Totally Cats

The Cat as King of the Hill

2011-11-07T11:34:00.000-08:00

[Bad habit, this. Posting to a blog once a year whether it needs it or not... but that's not why I'm here today.]

While not exuberant about the relocation or even particularly wild about the move, The Cat has been surprisingly tolerant at being uprooted from the small mobile home she's known for most of her adult life and transplanted into a palatial mansion with enough room for hundreds of cats - or at least two.

Not surprisingly, The Cat's first inclination is to get as high in the air as possible (barring the roof, of course - she's not going to go outside for a few days, no matter what she tells you).

If anyone should ask, vaulted ceilings were invented by a cat lover. On the other hand, ceiling fans on vaulted ceilings were not.

The Cat as (gasp) Cat

2010-06-14T16:12:00.000-07:00

We've been feeding tuna to both cats for quite some time. The Cat and Growler both enjoy it thoroughly; it keeps their coats shiny and thick, and may pass on some inherent tuna-like properties through its consumption. I'm sure they'd both swim with tuna-like expertise if either of them would be willing to get within sight of water.

This weekend, instead of feeding them tuna, we served Tuna Flavored Cat Food of a generic variety.

In the past, both The Cat and Growler had turned up their collective noses at brand name cat food of many flavors and brands, from the middle-of-the-road versions all the way up to the upscale elite types advertised by fluffy well-brushed cats on white pillows. But no matter how fanciful the feast, neither of our spoiled owners would flick a whiska in acceptance.

So when my husband and fellow cat-servant-person brought home a dozen cans of supermarket-brand plain label Tuna Flavored Cat Food (henceforth known as TFCF), I had visions of dusting eleven cans of said TFCF for the next decade. I mentally prepared a place on the same shelf alongside the many other brands of cat food that our cats won't deign to consume.

I figure I'd serve the TFCF while we still had a few cans of REAL tuna handy, in case a feline riot broke out and we had to defend ourselves. So I grab a can of TFCF, and discover:

1) - TFCF is audio-challenged. The Cat knows the sounds of a can opener, manual and electric. TFCF doesn't need a can opener. It has a pull tab. Neither The Cat nor Growler is particularly drawn to the Giant Sucking Sound of a pull tab (with apologies to H. Ross Perot) nor does either of them associate this sound with the promise of food. The Cat hears the sound and ignores it. Growler, who responds instantly to ANY sound of food or kitchen activity, hears the sound and ignores it.

2) - TFCF smells nothing like tuna. Well, it might if the tuna had lain on a remote rickety wooden Alaskan wilderness dock for five weeks in the heat of summer. Covered with mosquitoes. Attacked by a passing grizzly. Then left to spoil until a passing cannery worker took pity on the remains and gave them a decent burial within a small sealed can labeled TFCF, which in this case might mean This Fish Can't Fly. Temporary Formative Concrete Filler. Too Fearful Cannery Flotsam. Or Do Not Eat Contents Of This Can of TFCF.

3) - TFCF sticks like glue. When pushing it off the spoon with a second spoon, it sticks to the second spoon. If you try to move it off the spoon with your finger, it will stick to your finger. About the only thing it will not stick to is the place where you want it to land.

4) - TFCF tastes as good as it smells. Do not lick your finger if you happen to use it in place of a spoon. Yes, I speak from experience. Don't say I didn't warn you.

So I put the TFCF on the two saucers that usually host their real tuna. Growler takes one sniff and steps away, making a noise that sounds a lot like "not even with YOUR mouth am I going to eat that." (Growler will usually eat anything we'll eat, including pizza - and some things we won't eat, including pizza toppings she's fished out of the trash. She's not the picky one.)

The Cat blinks, takes one sniff, and devours the contents of her saucer of TFCF without coming up for air, strides across and devours Growler's abandoned TFCF, races back to her saucer to see if she missed a crumb of TFCF, then sits down in place and stares at me until I get the message that she would not mind at all if I were to serve up the rest of the can now. Immediately. Please. Now. Please.

The Cat as Cat the Bounty Hunter

2010-06-12T14:41:00.000-07:00

Nice quiet night, approaching 11pm. I'm minding my own business, listening to reruns of Grey's Anatomy in the background while working on a layout change for one of my new sites.

Suddenly the house is filled with flying fur and the thundering of feline hooves. STAMPEDE! I start to dive beneath my desk.

Oh wait. No. Just one cat, not quite flying, and the thundering is actually a small stack of cardboard boxes being knocked about by a flailing tail. But that one cat is The Cat, and is hellbent on catching up to something. I peer into the darkness toward the kitchen where the galloping continues.

Cats gallop weirdly. It sounds a lot like a nine-year-old with a new drum kit. Random bashing, some experimental cymbal shots, an offbeat attack on the bass drum with one foot, all accompanied by wild-eyed giggling that usually lasts until a nearby parent shouts "ENOUGH ALREADY!" Since I know we hadn't recently acquired a drum kit for The Cat, I keep my silence and remain vigilant. I reach for my flashlight as a precaution. Who knows - The Cat could be herding zombies my way.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a teensy dash of light tan and a minuscule tail which quickly vanishes behind a floor fan caster. A field mouse, a bit shorter than my thumb, cowers shivering, eyes squeezed shut. The Cat marches up to my side and sits down as I train the flashlight beam on the terrified captive.

"Now what?" I whisper. The Cat shakes her head and examines her paw. She has delivered a prisoner of war to headquarters; her work is done. Her interest in the subject will vanish as soon as she collects her tuna reward. I bend down, restraints in hand (aka Yuban coffee can), and gently coerce the tiny creature to safety beneath its loose lid.

Out on the porch, I ease the mouse onto the welcome mat. It staggers around in an ill-defined circle (about the size of a two pound Yuban coffee can), then gathers its wits and races screaming into the desert night.

No doubt the tales around the campfire will be slightly embellished as to the size of its captor, The Cat, the length of its fangs and the persistence of its attack. Its jail cell will have shrunk from two minutes in a two pound Yuban coffee can, to the size of a small chipped coffee mug, where it was fed nothing but bread and water for 22 agonizing days of solitary field mouse hell.

The Cat as Housefly Wrangler

2010-06-07T15:19:00.000-07:00

Summer is here in the desert. I can tell: The housefly has landed. You might have felt the impact; it was 4.3 on the Richter scale. The USGS registered aftershocks for three days.

The common housefly, also known as Musca domestica, is on my list of complete and utter annoyances somewhere between the ant and the California State Tax collection office, and was right under the F111 Aardvark for the "ugliest things airborne" award for 1970. As the F111 was retired by the USAF in 1998, the Aardvark is out of the running for the 2010 award, leaving M. domestica as the odds-on favorite.

Unfortunately, our housefly is far from common. Notice I refer to the housefly in the singular. I doubt more would fit in any given room of our house at the same time. Two collided over the highway at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada last week. Traffic was tied up for four hours until someone brought in a skip loader and bulldozer from the dump down the hill (where they are accustomed to sizable housefly settlements).

Unlike us humans, The Cat looks forward to the arrival of M. domestica. Playmate, diversion, a whole host of opportunities. In fact, as I write this, I believe the housefly is giving her a ride around the dining room (I've heard the tinkle of the ceiling light's glass bulb covers a few times as well as several high pitched giggles).

Just yesterday, The Cat coaxed one of her new airborne companions into the master bath where it got caught in the shower stall. We tossed in a few cleaning rags and a spray bottle, and by the time it was done batting around, the chrome sparkled and the walls were pristine. We've considered talking with a couple of them about painting the garage.

As much as she's enjoying this, The Cat knows all good things must come to an end (the sooner the better!), and has begun rounding up her adoring airborne audience slowly, herding them toward the front door. Soon as I can elbow my way past, I'll escort everyone to the front yard, where two or three enterprising M. domestica have been washing and waxing cars whose owners pull off the nearby highway to watch the annual Desert Festival of the Housefly.

(me? bored? no, never. why do you ask?)

The Cat as Wildlife Management Deputy Specialist

2010-05-24T13:36:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend we got reports of a bear wandering through town. A bear. Granted it wasn't a very big bear, but it doesn't take much bear to make for a scary beast who'd much rather be up in the forest than down here in the desert.

This, coupled with recent coyote sightings, convinced us that it was a good weekend to keep our cat girls indoors, perhaps brief outings with strict adult supervision (us humans). Naturally this didn't go over well with The Cat. The Cat is, after all, bulletproof, able to leap tall buildings at a single bound, stops speeding trains with a flip of her paw. Surely no bear would be a match for The Cat.

Morning is normal time-to-go-out for The Cat. She paced; she griped; she complained. So finally she went out, accompanied by armed alert guards and a battalion of protectors (well, ok - just Erik and me, but we were vigilant).

The Cat stood on the front porch, gazed out across her realm, nodded imperiously, turned and walked back inside. All in her kingdom in balance and no bear in sight, she was content.

No word yet on whether the bear has been captured as of this writing. Let's hope he or she is back in the forest where bears should be. I'm sure it'll be better off there than risking an encounter with The Cat.

The Cat as Microblogger and Lass Shop Owner

2010-05-22T14:37:00.001-07:00

The Cat has discovered Facebook. Facebook is much more to her liking than Twitter, which calls to mind dinner on the wing. "Twitter? Tweet?" The subject was dropped once she discovered that counting to 140 was far too human for her tastes. Cats don't do limits.

Facebook, on the other hand, is something The Cat can get her claws into. She's firmly ensconced at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Totally-Cats/112124948821898 and has even decided to start her own little Lass shop, Cats Lass. This may take some time, as she's far more interested in things that cats like than things their human slaves will find endearing. So much for pet meds, vet appointment books, carrying cases, and silly cat Mardi Gras hats.

So it seems we're off on yet another adventure, The Cat and I.

The Cat as Efficiency Expert

2010-02-24T18:02:00.000-08:00

Once in a while, when things get absolutely frantic here in the home office, The Cat takes charge. She leaps from whatever flat surface she's on, landing between the computer screen and my myopic self, nose approximately four inches from my own, and stares until I get my priorities straight.

Priority #1: Feed The Cat

Priority #2: Scratch the ears of The Cat

Priority #3: Feed The Cat

Priority #4: Pet The Cat

Priority #5: Feed The Cat

Priority #6: Make the laser pointer red dot climb the coat closet door like a moth

Priority #7: Feed The Cat some salmon treats

Only when she is assured that I've got my priorities straight and remember my true place in the Universe am I allowed to go back to the mundane activities which include earning funds to contribute to the project of buying the tuna with which to Feed The Cat.

