. Something about the male's mega-stache strikes fear into her little heart and she runs screaming down my deck leaving a cloud of miniature wings and sequin thingies.

This amuses me.

The next time the doorbell thingy rings, it is a young male dressed as either a dog thingy or a werewolf with a terminal case of mange. He seems unaffected by the power of the mustache, but he too flees due to the fact that Ivan, upon spotting a strange dog thingy on my doorstep, has attacked the male two legger causing him to scream in agony and splatter blood upon the candy.

This too, amuses me

Shortly after the blood is cleaned up and the cowboy is bandaged, the doorbell thingy rings a third time. This time my doorstep is graced by three two leggers of the early teen variety. They are dressed as vampires and have that certain  "I ain't scared of nuffin but books with no pictures" look in their eyes. The mustache holds no power over them. Ivan has been locked in the bathroom where he is currently menacing an errant cotton swab. The two legger holds the zombie head candy dish out to them. With smug looks on their ashen acne pocked faces, they reach in and grab a handful of warm drippy awesomeness. They look at each other and run off into the night retching and screaming. 

Sometimes my choice of hairball thingy placement is nothing short of genius.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

World Series Staredown

At first I was annoyed.

For the second year in a row, the male two legger's favorite baseball team, The Texas Rangers, have managed to extend the interminable baseball season all the way to the championship series. This means several extra weeks of the male dressing up in his teams colors, eating peanuts, and yelling at the talking box thingy. (This behavior is different from football season only in the implementation of the peanuts.)

This also means that I will not be shown my proper attention until either the Rangers cease their winning, or they win the whole shebang.

However, I am a firm believer in the old saying: "When life hands you lemons, mark them up three times and sell them to Ivan as "canary eggs".

So I decided to derive some amusement.

I parked my happy butt squarely in front of the talking box thingy.

By positioning my handsome mug directly in front of home base, I was able to ensure that no pitch could be seen without proper obstruction.

The male devised a cunning plan to thwart me. He utilized the laser pointy thingy in order to distract me. Unable to resist the red dot, I chased it until the male burned out the batteries. I then resumed my vigil. Soon, he attempted to lure me away with the feather stringy thingy. I was not amused until Ivan streaked into the room, causing a total beer and peanut shell apocalypse.

The two legger finally stopped yelling at the talking box thingy and immediately began casting aspersions upon the character of all felines.

By the time Ivan's path of destruction had been properly cleared and bulldozed, I had resumed my place and the male had resumed his. Thus resumed the staring and the yelling.

By the seventh inning thingy, the male had surrendered to the fact that I was going nowhere and resigned himself to watching 40% of the game while listening to the commentary. I quickly discovered that by saying the simple word "Mrowr" approximately 7.3 times per minute ruined what little pleasure he was receiving.

Oddly, I find myself becoming a fan of baseball.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Crazy Ivan Part II

That's it.

I'm calling it.

Ivan is officially insane.

Crazy. Cuckoo. Nuts. Out of his tiny head. Loco.

I once heard it said that the definition of insanity is as follows:

"The repetition of identical actions with the expectation of differing results."

Therefore, Ivan is insane.

Every night for the last week or two years, Ivan has followed the female two legger into the bathroom for her nightly cleansing. As soon as she fills the tub thingy with warm water, he plops down between the female and her intended destination. (The recently filled tub thingy) He does this in the hopes that he will be able to chomp her ankles.

The Chomping of the Ankles is a pastime that Ivan has enjoyed since kittenhood. When Ivan was first brought here, there were bare ankles everywhere just waiting to be chomped. The two leggers were unaware of Ivan's favorite game and had no defense. In their innocence, the male would walk through the house in shorts and unshod feet, while the female wore dresses and pantyhose. This provided a target rich environment for an accomplished ankle chomper such as Ivan.

But the two leggers soon learned.

The male carried the water squirty thingy with him at all times while wearing shorts. The female began wearing long slacks or boots when wearing skirts.

Ivan went into a deep blue funk.

Finally, taking pity on the sulking mound of orange lumpiness, I informed him that every evening just prior to her going to bed, the female allows her ankles to be bare in the 4.6284 seconds that it takes her to enter the tub thingy. All he needed to do was to loll in an endearing manner upon the heated floor of the bathroom. The female would believe him to be basking in the radiant heat of the bathroom and may even pause to give his ample belly a scratch. Once paused, her ankles should be his to toy with.

This ploy actually worked.


After the first unexpected munch, the female began to take precautions. She took to covering him with a towel  before making the 3.6 tailspan journey from the sink to the tub thingy. Ivan was and is utterly confused every time he is suddenly thrown into brief darkness only to find that the female has inexplicably teleported from the sink to the tub thingy. He emerges from the darkness to hear the female giggling. To make matters worse, the female then proceeds to "baptize" Ivan with sprinkles of water upon his dense little noggin.

