Journey Into Madness

The two leggers think they can outsmart me.

In spite of over eight years of trying and a massive amount of empirical evidence to the contrary, they honestly believe that they are capable of hatching a nefarious plot that will catch me unaware of their machinations.

As I mentioned in an earlier post thingy, I have been undergoing subcutaneous fluid therapy every other day since February. To give them credit, the two leggers have been doing everything within their meager power to make the treatment as painless and non-stressful as possible for me. In contrast, I have been doing everything within my great and awesome power to make the ordeal as painful, stressful and unpleasant as I can for them. They try to sneak about when they prepare the bag thingy, They communicate with each other using furtive looks and strange hand signals. They attempt to distract me with food and toys. They take care to alter the timing of the treatments lest they become too predictable and I discover a pattern.

But I am not so easily fooled. I always know what they are about.

That being said, last week, their semi-covert activities became more secretive than usual. They came home with a bag from the pet store and immediately I knew something was afoot. What lay within was even more horrifying and hideous than I thought possible.........

They bought me a harness!!!

They tried to convince me that it was "Royal Vestments", and I'll grant that I make it look good, but in spite of their subterfuge, I knew it was nothing more than a harness.

Later that night, the female's shoes suffered the consequences of my displeasure at this indignity.

Early the next morning, the two leggers were up early and instead of serving my breakfast, they rudely awakened me from a wonderful dream in which I was shipwrecked upon a deserted island inhabited by slow-witted, overweight squirrel thingies who have never developed the ability to climb trees. The two leggers grabbed me and unceremoniously threw me into the kitty carrier. As they carried me to their car, they informed me that they were taking me to a distant land called "Seattle". They said it would take about two and a half hours to reach our destination.

The combination of the harness, the kitty carrier and the car could mean only one thing........ I was being taken to the vet thingy.

I am fully aware that in order to stay healthy, the visits to the vet thingy are a necessary evil. However, it doesn't mean that I have to enjoy it. Nor does it mean that I have to allow anyone else enjoy to it either.  Therefore I decided that like two legger offspring, it was my duty to make the long car trip as miserable as possible for the occupants of the front seats.

Knowing  that two leggers have very sensitive hearing when confined in a close space, I was tempted at first to make the most annoying noise known to man. However, I don't know the lyrics to any Justin Bieber songs, so I decided to spend the next two hours yowling instead. Their response was to first turn up the volume of the radio. I responded by turning up the volume of the yowling. They countered with measured pleading for quiet followed by shameless begging. Given the fact that I was still in the car, and that I was still on the way to see the vet thingy, their pleas fell on deaf ears.

About half an hour into to the trip, the female decide to let me out of the kitty carrier granting me the liberty of wandering about the interior of the car. She told me that I was free to roam about as long as I did not attempt to enter the area where the male was controlling the vehicle.

I responded by immediately jumping onto the lap of the male.

This resulted in a great amount of screeching, some of it even came from the tires. The female extricated me from the male's lap and tossed me into the back seat with a great waggling of fingers and verbal admonishment.

Realizing that a direct assault would not answer, I figured that perhaps something subtle was called for. I discovered a small compartment located just behind the rear seat back. While their attention was on the road, I climbed into the compartment and went totally silent. Within 45 seconds, the two leggers became aware of the silence.

Those of you who are in servitude to felines are well aware that when in the presence cats, silence is not "golden", it is "suspicious".

Their suspicion resulted in the male pulling off the road and a ten minute search of the car that would have done any police department proud. Finally the female discovered my hidey hole and imprisoned me in the kitty carrier once more.

Another 45 minutes of yowling and we reached our destination......................

To Be Continued.......

Pen Pals

In the past I have spoken of the special capacity for amusement that goat thingies possess.

I now realize that I have underestimated them.

In past posts, and in my books, I  have spoken of my resident goat thingy minions Gracie and Bobbie. As many of you are aware, both Gracie and Bobbie crossed the bridge last year and are now causing chaos in the Heavenly Pastures.

However, shortly after Gracie crossed, the two leggers brought home a new goat thingy named "Copper". Copper is a large young male and is possibly the goofiest creature to ever walk this Earth. It seems he has not been a goat for very long because the two leggers informed me that he is a "Newbe-an".

For the last six months I have watched from my bay window as he frolics about, performing great acts of goofiness. He jumps, bucks, snorts, runs, rolls, rams trees and fence posts.

It is as if my bay window has become a giant talking box thingy that only plays Jerry Lewis movies.

While I find his daily antics most amusing, never was I so amused as when the male two legger spent last Sunday performing maintenance on the fence that surrounds Copper's enclosure.

That morning, the male two legger gathered wire, pliers, fence stays and other assorted fence-fixing stuff. He deactivated the electric fence, placed a carrot in his pocket and went forth to battle the fence.

As he approached the gate, he offered Copper the carrot as a "Now you're gonna be a good boy and leave me alone while I fix the fence" offering. Copper took the carrot gladly. However, being a goat thingy, he could not bring himself to fulfill the rest of the contract. Leaving the two legger unmolested and unmessed with would violate at least 27 statutes in the original charter and by-laws of the United Goat Thingy and Barnyard Denizens of America (UGT-BDA) union. If word got out that he had allowed the two legger a carefree day of mending fence in his presence, Copper could be censured, sanctioned and possibly even shamed in a very ugly FaceBook post.

