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.