Tonight, for the three hundred, and ninety-fifth consecutive night, Ivan has entered the darkness and emerged only to be "baptized" once again.

I can only say that Ivan is fortunate that the female has not resorted to actual Holy Water for the nightly "Baptism".

The smell of burning cat is most unpleasant.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Glare Into My Eyes

One of the questions that I am often asked is: "Given the relative size between two leggers and cats, how can cats dominate two leggers so completely?"

The obvious answer lies in our greater intelligence. However that response is too general. It is not just our advantage in intelligence that makes us superior, it is in the ways that we utilize this intelligence. It is not amusing to us to simply outsmart our two legged minions. Outsmarting them is too easy and soon grows tedious and beneath us. We must find other, more amusing methods to bend their feeble minds to our will.

My personal favorite manner of domination is HYPMOSIS.

Hypmosis is akin to the two legged discipline of "hypnosis" but much cooler because we use an "M" instead of an "N".

I perform hypmosis pretty much on a daily basis against my two leggers. Unlike the two legger version, we require no swinging watch, swirly spinny thingy going round and round, creepy music, or injection of psychotropic drugs to induce a hypmotic state. (What card holding feline could possibly resist smacking a swinging watch or swirly spinny thingy?)

No, we use our eyes.

A hypmosis session is initiated by the hypmotist placing themselves between a two legger and whatever talking box thingy program that they are currently watching. It is best used during "prime time" or in the case of male two leggers, when there is a sporting event on.(preferably one of those sporting events referred to as "playoffs" or "championships")

Once you have their full attention, (you know you have their full attention when they start saying words like "Scram!" and "Get off the entertainment center you useless, no mouse catching, catfood munching, litterbox soiling, furniture marring, curtain shredding, blood letting little hairball dispenser!" thus proving that they are speaking to you) stare unblinkingly into their eyes.

If you continue to stare without breaking eye contact, within a few moments, they will fall into a deep hypmotic sleep. Though their eyes will remain open, you will know you are successful when they stop ranting and start asking questions of you like "What?" and "Whattayawant?" followed quickly by "What?" again.

This is the moment that you make your demands known. It can be any demand. My favorites are:

1. Turn on the firebox thingy.
2. Feed me.
3. Clean the Royal Litter.
4. Blame Tiger Lily for the broken knock knacks laying strewn in the hallway.
5. Bring me the Royal Catnip.
6. Blame Tiger Lily for the broken wineglass in the kitchen.
7. Rub Ivan's tummy.
8. After rubbing Ivan's tummy, clean up the blood and go bandage yourself.
9. Feed me, and then go chastise Tiger Lily for knocking over the food container thingy in the hallway.
10. Pay no attention to the hole. (don't ask, it's a long story)

After making your hypmotic suggestion, no strike that, your hypmotic demand, tell them that it was all their idea and release them from their hypmotic sleep by smacking them in the ear.

Just one word of caution: Only use this if you are sure that your subject is indeed less intelligent than yourself. Backfires have occurred in the past.

Ivan is still recovering from the time he attempted to hypmotize the oven mitt.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

The Paw of The Land

As you are all aware, I have been somewhat perplexed as how I should treat Jaq.

Well, you may all sleep soundly now.

I have decided to take the bull thingy by the horns and revert to my most base nature.

I am of the opinion that I should smack her.

Before all you bunny hugging earth mommas start picketing and protesting in my front yard, please allow me to justify my decision.

I am a firm believer in the fact that to judge a minion's mettle, they must first be smacked. Not a bell-ringing, cross-eyed-causing, make-you-wander-in-circles-threatening-to-call-Dr.Phil type smack, but a semi-gentle-non-bloodletting-get-to-know-ya type smack. This will allow me to observe whether she is a "whiner", a "pacifist", or a "rabid, Katey bar the door, I'm gonna whoop some tuxedo butt" type of minion.

My dilemma was this: No matter how I approached her, she always moved just out of range of my smackin paw.

If I appeared to be submissive, she'd simply move demurely away. If I approached aggressively, she'd hide aggressively. She seemed to have a sense of when I was planning to give her an interrogative smack.

Most annoying.

I finally decided upon a course of action that has seldom failed me in the past.

It is an ancient form of  smacking originally developed in the Far East.Very mysterious and only practiced by the most cunning of felines. It is known as:

Tae Kwan Bushwack Karate Fu.

I of course, am a black and white belt.

Tae Kwan Bushwack Karate Fu is the ancient art of finding a hidey hole in the most unlikely of places and simply waiting there until the smackee happens to cross in front of the smacker. What separates the Master from the novice is choice of hidey hole, and timing.

Sometimes, the hidey hole is the most innocent of locations. I chose the royal litterbox.Logic dictates that if one is in the litterbox, one's mind cannot possibly be on the act of smacking. Therefore, this was the perfect place to set my trap.

The royal litterbox is of the type that has a convenient hood thingy provided to assure privacy. Hence, it makes a convenient little cave thingy in which to wait for an unsuspecting, previously unsmacked minion to happen by.