The Cat as Ultimate Excuse-Maker

2010-02-21T20:37:00.000-08:00

The Ultimate Excuse-Maker needs no words. She sits, paws together, tail slowly swishing, imperious look upon her tuxedo face. What? Blame Her Majesty for which? Of course I'm ok. Of course I'm alive. I did not blog for a year. I =Chose= not to blog. Tuna now, please. It is time for my evening meal.

(Note: The Cat, while not taking any blame for the delays, did promise to attempt to blog more frequently, if appropriately bribed.)

The Cat as Black Cat

2008-10-31T15:18:00.000-07:00

This will be brief, for there is much to be done in preparation for this evening's prowl.

The Cat is not, by definition, a black cat. She is a Tuxedo Tabby, with all the markings and mottlings and attitude that implies. She is not a familiar but can be rather friendly at moments.

The Cat is in charge of this household. She has told me so herself on many occasions. If she chooses to blog, she will do so. If not, she will nap until such time as she is ready to blog. The Cat naps incessantly, it seems.

The Cat is also fond of comments and insists that comments on the blog be read to her during the morning Tuna Offering ceremony. If she deems one as spam, she will spit it out. Literally.

Off to prepare the costumes. She's going as The Black Cat. I'm going as the slave to The Cat. She would prefer tuna in her bag. I'm partial to chocolate but, as the slave, I have no voice in the matter.

Happy Hallowe'en, fellow slaves!

PS: in the interests of this slave's sanity, we may be moving The Cat to Perfectly Shaped World's blog. I'll let you know if that actually happens. If you see your feed suddenly say Totally Cats Has Moved, please don't be shocked.

The Cat as Procrastination Facilitator

2008-06-12T23:15:00.000-07:00

The Cat is just fine. She hasn't written for awhile, since the incident of the hot water heater (see 8 Jan 2008 - The Cat as Noah). She's started to write a few times but time just steals itself away and hides itself under the bathroom rug. Now that that rug is dry, it has become a favorite place for storing spare time.

But seriously folks... she's told me at least a dozen times that she wants to write, and I keep putting her off, making excuses, promising to do it later. She glares; I procrastinate. She accuses; I point to the teetering tower of trivia for while I am responsible, and attempt to come up with a plausible excuses. She stomps off; I get back to work on said tower. Bottom line: It is my fault that The Cat has not been blogging recently.

Her revenge has been sweet. She's discovered that if she cheek-rubs the numeric keypad on the desktop system, it will turn on the mousekey function, disabling many other functions. Then when I wake up and try to use the system, and can't get it to work, she rests in the corner and gloats imperiously.

Ok ok ok! Mea culpa, awready.

The Cat as Noah

2008-01-13T11:47:00.001-08:00

For three days, The Cat has been alternating between supremely loving and supremely freaked out. A few hours ago, the hot water heater sprung a huge leak, inundating the back bathroom, adjacent bedroom, and quite a bit of the back yard. This sounds impressive until you hear that our back yard is about the size of some people's parking spaces at work. Ok, that's not completely accurate, but it is a narrow strip of land between the back of the mobile home and the back fence. So it isn't acres of rambling desert.

Now we know the source of the freak-out. With her innate sensitivity to All Things Wrong, and her innate loathing of standing water, The Cat probably sensed the leak beneath the carpet long before it became visible. Only her lack of wings kept her on the floor.. and even then, she did a fine job of short-distance levitation in her attempt to drag me out of harm's way. Last I saw her, she was clinging to the top level of one of the cat habitats, herding ants in, two by two.

The Cat as Millenium Falcon Pilot

2007-12-05T07:09:00.000-08:00

I missed November. Through no fault of The Cat, who reminded me every day that Thanksgiving was on the horizon and that I'd best be prepared to cook her a turkey. She was gracious enough to offer to share, if that was our desire.

How is it possible to miss an entire month, one wonders? Ask The Cat, who frequently pauses midyear and rewinds several weeks, reenacting events and regaling us with tales of past happy tuna-filled times. Let me hasten to assure you that this ability to rewind and replay previous time spans is a most catlike behavior and certainly not limited to the skill set of The Cat.

Good thing, too, because I completely missed November. Sorry.

Thanksgiving Day came and went, buried in the brouhaha that has become our autumn, which vanished as swiftly and surely as a plate full of Daily Offering of the Tuna. So it was with great chagrin that I realized that November had vanished, as The Cat glared at me when I set down the plate of Daily Offering of the Tuna. She stuck her tail in the air and stalked away, offended beyond words.

"What!?" I asked her departing tail.

"You forgot the turkey," the tail replied, flicking morosely in my general direction.

I apologized to the tail and The Cat attached to it, assuring both that a roast bird of some sort shall be forthcoming at the hallmark of the next holiday, presumably Christmas.

Assuming, of course, that I don't miss December.

The Cat as Earthquake Measurement Device

2007-10-24T07:20:00.000-07:00

We had a minor (4.3) quake this morning, around 5:22 AM. The event was about 20 miles from the house, according to the USGS report that showed up in my email-box a few minutes afterward. So, according to the USGS this was a minor event.

According to The Cat, the sky is falling, the world as we know it is coming to an end, and let the Rapture begin.

According to the USGS report, the epicenter was about 15 miles north and 3.2 miles underground. According to The Cat, the epicenter was in the front yard and just slightly below the caliche level that stunts the growth of the trees around the property (about 15 inches down).

According to what I felt, the quake lasted just under 30 seconds. According to The Cat, it lasted just over four hours, and is probably still be going on.

As soon as the event is over for The Cat, I will coax her down off the ceiling with a plate of tuna. With my luck, however, we'll have a goodly aftershock just as I open the can, and we'll never hear the end of it.

California has had its share of natural and manmade disasters over the past few days. At this writing, our home turf is not in danger. We're keeping The Cat away from the tv set, though. She does tend to blow things out of proportion, and she'd probably figure out how to dial 9-1-1 whilst laboring under the delusion that the garage is ablaze.

The Cat as Air Raid Siren

2007-10-18T08:58:00.000-07:00

AAAAAUUUUUGH.

Are you familiar with those extremely loud wailing alert sirens guaranteed to warn the village of an upcoming avalanche / hurricane / tornado / half-off sale on SUVs? Yeah, that's the one. Penetrates the skull, overrides blasting rap music, ear plugs, hunting rifle headsets. Raises the blood pressure 90 notches. If you listen closely, I'm sure you can hear her from where you're standing. Yep. That's The Cat.

I love The Cat, as any good cat slave would. There is no way I would raise a hand or a voice against her or any of her kin.

But for 2.5 hours a day, every day from 6:30 AM to 9:00 AM, this is not The Cat. This is a howling, tuna-breathing, inconsolable, persistently agonizing abomination from the bowels of Hell, in fur.

All because she got to go outdoors two mornings in a row without her leash. Two repetitive instances = new mandatory daily routine, if you're The Cat.

Letting her out will immediately cease the howling... until she comes back in, and then the 2.5 hour timer starts again. I can't let her go out, though - if she freaked and decided to run out across the desert, there's nothing I could do to stop her. Since she is prone to freaking out at anything from a falling leaf to a passing truck, that she will freak is a given. So we wait it out. Eventually she'll stop the banshee parody, stomp off in disgust and give me a few minutes of peace -

- or she'll leap up on my desk, stand between the computer and me, nuzzle my face with her cheek, and remind me that I'm a very nice cat slave for not letting her run out into traffic.

The Cat as Miss Manners Etiquette Expert

2007-10-10T11:52:00.000-07:00

For a feline with a perennial wild streak a mile wide, The Cat can be surprisingly civilized and strangely respectful of boundaries, property and peer values. The Cat's value system shows up at odd times.

I may have mentioned before that we are actually owned by two cats. The Cat is Chatterbox, easily the bossier of the two, and it is her exploits which are usually recorded here. She gets the majority of the attention, both here and in the real world, since she demands it. She's more active, younger, more energetic and, on occasion, more obnoxious - which made today's observation just that much more surprising.

Growler (variously known as The Other Cat, The Elder Cat, The Mooch) is quite a bit older than Chatterbox. Comparing Growler to Chatterbox is like comparing a Great Dane to a teacup poodle. Well, maybe not -that- dramatic but you get my point. Growler is full of Zen wisdom and silence, saying nothing unless absolutely necessary. She gets her point across through the use of pointed stares, a nearly Buddha-like calm, mixed with a Yoda expression. The Cat, on the other hand, is a brilliant conversationalist and the life of the party.

So. Today I set out the requisite tuna on the requisite plates in the requisite positions, as is part of the daily Rite of the Sacred Tuna Offering. Usually I put down the dishes and back away respectfully, reciting the appropriate prayers and making the retreating bow, then quickly get out of the way to avoid being bowled over by charging cat, ordered to go about my business so the Rite can be completed in peace.

Today I watched from a distance.

The Cat rushed in, approved the Rite's offerings, and tucked into her tablespoon of tuna with lightning speed. Growler roused herself and stretched, spent a few moments in Zen meditation on the meaning of the Rite, then circled down from her perch to the floor and stopped a few feet away from her dish.

Normally one might expect a faster ravenous cat to finish one dish of food then move a few inches and start in on the second full plate. Instead, Chatterbox stopped, looked over at Growler, sat down, and waited for her elder to arrive. The Cat watched silently while Growler sampled the contents of the second plate. Chatterbox did not stand up and begin eating again until after Growler had begun to eat.

Manners? Respect for The Elder?

The Cat as Persistent Halloween Abolitionist

2007-10-05T12:37:00.000-07:00

The Cat says few things about holidays (aside from a strong affinity to Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas goose), but wishes to express an adamant opinion about All Hallows' Eve:

Every year the same thing kids tromping up on MY porch knock on MY door scare me with screams yells howls random eggings toilet paper on MY patio this has got to stop this is a holiday that should not be allowed to continue in its rampant popularity it exploits cats which are black which I am one of makes children eat candy and sweets forces people to dress up as things they are not the lady person I own is not a pirate if she were a pirate I would fire her nobody should run around in the dark streets unless they can see in the dark most humans do not see well in pitch black though since I am The Cat I can do this if people insist on celebrating this inane holiday they should not put black cats on their porches stuffed with newspaper it is quite confusing for The Cat pumpkins are for consumption not for carving, and give me tuna please.

The Cat does NOT like.

Show your support for the abolition of Halloween. The Cat encourages each and every one of us to wear this for Halloween:

The Cat is now trying to figure out how to eat tuna out of this one...

Please support the effort, go to this nice lady's store, get some cards, get a shirt, get a mug, and SAVE US ALL FROM HALLOWEEN MADNESS.

The Cat as The Great Communicator

2007-10-04T11:31:00.000-07:00

An epiphany struck at about 3:00 AM, or maybe it was a paw upside the head... I couldn't tell. I was asleep at the time. Anyway, it was a breakthrough.

