The Game Is A Foot

All is silence in the velveteen darkness of night.

Ivan is submerged in the innocent slumber of the witless. Tiger Lily is whined out for the evening and has found a place to dream her whiny dreams. Jaq sits on the back of the couch keeping silent vigil like a sphinx thingy erected to protect all travelers of yon hallway.

Making not a sound, I stalk the inky blackness. Keeping low, tail straight as a board, ears flattened but ever listening, I am on the hunt.

I have yet to decide upon my prey, but mark my word thingies, tonight, something will be smote.

Dust bunnies are not on the menu tonight. The recent "Spring cleaning" by the two leggers has thinned the herd almost to the point of extinction. Yesterday was laundry day, so sock balls rest soundly in their drawers. Most of the knock knacks have been locked away for their own protection. The most recent bathroom spider still respects my prowess as evidenced by the soft chattering sound of eight knees knocking in fear.

Entering the two leggers bedroom, I spring onto their bed, careful to cause no vibration that may serve to awaken them. I consider sitting next to the male's head, my nose two inches from his, staring at him until he wakes and screams in abject terror, however, I did that last week and do not wish to become too predictable. The female sleeps with a faint smile on her face that seems to immunize her from mayhem.

While I ponder my next move, the male shifts in his sleep exposing a sockless foot. It suddenly occurs to me that toe thingies are considered a delicacy in some parts of the world and that it is perhaps time to stretch my palate. Having identified my victim, I begin my pre-pounce preparation, This is accomplished by first approaching my prey with my body turned sideways on stiffened legs with back arched, in full poofy posture. Never taking my eyes off the target, I crouch low to the blankets, ears flattened, whiskers and tail a-twitchin'. Now begins the final step before pouncing: The "bloodbath butt wiggle". Once this final stage has been initiated, all safeties are off and aborting is no longer an option. The "bloodbath butt wiggle" signifies the point of no return,

It is me or the toe thingy.

I am pleased to inform you that once again, I have emerged victorious. I admit, after rising from the bed like a screaming linen draped banshee, the two legger showed remarkable marksmanship with the water squirty thingy

I remain moistened, but undefeated.

Going Green

This morning I was awakened by a most annoying sound:

WEEEEEENGAAAAA! WEEEEEEENNN WEEEEEEEEENNNNNGA!!! WEEEEEEEENNNNNGG!

Unfortunately, this is a sound I am familiar with. It occurs twice a week, every week......all Summer long. It is invariably followed a short while later by another sound:

BRRRUUUGGGGABRUGGGGAAAABRUUUUGAGAGAGAGAGA!!

The first sound generally lasts around 45 minutes, while the second may go on for up to three hours.

As with most annoyances in my kingdom, the source of these irritants can be traced directly back to the two leggers. Once again, the two leggers are participating in another example of their senseless acts of futility.

Every Spring, with the appearance of the first post-Winter sunbeam, the male two legger suddenly gets a manic look in his eyes, grabs his car keys and drives to his local gardening store. He returns with at least 27 different types of fertilizer, 8 types of weed thingy killers, 4 new gardening implements and several book thingies that only produce green stuff for the people who wrote them.

Upon his return, he spends every sunny day for the next five weeks pampering, watering, and I suspect perhaps even talking to the grass in an effort to make it grow faster, thicker and greener than it has ever grown before. On rainy days, he watches from the bay window, mentally encouraging the stuff to show growth and improvement.

Today marks the day that the horticultural Mr. Hyde takes over the green thumbed Dr. Jekyll.With no warning whatsoever, the male two legger decides that it is time to destroy the grass that he has spent so much time nurturing.

The first thing he does is go to the shed and bring out a small piece of equipment with a spinny thingy on the end that uses plastic line to whip the grass into submission. It is the source of the first noise mentioned above, He calls this implement his "weed-eater".  I do not understand why he calls it that, it does not consume the grass, it simply whips it around and tosses it into the flower beds. (much to the chagrin of the female) "Weed thrower" would be a more appropriate name. the moniker "weed eater" should be reserved for goat thingies. 