Unfortunately, what the ancient scroll thingies never covered was the scenario where a large orange dimwitted tabby kept walking by your hidey hole asking "Whatcha doin Boss?" After the third attempt at shooshing Ivan, I decided to inform him of my plan in the hope that he would move on and leave me to my devious plan.

Needless to say, my hopes were unfounded. Instead of withdrawing, Ivan decided to "hide" behind the royal litterbox and continuously whisper inanities such as: "You gonna get her good this time, Boss" and "She'll never know what hit her, Boss" between fits of thuggish snickering.

After an hour of patient waiting, I realized that my plan had a large orange flaw in it. I am unsure whether it was the snickering, or the fact that there was a gigantic furry basketball attempting to conceal itself behind the royal litterbox while trying to stifle giggles that alerted Jaq to the ambush. Either way, she was not tempted to become the cherry on the top of my smacking sundae.

So it is back to the drawing board thingy.

For now, I'll wait.

Her days of remaining unsmacked are numbered.

Sleep lightly Jaq, sleep lightly.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

You Don't Know Jaq

I find myself in unfamiliar territory.

This annoys me.

I dislike change.

I especially dislike change when I am not responsible for said change.

Let's review for a moment:

Two months ago, I hired a new minion, Jaq formerly known as Jack. Last week, I took pity on her and ordered the two leggers to bring her into my house. I did this to prove to potential minions that I am not a completely cold-hearted and ruthless tyrant. I do have a soft and mooshy side. I am capable of great acts of charity. In fact, someday there will be statues erected over the graves of my enemies in honor of my sweet lovable nature. My selflessness and loving character knows no bounds.

And I'll gladly smack anyone who says otherwise.

Okay, I may have also considered the fact that the introduction of a new feline into my household may have chaotic repercussions. Perhaps the harmonic chemistry that flows through my abode may be adversely altered by the addition of another four legger. But I assure you that was not my primary goal.

It was just a pleasant side affect.

However, what I did not expect was my inability to smack her.

No she is not incredibly fast and agile. I simply cannot bring myself to swing at her.

You see, I do not smack without provocation. I must have a reason to smack. These reasons include:

1. Whining.
2. Eyeballing my stuff.
3. Whining
4. Laying in my spot. (My spot is anywhere that I may wish to lay whether at this moment or anytime in the foreseeable future)
5. Any other thing that may or may not annoy me.
6. Breathing in an annoying manner.
7. Possessing gray or monochromatic fur.
8. Having squirrel DNA or being sympathetic to anything squirrelish.
9. Whining.
10. Having a name like "Tiger Lily" or "Justin Beiber".

I find Jaq to be totally inoffensive.

This is incredibly annoying.

It seems that she has no irritating habits whatsoever. If she suspects that I wish to be in the space she currently occupies, she vacates it. If I decide that I want to eat her food, she moves aside. I have never heard a single whine coming from her general direction. She does not snore when she sleeps. She completely ignores Tiger Lily and simply avoids Ivan. She hates squirrels. She even munched an eight legger and left the legs for me as an offering.

Pondering this, I have formed a theory.

Tyrants sometimes need a cohort. Napoleon Bounaparte had Guinevere, Julius Caesar had Marie Antoinette and Ghengis Khan had Britney Spears.

Why should I be any different?

On the other paw, they all died.

I must ponder this further. In the meantime, I will continue to watch. She's gotta slip up sometime.

For now, I'll go find Tiger Lily.

Can't let my skills get rusty.

Saturday, October 1, 2011


As many of you are aware, a couple of months ago I decided to hire a new outside minion.

Jack has performed admirably over the last two months. Menacing squirrel thingies, irritating birds, and generally causing havoc in my yard, while at the same time endearing himself to my resident two leggers. (He plays the "homeless waif" role very well)

In recognition of his performance, I decided that he should be promoted.

I decided that his skills could be better utilized if he were brought into my house. He would bring a new flavor to our chaos casserole. A new scent to our potpourri of panic. A new gear thingy to our machination of mayhem.

So, in an uncharacteristic fit of generosity, I informed the two leggers that I would be cool with them bringing him into my house. But with one caveat:

I required that Jack be taken to the Vet thingy first.

No, I was not particularly worried about his health, or whether he was flea bitten or had some disease like Stillgotsmynutsotitus. (Apparently lots of cats have this, but it is treatable with surgery.) Why was I not worried? Because I knew something the two leggers didn't.

Okay, granted there are SO many things I know that they don't, but this little morsel of knowledge was especially juicy.

If the two leggers had simply taken the time and courtesy to sniff Jack's butt like any civilized being, they would have known what I knew from day one:

Jack was a Jill.

That's right, Jack was a Tom impersonator. For the last two months, the two leggers have been speaking of Jack as the sweet little tomcat that lives on my back deck. Now they are faced with the fact that what they thought was a sweet little juvenile male, is actually a four year old, spayed female that through deception and manipulation, managed to worm her way into their little hearts.

