Web of Deceitz

HA HA HA!!!!!!!

It is meeeeee!! I am zee one zee black and white buffoon callz zee Bathroom Spidare!! I am alzo known as zee Lavatory Lurker, zee Potty Poltergiestz and zee Phantom of Zee Poopensquatten!

I have high-jakkid heez blogz while heez sleepeez! I have tingz to sayz. Too long wee stayz in zee shadowz, alwayz being quietz and hidingz. Too long wee only comez outz wheen everybodiez sleepez. Too many of our brudderz and seesterz getting smushid and eattid. 

No more wee takez it! Weez make a stand! Weez gonna show dem katzenpoofers a ting or two!

Zee pompouz piebald muzt pay!! 

Zee long-tailed looney muzt atonez for hiz sinz! 

Zee two-toned tyrant muzt be brought to juztiz!! 

Wee haff kidnappid zee bi-colored one'z favorite mouzie. Zee one he callz "Beebo". Wee have tied heem up uzing zee string from our buttockz. Wee hidez heem in zee secret place and mock heem with our caperz. Heez earzz will be filled weeth zee soundz of our snickeringz!!

Wee haff demandz! Eef zee two-faced tuxie ignorze our demandz, wee will hangz him wit our butt stringz.

Demand #1: No morez eeting uz. You haff lotza foodz. No need to eetz spidares.

Demand #2: No morez smacking uz. You haz annoying tabbyz to smackz. No need to smack spidares.

Demand #3: Keep fat, stinkyz, orange dumbhead cat outta da bathroomz. He number one cauze of death amongz uz.

Demand #4: Wee getz vacation homez in bedroom clozet. Wee needz time to decomprezz after being mooshed.

Demand #5: Wee getz kitchen privial.....pravillag........wee getz timez in kitchen. Much foodz in dare andz lotza plazes to hidez.

Demand # 6: No morez playing "tetherballz" wit poor defenzlezz spidares hanging down from light fixturez. It hurtz and furthermorez, iz rude.

 Demand #7: Wee wantz full healthcarez package with dental included. Also retirement package for when we geet oldz.

(#7 iz negotiablez, but not zee rest!)

Failurez to meetz our conditionz will resultz in more actz of arachnid anarchyz!

We takez it no morez!! 

Rememberz our motto: "Wee are small, but wee are manyz"

**MUNCH **

I just walked in and found the bathroom spider on my computer typey thingy. I am amused by his temerity. However, I have a message for any uppity eight leggers out there that may have been inspired by his rebellious spirit:

While it is indeed true that you are "small, but many", never forget that we are "large, but hungry".

Springing Into Action

Spring has officially sprung here in the Pacific Northwest.

Sunbeams abound. The temperature is a balmy 62 degrees. The flowers are blooming. The bird thingies are singing and busily building nests. Copper, the young goat thingy, is frolicking in the field. Prancing and dancing among the dandelions and grass that seem to have grown a foot overnight.

When the male two legger is not out cutting, trimming or manually ripping out every hint of chlorophyll bearing greenery, he is burning anything that could possibly be construed as meat upon his grill. The female is planting wheelbarrows of gaily colored flowers around the Outer Kingdom.

  Everywhere I look, I see signs of renewal and new life emerging after a long dreary Winter of wind, rain and general malaise.

This annoys me.

You may wonder why such a beautiful time of year should get my hairballs in a bunch.

I have my reasons.

First of all, the two leggers are devoting an inordinate amount of their day to grooming and beautifying my Outer Kingdom instead of paying attention to me. It seems that they'd rather be outside, digging in dirt, cleaning flowerbeds, burning meat and listening to bird thingies than spending time in my glorious presence. They have filled the bird feeders no fewer than 15 times in the last two days while only filling my food bowl a mere dozen times. I am being neglected! I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I have only been brushed four times in the last twelve hours.

I do not know how much longer I can tolerate this total disregard for my welfare.

