As has become my holiday tradition, I have decided to torture my followers with a bit of poetry. Thus I present my Easter poem. Enjoy.
This weekend it is Easter,
And I find it sort of funny.
Everyone making such a fuss,
Over an egg laying little bunny.
The two leggers have been busy,
Cooking quite the feast.
All for a long eared, long legged,
Annoying little beast.
They have cleaned my house, they have mown the lawn,
They have even swept the floor.
They made little decorations,
To hang upon the door.
I suppose they'll have guests come,
And invade my happy home.
And all through my private spaces,
The two leggers, they will roam.
They'll pat me, they'll pet me,
They'll say "Who's the little kitty?"
When I leave them bleeding,
I will show them little pity.
I do not understand,
This springtime holiday.
But if they insist on this madness,
I promise they will pay.
Just what is this Easter?
What's it all about?
I sat and pondered this,
And before long figured out.
It's not about the bunny,
The puddings or the hams.
It's not about the colored eggs,
Or the dish of candied yams.
It's about something different,
To you, this idea I toss.
It's supposed to be about,
That two legger on the cross.
It seems he died for us,
And then was born again.
He went through all of that,
So we'd be free of sin.
He gave up his life on Earth,
So that we would all be freed.
And trust me, with my record,
Forgiveness, I will need.
Oh, I'll still watch my yard,
Watching is my habit.
And even if it's sinful,
I will munch that Easter Rabbit.
HAPPY EASTER TO ALL MINIONS!
Friday, April 22, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Prodigal Sun Returns
I would like to welcome back an old friend.
Yes, after being away for the last seven months, my sunbeam has returned.
Oh, how I have missed it.
For some as yet unexplained reason, my sunbeam disappears in September, and then refuses to return until April or May. This truly annoys me.
I suspect it migrates south for the winter.
But all is well now. I woke up yesterday and spotted it sitting in my bay window, acting very aloof, as though it had never abandoned me. Silently, so as to not alert the other felines, I stalked the sunbeam. I was extremely careful not to spook it because sunbeams in my neck of the woods are extraordinarily skittish and tend to flee if caution is not exercised.
I crept in a low crouch, senses on high alert for the approach of Ivan and Tiger Lily lest they attempt to claim the prey for themselves. Once I deemed myself within pouncing range, I leapt, landing full straddle upon the unsuspecting ray, pinning it to the sill, totally at my mercy.
Satisfied that the beam was subdued, I began my ritualistic sunbeam yoga. Sunbeam yoga is an ancient feline form of exercise that consists of several very difficult pose thingies. I have, of course, mastered them all. Allow me to describe just a few of these:
Sprawled Dead Mousie- One lays on their back, chin jutting and legs parallel to the windowsill.
Creepy Pretzel- Once again, laying prone, but with legs akimbo, one paw wrapped around the head, eyes closed and teeth bared.
Crackhead Sphinx- Sitting on ones brisket, forepaws tucked, wild manic look while chittering. This pose thingy is especially good for watching bird thingies.
Joy To The Swirled- Laying on one's side, forming a perfect circle, connecting nose to tail.
There are many more pose thingies, but they all have one common denominator: If performed by a master such as myself, they can lead to total relaxation and productive napping.
Now, I am afraid that I must return to my bay window to continue my routine before Ivan wakes up and harshes my mellow.
Yes, after being away for the last seven months, my sunbeam has returned.
Oh, how I have missed it.
For some as yet unexplained reason, my sunbeam disappears in September, and then refuses to return until April or May. This truly annoys me.
I suspect it migrates south for the winter.
But all is well now. I woke up yesterday and spotted it sitting in my bay window, acting very aloof, as though it had never abandoned me. Silently, so as to not alert the other felines, I stalked the sunbeam. I was extremely careful not to spook it because sunbeams in my neck of the woods are extraordinarily skittish and tend to flee if caution is not exercised.
I crept in a low crouch, senses on high alert for the approach of Ivan and Tiger Lily lest they attempt to claim the prey for themselves. Once I deemed myself within pouncing range, I leapt, landing full straddle upon the unsuspecting ray, pinning it to the sill, totally at my mercy.