What I wouldn't give to have been in the room when the Vet broke the news. It musta been priceless.

So now Jack is part of my household. I have already informed her of the rules and demonstrated on Tiger Lily the consequences of breaking them.

Ivan of course, is confused. He had taken it for granted that the two leggers were correct in their assumption and had never bothered to give Jack a sniff.  I suppose I could have told him, but where's the fun in that?

When Ivan asked me why the two leggers were suddenly calling Jack "Jackie", I informed him that the two leggers had determined that there were too many mancats in the world, and so were taking males to the Vet to have operations that converted them to females.

Somehow, I do not believe that Ivan's next visit to the Vet will go smoothly.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Faux Paws

Today the two leggers brought me an offering.

While I appreciate, more or less, (mostly less) their attempts at ingratiating themselves to me, I was not impressed.

They brought me yet another toy.

Sure, I am a firm believer that one can never have enough toys, but in some instances, it becomes somewhat monotonous.

Feather thingies are cool. They simulate the bird thingies that I dream of slaying and de-winging. They stimulate the frontal pre-cortex thingy in my head. They even make me positively "giddy" at times. But how many feather thingies does a self proclaimed Tyrant and Supreme Ruler of The Universe, Both Seen and Unseen need?


I have 38.

This, however was not a feather thingy. It was a something entirely different. While feather thingies are intended to simulate birds, This new plaything was intended to simulate a mouse thingy. It was not a simple ovoid piece of felt, stuffed with catnip, with poorly sown ears and black thread to impersonate whiskers, it was a true attempt to emulate everything mousy-like.

Yes, this was the cumulative effort of the most brilliant two legged scientists to design a cat toy that would be a true doppleganger of all things mousy.


I immediately filed this under the letter "T", for Toys That Amuse Two Leggers Much More Than They Amuse Their Feline Betters.

Oh sure, it was a valid attempt. Other than the facts that it smelled of plastic, had wheels as opposed to legs, was controlled by a box in the two legger's hands and made constant loud "whirrring" sounds when it moved, it was totally believable. It also had a very faint scent of genuine artificial catnip.This was, I realized, the culmination of 5,000 years of two legged development.

Given that the two leggers had spent so much time, money and effort in the design and manufacture of this cyber-rodent, I decided to ignore it.

At first, the robotic rodent fascinated Ivan. He stalked (kinda) the mecha-mouse. He attempted to sneak up on it. He slipped ever so closely to the artificial vermin. Though it is difficult to tell the difference between Ivan "stalking" and Ivan simply lurking, awaiting his next meal, I knew that he was on the prowl. It may have been the fact that he was  constantly whispering to himself: "I'm gonna get the mousie this time".

Once Ivan figured he had successfully stalked and cornered the vinyl vermin, he pounced. Well, not a "pounce" per say, more of a shifting from one place in space to another place in space approximately three inches forward from his starting point. The problem was of course, that the toy was SIX inches away from his current place in space.

The cybernetic pest shot across the room and ended up next to the coffee table.

Where it became lodged.

Realizing my opportunity, I jumped in and like a might avenging angel, chewed it into submission, leaving nothing left but a jumble of gears, wheels and  piece of material that smelled vaguely cat nip like.

The male two legger was so thrilled by my prowess that he began jumping up and down yelling in joy. It would seem that he paid over thirty dollars for my newest toy.

Money well spent if you ask me.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

About Time

Ahhh, Autumn.

My favorite time of year. The wind picks up. The leaves begin to fall. The firebox thingy gets turned on. And a young, dashingly handsome, tuxedo mancat's thoughts turn to.........

Time travel.

Yes, time travel.

My male two legger has been watching a variety of programs on the talking box thingy lately, and they all seem to have the same common theme.

Time travel.

Apparently, two leggers seem to have an obsession with traveling to and fro throughout time. Some believe that if they can travel "back" in time, they can correct the mistakes of their predecessors or themselves, thereby solving all the problems that affect their current lives. Others believe that if they can travel "forward" in time, they can bring back gizmo thingies that will improve their current lives. Still others believe that if they attempt either of these actions, the universe will suddenly turn into either a gigantic black hole thingy or a small jelly doughnut in the giant police station of the cosmos.

A bunch of hooey if you ask me. does beg some pondering.

From what I have gathered, time travel in America is effected by climbing into a silver sports car and going exactly 88 miles per hour. ( or 92,500 kilometers per hour for my Canadian and New Zealander readers) In England, time travel is achieved by entering a blue phone booth thingy and talking to a doctor.

Either way, a lot of two leggers running in circles, waving their hands and yelling madly about paradox thingies is generally the result.

That being said, I have decided that perhaps time travel could be useful to me. Perhaps, even amusing.