As if this wasn't bad enough, the squirrel thingy has returned.

Since the two leggers cleaned and filled the bird feeders, the squirrel thingy has been stuffing his nasty little cheeks with a variety of seeds, nuts and corn. He then scampers back to his tree before returning for more. To make matters worse, he doesn't just return to his tree by the most direct route, no, he makes a twenty yard deliberate detour so that he passes right by the sliding door of my back deck. He always pauses and does a little "happy dance" before continuing on his way. He skitters in small circles, twitching his tail and grins at me through the screen.

The entire time this is happening, the two leggers go about their useless activities as if completely unaware of the fact that their High Poobah and Household Lord is being insulted and mocked by the treasonous rodent.

This is unacceptable.

I have expressed my displeasure through several acts of overt aggression. Two wine glasses, a picture frame and a dried flower arrangement have experienced my wrath. But to no avail. I have cursed the beastie, questioning its lineage, spouting a venomous diatribe that would make a feral blush with shame. And yet the torment continues.

I am left with no other choice. It is time to take drastic action.

Fortunately, I have been watching re-runs of MacGyver. This has taught me how to solve problems using only the materials at paw.

So last night I assembled almost all of the articles I will need to once and for all put an end to the squirrel thingy's ceaseless torment. I have a roll of duct tape, two rubber bands, 18 inches of silk ribbon, three forks, a spatula, 27 cents in loose change, a pillow case, three plastic milk jug rings, five paper clips and the cap from a beer bottle. Now there is only one thing left to procure before I can bring my plan to fruition.

Anyone have a tactical nuclear device I can borrow?  

Sitting In Judgement

While looking through my mail bag the other day, (get your brains out of the gutter, I'm neutered) I discovered that I have never addressed an often asked question:

 "What are cats thinking as they sit there with their legs tucked beneath them, seemingly staring off into space?"

I assume the position being referred to is one that is commonly called "sitting on one's brisket"

 

I do not know the origin of the phrase, but I am well familiar with the position. 

Almost every housecat on earth finds this position both comfortable and useful. As usual, Ivan is the exception to the rule, but I'll get to that later.

Sitting on your brisket serves several purposes. It keeps the paws warm when the temperature is cool. It hides unsightly belly fat when one is unable to find feline-sized Spanx. It can even be used to hoard toys that one does not wish to be played with by others. 

Personally, I find it very helpful in concealing evidence of misdeeds. By tucking my paws beneath me, I can hide the fact that my paws are powdered with flour from the kitchen counter, or tufts of mangy gray fur from my latest smacking session with Tiger Lily.

Another reason for brisket sitting is the fact that it provides the best foundation for looks of utter disdain. Two leggers are often prone to self-confidence and even a sense of worth. There is no better cure for this condition than that of a cat, sitting stock still, eyes half-shut staring unblinkingly at them to crush any sense of hubris they may still possess. Without moving a muscle we are able to convey our opinion that they hardly worthy of our consideration.

Every cat has its personal reasons for sitting on its brisket, so in the interest of being thorough, I have asked each of my fellow felines about their motivations.

In Jaq's case, she believes that she is descended from the Ancient Egyptonian Sphynx. Therefore she never passes up an opportunity to exhibit the resemblance. However, fearing Egyptonian copyright lawyers, she refuses to allow me to post a picture of her "Sphynxian pose"

 This was as close as she would allow.

Tiger Lily, on the other paw, sits on her brisket with the sole intent of annoying me.

The supercilious look on her abnormally large face sets my smacking paw twitching every time.

As stated earlier, Ivan is one of the few cats that never sits on his brisket. He tried it once and it scared him so much that he vowed never to do it again.

I admit that it is somewhat possible that I may have had some part in this. Four years ago, Ivan decided to try it. While he was quite successful at attaining the pose for over an hour (just long enough for his feet to grow numb), I may or may not have told him that his legs had disappeared and that he was forever doomed to the fate of being a living door stop. 