I'd already ascertained that The Cat communicates through a combination of purrs, stares, growls, yelps and Congressional memoranda. Nobody thinks natively in five-bit code, unless you spent your formative years as a teletype operator (or as a cat).

BUT! As a matter of fact, I did spend several years working with teletype, so it was with great surprise that my barely awake brain recognized her communications pattern as nothing short of original Baudot!

Matters not that Western Union dropped out a few characters and tightened up the whole thing into ITA2 (which some of us elders still insist on referring to as Baudot code, even though it isn't).

The Cat will deploy claws and embed her message in my chest, tummy, arm or leg in a rapid vertical pressure-point pattern that resembles the venerable five-bit original as invented by Emile Baudot. The Cat alternates paws to communicate rapidly.

So all this was trudging through my mind for some inane reason, as I struggled out of comfortable sleep and into whatever passes for wakefulness at 3:02 AM when being wakened by a cat sitting on my chest and typing in five-bit Baudot with the speed of a seasoned World War II news correspondent.

What on earth could The Cat want at 3:05 AM in the morning when I'd just said good night to her at 2:15 AM? Just passing by noticed you had let your eyes closed and wanted to make sure all was well besides it will be dawn in less than four more hours at which time you will need to arise anyway to get my tuna onto its plate fill my water bowl again open the dishwasher so I can look inside open the pantry door so I can look inside open the closet door so I can look inside refill the dry food dish since I will have emptied it out by then open the front door so I can freak out then try to work up the courage to go outside then race back inside retrieve the new tennis ball from where I knocked it under the recliner get the golf ball unstuck from the refrigerator grill where I managed to wedge it by mistake - or were you sleeping? sorry.

The Cat as Cat Rights Activist

2007-09-27T05:17:00.000-07:00

[The Cat asks me to write this on her behalf and the behalf of all cats and kittens everywhere. We are both honored to contribute to today's Bloggers Unite"Blog Against Abuse". Our topic is a silent abuse of neglect by lack of action.]

Not all lady cats want to be momma cats. Not all girl cats should be momma cats! If you adopt a stray cat as your owner, have your new cat spayed or neutered. If you adopt a stray cat as your owner by going to a pound, make sure to follow all the rules about taking your new owner to the vet's office for all the right shots and measures. You will help us all by doing this.

Why is this a good idea?

Too often when a girl cat has a litter of kittens, there aren't enough people around for them to own. That means two baby kittens (or more!) have to share in owning one person.

Eventually the baby kittens who don't own people get discouraged and neglected, and that's not good for anyone. They get lost, develop bad manners, move to bad alleys, and make far too much noise.

In a perfect world, each cat would have one human to own (or possibly two).

Since we do not have wallets which means we can't carry Visa cards, and checkbooks are such a complete bother, we are relying on you to take care of this important task for your cat owner. Oh, and more tuna please. Thank you.

The Cat

The Cat as DJ LightRanger BigDawg Recommends:

2007-09-19T17:08:00.000-07:00

Amazing Laser Pointer Light Show! Easy To Make! - Click here for more free videos

The Cat requests that you get the parts and build one please. No coffee cans though. Use tuna cans for best scent effect. The Cat will prepare for your return by picking out the playlist. Please get multiple lasers pens and MANY batteries.

Thank you.
The Cat

The Cat as Time Management Expert

2007-09-19T05:17:00.000-07:00

It's 5:15 AM, really. Too early in the morning to make sense of much and far too early to be writing coherently. It is more polite to call it very early than insanely late, even though I haven't been to sleep yet. Thank The Cat, or blame The Cat.

Poor little furry nine-lived thing. She takes the blame for almost everything off-kilter in our lives, chin up, head held high, as if she knows that it is not at all her fault. Milk in fridge go a bit stale? Blame The Cat. Wrists aching from typing all night on projects that may never see human eyes or the light of day? Blame The Cat. Missed a publication deadline completely because the page in your calendar is illegible from repeatedly having spilled coffee wiped off its thin paper pages? Blame The Cat.

Ok. That one is real, and is a legitimate blaming. The calendar would not have had coffee on it in the first place if said coffee had not already been on her foot when she stomped across my desk and planted her dainty toes square on the post-it-du-jour that was standing in for my lost calendar and acting as my list of things I absolutely positively without-fail-must-get-done today.

Ok. So the coffee would not have been on her foot if she hadn't stepped in the mishapen ring of coffee drool that this particular cup leaves behind every time it gets picked up and put down elsewhere. I can't throw this coffee cup out. It has cats on it.

So maybe it's not that legitimate of a blaming. I withdraw the complaint, officer.

And there she sits, posed like the angelic thing that she is, infuriatingly focused as she perches on my ankles and watches my fingers move across the keyboard in very mouselike dartings. Zen and the Art of Being a Cat. So calm. Like she doesn't know it's 5:30 in the dang morning and I've just spent most of the night catching up on the things I didn't get done for the want of a post-it nail to keep me on track.

The Cat yawns, pirouettes in place and flumps down into fuzzy black rag doll position on my outstretched legs. I take a sip of nice cold coffee after brushing the teensiest bit of fur from the lip of the cup. The one with the cats on it. I reach for my wireless keyboard, once again wishing I had one of those new nifty neat-o Bluetooth laser virtual keyboards (*purrs in happy dreams of this ultimate keyboard technology*) and stretch it out across my knees, just out of reach of the calmly flipping tail, and get to work.

The Cat yawns, stretches out a paw and pats my hand as I type. I melt, put the keyboard back over on the desk, and pencil in some quality cat cuddle time, effective immediately. My blood pressure drops, my work pressure drops; we both smile. And that is the best time management method I've ever found.

The Cat as BlogRush Blog Traffic Carnival Barker

2007-09-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

(The Cat made me put this here. She wants visitors. I figured this is a better way than cordoning off the stretch of highway in front of our yard and forcing traffic to pass near the front porch so she can yell at the trucks. Besides, it's free. Free is good, if you're owned by The Cat.)

How would you like to drive tons of new traffic to your blog, for free? One click, a few brief minutes entering a few brief bits of information about your blog, and BAM! All of a sudden, BlogRush is sending traffic your way at the speed of a racing cat. No only that but as word gets out and your friends sign up using your link, even more traffic shows up!

This is better than tuna. I swear it. Five paw prints from The Cat.

Don't believe me, The Cat? Watch this very short but highly informative video and learn a lot more.

The Cat as Entomologist

2007-08-29T08:46:00.000-07:00

It is time to clear up a few persistent myths about ants, ant behavior, ant methodologies, and cats. The Cat has studied this extensively over the past several summers, and has come to the following conclusions:

There are several distinct kinds of ants. One kind is very small, about the size of two 10 pt Times periods stacked together and wiggling. About like this >> .. Those ants are difficult to herd. They taste all right. They are called sugar ants since they are attracted by anything sweet. They travel in swarms instead of lines, aren't very bright, and are too small to get into Combat ant traps full of sweet peanut buttery stuff. They make a bit too much noise.

The second kind is gunmetal gray and about the size of a rhinoceros. They are easy to herd, and taste terrible, though they are low-carb and high in protein. They travel in pairs and steal old inoperable VCRs, forgotten waffle irons, and cassette decks. They crush patio furniture and eat anything not nailed down. They are called soldier ants since they dig trenches in the floor, wield automatic weapons, and scare the human servants. They are too big to get into Combat ant traps full of sweet peanut buttery stuff.

The third kind is red and about the size of me, The Cat. They are stealth ants. Ninja ants. They bite, sting, refuse to be herded, and travel in highly organized squadrons with clearly labeled leaders. They coat themselves with foul-tasting camouflage paint to avoid pre-attack detection. They are silent but deadly, and terrify the human servants. They are to be eliminated on sight. They can enter and exit Combat ant traps with ease, but choose not to do so.

Contrary to popular belief, ants can cross lines of cinnamon, baby powder or mint. They do not hate water and can swim better than I can. They are not banished by chasing or howling but will leave when bored. They use ant powder like my human servants use Fritos, a nice snack but not necessary.

In conclusion, ants are everywhere at all times. The human servants get worried when -they- can see the ants or when I sound the alert that the ants are visible. Other times, the ants are there but stay safely out of sight. Part of my job, as The Cat, is to let the human servants know when it is time for them to panic and haul out the cinnamon shaker.

The Cat as Seismic Event Sensing Device

2007-08-22T10:19:00.000-07:00

After rigorous testing, data gathering, event tracking, response analysis, survival studies through 22 months of seismic events, and meticulous observation, we are ready to publish our findings on the Cat Actuated Tremor Predictive Event Engine (CATPEE).

Response was noticeable within a range of [magnitude 4.8 at 5km, depth 2km | magnitiude 6.2 at 50km, depth 8km] as reported by USGS over a period of 22 months.

Unfortunately, we are forced to conclude that The Cat is not capable of registering reliable and accurate earthquake event predictions, as the CATPEE system's responses to a seismic event within the tested event range appear to be identical to responses observed upon the arrival of the UPS truck in the front yard.

The Cat as Contemporary Office Accessory

2007-08-20T10:20:00.000-07:00

I can't type today. The Cat wants attention. A LOT of attention. For some cat-only-known reason, The Cat has declared that this Monday is Give Your Full Attention To The Cat Day.

The place where my keyboard goes is occupied by The Cat. The spot where my trackball belongs is occupied by The Cat. The Cat has managed to take over every cubic inch of desktop and is now workng on conquering the credenza, with frequent pacing trips back to the keyboard.

She doesn't seem to be upset by anything, but she is definitely enthusiastic. So I can type two or three words, then I must cease and pet, brush or talk with The Cat.

If you want to vastly improve morale in your office environment, hire a cat or ten. Bank on periods of time when little gets done, but the payoff in stress reduction and happy personnel may be well worth losing a few minutes to cattitude.

The Cat as Procrastination Facilitator

2007-08-16T03:01:00.000-07:00

This is me violating almost every rule in Top Ten Ways to Blog and Bore Your Visitors to Itty Bitty Bits. I'd love to be able to say that The Cat made me do it, but that would be wrong. The Cat didn't make me do it. The Cat didn't steal my keyboard and block me from blogging, despite her contributions to its coffee stains and stuck 'e' key. No. I take full responsibility for allowing my time to get ridiculously fragmented, falling prey to summer heat and a terrible case of distraction.

It's not that I got nothing done. It's that I got very little done here, and a ton of stuff done at Celtic Elegance and Happy Trails.

Just four of hundreds of new designs.

So it's not The Cat's fault. Really.