For instance, I could travel "back" and smack Tiger Lily's mother.
I could travel "forward" and smack her progeny.
I could travel "back" and smack the primordial ooze that eventually formed squirrel thingies.
I could travel "forward" and bring "back" a computer enhanced thingy that would target the DNA stuffs that all squirrels have in common and incinerate it.

I could travel back and forth causing much chaos and mayhem. The time space continuum would be my astral catnip mousie thingy.

But, if the doomsayers are correct and the universe turns into a gigantic jelly doughnut.....

I'll blame Ivan.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Death of Ivan

Ivan died last night.


Yesterday afternoon, I was trying to find some amusement in which was otherwise a fairly monotonous day. I noticed Ivan standing in the hallway glaring at his empty food bowl. Ivan has yet to grasp the reality that he is on a diet. He is allowed two meals a day and a late night snack before the two leggers retire to their bedroom. 

The only other food he is allowed is that which he can acquire through thought and cunning. Therefore, his diet consists of two meals a day and a late night snack before the two leggers retire to their bedroom.

Taking pity on the poor soul, I asked Ivan what he would do if he was suddenly presented with all the food he could possibly eat. His response (after much attempt at thought) was that he would proceed to eat all the food that he could possibly eat.

I have often wondered how much food Ivan could possibly eat.

Well, perhaps "often" is inaccurate.

I "once" wondered how much food Ivan could possibly eat.

Adhering to my philosophy that "Curiosity kills the other cat",  I decided to put Ivan to the test. Climbing to the shelf where the two leggers keep our food, I pushed the container thingy to the edge. With Ivan salivating below, I pushed the container thingy off and was rewarded with a satisfying "THUNK-PLOOSH" as the container thingy struck Ivan on his micro-noggin and the lid separated from the previously mentioned  container thingy.

I sat back and watched as Ivan transformed into a carbon based Hoover Sucky Thingy. In a fit of unwarranted charity, I decided to include Tiger Lily in this amusement and left the room to fetch her. By the time I found her cowering behind the entertainment center, and convinced her that I was not going to smack her (yet), the incessant slurping and crunching had indeed ceased.

We discovered Ivan laying paws up in the middle of the hallway. He had eaten himself to death. By the grin on his pudgy little face, I knew he had died happy.

Being a sentimental sort, I instantly decided that he would have wanted me, his dearest friend, to have most of his toys, including his catnip cigar thingy. I also declared that in honor of his memory, Tiger Lily would not be allowed to lay in his spot on the heated bathroom floor. That space would be reserved for myself if ever I decided to honor his memory.

Tiger Lily, being somewhat more calloused than I, realized that she had moved up a place in the smacking order and began to strut. I then informed her that the bathroom spider was actually named Ivan's heir and her place would remain the same.

It was at this point that Ivan began snoring.

Ivan was not deceased. He had simply slipped into a state known as Happy Tummy Induced Hibernation. H.T.I.H. occurs when one has consumed so much food that the body literally shuts down in order to prevent the consumption of more food.

This was not a new occurrence to me. I have witnessed it twice a year, every year in the two leggers. It always happens shortly after Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. The male gorges himself, and recognizing the onset of symptoms, places himself in front of the talking box thingy (which is invariably tuned to football) and enters H.T.I.H.

After several hours, Ivan awoke somewhat dazed. He immediately asked why all of his toys had been moved. I informed him of Tiger Lily's mistaken premise that he had died and her assumption of all his assets.

I'm fairly certain that as soon as he is able to walk again, Tiger Lily is gonna pay.

Monday, September 12, 2011

You Poker, I'll Smack Her

I am annoyed with two leggers.

Not two leggers in general. Well, actually two leggers in general do indeed annoy me, but right now I am annoyed with a specific group of two leggers.

Namely male two leggers. Especially the group of males that totally ruined my Saturday night.

Last Saturday evening, there was a gathering of male two leggers at my house. I was aware that something was afoot when my resident two leggers got home Saturday and began cleaning. However, I was also aware that they were not intending to hold a normal two legger gathering. They did not harvest the dust bunnies. They were cooking frozen pizza thingies and the furniture only received a cursory dusting. They didn't even bother to lock Ivan, me and the Whine-a-nator in a separate room. 

The delivery of an enormous amount of beer signified that this would be a gathering of strictly male two leggers.

The female decided to sequester herself in the bedroom while the male began setting up hundreds of little discs around my dining room table. He also attempted to lay out a deck of card thingies. After looking through about six packages of these card thingies, he finally found a set that had the required fifty-two different examples.

Curious, Ivan and I watched the preparations. I assumed that this was the preamble to some type of odd two legger past-time, but was unable to discern the purpose.

While the male checked the status of the pizza, I decided that the discs (apparently called "chips") would be better utilized on the floor and proceeded to rearrange them accordingly. Obviously the male disagreed with my recommendation and I was chased from the room.

Ivan meanwhile, made a play on the cards and was similarly evicted. We decided to wait and ponder.