After filling the flower beds with the leavings of the weed thrower, the male prepares for his next act of agricultural carnage. He grabs a beer, climbs on a miniature car thingy and puts his earPod thingy in his ears. This miniature car thingy is called a "lawnmauler" and makes the second sound mentioned at the start of this post. It seems to be powered by beer and has been known to use up to a six pack in a single afternoon of operation. It has spinning steel blades that are excellent for cutting grass, garden hoses and throwing rocks and other things that the male was too lazy to pick up beforehand. It too fills the flowerbeds with shredded grass.

Grow, destroy. Grow, destroy. This senseless ritual will occur twice weekly for the rest of the Summer.

If only I could convince him to start growing squirrels.

Shades of Gray

It is a gray day.

Everything is gray.

I sit at my window gazing upon my kingdom.

The sky is the color of steel, a light drizzle is falling upon my yard, the sunbeam is nowhere to be found.

Everything seems muted in stillness.

On the whispering breeze, I detect the light scent of the sea that lies a few miles away. The scent embodies the smell of life and death, incredible violence as well as calming tranquility.

I respect that.

I seek to emulate the sea.

First, I must dispel this melancholia.

I go off in search of Ivan. I find him in the two legger's bathroom. He is sleeping in his usual position, flat on his back, forepaws raised above his head, hindpaws crossed, mouth hanging open and emitting a soft snoring that sounds like a jammed paper shredder thingy.

This shows promise.

Ivan is a heavy sleeper. Well, actually, Ivan is heavy in all his endeavors with the obvious exception of thinking. He sleeps heavily, eats heavily and plays heavily. However, I must exercise caution. Though he is deep in sleep, if awakened suddenly, he believes in chomp first, ask questions second and then chomp again.

I decide that speed is my best ally. I am much faster than Ivan. (most rocks are faster than Ivan) I begin my stalk. Walking in a low, stealthy crouch, I approach the bathroom door. Peeking around the corner, I confirm that Ivan remains in peaceful repose.

Spotting Tiger Lily watching me from the bedroom chair, inspiration strikes. I immediately start giggling softly. Curious, Tiger Lily asks, "What's so funny?"

I whisper, "Come check out Ivan, but be quiet, I do not wish to awaken him."

Just as she warily begins to peek around the corner, I make my move. In a single leap, I jump over Tiger Lily and land with all four paws firmly in the middle of Ivan's ample belly. Using my momentum and the natural springiness of Ivan's tummy, I am able continue the bound to the sink thingy thus landing out of sight of the stinky orange beast that I have just summoned from the depths of slumber. The first thing the recently revived ball of anger spots is Tiger Lily standing the doorway with a look of utter shock on her unnaturally large face.

I am unsure what happened next. Laying low in the sink thingy in the grip of a fit of uncontrollable giggling, I recall only the sound of hissing, whining, snarling and mrowwing.  Having gotten a grip on myself, I peaked over the edge of the sink only to behold the light drizzle of gray fur settling softly to the bathroom floor.

Though the day is grayer than ever, I find myself no longer melancholy. 

The Truth About Cat And Dog Lovers

I am often contacted by individuals seeking my wise and sage counsel.

I try to answer any and all requests, however, some mysteries require more pondering than others.

One of the most asked, and most controversial questions is: "Why do some two leggers seem drawn to the companionship of dog thingies, while others seek servitude to cats?

I have pondered, and am now ready to put forth a hypothesis. Well, perhaps not a hypothesis, I believe I can safely go as far as to call this a theory. 

I have spent much time and effort studying two leggers and all their odd behaviors. Groups of two leggers tend to exhibit common traits.

First let us look at those with a propensity towards dog thingies:

As a rule, dog thingy lovers, (DTLs) tend to be what scientists term Controllus Freakapotumii. They find joy and fulfillment in the unswerving loyalty and slavish devotion that dog thingies in their limited cerebral capacity give in spades. They are easily amused by the antics of the dignity impaired. They feel that no car is complete without a dog thingy hanging out of the passenger side window, lips and ears flapping in the wind, slinging slobber upon the cars that are unfortunate enough to be trailing behind them. They expect this same dog thingy to bring them their slippers and newspapers on demand.