So after munching the sacrificial tuber, Copper watched as the two legger began his examination of the fence. As he watched, the two legger began to feel confident that Copper was content to chew his carrot and became completely focused upon the task at hand.

This was the moment that Copper had been waiting for. Amazingly stealthy for such a large, ungainly beast, Copper galloped across the pen. Lowering his head thingy at the last moment, he slammed into the two legger's left butt cheek.

This obviously impressed the two legger because he immediately dropped to his knees and bowed to Copper.

Taking the lowering of the two legger's head as a sign of challenge, Copper stood up on his hind legs and in one fluid motion, brought his head squarely down upon that of the two legger. The sound of the impact rattled the windows and came very close to waking Ivan who was napping beside me. It was so great that for several seconds, he just lay there stunned and obviously out of his wits. I was tempted to call the paramedics, but worry not, after a few moments Copper regained consciousness.

Meanwhile, the two legger had continued his work and was in the process of splicing a broken section of the electric fence. Just as he grabbed the wire to be repaired, he suddenly jerked straight up, twitched and dropped to the ground. Rising slowly to his feet, he wiped a small bit of drool from the corner of his mouth and stumbled towards the house. Once inside, he once again cut the power to the electric fence that I may or may not have "accidentally" re-activated while in pursuit of an alleged moth.

As he exited the house, his mate called from the back room, "How's it going Sweetie?"

He replied "Gnnnmmm, humma humma gnnnnh"

"Oh that's nice. Just let me know if you need any help".

"Gnnnnnhhmmm".

He returned to the goat pen and continued his labors.

Copper, was of course ready for him. As he opened the gate, Copper came bounding across the pen and slammed the gate closed on the two leggers fingers. This caused the two legger to wave his hand in a most erratic manner while using language that I dare not repeat.

 It was at this point that a sunbeam appeared and I felt compelled to honor it with a nap.

 An hour or so later, I was awakened by the male two legger opening the door. He was covered from head to toe in dust, dirt, mud and blood. His jeans were torn, his shirt tattered and he had a blank (blanker than usual) look on his face.

Upon beholding this gruesome sight, the female rushed to his side and asked "What on earth happened?"

 "I fixed the goat pen." he mumbled.

 "You went into the pen to fix it?"

"Of course," He murmured "How else could I do it?"

 "By reaching through from the outside" She suggested.

 She then went outside and demonstrated by repairing the last unfinished section as Copper watched, contentedly chewing his cud.

 On a totally unrelated note, the male bought her a pair of pink-handled fencing pliers for Mother's Day.

Boxing Day

Though my two leggers are fairly avid sports fans, neither of them enjoy watching what are commonly known as "combat sports". I suppose they believe that sharing a residence with four cats provides all the violence they can handle.

The reason I bring this up is because of all the hype surrounding the recent professional boxing match that had the entire world (minus my two leggers) glued to their talking box thingies.

For those of you who live in a cave, under a rock, or in Arkansas, a boxing match that was billed as "The fight of the century" occurred between some bozos that make their living by beating each other up.

When I first heard about this sport, I was curious. People get paid for simply smacking each other around??

I've been doing this for years and have never received anything but reprimands and drenchings from the water squirty thingy.

When I found out how much they got paid, I was aghast!

For only 36 minutes of work, with a rest every three minutes, they get paid like a hundred gagillion dollars. And get this: They only work one or two nights per year!

The more I pondered this, the angrier I got.

They get paid exorbitant amounts of money for doing something once or twice a year, while I get chastised and called "bad kitty!" for providing the same service every single night!

Just another example of two legger hypocrisy.

However, I always try to keep an open mind. I asked a few friends of mine who are followers of this sport and asked them about this glaring discrepancy. I was informed that the reason "boxers" were so well paid was that they are "professionally trained athletes". It seems that they must work very hard before they begin to earn the big money.

Okay, the "work very hard" part immediately discouraged me, but I had another plan..........

Ivan is now in training to become a professional boxer. He has all the right qualifications. He is big. He is strong. He throws a mean right hook and shots to the head don't faze him.

After several minutes of research, I discovered that the most important thing to remember when boxing is to defend yourself at all times. So as part of Ivan's training, I have started attacking him whenever he least expects it.

This is very easy to do given the fact that I haven't informed Ivan that he is in training yet.

Several times a day, I attack and start punching Ivan for no apparent reason.

Once as he slept on the bathroom floor, I pounced upon him from the counter top.  His response was....less than professional. He poofed and bolted from the room, slamming into the bathtub twice during his escape.

Another time, I waited until he was exiting the litter box. As he stepped out, I jumped from behind the litter box, smacked him twice and awaited his response. Once again, he failed. From what I have gathered, no professional boxer, upon being hit, has ever jumped into a litter box and tried to bury himself.   

My last attempt at training Ivan was similarly unsuccessful. I hid under the slip cover of the couch and ambushed him as he walked by. Once again, Ivan turned and fled in a blind panic. However, I did manage to score a "knockout" when he slammed headfirst into the entertainment center.

I feel I must face the fact that perhaps Ivan is not suited to professional boxing after all. However, all is not lost. One of the boxers from the recent bout has given hope to all who have diminished cranial capacity from too many blows to the head.

He has gone into politics.

Ivan/Pacquiao 2016!!!

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.