Soon, other males bearing beer began to arrive.

Like any gracious host, I greeted them at my front door, but much to my consternation, I was largely ignored. They brought me no catnip. They did not attempt to scratch my ear or pat my head. They did not bow in obedience to me. They did not even utter such inane comments as "Awww, lookit the cute little kitty".

They ignored me.

As you all know, I have great patience when it comes to two legger ignorance. However, this was so far beyond insubordination as to be laughable. I understand their juvenile attempts at ingratiating themselves to the Supreme Ruler of this domicile, but total disregard?


We planned. We plotted. We schemed. We napped. (Well, they were here for like five hours)

Soon, our patience was rewarded. The two leggers were soon so absorbed in their "poker" and had consumed so much beer, they grew lacking in vigilance. Ivan, Tiger Lily and I were able to move through the room completely unnoticed.

On my signal, Tiger Lily suddenly leaped at the sliding door thingy while letting out a whine that could pierce....well, something really difficult to pierce. Ivan poofed, jumped atop the table and proceeded to send chip thingies and cards scattering in thirty-nine different directions.

In the commotion, I was able to knock over three bottles of beer and steal five cards.

The sounds of mayhem brought the female out of the bedroom and she chased the males from my house with the water squirty thingy.

I was amused.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

A Message From My Two Legger

Today is not a day for humor. Today is a day for reflection.

Today I have asked my two legger to write my post:

Where were you?
No, strike that. Where were you then? And where are you now?
    Exactly ten years ago today, I was driving to work when I heard the news that an aircraft had hit the World Trade Center.
    I had a 90 mile commute and so, as per my morning ritual, was listening to The Today Show on NBC Radio in my car. As I was pulling out of my driveway, Katie Couric told me that reports were coming in of an airplane striking one of the Twin Towers. This struck me as odd, but not especially alarming. I, like so many other people, assumed that a sight-seeing or small commuter aircraft had lost its way and ended up somehow not avoiding one of the two largest structures in the United States. It was not until the second airplane hit that I realized that we were instead, under attack.
      I will never forget the moment when our National Consciousness was forever altered. In an instant borne of fire and rubble, we went from "America The Invincible" to "America The Vulnerable".
     By the time I reached my workplace, the first tower had fallen, reports were starting to surface that the Pentagon had been hit and the second tower was in peril.
     At this point in time, frozen in my mind as indelibly as any experience I have ever witnessed, New York firefighters were continuing to rush into the second tower in an effort to save what citizens they could.
     Let's pause for a moment and think about this.
    Having just watched the first tower fall, knowing that many of their comrades had already perished, realizing that the second tower had suffered a similar attack and was bound to suffer a similar fate, New York firefighters and policemen continued to attempt to rescue people from a doomed building. I have no doubts whatsoever that they were fully aware of their impending doom. Yet they chose to stay and try to save one more innocent. Just one more person that started the day simply trying to earn a living for themselves and their families
     I am deeply ashamed to say that I cannot recall exactly how many people died in the towers that day.
     I am deeply ashamed to say that I do not know how many of them were rescuers.
     I am deeply ashamed to say that I am unable to recall even one name of the victims of this heinous act.
    I am a history buff. I pride myself on the fact that I can tell you the names of all the generals that fought at Gettysburg. But can I even tell you the flight number of the airplane that struck the Pentagon just ten short years ago?

     We live in a different world today. Strip searches at airports are common. We are not allowed to walk through security posts at airports without removing our shoes. Every holiday we celebrate is accompanied by a terrorist alert. The Fourth of July is a time of heightened awareness instead of being a time of heightened patriotism as it should be.
     Our world has changed. We have lost our innocence. We are no longer the "happy-go-lucky" society that we were on September tenth, 2001. instead, we are a group  of people that hide our nationality whenever we travel abroad for fear of violence. We have become afraid to be what our forefathers worked so hard to leave us.
   We have forgotten that we are Americans.
    The sacrifice that those incredibly brave rescuers made has gone by the wayside. They rushed into a building that they knew would be their final resting place to rescue citizens that had already been murdered by a handful of cowards. They died knowing full well that this was not war. This was murder
     Now we stand in line at the airport and grumble because we must remove our laptop from it's case. We gripe when the TSA asks us to leave a water bottle behind.
     Shame on us.
     I am not pointing fingers. I am as guilty as anyone, and probably guiltier than most.
    However, I realize how lucky I am.
I am alive.
I am free.
      Today, I ask that each and every one of my friends, takes a moment to reflect upon one of the darkest days in our history. Please do not simply think about the event. Ponder the extraordinary bravery that occurred ten years ago today. Ponder the sacrifice made since then by the men and women in uniform, and by their families.
      But most of all, ponder this:
Would I be willing to make the same sacrifice?
If we answer honestly, most of us (possibly including myself) would probably answer "No".
      This is what separates the heroes from the rest of us.