The second type of two legger keeps company with cats:

Those who seek servitude to cats (TWSSCs) however, hold no delusions of grandeur. Known to science as Pussycatticus Whippedii They are a highly evolved form of two legger that has accepted the fact that they are put on this Earth thingy to serve their four legged, whiskered and clawed betters. They have arrived at the realization that resistance is not simply futile, it is stupid. They know that their avocation is to feed, shelter and provide all that we require. They know that it is simply easier to comply than to complain. They live in houses filled with shredded drapes, scratched furniture, and hairball filled hallways in order to receive what little affection we may occasionally show them.

Finally there is a third type of two legger:

They are the two leggers that are a combination of the DTL and TWSSC. These are commonly known as Masochists. 

Lack of Common Scents

 This is the post that I wrote as a guest blogger on The World's Best Cat Litter website.  I was honored to be invited to write for them and their excellent product. Their website is: http://www.worldsbestcatlitter.com/clearing-the-air/

My loyal followers and minions are all aware of the fact that my two leggers are loyal users of The World's Best Cat Litter (place trademark thingy here) But what they may not be aware of is how they came to discover this incredible product.

 When I first came to claim my kingdom, Ivan The Tolerable was the only other feline in residence. For those of you unfamiliar with Ivan, he is a large dimwitted orange tabby that holds the distinction of being my Royal Stinkmeister . His stinkies are truly the stuff of legend. He actually has an international fanclub comprised entirely of skunks, pigs and sewage workers.

With the addition of myself to the household, the two leggers realized that a single litter box filled with bargain cat litter was not the answer to their olfactory dreams. They needed to find something that would hide the fact that there were now two felines residing in the same small house. Plus there were extenuating circumstances. Not only is my house rather small, it is also located in the Pacific Northwest where it rains 542 days per year on average. This results in having very few days that encourage the opening of windows. Therefore, the need for effective cat litter is paramount.

They began experimenting with different brands and formulations of cat litter. They first switched to the scoopable type. This made cleaning easier, but the large clumps of ammonia soaked clay smelled just like large clumps of ammonia soaked clay.

They then tried a litter that claimed to hide the worst odors. Ivan laughed in derision and proved their claims totally unfounded.

Next came the scented litter. It was advertised as smelling like a "fresh bouquet of flowers on a Springtime morning". It worked perfectly if one enjoys the smell of a urine soaked bouquet of flowers.

Finally, a friend of my two leggers (despite popular theory, they do have friends) suggested The World's Best Cat Litter (place trademark thingy here).

The effect was dramatic. It worked so well that it immediately threw Ivan into a fit of depression and self doubt. Ivan takes great pride in his stinkies and suddenly felt that he was losing his touch. I assured him that he was indeed losing his touch and encouraged him to work harder.

Three months later, reinforcements arrived in the form of a whiny, gray, female tabby named Tiger Lily. Believing this gave us the upper paw, Ivan immediately cheered up and renewed his aromatic mission. But alas, the two leggers were onto us and countered by adding a third litter box and switching to the "Multi-cat Formula" of The World's Best Cat Litter.(place trademark thingy here) The "Multi-cat Formula" was so effective at odor removal I actually began to fear that Ivan might simply be absorbed leaving nothing but a few tufts of odorless orange fur.

I must admit, the two leggers may have won this battle, but we are not giving up. We fully intend to win The War of The Noses.

 Ivan is currently experimenting with his diet in order to improve his stinkage.

Anyone know of a catfood company offering "Tex-Mex"?

The Puzzled Puss Ponders

Today I have been pondering the world's greatest mysteries.

I was not feeling philosophical or anything, I was simply bored. When I become bored, I ponder.

Mystery #1
Why do the two leggers spend hundreds of dollars on cat toys, scratching posts, carpeted perches, thrones and catnip mousie thingies which they fully expect and encourage us to destroy, and then break out the water squirty thingy the moment we threaten to climb their $20 Walmart drapes? Please don't misunderstand me, I love all the expensive stuff they buy for my amusement, however, it seems rather hypocritical to spend more money on the stuff that I am expected to shred than on the stuff I really wish to destroy.