The Cat as Escape Velocity Engineering Technician

2007-08-08T22:51:00.001-07:00

We have two of the ugliest orange swivel arm chairs that a human can imagine. I don't recall where we got them but they've been following me around for the past 32 years. They are upholstered in a highly durable fabric that has withstood the attention of four highly active feline owners. Normally we keep the one in the living room covered with a handmade dark brown crocheted afghan so we don't burn our eyeballs out. I use the other one as my office chair. If I'm sitting in it, I don't have to look at it.

Since I have a chair of my own, naturally The Cat has to have one of her own. Thus she has adopted the one in the living room. She sneaks under the afghan, and claws on the arms and base, ignoring the fact that the chair is about 10 inches away from a brand new scratching post and cat haven complex.

Last night she'd had enough of weaving her way under the afghan to get within clawing distance of the chair base, and decided to eat her way through instead. We rescued the poor yarn thing as quickly as possible, but not before The Cat had managed to uncrochet an eight-inch section, devouring a bit and scattering the rest for later snacks. She peed on the unraveled remainder, just for good measure, to make sure that no other cats of the household or human pets would encroach on her chair terrain.

So... it's 3:00 AM or so (event time). I'm putting the finishing touches on Happy Trails, an Old West greeting card and gift store. The sound of a jet pack rouses me from my work, and I look up in time to see The Cat go soaring past at about eye level. Moments later, the growling howling jet pack returns, heading toward the back bedroom. A moment passes, then back she soars. I hear a ragged spinning noise from the darkened living room and lean out so I can see what gives.

Unencumbered by its usual afghan cover, the bright orange swivel armchair has transformed itself into the perfect feline merry-go-round. The Cat races across the living room, leaps from a few feet away, lands on the nearest arm, and sets the chair spinning rapidly. Just before it reaches escape velocity, The Cat departs with a leap that slows down the rotation, and races up the hall toward the back bedroom. By the time she's into the hallway and crouched, the chair has slowed to the proper speed for re-entry. Since it is bright ugly orange, it's easy to judge its speed with accuracy if you're The Cat, even in the darkness of the far room.

No sense working now. I kick back to watch the rest of the show.

The Cat as Ego Booster

2007-08-06T04:30:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here, feet up, trying reach over The Cat to get to the keyboard without toppling the coffee, the trackball, the mail or The Cat. The Cat is on my lap over there by the spare Enter key that all keyboards seem to have. This is positioned so that chin rubs and other affiliative gestures can insert random line feeds into whatever I'm working on.

Since it's August 6th, albeit early in the morning of, I am doing my usual grumping and muttering about getting a year older in the span of 24 hours. Matters not that I am still in my 20s mentally, my drivers license and knee joints declare that they know full well I'm falling down the cliff toward 60. I'll spend the next 11 months on the 56 plateau then topple over another step when next August shows up. It seems to take significantly less time for this to occur each year. I just had a birthday a few months ago, in August 2006. Therefore it cannot be time for another.

I make my personal New Years resolutions, writing them carefully in a notebook I know I'll never find again this year. Act my age is not one of them. I drop the pen, glare as it pirouettes in midair and vanishes into the darkness beneath the desk. Sigh. Grab another from a nearby pen collector/coffee mug. It wouldn't do to disturb The Cat for something so mundane as a writing instrument.

The Cat looks up, then stretches a reassuring paw over to pat my neck. Never once has she told me to act my age. Bless her soul.

The Cat as Master of the Art of Shunning

2007-07-28T13:04:00.000-07:00

The full moon is almost upon us, and with its advent comes yet another cycle of The Cat being weird. The moon is at 98% of full, waxing gibbous. So full and bright that it is impossible to sleep at night without blackout curtains. And The Cat is going ballistic.

Let me rephrase that. The Cat is not going ballistic. The Cat is always ballistic. The Cat is also depressed and, as a result, shunning us. Let me see if I can explain in ways that someone who is not a cat will understand. (If you are a cat, you know exactly what I mean.)

As you may be aware, dear reader, we were called upon once again to host the Annual Red & Black Ant Convention. The invitations went out a few weeks ago. If you didn't get yours, check the spot between the desk and file cabinet. Your cat may have been protecting you by hiding it just out of sight. If you are not owned by, leased by or equipped with a cat to perform this protection, consider making the appropriate arrangements. But I digress...

The Cat is in One Of Her Moods. These moods happen, and as The Cat's slaves, we must be sensitive to their presence and take appropriate action, like staying completely out of her way and/or acquiescing to her every whim. It's something we're used to, and we have no reason to expect change.

These moods are triggered by an event or lack thereof. Last month it was the UPS man and his rumbling brown truck that he insists on leaving in idle mode in the front yard while placing packages on the porch. That sent her into a full day of funk, punctuated by rapid circling and trips to the front window to glare and bark at the place where brown behemoth stunk up her terrain.

This month it's the Annual Red & Black Ant Convention. The convention coordinators and scouts had reserved the back bathroom tub for their main gathering, but due to a misunderstanding with the caterers and headcount, attendance quickly overflowed the appointed facilities and began taking over rooms that weren't on the list, including portions of the pantry, kitchen and den/office.

The Cat hates nothing worse than poor planning, especially when it interferes with her own schedule. And it did.

The Offering of The Tuna is scheduled between 5:45 AM and noon, or on demand, once a day. The tuna is to be chilled for a minimum of ten minutes, then placed in single teaspoonful portions upon a pair of white Corelle bread plates - one for The Cat, and one for the other cat, Growler(*). NOT the saucer. The saucers have dips in the middle to keep cups from skidding around. Those dips interfere with the tuna placement and are not acceptable vessels.

The tuna portions are to be set upon the floor, approximately 12 inches from each other, no more than one foot from the base of the scratching post at the kitchen entryway, and no less than 36 inches from the water dishes. It is to be unobstructed by furniture, feet and other unacceptable interferences, and in clear sight of The Cat from a radius of 45 inches.

Once the offering plate is in position, the petitioner must stand to one side recite the Rite of the Offering of The Tuna, then call for the Offering's acceptance.

The Rite of the Offering of The Tuna
O Great Cat, O Mistress of Our Destiny,
Please accept this fresh offering of the delicacy we call Tuna
With our humble thanks for your benevolent attention
To our daily needs and unworthy requests for moments of your affection,
And with this prayer and offering we do petition
Yet one more day of your gracious presence.
Amen.

The Call
TUNA!

It's all in the manual.

Well. Three days ago, when it was time for Tuna Presentation, we followed all the proper guidelines for the Offering. The Royal Tuna Procurement Officer had stocked up on the preferred brand of this delicacy, and everything was going according to schedule The correct plates were positioned. The tuna was placed on the plates. The distances were measured. The rites were recited. The Call was properly made.

Two minutes later, The Cat arrived, sat down before the left plate, and stared in utter disgust.

The plate was swarming with attendees from the Annual Red & Black Ant Convention. Revelers had already dug into the buffet and were whooping it up at the hosted bar. Stragglers were carrying away portions of the offering in their pockets, leaving teensy crumbs of seafood across the kitchen floor. The noise was incredible.

I scrambled to regain control of the situation, clean up the kitchen floor, and herd the attendees back to their appointed quarters, replacing the dish with one mounted in a water barrier. The Cat stomped away, tail in the air. Water barriers are not in the manual. **

It's been a sad and lonely three days since The Cat has chosen to sulk in her room, miffed and depressed, instead of accepting the daily Offering of The Tuna with less than conventional methods and dinnerware. We are being shunned.

* Growler is also a cat, but is not The Cat. Growler is a very amiable, friendly tortoise-shell tabby who loves everyone and wants to be your best friend. She is rumored to be a kritard (look in the 'K' section). She is the opposite of The Cat in many ways. You'll meet her someday.

** (A water barrier is created by setting the smaller plate onto a larger plate, then carefully pouring water into the larger plate so that the smaller plate is isolated by the water and floats slightly. This is supposed to discourage the ants, since supposedly they can't swim. This is supposed to keep the ants from reaching the food, since supposedly they can't swim while carrying twice their body weight in tuna. This does not slow the ants down for more than a few minutes. Once they recon the situation, they retreat and send in their kamikaze troops, then walk across the backs of the corpses. Water barriers do not fool ants. However, they seem to fool me, since I try it every year, forgetting that it didn't work last year either.)

The Cat as Alien Life Form

2007-07-24T04:20:00.000-07:00

[This could have been titled "The Cat as Overly Large and Persistent Ceiling Dwelling Spider" except I am too busy cleaning up cold coffee from my lap and keyboard to spell that long a title.]

It's 4:42 AM. Honest. Right now. The Cat has been pacing all night, clearly on patrol, and she's done a great job of cornering the ants into two rooms and herding them into formation. The battalion that was trying to empty her food dish earlier has been replaced by fresh troops, battle has been joined, and the tuna dish is now back on friendly terrain.

So, I'm sitting here, minding my own business and catching up on paperwork while watching the second season premiere of Psych that I e-taped earlier. Good episode, by the way, and I love Tim Curry in the role of leading good guy/bad guy.

Anyway, my head was turned, so I didn't see the approaching alien until the last moment, as it descended from somewhere near the ceiling, silent predator, and completely rearranged my desk, starting with a third of a cup of (thankfully) cold coffee. The above-mentioned cold brown liquid was rapidly deposited across the stack of business magazines I was supposed to have read and round-filed last month, a handful of doctor bills waiting for payment tomorrow afternoon, my desk telephone, two computer keyboards, my beloved Wacom tablet, and my trackball. Oh. And me.

You'd be amazed just how far a little bit of Folgers will go...

So, I grab the nearest bath towel and start the process of recovering my computer gear, muttering silently about attacking aliens. The alien, in the meantime, slinks back out from beneath the desk, appearing rather contrite.. morphs back into The Cat, and proceeds to help with the clean-up process by licking my ankle clean.

Makes me wonder what planet that particular life form inhabits when not nosediving into my favorite coffee cup. It must be a purrfect place to live.

The Cat as Discerning Shopper Visits k8company!Two

2007-07-22T12:23:00.000-07:00

The Cat instructs me to turn your attention toward k8company!Two and this collection of Mousepad, Large Mug and Coaster to place mug on, pointing out that this fills the gaping void on desks everywhere there is no true cat. There is much more to see in this fun store, but The Cat stops me at this page, stares at the screen and says 'WANT!'

The Cat is very discerning about the coffee mugs she sneaks her drinks out of, and will be most pleased to sip from this one.

(Personally, I want the Cat Slave mug and tile... I know which side my life is buttered on.)