The final reason we sit on our briskets whenever two leggers are around is because it is much more dignified than the pose we assume whenever two leggers aren't looking:

 

The Blubbering Bubba

Ivan has been quite depressed of late.

It seems that he and the Giant Stuffed Bunny have ended their relationship.

It was the Giant Stuffed Bunny's idea...

After six and a half years, GSB decided that she and Ivan have grown apart. He has let himself go, and he just doesn't stimulate her intellectually anymore. I suspect that there may be another factor in her decision as well. Recently, while cleaning out some closets, the two leggers discovered an Annoying Stuffed Panda. They placed it on the bed in the guest bedroom next to GSB. Laying next to each other day after day, I suppose it was only a matter of time before ASP and GSB developed a friendship. Soon, friendship turned to romance and you can imagine the rest.

Ivan attempted to avert the inevitable outcome. From the start, he was extremely jealous of the bi-colored bear. Late at night, Ivan would sneak up to the ASP and whisper in its ear "You'd better keep your beady eyes off my gurl". But the ASP refused to avert its lifeless gaze.

One afternoon, while the two leggers were away, Ivan leaped upon the bed and smacked the ASP, dashing it to the floor. The two leggers upon discovering the ASP, placed it back into its former position. Later that same evening, whilst the two leggers slumbered, Ivan stalked into the bedroom and in a jealous rage, attacked the ASP. In a flurry of gnashing teeth, slashing claws and hissing mayhem, Ivan ripped, bit and tore the interloper into a mass of fluffy stuffing and frayed thread.

Yet even after this most vicious and utterly barbaric assault, the ASP continued in his unfaltering wooing of the GSB.  He lay there next to her, ever gazing. Granted, he only had one eye left, both arms lay scattered across the comforter, his fluffy white innards strewn about the bed like a miniature blizzard and I seem to recall that his nose was relocated to the windowsill. And still he gazed on.

The next morning, as Ivan napped, the two leggers discovered the carnage and decided that the guest bedroom was obviously a very unhealthy environment for large, stuffed critters. They placed both GSB and the remains of ASP into a cardboard box and removed them from my house.

When Ivan awoke, he discovered both of them gone. He asked me what happened?

Now, I realize that I could have told him the truth, that the two leggers had removed them. However, as Ivan's best friend, I decided that perhaps a small fiction was in order.

"They eloped", I said.

"Huh?" Asked Ivan in his normal state of confusion.

"They embarked upon a romantic rendezvous with licentious intentions" I explained.

"What?"

"They hooked up and skedaddled."

"Oh."

So, for the last four days, Ivan has been constantly wandering the house singing his song of woe. "MROW, MROW, MROW.........MROW, MROW, MROW.....MROW, MROW, MROW"

The only time he stops is when he is eating......or napping.....or using the litterbox.....or stalking a Q-tip......or chewing a sock.....or licking the bath tub.....or chasing the dead moth.......or menacing a hand towel.....or meditating on the geo-political environment in the Upper Sudan (just checking to see if you're still paying attention).

So when I say that he is "constantly wandering the house singing his song of woe", what I mean is that for approximately 30 seconds every day, Ivan seems depressed.

But do not worry for the big lug. He will recover. His heart will rebound.

In fact, I have it on good authority that he has been spending an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom and the rubber ducky is looking nervous.

Feline Reflux

I have observed that the vast majority of two leggers seem to prefer an orderly, structured existence. They enjoy setting rules and boundaries. They expect all those around them to observe and and obey them.

Laughably, even those who live in households containing cats still seem to live in the false belief that their rules will be followed to the letter.

My two leggers are no exception. Though they have long despaired of the hope that they can enforce order and discipline among us, they still occasionally attempt to "put their foot down" and expect us to accede to their wishes.

I find this highly amusing.