Mystery #2
The two leggers can watch any amount of graphic violence on the talking box thingy for hours at a time, yet they would totally freak if I were ever able to provide the squirrel thingy with the justice he so richly deserves. I have tried to convince them that it would not be half as gruesome as the violence they see on any given episode of  "NCIS", "Criminal Minds" or "Dancing With The Stars", yet the squirrel thingy still lives.

Mystery #3
I have seen many movies and shows on the talking box thingy that portray a breed of two leggers called "Romans". I respect these two leggers because they spent their lives running around causing worldwide mayhem and chaos. I have learned that the Romans came from a place called "Rome" in Italy. So the mystery here is, if they came from Italy, why did they all have British accents?


Mystery #4
Two leggers spend much time and effort trying to develop cat food that is "all natural" and that tastes like what they suppose we crave. Take it from me, they fail miserably. I have yet to meet the cat that wakes in the morning seeking to hunt down and kill a bunch of tiny, immobile, cubical creatures that reek of chicken, tuna and rice. We want food that runs, flies, squeaks or squeals. We want to look into its eyes and see the panic as it realizes that it has met something that is higher on the food chain. If the cat food companies wish to really impress me, they should find a way to bag a dozen squirrels with laser pointy thingies implanted on their heads.

That would be a meal worth eating.

Ivan Gets Socked

Ivan is annoyed.

Of course, this describes Ivan about 97.69% of the time, but it still bears mentioning.

This time the cause of Ivan's annoyance is quite amusing.

For the last few days, the male two legger has been RTCT. (Restricted To Couch Thingy) Apparently the female two legger took him to the vet thingy and had him operated on. (This would have been more amusing if he had been forced to wear the cone thingy, but alas it would seem that there is a double standard at work here.)

So anyway, Wednesday afternoon, the female brought him home from the vet thingy, plopped him on the couch and ordered him not to move until further notice.

Anyone familiar with my male two legger knows that this is a punishment worse than death to him. He does not idle well. (Unless there is a football game on the talking box thingy and he has a copious amount of beer and junk food available.) Do not misunderstand, he is perfectly capable of wasting time in front of the talking box thingy, he has actually spent so much time on the couch in the past that he required a weekly dusting, however, if he is ORDERED to remain on the couch, doing nothing, it totally offends his sensibilities and causes him much distress and angst.

So why does this annoy Ivan?

Simple.

The two legger is in his spot.

Actually, I must clarify:

The part of the two legger that was operated on is in Ivan's spot.

And it appears that it will not be moving anytime soon.

When Ivan first noticed that there was something in his spot, he attempted to move it through use of intimidation. He poofed up, crooked his tail, and hissed at it. This was met with both two leggers yeling "NO IVAN!!" and he was removed from the room. He next sought to reclaim his spot through more subtle means. He started by quietly lying on the feet of the two legger and slowly slunk his way North until he approached his spot. Just as he began to believe that he was going to succeed, the female spotted him and quietly removed him in order to not awaken the sleeping male.

 Ivan then resorted to "stalking" his spot. Regular followers of my blog thingy are aware that "stalking" is not Ivan's forte'.  He stalks like a whale climbs trees. He is simply incapable of stealth.

The result of Ivan's inability to stalk was that he ended up getting socked repeatedly.

Now don't start reporting my two leggers to the Society of Bunny Hugging Earth Mamas. (SBHEM)

They didn't punch him, They socked him.

Repeatedly.

Every time the two leggers detected Ivan beginning to creep up on his prey, (i.e. the male's lap) they would bean him with a rolled up sock. Ivan having never experienced a sock in its balled up form (larval stage) was completely unfamiliar with the potential projectile properties (PPP) of the aforementioned sock.

Over the last 72 hours, Ivan has been socked no fewer than 368 times.

One would think that the two legger would end up out of ammo with all the socks laying useless in the hallway.

Lucky for him, it amuses me to bring them back.