[HANDY FACTS SECTION: One of the things I love best about these mugs is they're sturdy and big enough to hold a decent cup of coffee, and I can hold onto them comfortably. Plus it's a major bonus that they're microwave-safe, since I tend to toss my coffee in the nuke device whenever I decide it's time to warm it up. The tile coasters are nice and solid, and padded to keep from scratching furniture. And their mousepads don't skid off the desk if you look at them sideways (a major complaint I have about a lot of mousepads)!]

Rating:

The Cat as Olympic Contender

2007-07-20T16:53:00.000-07:00

It's 11:00 AM (event time) and after a long night and morning of working on the new Coffee Java place, all I want to do is get some sleep. If I start now, I can get a few hours during the warmer time of the day so that I'll be able to work again tonight when it cools off. It's a silly schedule but one that has been made to function. It's a cat schedule, and The Cat likes it. She's supposed to be nocturnal, according to all the species' information. Sadly, nobody told The Cat.

I stretch out in the recliner, pillow on tummy, book on pillow, intending to read a few minutes until I drift off. The Cat settles in across the living room on the cat perch, her favorite place to be when I'm not in sight of her other favorite place to be. The words of Anya Seton's Katherine fade and begin to dance like fireflies, and I'm out like a light. (Note to self: next time, select book that will not break your nose if it fails to fall onto pillow.)

11:25 AM - I am awakened by the sound of a Lear jet blasting through the living room. RRREEEEEOOOOOWWWWwwwww..ww.ww. Screeching tires. The book goes flying as I bring the recliner to its full upright position in preparation for takeoff back to Wide-Awake-Land.

From the corner of my eye, I see a black blur with a white blaze zip through the air and land on the cat perch. The blur takes off again and goes whizzing by at eye level, touches down briefly, and spirals back up, landing once again, accompanied by even louder jet sounds

The Cat catches her breath, turns 90 degrees on the perch and evaluates her next path. It is only then that I hear the roar of the crowd, as she wiggles herself into a crouch and takes her position. It is only then that I realize that she was just warming up for the Main Event.

"Welcome to the 2007 Feline Summer Olympics, ladies and gentlemen, " A squawk of feedback shatters the air then the voice returns, echoing across the wide valley floor. " It's a very warm sunny day here in Southern California's high desert Mojave Stadium, where this year's contenders are getting in position for the 25-Foot Long/High/Broad Jump event, brought to you by our friends at Fern's.

"Bob, I'm told we can expect air temperatures to reach around 105 today. Any chance we'll have a repeat of our last summer Olympics in this location? Thundershowers and power failure?"

"I hope not, Jack. In fact, I remember it quite well. The whole first week of road events had to be postponed until the outage could be resolved. Let's just hope the grid holds up this time out!"

"Yes, indeed, Bob. All right. Our first event, and our first Olympian is in position, It looks like she's just about ready. Folks, here representing the United States and wearing the colors of California's elite Tuxedo Team... Chatterbox," the announcer's voice booms through the hot summer air.

"Now in her sixth year of competition, Chatterbox is defending a hard won gold medal from that spectacular performance in the 2004 Tokyo standing long jump, in addition to her silver from the Winter 2002 luge event at Lake Tahoe." The crowd goes wild as the banners wave in the slight desert breeze near the starting line.

The Cat takes her mark, muscles tensed, waiting for the gun.

k-BOOM ::: she's OFF!

"Chatterbox easily clears the antique silk shantung chair obstacle (1) and sails to the top of the first landing (2)," the announcer intones, as the crowd hushes in anticipation. "Watch your maps, folks. The Cat coils those famous well-trained muscles and measures her next hurdle, a downward angle turn-twist combination leap that takes her close to the knitting basket trap (3) -

"And she's clear, Jack. Well on her way to the inverse vertical slide (4) at the base of the crate cliff. She's taking the hard way down, under the coffee table and around the HO-scale train tracks (5), and -"

The Cat pauses briefly, brow furrowed, as she evaluates the challenge before her.

"Steady, girl - you know, Bob, this is where we have lost so many of our first-time contenders. Right there in that hidden section between turns five and six then through that long stretch leading to seven. Remember when Growler first ran this course back in 1997?"

"I do indeed, Jack. A solid performance by a third-year veteran, and one we'll be talking about for years.

"But it looks like - Yes. The Cat has chosen to -tackle- the knitting basket trap (6) instead of taking the way around! She pauses - she measures -"

"- she made it!" The crowd goes wild as the scoreboard reflects a two-point increase as she sails past the difficult trap and out of sight into the corner hidden by the afghan (7) draped over the lower part of the antique wingback chair. The judges bend their heads and make a few rapid notes.

"Now for the most challenging stretch of this event. Ladies and gentlemen, this is where so many of our younger contenders lose points or just outright fail. Chatterbox is about to prove why she has held onto that gold medal for so many years against a groundswell of challengers as -" the crowd falls silent, waiting.

"Chatterbox eyes the distance... and... " the announcer whispers into the microphone.

"She's over the top of the knitting basket trap, barely touches that coffee table landing position and - "

"A PERFECT FINISH!" The crowd goes crazy as The Cat unfurls herself from the final crouch and turns to stand, stately and composed.

The Cat flourishes a dignified bow in the direction of the judges, then curls up atop the crate tower and takes a victory nap.

The Cat as Ant Command Post Monitor

2007-07-18T01:09:00.000-07:00

Those of you who were around in June (or who have a backspace key on your computer) may recall the first ant attack of the season. This afternoon we found that they had not vanished but had merely gone down the road and gotten reinforcements.

It's 3:30 AM (even time, not writing time) and I wake up with a start to find The Cat sitting at my arm giving me The Stare.

The Stare is catspeak for get up something is not right, which is between The Gaze that means get up something is not right my tuna plate is empty, and The Glare that means get up something is not right the house is on fire and my water dish is empty you choose which I am most upset about.

For reference, if you're truly interested in the linguistics, there is also The Glare+Claw, The Glare+Scratch and the Glare+Knead, each possessing its own level of urgency.

But no, I am lucky. This is just The Stare. I yawn and grump myself awake. Oh Mistress The Cat how may I serve the this dark morn?

About that time I feel an oh-so-dreaded tiny tickle on my arm, and I flail blindly for the touch-on lamp. The Cat has brought me an example of her concerns, bearing a tiny red ant scout (possibly a deserter) for my immediate attention. Turns out there are plenty more where he came from, so that rapidly-deaded soldier won't be missed at roll call. I flail not-so-blindly with my other arm, flinging the ant against the wall, where it lands with a teensy thud and falls to its demise (I hope).

A quick frantic check reveals that I am not inundated with ants, despite the immediate sensation of being completely covered by the beasties. I bat the thousands of imaginary ants off of me as I attempt to levitate to my slippers, shaking the bedding madly and shuddering in revulsion.

The slow black plodding ants of the earlier invasion were manageable. Those I could catch, stare into the face and order off my property, with judicious application of Lemonade Crystal Lite, cinnamon and baby powder. (It didn't hurt to have a lethal dose of outdoor ant nest spray applied, either). I could bully them into leaving, and leave they did.

But THESE are the fast moving commando red variety, so who knows what square inch of the floor is safe. Stealth ants. SEAL team ants, rigorously trained to withstand all attacks, break down barriers between closet and sink, retrieve their targets, leave threatening notes, and vanish in a matter of hours. In teensy black helicopters and flotation vests if necessary. They laugh at my pathetic attempts with Combat ant traps, snicker as I sprinkle the cinnamon and baby powder, and hoist each other up the barricades to get from the bathroom to the kitchen.

I judiciously turn on every single light in the house and pick up my trustworthy Maglite flashlight, just in case. The Cat continues The Stare as she observes my preparations, then stomps off in the direction of the back bathroom, pausing to make sure I am following. I adjust my flak jacket and trudge on obediently. Into the fray, brave lads! Into the fray! I pause to pick up the spray bottle of distilled water, just in case. Just in case of what, I am not at all sure, but it strikes me as a wise maneuver at the time.

Eight perfectly formed columns of red ants wind their way around the base of the commode, along the edge of the bathtub and under the bottom of the door that leads to the pantry and kitchen. They march in silence, stalwart and brave, following orders none but they can hear. Focused and swift, their parade makes a sharp 90 kick-turn at the edge of the dryer and follows the terrain with expert precision, then 90s back west across the face of the washing machine and around the flour bin. There, the ranks break into a less orderly melee, as troops wrestle with two flax seeds and a monstrous chunk of Purina cat chow which has fallen from The Cat's dish. Progress is being made.

As I watch in silence, trying to maintain my own hidden position, I'm spotted! Two of the columns break off and head toward my ankle. I panic and attempt to leap backwards, narrowly missing The Cat's observation perch and nearly sending her flying into the next room. Pandemonium ensues as I make my run for it.

Holed up in the safety of the storage room, we discuss our options. The Cat points out that these are very teensy creatures and she can probably take out most of them with one swipe of her furry paw. I warn against that, given that they are heavily armed and legged. Not to mention they will send back spies in her tail, which will end up where I sleep.

She acquiesces and settles down for a nap while I plot our strategy. FIre-bombing is right out. The surrounding house would take collateral damage we can ill afford to risk. The Cat yawns in agreement and rolls over. As she snores, I notice yet another strange tickling, then a solid painful nip. I'M HIT!

I brush the attacker off in anger and rally the troops. We're going in, and we're taking no prisoners this time. I caution The Cat to remain behind, which she does, since she is sound asleep. Armed with the Maglite and trading the spray bottle of water for an insecticide soap (indoor-pet-friendly - ant-hostile), I creep from my hiding place near the file cabinet and make my way back to the point of entry.

As I round the corner and take aim, I notice that the show of force has dwindled somewhat - two columns replace the former eight, and both are in retreat. I fire a warning shot and duck back around the corner, then sweep back around, firing twice more for effect, as the last of the stragglers break ranks and fall over one another to get out the dryer vent.

The Cat awakens, rounds the corner and surveys the damage, nodding in approval, then daintly licks my ankle clean, removing the dangerous poison.

She surveys the rest of the damage and declares that I'll live, with proper rest and care. Well, that part is accurate - even with her careful ministrations, I am pretty badly bitten from toes to knees, and have about five nasty bites on my arm where they got past the defenses and nipped before I could fling them off.

The Stare turns to The Gaze as I am dismissed for the evening and can now return to sleep if possible. Since I am now itching from shoulder to toe, the odds are slim.

The Cat as Not the Normal Cat

2007-07-17T02:39:00.000-07:00

[After a week of absence, I'm back to where I can sit up for more than a few minutes at a time, thanks to The Cat and careful applications of heat and cold. I've managed to stay up long enough to do a few hours of serious work, a bit more each day.]

The Cat is about as normal as any other cat who has adopted us over the years. Half calm Zen contemplative, half psychotic whirlwind, half adorable for the purpose of gaining treats, half aloof and sophisticated.