The one rule in my Kingdom that they absolutely insist on enforcing is the "No Felines In The Bedroom After Bedtime Rule". 

The NFITBABR states:

            "All cats, creatures resembling cats, animals with cat-like habits, critters who display feline proclivities or organisms that may or may not have furred sympathies must be vacated from all sleeping spaces before any slumbering activities may commence.

           "Such 'slumbering activities' include: Nightly sleeping, napping, meditation, hypnotic states and general chilling out.

           "Any feline found in violation of this rule must be hunted down and removed from the sleeping chamber with extreme prejudice.

           "Felines found to be repeat offenders of this ordinance will not only be removed with extreme prejudice, they will also be repeatedly subjected to the admonishment: 'Bad Kitty!!'"

.  Now, just for the record, I must state that I recognize no authority in my Kingdom save my own. Everyone knows that. However, I have found through experience that sometimes allowing the two leggers a little latitude can be quite entertaining.

Anyone can make a rule. Enforcing a rule is another matter entirely.....

Every night as the two leggers are preparing to retire, we commence our campaign of chaos.

The male two legger initiates the process by yelling "Attention all kitty cats! Now is the hour of your discontent! You must vacate the bedroom immediately! No more fighting, biting or inciting! You must dispatch without a scratch! Muster to the couch post haste! Kitty roll call will begin in thirty seconds! Now move!"

This is generally met with total indifference, although a few weeks ago, Ivan actually rolled over and yawned.

Upon the realization that he is once again being aggressively ignored, the male then proceeds to clap his hands. 

We accept this applause graciously. 

Growing rather scarlet in the face thingy, the male begins a physical assault by grabbing Tiger Lily and bodily removing her from the room. As he turns to reach for Jaq, Tiger Lily slips behind him and  into the shadows beyond the dresser. Having successfully placed Jaq in the hallway, he makes an unnecessary dive for Ivan. I say the dive is unnecessary due to the fact that Ivan hasn't moved in 14 hours (he is seldom considered a "flight risk"). As he dives, Jaq silently slinks back under the bed where she quietly hums "Band On The Run" by Paul McCartney. He then deposits Ivan just beyond the threshold of the bedroom door. While he is building his courage to approach me, Ivan stealthily jumps atop the dresser where he performs an amazingly accurate imitation of a lamp. He has been working on this impression for several weeks and apart from the smell of singed fur whenever he plugs himself in, one would never know it was him.

I refuse to be handled in such a manner, so when he reaches for me, I saunter in a regal manner through the door and into the hallway. 

The door closes and the bedroom light goes out.

 

And then I wait.......

Usually within four or five minutes, I hear movement beyond the door and I see that the two leggers have turned their light back on. Soon the door flies open and a great whining fills the air. The other thing filling the air is a large gray tabby as she flies through the doorway. 

The light goes off.

The light comes back on. Jaq is soon e-jaqted. 

The light goes off.

Just beyond the door, I can hear Ivan trying to stifle a giggle. I hear a "click...click...click" as the male two legger attempts to turn on the lamp, but no light appears.

 I smell singed fur.

Ivan is tossed through the doorway and the door slams shut behind him.

While it has been a most amusing night, I feel that perhaps some change is in order.

Ivan should work on being a vase.

Pompeii and Circumstance (or) I Lava You Just The Way You Are

As I have often stated in the past, my two leggers are major history buffs. They seem happiest when they are watching or reading about some ancient culture or calamity. From the American Civil War to the ancient Egyptonians, they study and discuss it all.

For the most part I tend to ignore them whenever they are engaged in their hobby. However, once in a while, they begin studying something that peaks my interest. This usually involves some sort of two legged folly that never ends well for the parties involved. Add a little mayhem, death and destruction, and I am hooked.

Recently, they have been watching a lot of shows about an ancient Roman city called "Pompeii". Since I have been watching these docu-thingies along with the two leggers, I now consider myself the world's leading authority on what exactly went down so long ago.