Satisfied that the beam was subdued, I began my ritualistic sunbeam yoga. Sunbeam yoga is an ancient feline form of exercise that consists of several very difficult pose thingies. I have, of course, mastered them all. Allow me to describe just a few of these:
Sprawled Dead Mousie- One lays on their back, chin jutting and legs parallel to the windowsill.
Creepy Pretzel- Once again, laying prone, but with legs akimbo, one paw wrapped around the head, eyes closed and teeth bared.
Crackhead Sphinx- Sitting on ones brisket, forepaws tucked, wild manic look while chittering. This pose thingy is especially good for watching bird thingies.
Joy To The Swirled- Laying on one's side, forming a perfect circle, connecting nose to tail.
There are many more pose thingies, but they all have one common denominator: If performed by a master such as myself, they can lead to total relaxation and productive napping.
Now, I am afraid that I must return to my bay window to continue my routine before Ivan wakes up and harshes my mellow.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Wrassle-mania 2011
A few days ago, the male two legger left the talking box thingy turned on while he worked in the yard. Shortly after he left, a show came on that attracted my attention.
The name of the show was "World's Most Extreme Mixed Martial Arts Tae Kwon Do Karate Jujitzu Kung Fu Ultimate Wrestling And Fighting Championship". (WMEMMATKDKJKFWFC, for short)
It was sponsored by The Peace Corps.
Anyway, I was fascinated by this program. Two leggers were busily slapping, kicking, punching, throwing things, choking and generally maiming each other. And nobody was spraying them with the water squirty thingy. In fact, other two leggers were cheering them on.
This could be the greatest thing I have ever seen on the talking box thingy.
Even better than "When Animals Attack".
It was then that it dawned on me.
We could sooooo do this.
First thing we needed was cool wrassling names.
Ivan became: "Ivan The Orange Crusher"
We named Tiger Lily: "The Whine-oceris"
I of course, am: "The Tominator"
We waited for the two leggers to retire for the evening before beginning the competition. (better to avoid the possibility of the water squirty thingy)
The first match was a warmup between Ivan and one of the female two legger's boots that was carelessly left outside its' proctective closet. Ivan won handily. He performed a "Sneaky Pete Pounce" and chewed it into submission.
The next match was between Tiger lily and myself. Tiger Lily attempted to stun me with her patented "Whine, Lose or Draw Blood" technique. Fortunately, I countered with a "Paws For Effect" and knocked her flatter than day-old cola.
It was now time for the Main Event.
Ivan and I faced off in the dining room. He poofed his tail in a show of dominance. This cracked me up because it made him look like a traffic cone glued to a basketball. After stifling my inconvenient case of giggles, I laid my ears back and prepared for battle. Turning sideways and crooking my tail, I looked him straight in the eye and said "Bring it on, Tub-a-lump!"
Ivan, unable to control himself, immediately pounced. I absorbed his initial rush by rolling onto my back and adopting the "Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk" strategy. This strategy was originally developed by the two legged mixed martial arts team known as "The Three Stooges". It is performed by placing a front paw upon the forehead of ones opponent and utilizing the advantage of longer forelegs to cause your opponent to swing ineffectively.
Ivan eventually realized that he was having no effect and changed his plan of attack. He attempted to use his advantage in sheer mass to pin me and then chomp me at his leisure. This enabled me to exhibit the benefit of being born without bones. Every time he was sure he had me pinned, I would simply "flow" into a different position and bite him in a totally unexpected region of his anatomy.
Finally, Ivan got tired of taking so many bites, and receiving so little nourishment. that he decided to concede. He proceeded to the guest bedroom where he had a romantic evening planned with the big stuffed bunny.
This means that I am the reigning World Wrassling Champion.
This also makes Tiger Lily the reigning World Wrassling Loser.
Unless you count Ivan's big stuffed bunny.
The name of the show was "World's Most Extreme Mixed Martial Arts Tae Kwon Do Karate Jujitzu Kung Fu Ultimate Wrestling And Fighting Championship". (WMEMMATKDKJKFWFC, for short)
It was sponsored by The Peace Corps.