Those of you who know The Cat (through previous posts) know her more imperious side. She has her demands, we meet them, and the world remains in balance. When we don't, we are appropriately warned. This is just the Way of The Cat. and we accept it as her servants.

This week, I've discovered a side of The Cat that has been hidden for the past few years: the caring concerned mommy cat. Since the unplanned yoga incident, moving has been pretty painful (see previous post regarding unplanned yoga). I've still been able to get up and hobble around a bit as necessary.

The Cat has stayed out of my path when I'm walking. This is highly unusual. Normally, she's winding around me like a serpent. She has not once asked for tuna. This is also highly unusual, as her routine is completely predictable when it comes to creature comforts.

Instead of curling up in her usual floor spots, she has literally chosen the high ground... atop bookshelves and perches where we are at eye level or at least within reach without bending. In the bathroom, instead of choosing her usual spot on the rug near the tub, she has moved to atop a stack of plastic crates that act as the folded towel storage.

Now, instead of sitting between the computer screen and me, she's curled up where I can reach her without bending or straining. Doesn't sound like much, I'm sure, but compared to The Cat in normal mode? It's much.

It's a bit spooky, all told, but I'm not complaining. In fact, I feel sort of blessed and watched over.

I'm sure all will be back to normal in a few days and Her Imperial Highness The Cat will be back to her routine demands and imperious self.

The Cat as Cause of Near-Death Experience

2007-07-10T05:37:00.000-07:00

It's Monday at about 2:45 AM (as the event occurs). The Cat is camped out in one of her favorite places, between my keyboard and screen, effectively blocking the lower half and turning the functional portion into less than 640x480. Criminal demotion for a big wide screened iMac.

So... I'm blogging and squidoo'ing through a puff of black fur, craning my neck around to see over same. All is well if not particularly comfortable.

The Cat stretches, making that Halloween cat arch yoga position. Like this. One, Two, Three, Streeeetch aaaand.... hold. Breathe, counting slowly to 42,539.

I wait patiently as she phases in to Downward Facing Dog. 11, 12, 13, 14, 15...

(This is, by the way, shown in the beginner yoga instructions... wonder what the Hindu word for OUCH is.)

I wait. Patiently. 213. 214. 215. 216.

Ok. enough of this nonsense. I lean forward and down to see under the arching Downward Facing Dogcat. I'm tired, and I forget that my legs are propped up on the ottoman box next to my desk. Chair swivels rapidly. Blogger spins sideways equally rapidly. Blogger reaches floor and assumes the Savasana position. This is also known as Corpse position, which is about how I felt at the moment.

The Cat unrolls herself and leaps down onto the floor next to me, then nuzzles my face ever so lovingly. I stay in the Corpse position for awhile until I can painfully and slowly lever myself up off the floor without screaming. The Cat sits with me until I'm able to do so. It's so good to be loved...

It's Tuesday morning now and the painkillers are wearing off a bit so I'll cut this short. Besides, The Cat is requesting her tuna and I'm dreading the limp to the kitchen. I suppose I could try to teach her how to use the electric canopener all by her feline lonesome, but then I'd be out of a job.

Anyway, I better get started. Since I can't bend over to put the plate on the floor, this edict may take awhile.

The Cat as Fire Control Officer

2007-07-05T10:17:00.000-07:00

This could be titled 50,000 Reasons to Keep a Home Fire Extinguisher Handy.

As most US citizens know, yesterday was Independence Day, Fourth of July, the day many otherwise level-headed individuals divest themselves of a good portion of their common sense and, at the peak of the dry tinderbox season of the year, decide to grab matches and incendiary devices, hie themselves out away from civilization, garden hoses and fire hydrants, drink alcohol and set off fireworks, legal or otherwise. The more sane individuals watch public shows manned by firefighters and proper permits.

We live in the middle of some of the hottest, driest California desert known to mankind. During the summer we're grateful when the evenings cool down under 100F. Out here, the burning bush is not necessarily a sign from God. It may well have spontaneously combusted all on its own.

Now, with all this fire hazard surrounding us, living next to a sage and mesquite filled field and having our front fence act as the tumbleweed catch-all for the entire desert, the advent of the Fourth sets my nerves on edge. Every time I hear the >snap< of a firecracker or the ear-piercing whine of a bottle rocket, my heart lodges a bit more tightly in my throat. I just know the whole shebang is going to go up in flames one of these years. To cap it all off, we live right next to a tavern, a nice neighborhood place that serves (*gasp*) alcohol, of all things. I know it does; I owned it for 20 years.

The Cat does not like fireworks. The Cat spent much of the evening alternating between clinging to my arms and legs, and leaping several feet off the ground, claws deployed, imploring me to make it all stop. Around 2AM, the noise dwindled away. I peeled her gently off my ankle and limped off to find the box of bandaids. The Cat, now a numb bundle of nerves, followed a few feet behind, muttering something about irresponsible people slaves.

We could both use a calming time-out. I decided on a cup of ginger tea, and The Cat contented herself with shredding a paper bag full of styrofoam bits while I put the kettle on to boil. While I waited, I settled into the recliner with A Respectable Trade by Philippa Gregory (she is rapidly becoming one of my all-time favorite authors), one ear tuned to the kitchen for the merry bleat of the teakettle.

I confess, I get immersed in my reading sometimes and the world fades away. Well, it faded away so well that I completely forgot about the teakettle until The Cat reminded me. I looked up from the engrossing book just in time to see her launch herself from the other recliner toward my lap, eyes wide. teeth bared, hissing. Oh SH*T.

We both tumbled out of the recliner and ran to the kitchen. I'd forgotten to put the little whistling lid thing onto the teakettle, and its contents had been reduced to a cloud of sickly looking steam and about 1/16th inch of water. A few pages more and I might have gotten a chance to test the ever-present but never-used home fire extinguisher on top of the fridge. It would have been ironic to have set the kitchen afire by my own inattention after hours of frantic concern over a handful of fireworks and tumbleweeds.

And once again I am grateful for the attentive presence of my owner, The Cat.

The Cat as Entertainment Center

2007-07-02T22:36:00.000-07:00

And now for something completely different. While The Cat was napping, someone sent me this and suggested I push it up here for you. After I stopped laughing, I agreed and here it is for your entertainment and hysterical pleasure.

The Cat herself has been behaving rather nicely today - no temper tantrums, no unreasonable demands. Of course, the full moon is dropping in intensity a bit, so it could be she's just exhausted.

Before trudging off to her bedroom and stuffed bear, she did ask me to remind everyone that voting for our blog would be very nice of people. So, consider yourself reminded.

And now, without further ado, Cats Doing Silly Things:

The Cat as Benevolent Protector

2007-07-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday. The required porch-to-garden processional took place on schedule yesterday, leash and Swan Lake interpretation 'n all. Laser tag has been played twice since daybreak. Tuna sacrifices have been offered. Dry food and fresh water has been installed with the proper ceremonies and prayers.

All should be right in the world.

By The Cat's standards, all is not right. All is decidedly not right. The Cat is in restless mode, pacing, glaring, grumping, yelling, and expressing her displeasure at the top of her kitty lungs. We, her slaves, do our best to discern the source of this displeasure, while doing our best to interpret the commands into human-readable form. Something akin to reading a novel written in 8-bit binary. Try it some time.

The Royal Household Coder dutifully traipses behind The Cat as she paces angrily from one corner of the house to the next, attempting to discern stopping patterns, glaring patterns, tonal patterns, circling patterns. (Of course we check for physical and health-related concerns first, when she or any other cat throws a tantrum like this.)

Bees communicate with their fellow bees through intricate dances. the hive is thisaway. red flowers are thataway. set course for meadow 97844.B sector 9, bearing 102 for peanut-butter on whole wheat. maintain heading 095 at angels 4. enjoyed reading latest dean koontz novel.

Ants send messages via patterns and trails of scent that lead to a food source. Last week, long migration paths resemble miles of the Oregon Trail stretch from a tiny crevice near the base of the swamp cooler to the sugar canister. Near the dishwasher, a few thousand had spelled out -UR OUT OF CASCADE- as the rest of the infantry paced by.

Cats are not bees. The Cat's humans (the Royal Handyman and I) are not ants. The diatribe could mean anything from 'gimme more tuna' to 'the room temperature has fallen below 72 degrees Fahrenheit' to 'a major earthquake just struck Honshu on the other side of the world.'

The Royal Procurement Officer shrugs and goes back to his recliner, and we both try to zen out a bit while The Cat decides what it is she really wants. The Cat leaps up to the raised perch atop her favorite scratching post and perch assuming her Snoopy as Eagle/Vulture atop doghouse pose and glaring at the front door, emitting a random pattern of yelps, grunts and guttural howls that can shatter glass.

A few minutes later, a sudden THWOK, then silence. The Cat sits high on the perch, content and triumphant, her vanquished foe beneath one paw, a small moth which had until then managed to fly its stealthy surveillance just out of sight of our human eyes... but not The Cats. We've been saved from attack by our owner's feline vigilance!

The Cat accepts our gratitude and effusive thanks with regal bearing and aplomb. Once again she has protected her minions and we may rest safely beneath her benevolent watchfulness.

The Cat as Laser Guided Missile

2007-06-30T11:33:00.000-07:00

This morning I notice that the rubber-backed throw rug that rests just inside the front door is squooshed up against the wall in strange waves. The Cat lounges near the coat closet, a strangely calm and complacent look on her face. I head for to my desk and get to work on the morning's posts and email.

Rug-muffled skit-skit-skit K-THUD drifts in from the other room. Skit-skit-sk.sk.sk K-THWUMP. I catch the reflection of a bright red flash out of the corner of my eye. Sk.sk.sk-THUD. The Cat heaves into view, across the room to the closet, up several feet in the air, and thwaps the coat closet door as another red flash vanishes from sight. I get up to watch the show.

The Royal Light Show Master has the new laser pointer and is swinging its light across the carpet and up the face of the closet. On the third swing, The Cat launches herself from the front door to the coat closet, into the air, and lands on the closet door, smacking the beam. SCOOOORRRE!!

The rug ripples as The Cat builds up momentum for her next launch, like Wile E Coyote treading air during a run off a cliff.

The Cat as Environmentally Friendly Doorbell

2007-06-29T04:35:00.000-07:00

fooled her good!

9:35 AM. The Cat sleeps soundly in her bedroom atop her favorite box of tax reports and business receipts, contorted into a furry Mobius strip around a sky blue plush teddybear that sports a tiny plaid ribbon around its neck.