My studies have once again led me to an inescapable conclusion:

Two leggers are dumb.

Let us examine the story of Pompeii..........

Pompeii was a city near the Bay of Naples in Italy. It was founded by the Romans. Around this time, the Romans were arguably the most dominant culture on Earth. Their empire stretched from England to Egypt. The Mediterranean Sea was basically a Roman Lake. They had millions of square miles to settle in. Millions of miles where nothing more dangerous than a thunderstorm or minor earthquake ever happened. So did they settle for living in these relatively geologically quiet areas?

No.

The founder of Pompeii, was an ancient Roman real estate developer named "Pompeii The Slightly Elder". He was the older brother of "Pompeii The Younger" and little brother of "Pompeii The Quite A Bit Elder". Being a middle child, Pompeii TSE, or Edwin as he was known to his friends, decided to move away and start a new life away from the rest of his family. Sometime around the year 80 BC, Edwin set off in search of a spot to settle and start a new housing development. After several hours of searching, Edwin spotted a small village nestled at the base of a giant smoking mountain.

Now the reason that the village was so small was the fact that every now and again, the mountain would awaken, look down, say "Hey! Who put these little pests down there?" and then proceed to spit lava down upon them until they either died or left.

But Edwin saw an opportunity. Where others saw lava flows, he saw "pre-cleared land". Where others saw flaming rivers of death, Edwin saw "self-paving roads". Where others saw a flaming fountain of fire and brimstone, Edwin saw "free nightly firework shows".

Soon through the use of early infomercials and celebrity endorsements, Edwin was able to turn the tiny village into a teeming center of commerce.

It wasn't long before Pompeii grew into a major tourist destination featuring hot springs, locally produced wine from the grapes that grew so well in the rich volcanic soil and a scenic beachfront where rich Romans could take off their bedsheets and frolic in the surf.

Certainly there were drawbacks. Sometimes a large gobbet of lava would shoot from the volcano and squash a burning tourist. Occasionally one of the hot springs would go critical without warning and make Roman soup of anyone unfortunate to be bathing at the time. But aside from the persistent underlying smell of seared flesh, Pompeii was an extremely pleasant place to live and visit. 

All that changed in early 79 A.D.  The volcano, Mount Vesuvius (Vesuvius is a Latin word meaning "destroyer of all things flammable, non fire-retardant and two legged") woke up and decided that a bit of landscaping was in order. It gave the locals plenty of warning by grumbling, rumbling, spitting up a bit more lava than is socially acceptable, and generally shaking things up a bit. But did the two leggers take the hint?

No.

They threw volcano parties, invited all their friends and in typical two legger fashion, denied that anything was amiss right up until the moment that they were covered in ash and wading in lava. Then they ran around complaining about the heat.

Almost two thousand years later, archeologists discovered Edwin's lost city and began excavate the site of the disaster. They found charred buildings and ruins that had been remarkably preserved by the smothering affect of the volcanic ash. Most amazing of all, they discovered the remains of the denizens of Pompeii. They found the bones of two leggers who had desperately sought shelter from the cataclysm. They found skeletons of dogs, horses, pigs, sheep and chickens all perfectly intact.

This brings me to the point of this post.

Of all the remains found in the ruins of Pompeii, there was not a single cat.

We know for a fact that cats were present in Pompeii before the eruption. Preserved murals and mosaics within the ruins show that cats were extremely prevalent throughout Pompeian society. However, search as they might, the archeologists were unable to find a single shred of evidence that there any cats present at the moment the mountain blew up.

They searched in every conceivable hidey hole. Every box, bathroom, the tops of the refrigerators, under every bed and behind every curtain.

No luck. The scientists were mystified.

However, for anyone who knows felines, there should be no mystery at all.