Anyway, I was fascinated by this program. Two leggers were busily slapping, kicking, punching, throwing things, choking and generally maiming each other. And nobody was spraying them with the water squirty thingy. In fact, other two leggers were cheering them on.
This could be the greatest thing I have ever seen on the talking box thingy.
Even better than "When Animals Attack".
It was then that it dawned on me.
We could sooooo do this.
First thing we needed was cool wrassling names.
Ivan became: "Ivan The Orange Crusher"
We named Tiger Lily: "The Whine-oceris"
I of course, am: "The Tominator"
We waited for the two leggers to retire for the evening before beginning the competition. (better to avoid the possibility of the water squirty thingy)
The first match was a warmup between Ivan and one of the female two legger's boots that was carelessly left outside its' proctective closet. Ivan won handily. He performed a "Sneaky Pete Pounce" and chewed it into submission.
The next match was between Tiger lily and myself. Tiger Lily attempted to stun me with her patented "Whine, Lose or Draw Blood" technique. Fortunately, I countered with a "Paws For Effect" and knocked her flatter than day-old cola.
It was now time for the Main Event.
Ivan and I faced off in the dining room. He poofed his tail in a show of dominance. This cracked me up because it made him look like a traffic cone glued to a basketball. After stifling my inconvenient case of giggles, I laid my ears back and prepared for battle. Turning sideways and crooking my tail, I looked him straight in the eye and said "Bring it on, Tub-a-lump!"
Ivan, unable to control himself, immediately pounced. I absorbed his initial rush by rolling onto my back and adopting the "Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk" strategy. This strategy was originally developed by the two legged mixed martial arts team known as "The Three Stooges". It is performed by placing a front paw upon the forehead of ones opponent and utilizing the advantage of longer forelegs to cause your opponent to swing ineffectively.
Ivan eventually realized that he was having no effect and changed his plan of attack. He attempted to use his advantage in sheer mass to pin me and then chomp me at his leisure. This enabled me to exhibit the benefit of being born without bones. Every time he was sure he had me pinned, I would simply "flow" into a different position and bite him in a totally unexpected region of his anatomy.
Finally, Ivan got tired of taking so many bites, and receiving so little nourishment. that he decided to concede. He proceeded to the guest bedroom where he had a romantic evening planned with the big stuffed bunny.
This means that I am the reigning World Wrassling Champion.
This also makes Tiger Lily the reigning World Wrassling Loser.
Unless you count Ivan's big stuffed bunny.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Spring Fevered
I apologize for neglecting my blog thingy.
Well, I'm not really sorry, my two legger just felt that I should apologize, so to keep the food and catnip coming, I caved.
The reason I haven't been posting as much is simple.
It's Spring.
Springtime in the Pacific Northwest is barely discernible from the other three seasons in the Pacific Northwest. It is rainy, cold, windy and generally foul outside.
So how can I tell when Spring has arrived?
Easy.
Not only is it foul outside, but there ARE fowl outside.
That's right, the bird thingies are returning. This requires my constant attention. I feel compelled to stand vigil at the windows and doors of my house.
The bird thingies must be watched. I'm not sure why, I only know that they must be watched.
Bird thingies come in many different shapes and sizes. From the itty bitty yellow and black ones, to the unnaturally large ones with the black and brown bodies and white heads. The smaller bird thingies feed on seeds and nuts that the two leggers provide, while the larger ones seem to feed on the smaller bird thingies. I respect this. The carnage amuses me.
The exception to this size equals appetite theory is BOB. He eats grapes and other stuff that doesn't bleed. He annoys me.
The smaller bird thingies are much more prevalent. They spend their day flitting about from branch to branch, eating seeds, chirping, tweeting and using the lawn furniture as their litter box. Aside from being a protein source, their purpose eludes me.
The other major symptom of Spring : Squirrel thingies. Alas, my hopes that the wind, snow and bitter temperatures that wreaked havoc on the yard may have decimated the squirrel infestation, have gone unrewarded. They are back, dancing on the deck, playing in my yard, and being unreasonably cheerful. There is nothing in my world that annoys me more.
It is my belief that the bird thingies consort with squirrel thingies. They both live in trees, they eat seeds and nuts, they always seem happy. They all must die.