I have not solved the mystery of the ribbon's survival all these years. This is The Cat's, and The Cat devours such trifles and offerings for lunch, as she is half cat, half goat, half adorable and half fearsome. This is The Cat, who expertly uncrocheted and gnarled the lion's share of a large brown fringed afghan and wrapped its loose bits neatly around most of the living room furniture and stored the fringe away for future breakfasts, never to be seen again.

This is The Cat, of course, who is fashion-forward enough to know those 4-inch heels in my closet are completely out of vogue, had counseled me not to wear them as they would aggravate my back injury, and, lucky for me, removed both buckles and straps to prove her point.

9:35 AM + 6 seconds. The Cat has teleported from back bedroom to inches away from the front door, without touching the floor or making any other noise, and is yelling at the top of her lungs to the person on the front porch to kindly and immediately remove the big brown truck that idles in the front yard. I didn't even hear it drive up, and already she's negotiating with UPS for quieter, less invasive delivery methods.

I open the front door, sign for the package, apologize to the shaken driver, turn to thank The Cat for her alert. The Cat is long gone.

I make it back to my desk, sit down to open the package, and glance over my shoulder toward the southwest corner of the house. The Cat is sleeping soundly in her bedroom atop her favorite box of tax reports and business receipts, contorted into a furry Mobius strip around a sky blue plush teddybear that sports a tiny plaid ribbon around its neck.

This is The Cat, of course.

The Cat as Cosmic Alarm Clock

2007-06-26T07:42:00.000-07:00

So there I am, snoozing in the recliner, as I am wont to do at any hour when I'm tired enough to actually get some sleep.

Then The Cat objects. Mightily and vehemently. A volume-maximized yeeooowl that leaves no room for misinterpretation. Get UP. NOW.

Of course I pay attention. She is my owner, after all, and I am duty-bound to serve, whatever the cost. Either the house is on fire or she needs something critical. I'm sure she has her reasons, and I'm in no position to demand an explanation.

I glance over at the clock: 7:25 AM. By my bleary-eyed calculations, I've achieved 1 hour and 24 minutes of sleep. Well, heck, that should be enough to see me through whatever it is that she wants. I stagger to my feet, stagger to my desk, grab blindly for my coffee cup and try to remember which way the kitchen is, performing the morning cat-dictated checklist as I go.

Tuna - done at 5:45 AM
Fresh water - done at 5:47 AM
Litter box - done at 5:50 AM
Dry food check - done at 5:59 AM
All Cat Systems are a Go.

I walk to my desk, trying to find my mouth with the coffee cup, realize the coffee is cold, and give up. I sit down and wait to see what the next demand will be. It is 7:29 AM.

At 7:30 sharp, the phone rings. One of my East Coast affiliates is returning my call from yesterday.

"Oh, good! You're awake!!" It's 10:30 AM for her, still o'dark'o'clock for me.

"Of course I'm awake," I lie through my teeth and glare at the cold coffee. As I decide to drink it anyway, I hear a soft, very self-satisfied purr from near my right ankle. As the East Coast affiliate rep starts to answer my list of questions, I stare at The Cat, who nods sagely in return. Of course the phone would ring at 7:30 AM, The Cat telepaths. If you were The Cat, you would simply know these things.

The Cat as Reincarnation of Queen Anne

2007-06-23T15:53:00.000-07:00

T'is Saturday, the traditional day of The Promenade, whereby The Cat commandeers an escort and entourage for the weekly trip to The Great Outdoors. Much fussing, pomp and circumstance accompany this venture reminiscent of medieval British royalty setting out upon Progress from one castle to the next, proceeded by bannermen and trumpeters. It must be performed with the proper rituals and rites. Much is made of the appropriate attire, duration and destination, both outbound and return.

The Announcement
First there is the Rite of the Queen's Annoucement. This begins the ceremony. With great purpose, The Cat strides to the front door, lets out a bellowed order, turns twice, then retreats to the closet door. This is performed three times in quick succession, heralding the beginning of the Presentation of the Imperial Necklace.

Presentation of the Imperial Necklace
The three point harness and leash is presented to The Cat for the nod of tacit approval. With disdain, The Cat allows the Royal Stablemaster to approach, which he does while bowing with great respect. The Cat permits the harness and leash to be strapped into place, then embarks on a performance of modern dance that would put Martha Graham's most elite student to shame. The end of this dance is marked by The Cat falling to one side, feigning anguish and horror, and descending into what appears to the untrained eye to be a fainting spell. Thus positioned, a curt nod brings the ritual to the third stage, The Promenade.

The Promenade
The Cat is borne into the air, where she perches regally upon the arm and shoulder of the Royal Stablemaster and faces the front entrance. The Gatekeeper opens the door, and the Progress begins. The Cat observes the state of the journey with solemn eyes, speaking only to issue the occasional order to the royal bearers as they cross the threshhold and make their way onto the porch and down the front steps.

The caravan slowly turns west until the exact point where shade meets sun. Upon this fragile divide, The Cat is lowered reverently, where she collapses and performs a sequence of ecstatic rolls and twists upon the sandy pavement. This accomplished, The Cat slowly makes her way to the edge of the pavement and locates the nearest blades of grass, selecting only the finest for her mid-Promenade feast. Once sated, The Cat rests near the grass and watches with grave approval while the Royal Stablemaster stands discreetly nearby (back and left one full pace at all times).

End of the Promenade & The Return Journey
At the end of the rest period, The Cat stands and nods, signifying that it is time to proceed. She makes her way back to the pavement slab, repeats the rolling and twisting performance, then stands and waits for the Royal Stablehand to bear her back up the porch steps and over the threshhold. Once inside, the Presentation of the Imperial Necklace is performed, in reverse, including the modern dance. When completed, the ritual is declared to be finished by The Cat.

Observer tickets are on sale from 8:00 AM until 9:55 AM the day of the Promenade, weather permitting.

The Cat as Pizza Aficionado and Critic

2007-06-22T23:18:00.000-07:00

Dominos Deep-Dish Deluxe, out of box
Dominos Deep-Dish Deluxe, with the green peppers picked off and set aside
Dominos Deep-Dish Deluxe, out of box, no peppers, person slave not looking

Di Giorno Cheese, plain
Di Giorno Cheese with sprinkling of tuna and juice from breakfast dish

Dominos Regular Crust, pepperoni
Dominos Regular Crust, pepperoni without the pizza

Tombstone Sausage
Tombstone Sausage, stolen from counter

Dominos Meatzaa Feast
Dominos Meatzaa Feast WITH tuna from jar

Dominos Hawaiian Feast, pineapple removed
Dominos Hawaiian Feast, canadian bacon on separate plate

Dominos American Classic, from box
Dominos American Classic, from box, NOBODY LOOKING

Send me pizza and I will paw it and rate it.
The Cat

(Chatterbox's words, my typing.)

The Cat as Television Critic

2007-06-20T02:25:00.000-07:00

There is an upside to being able to watch tv on my Mac. I can work, write articles, contemplate game designs, get some graphics tasks out of the way and generally make progress, while keeping one eye on my favorite television shows in another window. Sometimes I pause while I think; sometimes I choose to fast-forward past commercials. And of course, I can always turn the dang thing off if I find it too distracting.

I do not practice proper ergonomic computer use. About 60% of the time, I am leaned back and twisted a bit sideways, with my legs propped up at a 90 degree angle to my torso, to keep the DVT clots from ruining my day. About 20% of the time, I am twisted to one side, using my stationary bike pedalling thing for simlar reasons. The other 20% of the time I am sitting upright and focusing tightly on the screen.

The Cat disapproves of the sitting-up time, preferring the reclined time since it gives her a solid walkway from the floor to the desk area in front of my computer, where she can pass judgment on the television show being watched. If she likes the show, she will return to perch on my legs and watch along with me. If she does not, she will stand in front of the screen and glare at me until I change the channel to something she does like.

Anything with birds, other cats, swirling colors and fire is an acceptable television offering. Anything with dogs or no action is unacceptable. Anything with rapid horizontal movement is acceptable. Anything with little or no movement bores her to tears. She likes car chases. Surprisingly, The Cat does not particularly like the Animal Planet channel offerings, unless of course there are birds on the show.

The Cat likes JAG reruns, is cautiously approving of Walker Texas Ranger, dislikes Greys Anatomy, adores Boston Legal, and is ambivalent about the Universe series. She refuses to watch America's Next Top Model but will sit through Project Runway. She likes Hell's Kitchen but not Top Chef. She likes NCIS but refuses to watch The Unit. She won't watch Desperate Housewives, but will watch Army Wives. She'll skip Cold Case but likes to watch Cold Case Files. She likes Studio 60 on Sunset Strip but won't watch 30 Rock. Television scheduling executives should listen to her, I swear. She has better taste. Jericho was one of her favorites, and she was enthraleled by Heroes. Who knew...

Movies bore The Cat, unless they're action movies or feature cats or penguins. Must be the bird thing. If I want to watch a movie all the way through, I must either sit up straight to defeat her direct pacing pathway or bribe her with a bit of tuna so she gets out of the way of the screen (or wait for one of her nap times and watch in peace).

What does your Cat let you watch?

Cats with Hands

2007-06-15T01:21:00.000-07:00

I've joked in the past, and far out of earshot of The Cat, that it would be pretty scary if cats had opposable thumbs. Like most pets of cats, I can envision being handed my pink slip, canopener wrenched from my shaking hands, shown the door.

"Just leave the VISA on the side table as you go out if you don't mind, luv, and please close the door. I'm a tad busy conquering this bit about hairbrushes," The Cat waves cheerfully as we slink out of sight, made redundant by the mad mix of feline and machine.

Turns out I wasn't too far off the mark, although I think sheer size and the fact that The Cat will have difficulty mastering a stick shift will save us from immediate extinction. I have, however, hidden the keys to all automatic transmission vehicles.

It's called Polydactyly, and it turns out not to be all that uncommon. In fact, certain breeds are prone toward it, like the Pixie Bob, for one. The Maine Coon has had the gene bred out of it intentionally. I could go on and on about this, but since The Cat is now peering over my shoulder and glaring, I'll instead refer you to a much more comprehensive article called Polydactyl Cats. So if you're interested, and your owner isn't watching too closely, you may find it a good and elucidating read.

Off to brush The Cat's fur and prepare her for a good night of racing around insanely and growling at shadows. My work here is done, at least until tomorrow.

It's 3:00 AM ...

2007-06-10T02:53:00.000-07:00

Many professional cat people claim that cats are nocturnal. For a critter that is rumored to sleep 18-20 hours a day as The Cat does, sometimes I wonder what 'nocturnal' really means.