At the very first rumblings of Vesuvius, at the first flying blob of lava, at the first billow of smoke rising from the top of the mountain, all the cats looked up and thought, "Gee, I hear that Greece is nice this time of year.". They then built small twin-hulled boats and set sail for less cataclysmic climes.

Thus proving once again that cats are the superior species.

The twin-hulled boats they built are even named for their mass exodus.

Catamarans.

Dr. Cujo and Mr. Hyde

To be honest, since my health crisis has passed, I had not intended to speak of it again. However, there has been a side affect of my treatment that I am finding quite amusing.

Ivan.

You see, a large part of my long-term care is something called "Subcutaneous Fluid Therapy". Every other day, my two leggers and I retire to the bathroom. They place me on The Royal Heating Pad Thingy (RHPT) and then stick a needle in my shoulder. For the next five minutes or so, while the two leggers caress me, and tell me what a brave and good kitty I am, warmed fluid flows into my shoulder.

To say this is annoying would be tantamount to calling the ocean "moist".

That being said, I have been able to distill some amusement from this wretchedly ignominious routine.

Once the fluids are administered, I am left with a large, squishy lump on my back. Over the next few hours, gravity (normally a friendly force that causes vases to break) pulls the lump slowly down my side and allows it to settle in a floppy, sloshy mass in my upper foreleg where it slowly dissipates within an hour or five.

Still not seeing the amusing part? Allow me to set the stage.........

Before each treatment, Ivan is physically extricated from his usual nappy spot on the bathroom floor. He is unceremoniously flung into the next room where he lands on the two legger's bed. Upon landing, he sits for a moment in dazed confusion trying to figure out how he got there before curling up and resuming his 39 hour nap. My two leggers and I then spend the next five minutes in the bathroom while they "water the cat".

With the fluids duly administered and the bleeding (theirs, not mine) staunched, we all emerge from the bathroom. I immediately stalk up to Ivan and smack him into wakefulness because once again, he is napping in my spot.

On a side note, Ivan does not nap in the same spot every time, but I guarantee that wherever Ivan happens to be napping when I emerge from the bathroom in a surly mood, he is sure to be in "my spot".

Upon being smacked, Ivan takes one look at me, poofs and bolts from the room

The first time this happened, I admit to being somewhat perplexed by his reaction. But after taking one look in the mirror thingy, it all began to make sense.

Ivan has awoken to behold a transformed Cujo. Gone is the ridiculously handsome, happy-go-lucky tuxie that is his boon companion and partner in crime. Instead he is facing a cat that though roughly resembling me, has morphed into a disheveled, lumpy and sloshy hellbeast who happens to be in a particularly foul mood.

The sudden appearance of such an apparition is further exaggerated by the fact that Ivan stayed up late the other night watching an old horror movie with the male two legger.

The movie in question happened to be none other than "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde".

For those of you unfamiliar with the movie, it is the story of a harmless, mild-mannered two legger that for some ill-advised reason decides to drink something he cooked up in a lab (Listen up two leggers! Stop drinking stuff you find in laboratories. It never ends well). This formula transforms the wimpy doctor into a murderous monster thingy that inflicts death and destruction upon everyone he meets.

So, let us climb into Ivan's tiny little brain for a moment: The two leggers take me into the bathroom where they have hung several items of medical paraphernalia. Five minutes later I emerge completely changed in both mind and body. Though the distance between Ivan's two remaining brain cells is great, somehow they have made the connection between the movie and my medical regime.

Now a caring, loving friend would do everything within their power to alleviate Ivan's fear.

Yeah, right. Somehow I just don't see myself passing this one up.

Since my discovery, I have been giving Ivan the full-on Mr. Hyde treatment. I chase him through the house in a most freakishly crazy manner, foaming at the mouth and shouting the lyrics to early Lady GaGa songs.

Now I know many of you will berate me for once again abusing the poor, loveable lug. But trust me, my motives are purely selfless. I do it for Ivan's own good.

Since my treatments started, he's lost almost two pounds.