Thursday, September 8, 2011


Shortly after starting this blog thingy, I started receiving requests to turn it into a book thingy.

I pondered this.

Then one day my female two legger told me that it was time to "Poop or get outta the kitchen".

No, that's not right. Maybe she said "If you can't stand the heat, get outta the litterbox".

I don't remember which, but I recall there was a metaphor involved.

Doesn't matter. What does matter is this:

Yup, it is done and on sale today. 

You can buy it in large format paperback, ebook or Kindle. I am providing the link thingies below, and I will also put a link thingy to the right of the blog thingy which I am told is the proper placement for link thingies. It is currently being sold through the publisher's website ( as well as It should be on Barnes and Noble's website soon.

Any and all feedback will be tolerated.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Fly Ball

.The day started out calm, tranquil and uneventful.

I don't do calm, tranquil and uneventful. It bothers me.

I was sitting in my bay window, looking out upon my kingdom. The two leggers had yet to rise. Ivan was glaring at the bottom of his food bowl. Tiger Lily was skulking somewhere, desperately attempting to avoid my boredom. It was a typical late Summer morning.

As I sat there considering whether to take a nap or perhaps spend some time in deep meditation, (There is a difference, but scientists have yet to define it) a fly thingy buzzed into the upper regions of my smackmosphere. For those of my followers who are unfamiliar with the term "smackmosphere", it is a region of space surrounding all felines that extends 360 degrees in all directions from the paws to whatever distance the aforementioned feline can swat or smack in one instantaneous motion and kill, maim or stun whatever may have entered this zone.

In the blink of an eye, the fly thingy was pinned to the floor. Killing it outright would have been too quick and would have left me bored once again. I decided to enslave the fly thingy for future amusement. However, while I sat pondering the best method of restraining the victim, Ivan wandered up and gave me his "Whatcha got under your paw?" look. Ivan's "Whatcha got under your paw?" look is very similar to his "What've I got under my paw?" look. The only difference is where it is directed.

I informed Ivan that I had captured an idea thingy. I told him it had been buzzing around in my head all morning and that I had finally decided to let it out. Ivan, having never had an idea thingy of his own, wanted to see it. I told him that if I let it go, and he could catch it, I'd let him have it.

Very carefully, I opened my paws.

The fly thingy seeing its' freedom suddenly restored, shot straight up into the air and flew down the hallway. Ivan gave pursuit. His little legs a blur beneath his pear shaped body. In the heat of the chase, Ivan refused to let small obstacles like furniture, doors and walls impede his progress. This idea thingy would be his!

The commotion flushed out Tiger Lily from her hidey hole and she commenced to letting the entire household know of her displeasure.

The two leggers were not amused.

They emerged from the bedroom, both of them with water squirty thingies in their paws, and proceeded to spray everything in sight.

Meanwhile, Ivan flashed between the male's legs and almost managed to bring down the female when he failed to negotiate a turn. Having impacted with the hallway closet door, Ivan lay in a large smelly pile of orange fur, gasping and trying to figure out what just happened. He checked his paws, but alas discovered that he had once again failed to have an idea.

The fly thingy has now settled on a curtain rod. It seems to be waiting.

I too shall wait.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Ivan's Birthday

Today is Ivan's birthday.

I know what everyone is thinking: "I didn't know that today was Ivan's birthday!"

That's okay, he didn't either.

It's his first birthday.........again.

In fact, it's his fifth first birthday.


Allow me to enlighten you. You see, Ivan has always been poor at math. In point of fact, he has never been able to count higher than "one". Therefore, if we were to tell him that he is five years old today, it would throw him into such a state of befuddlement that I would have to smack him repeatedly about his head thingy in order to bring him back to his normal state of mild confusion. So it is simply easier to celebrate his first birthday every year.

Given that it is his birthday, I have decided that today I would not insult or make fun of him.

I won't mention that he is a walking mound of non-intelligence. I won't speak of how oddly formed his body is. I will not tell everyone that he has a phobia of doorknobs or that round objects confuse him. I won't even bring up his unnatural relationship with the big stuffed bunny.

I most certainly will restrain myself from discussing the fact that Ivan has the world's greatest repertoire of odors. He can make stinkies that would trigger the evacuation of shopping malls. His talent for flatulence can make the two leggers rush through the house searching for the litter scoopy thingy.

Today, I will be nice to my big orange, stinky, clumsy, easily fooled, easily manipulated, misshapen, oddly neurotic, dim witted buddy.

Tonight, after the two leggers have retired for the evening, I will even allow Ivan to choose the nightly entertainment/chaos. I have no doubt that he will choose either "Hallway Hockey" or "Trashcan Tackle". I of course will trounce him soundly in whichever game he chooses. (My generosity extends only so far.)

This is your day Ivanhead. Enjoy it.

And if Tiger Lily decides to whine about it, I will smack her into silence. 