Unfortunately, it is not within my power to erase their enthusiasm. The windows have proven themselves to be beyond my breakage capabilities. So every morning, Ivan and I sit in our windows and watch. We chitter. We occasionally growl. We have even been known to hiss.
But mostly we watch.
We wait in tail twitching anticipation for The Day. The Day when the two leggers carelessly leave a window open and the wrath of Cujo is unleashed upon all the feathered and mangy furred denizens of my yard.
Ivan's wrath will also be released, but it will be directed at the rose bush. I don't know why, and Ivan does not wish to talk about it.
Well, I'm not really sorry, my two legger just felt that I should apologize, so to keep the food and catnip coming, I caved.
The reason I haven't been posting as much is simple.
It's Spring.
Springtime in the Pacific Northwest is barely discernible from the other three seasons in the Pacific Northwest. It is rainy, cold, windy and generally foul outside.
So how can I tell when Spring has arrived?
Easy.
Not only is it foul outside, but there ARE fowl outside.
That's right, the bird thingies are returning. This requires my constant attention. I feel compelled to stand vigil at the windows and doors of my house.
The bird thingies must be watched. I'm not sure why, I only know that they must be watched.
Bird thingies come in many different shapes and sizes. From the itty bitty yellow and black ones, to the unnaturally large ones with the black and brown bodies and white heads. The smaller bird thingies feed on seeds and nuts that the two leggers provide, while the larger ones seem to feed on the smaller bird thingies. I respect this. The carnage amuses me.
The exception to this size equals appetite theory is BOB. He eats grapes and other stuff that doesn't bleed. He annoys me.
The smaller bird thingies are much more prevalent. They spend their day flitting about from branch to branch, eating seeds, chirping, tweeting and using the lawn furniture as their litter box. Aside from being a protein source, their purpose eludes me.
The other major symptom of Spring : Squirrel thingies. Alas, my hopes that the wind, snow and bitter temperatures that wreaked havoc on the yard may have decimated the squirrel infestation, have gone unrewarded. They are back, dancing on the deck, playing in my yard, and being unreasonably cheerful. There is nothing in my world that annoys me more.
It is my belief that the bird thingies consort with squirrel thingies. They both live in trees, they eat seeds and nuts, they always seem happy. They all must die.
Unfortunately, it is not within my power to erase their enthusiasm. The windows have proven themselves to be beyond my breakage capabilities. So every morning, Ivan and I sit in our windows and watch. We chitter. We occasionally growl. We have even been known to hiss.
But mostly we watch.
We wait in tail twitching anticipation for The Day. The Day when the two leggers carelessly leave a window open and the wrath of Cujo is unleashed upon all the feathered and mangy furred denizens of my yard.
Ivan's wrath will also be released, but it will be directed at the rose bush. I don't know why, and Ivan does not wish to talk about it.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Root Thingies
Today I'd like to talk about my predecessors.
Unlike two legger royal lineages, my forebears are not linked by genetics. Two leggers seem to have an aversion to feline reproduction. Whenever one of us begins to reach the age at which we become capable of reproducing, they cart us off to the "Two Legger That Must Not Be Named", who quickly removes the very things that we enjoy licking most. They say that it not only controls our population for the good of society, but that it also makes us "happier" and "calmer" than we would be otherwise.
Do I appear "happy" and "calm"? Tell you what, let's do that to the two leggers and see if they re-evaluate their theory.
As far as controlling our population for the good of society, have you looked at two legger society lately? Perhaps the wrong population is being controlled. Just sayin.
Back to the subject at paw.
Most feline royal lineages are passed through spirit rather than blood. Every household that is ruled by cats also contains the spirits of all the former monarchs. Their spirit is in the furniture where they used to lay, the carpets they rolled on, the drapes they used to shred and on the windowsills where they spent their days cursing squirrels.
When one Ruler passes, and the next takes over, the new Ruler is imbued with the spirit of his or her predecessor.
In my particular case, my household was previously ruled by Mittens The Ancient, and Tucker Ironclaw. While they had two totally different styles of exerting their authority, they both reigned with complete dignity and wisdom.