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Jabba The Mutt

While sitting in my bay window today, I spotted a most curious sight. Strolling down my driveway, was something that could only by a long stretch of the imagination be described as somewhat "dog-like".

At least it had some canine characteristics:
It drooled.
It had something resembling a tail thingy attached (though barely) to its butt. (at least I suspect it was attached to its butt, this thing was so ugly, I was unsure of which end I was observing) Which seemed to be making some attempt at wagging.
It had a propensity for urinating on all vertical surfaces it encountered.

I suspect that it also has an unreasonable urge to sniff the nether regions of other canines.

Though it exhibited these obvious canine traits, I was unsure of its identity. You see, this was unlike any dog thingy that I have ever observed.

It was very large. It had places.

It had places.

If Doctor Frankenstein had ever created a companion for his homemade two legger, it may have looked something like the creature slowly entering my yard.

I realize that I should have been annoyed that there was an uninvited muttbeast entering my kingdom, but it was such a freak of nature that I could not look away.

Even the goat thingies seemed confused. They ceased doing their goaty doings. They approached the fence and demanded in no uncertain terms "BAAAAAAA?". In goat language this roughly translates to: "What the hell are you and would you please hand us that dandelion that is next to what I presume to be your paw?"

Either the suspected dog thingy did not speak goat, or it rudely ignored their request. It matters not to me.

What does matter to me however, is that it seems to share my hostility for squirrels.

The squirrel had been up to its normal annoying activities all afternoon. It had scurried through my yard gathering pine nuts, danced on my front deck mocking me, and I swear, I once caught it blowing a kiss at Tiger Lilly.

Upon spotting the squirrel, the alleged dog thingy sprinted (well it more "moseyed" than "sprinted" but I think that it fully intended to sprint) towards the squirrel. It let out a deafening "MARF!". I am unsure what "MARF" means in dog language having never heard a dog say it before, but given the look of intense anger on what I suspect was its face, it was either a yell of fury, or perhaps a belch. Either way, it had its intended effect and sent the squirrel fleeing for its life.

I found this amusing.

What was even more amusing was that it attempted to follow the squirrel up the tree. It made a valiant effort and actually succeeded in gaining almost 2.5 inches of altitude. All the while, it continued to shout "MARF! MARF! MARF!"

Ivan and Tiger Lily, attracted by the commotion joined me in observing this oddity.

And then it happened.

Like a flash of mangy yellow lightning, Jack streaked from beneath the front deck and commenced to mauling the possible pooch. This was greeted with a confused "MARF?" Jack then ejected the confused beast from my yard.

Perhaps there is hope for Jack yet.

Ivan, thinking he had learned a new word, celebrated by walking in circles whispering "marf, marf, marf."

This quickly annoyed me, so I smacked Tiger Lily.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Jack Attack.

Among my most endearing qualities is patience. I am patient in the extreme. I am so patient in fact, that every morning upon their waking,  I allow the two leggers upwards of two minutes to feed me before I start breaking stuff.

No one can accuse me of impatience.

However, my patience is being tried.

I have allowed Jack to reside on my back deck for a month now and his behavior has failed to show improvement.

I understand that when a new minion arrives in my Kingdom, there is a period of time during which said minion must behave out of character in order to ingratiate themselves to their fellow minions. This is the natural order of things. Therefore I had no problem with Jack behaving in a most non-feline like manner. He rubs against the two leggers whenever they venture out onto the deck. He purrs incessantly when in their presence. He has allowed the bird thingies to go about their bird thingy business totally unmolested, knowing that if he were to unleash his natural instincts, the two leggers would break out the Mother of All Water Squirty Thingies that they keep attached to a green tube next to the house. He has even ignored the squirrel thingy.

I understand and respect this. That being said, it is obvious that the time has come for him to show his true nature.

He is a cat. It is time he starts behaving like a cat. I did not hire him to be an animated yard ornament. I hired him to maim, destroy and mutilate the enemies that lurk within my outer kingdom. 

Do you realize that in the month since I employed him he has failed to draw two legger blood even once?

He is taking this "cute and cuddly" routine entirely too far. I cannot abide it.

I have attempted to show him his duty. Using Tiger Lily as a proxy for the squirrel thingy, I have pounced on her and chewed her head mercilessly to demonstrate the proper method. I have held her up to the window and shown him the correct technique for vermin smacking. Ivan has even demonstrated stalking strategy. (well, Ivan stalks like an elephant rollerskates, but you get the idea)

But all to no avail. He simply refuses to hurt anything.

I am beginning to suspect he is a pacifist.

If I do not see improvement soon, I may be forced to no longer consider him a cat.

I do not make this decision lightly, but I feel it is being forced upon me.

I will give Jack another two weeks. If within that period I have not seen evidence of mayhem, chaos, bloodletting, bird thingy destruction or squirrel worrying, I shall be forced to remove his feline status.

If it should come to that, I will declare him a pacifistic, nature loving, two legger adoring, useless lump of fur.

In short, a dog.