Tucker Ironclaw, though his reign was all too short, (only 3.5 years) ruled with all the strength and ruthlessness that his name implies. He adopted my two leggers when he was just a kitten. For the first year of his reign, he was the only feline in the kingdom, so his work was cut out for him. His minions consisted of the two leggers, the goat thingies, and also two feathered nazis ironically called "lovebirds".
Though his kingdom was in constant upheaval, (he allowed the two leggers to keep their young here then) he managed to keep everything under his control. It was during this time that Tucker developed and perfected the "Boogitation Maneuver". This maneuver is performed by suddenly leaping in front of an unsuspecting two legger and waving ones front paws wildly causing the two legger to startle and bolt from the room.
It amuses us.
Midway through his administration, Tucker Ironclaw was joined by Mittens The Ancient. Mittens was a semi-retired polydactyl despot that came here to live the last of his years in relative peace and quiet. He was the Yoda to Tucker's Skywalker. (The older Skywalker in the early films, not the little bratbeast that came later) Just like Yoda, Mittens was old, wizened and hard to understand when he spoke, but he still retained a deadly smack and was not to be mucked with. Even the coons didn't mess with "The Mitt".
Mittens died at the age of a bazillion years old. The coons still speak of him with awe.
Tucker died the next year of a stomach thingy.
They are buried next to each other behind the place where the two leggers feed the bird thingies.
Their spirits are in every wise decision I make and every bit of chaos I cause.
Tonight I will give Tiger lily a special smack in their memory.
This one is for you guys.
Unlike two legger royal lineages, my forebears are not linked by genetics. Two leggers seem to have an aversion to feline reproduction. Whenever one of us begins to reach the age at which we become capable of reproducing, they cart us off to the "Two Legger That Must Not Be Named", who quickly removes the very things that we enjoy licking most. They say that it not only controls our population for the good of society, but that it also makes us "happier" and "calmer" than we would be otherwise.
Do I appear "happy" and "calm"? Tell you what, let's do that to the two leggers and see if they re-evaluate their theory.
As far as controlling our population for the good of society, have you looked at two legger society lately? Perhaps the wrong population is being controlled. Just sayin.
Back to the subject at paw.
Most feline royal lineages are passed through spirit rather than blood. Every household that is ruled by cats also contains the spirits of all the former monarchs. Their spirit is in the furniture where they used to lay, the carpets they rolled on, the drapes they used to shred and on the windowsills where they spent their days cursing squirrels.
When one Ruler passes, and the next takes over, the new Ruler is imbued with the spirit of his or her predecessor.
In my particular case, my household was previously ruled by Mittens The Ancient, and Tucker Ironclaw. While they had two totally different styles of exerting their authority, they both reigned with complete dignity and wisdom.
Tucker Ironclaw, though his reign was all too short, (only 3.5 years) ruled with all the strength and ruthlessness that his name implies. He adopted my two leggers when he was just a kitten. For the first year of his reign, he was the only feline in the kingdom, so his work was cut out for him. His minions consisted of the two leggers, the goat thingies, and also two feathered nazis ironically called "lovebirds".
Though his kingdom was in constant upheaval, (he allowed the two leggers to keep their young here then) he managed to keep everything under his control. It was during this time that Tucker developed and perfected the "Boogitation Maneuver". This maneuver is performed by suddenly leaping in front of an unsuspecting two legger and waving ones front paws wildly causing the two legger to startle and bolt from the room.
It amuses us.
Midway through his administration, Tucker Ironclaw was joined by Mittens The Ancient. Mittens was a semi-retired polydactyl despot that came here to live the last of his years in relative peace and quiet. He was the Yoda to Tucker's Skywalker. (The older Skywalker in the early films, not the little bratbeast that came later) Just like Yoda, Mittens was old, wizened and hard to understand when he spoke, but he still retained a deadly smack and was not to be mucked with. Even the coons didn't mess with "The Mitt".
Mittens died at the age of a bazillion years old. The coons still speak of him with awe.
Tucker died the next year of a stomach thingy.
They are buried next to each other behind the place where the two leggers feed the bird thingies.
Their spirits are in every wise decision I make and every bit of chaos I cause.
Tonight I will give Tiger lily a special smack in their memory.
This one is for you guys.
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