So, I'm just drifting off to sleep and I feel this -pflonk- on the arm of the recliner, then nothing. I keep drifting. A few minutes later, I sense a pressure on my chest, then a paw smacks me on the face.. not hard, just enough to get my attention. I open my eyes, and The Cat's face is about two inches from mine, dead serious expression. How Dare You Sleep, opener of cans, possessor of the opposable thumbs, slave to my every whim? I mmpfh and try to brush the whiskers off my nose. I drift back off to sleep. About ten minutes go by, then the paw smacks my face again.. I open my eyes and am greeted with that laconic 'well..?' look.

Reluctantly I lever the chair back to vertical, catching The Cat carefully on my lap and waiting for my orders. She shrugs, lazily spins around like a dog, and curls up, content in the knowledge that she now has my full attention. I cannot put the chair back into reclining position without disturbing The Cat, so there we sit.

My eyes close and I drift back off to sleep, now sitting upright. A few minutes go by and The Cat stands, stretches, and whomps me on the face with her tail, just for good measure. With a shrug, she steps daintily off my lap and into the surrounding darkness, point made.

Now, this is a cat who is quite content to nap all day long in an open box of 2002 business receipts in 'her' room. She has commandeered that spot as her own and no attempts to dissuade her of it have succeeded. She does not like the 2001 box nor the 2003 box, both of which we have opened for her napping pleasure. Beats me...

The Cat does not enjoy her $180 cat perch with its berber scratching pillars and specially lined fluffy bed section. The Cat does not appreciate this sort of thing for more than the few minutes it takes to unpack and assemble. After trying it once, The Cat nods imperiously and heads straight for the box it was shipped in.

I've gotten the recliner to recline again, and am almost back asleep. -Pflonk-. We repeat the face-patting tail-swishing re-verticalizing drill. Once more, a few minutes in the lap are all she wants, and off she goes into the dark.

I can only ascertain that, as we human pets may enjoy summer homes and winter homes, The Cat enjoys a daytime snooze place and a nighttime snooze place of her choosing. Due to the nature of the planetary alignment, the exact temperature and humidity of the swamp cooler output, and perhaps a dozen other elemental influences I shall never begin to comprehend, the nighttime snooze place of her choosing just happens to have been my lap tonight.

I am blessed.

ANT!

2007-06-09T17:13:00.001-07:00

It is summer. Know how I can tell? The Cat tells me so, reporting on the battalion of ant commanders she has cornered in the back bathroom's tub. DESTROY! she bids me at the top of her lungs. DESTROY OR I SHALL!

Now there's a problem.

The Cat, though she is not about to admit it, is not invincible. Indeed, The Cat can be pretty easily vinced. Cats are not all in possession of their full nine lives - some arrive to adopt you after having spent down that allowance by quite a ways, and there's no barcode on the tail to let you know just how many are left. As a result, despite The Cat's claims to immortality and Bast descendancy, she is not. (neither is 'he' if your Cat is a male)

The Cat bids me to vanquish this attacking foe with every bit of firepower I can muster, up to and including dynamite. Naturally, The Cat would then insist that I build a new house for her, and since this one is paid off, I'm reluctant to blow it to bits. Instead, I reach for the Combat ant traps first. Between those, a liberal dosing of cinnamon as a perimeter block, a heavily applied line of talcum powder, and the upending of a Pink Lemonade Crystal Lite into the bottom of the tub, the ants begin to beat a slow retreat, leaving behind a small pile of ant corpses. I think nothing in particular killed them. I think, on the other hand, that they laughed themselves to death when they saw me grab for the drink powder.

Something worked though. This morning, the hundreds had dwindled to a few dozen, and most of them were laughing too hard to move.

It is but the first attack of many, and we have learned over the years to expect a series of onslaughts, first in that bathroom, then through the pantry. Then scouts will be deployed to the kitchen and a perimeter patrol into the dining room skulking through the carpet. This year, I shall be prepared! (note: I say that every year)

The kitchen is spotless, and the floor is freshly washed and waxed. We certainly don't want the ant patrols overtaxing themselves by walking across an unwaxed floor. Since there is almost nothing more embarrassing than emptying 2/3 of a can of ant spray at a line of caraway seeds minding their own business near the sink, all countertops have been cleared and scrubbed twice, and are now decorated with discreet arrays of ant hockeypucks.

The Cat approves and, having lost interest in the dead corpses and talcum powder, is howling for the rest of the reinforcements to arrive so she can watch me panic.

On a serious note: Many insect sprays are deadly to both insect and cat. Some are actually listed as safe to other household pets but lethal to cats. Read all labels and store out of the reach of children, dogs, other pets, and your owner (The Cat).

And Now a Word from One of our Sponsors...

2007-06-07T22:45:00.000-07:00

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Things to Consider when Adopting a Cat or Kitten

2007-06-07T22:40:00.000-07:00

The Cat instructs me that you may wish instructions on how to be owned by a cat or kitten. My research has produced quite a few articles and instructions, including the following (The Cat approves...)

Things to Consider when Adopting a Cat or Kitten

Where to Get a Cat or Kitten

Before purchasing a cat or kitten for your home, make sure that one, you're not allergic to cats and secondly, your place of living allows pets.

If you aren't allergic to cats and live in a place where you are allowed to have one, then be sure to check the local animal shelter. They usually have plenty of cats and kittens that need a good home.

Often animal shelters are desperate for foster homes for mother cats and the kittens during the spring and summer. Many shelters will give you first choice in adopting one or more of the kittens you fostered.

Preparing Your Home

If you own a cat or are planning to get one, then designing the décor of your home will require taking several precautions in order to protect your pet from harm. Cats often love to chew plants, poisonous or not. Before bringing a cat or kitten home, verify that each indoor plant in your home is not harmful to cats.

Cats and kittens also might accidentally swallow string or any other small item. These will often obstruct their digestive system, possibly leading to expensive surgery or death. So it is extremely important that no small items are left lying around that could be swallowed.

Helping to Keep the Population Down

When your kitten is about 4 months old call your local veterinarian to make an appointment for your kitten to be spayed or neutered. Neutering or spaying your cat can help to keep the pet population under control and prevent unwanted cats that end up living on the street or being euthanized at shelters. It doesn't cost much (in our area it's $30), and also makes your cat a better pet.

Cat Toys

Toys play a major and important role in emotional and mental development of your pet. Be sure to rotate your cat pet toy(s) on a regular basis, to keep interest levels high.

There are a multitude of toys to choose from. A scratching post or cat tree, catnip, and some furry balls or mice are a good start for your cat's collection.

Cat Food – What to Feed Your Cat

Be careful when choosing your cat's food. Natural Balance, high in protein and devoid of any toxin, is one of the best. Many commercial cat foods are filled with toxins, harshly processed, and high in carbohydrates which in no way match the natural diets cats would have eaten in the wild.

If Natural Balance is too costly for you, then be sure you at least get your food at a pet shop. Ask the workers what they would recommend, or check the ingredients yourself. A good, high-protein cat food will provide your cat with better health and a longer life. Just keep in mind that the latest findings lean towards the importance of a diet with less carbohydrates and more protein.

Conclusion – Enjoying Your Cat

One cat is nice, but two or more is even better. Quieter than dogs, generally low-maintenance, and usually not under foot, cats make terrific pets and companions.

Filled with information about cat breeds and how to take care of your cat, htttp://www.catloversportal.com is for cat lovers around the world. Learn about different cat breeds, how to care for your cat, and much more.

Pet Diaries

2007-06-06T19:50:00.001-07:00

I have to share this one. My mom forwarded it to me not too long back, and I instantly relate. The Cat was proud of me for having been so generous.

The Diary of a Dog
8:00am Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30am A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40am A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30am Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00pm Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00pm Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00pm Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00pm Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00pm Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00pm Wow! Watched TV with my family! My favorite thing!
11:00pm Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

The Diary of a Cat

It is day 683 of my captivity: My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and myself are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.. In an attempt to disgust them, I vomit on the floor.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. The audacity!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.

The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released --and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded! The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. The captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe...... For now.

The Cat Decrees..

2007-06-06T18:29:00.000-07:00

Bast (or Bastet, depending on your moment of antiquities) and any of her descendants (hitherto known as The Cat) decrees her pets (hitherto known collectively and individually as You) shall have opposable thumbs and the ability to operate door knobs, can openers and cameras.

You shall at all times maintain the appearance of unlimited wealth, which is to be spent without hesitation to acquire toys that The Cat shall ignore completely, preferring instead to bask in the glory of the empty container and styrofoam popcorn packing in which the toys arrive.

You shall, on demand, be smitten by the smallest face rubbing or apparent act of kindness, including but not limited to tail swishes, verbalizations which You must translate to human terms,

You shall, without question or pause, grant unlimited window access. It is for your own protection that the exterior of the domicile may be watched at all times (at the discretion of The Cat.

You shall provide and maintain pristine living conditions, including litter boxes of The Cat's choosing. You shall also provide 24/7 maid service, for the purposes of retrieval and proper disposal of fuzz, fur, hairballs and similarly undigested pieces of blanket, carpet, afghan and rug.

You shall provide and maintain at all times a fully functioning laser pointer, which shall be deployed on demand until such time as the bouncy red light fails to amuse The Cat. During this time, You shall cajole and attempt to persuade The Cat to play, using high pitched tones and soft words.

You shall provide an appropriate variety of canned, pouch, wet and dry food, selected for its balanced nutritional integrity and scientifically designed for The Cat's ultimate health, knowing full well this food will be picked over and then ignored. You shall then provide whatever is in that can over there. Preferably tuna.

You shall offer a full array of human food on demand, including pizza. The Cat may choose not to consume the offerings but the offer must be made before You are allowed to eat. That includes pizza. Really.

You shall provide a fully functional lap. When occupied, that lap is to remain motionless until such time as The Cat chooses to move. Ear rubs and face scratches are to be deployed when and if The Cat requests or initiates said affections. A soft bristled brush is to be kept within arm's reach at all times.

The Cat reserves the right to add to these rules and decrees at The Cat's discretion.

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The Cat wishes you to know: 10% Off at PETCO.com, No minimum purchase required!

A Purrfect Way to Begin

2007-06-06T18:13:00.000-07:00

Without a doubt, cats are not owned. Cats partner with their people-pets, negotiate homestead rights, move in and take over. Expect us pets of cats to do the stalking and searching and reporting on behalf of your owner as well. That's what we're here for - my cat owner says so.

Totally Cats

The Cat as King of the Hill

The Cat as (*gasp*) Cat

The Cat as Cat the Bounty Hunter

The Cat as Housefly Wrangler

The Cat as Wildlife Management Deputy Specialist

The Cat as Microblogger and Lass Shop Owner

The Cat as Efficiency Expert

The Cat as Ultimate Excuse-Maker

The Cat as Black Cat

The Cat as Procrastination Facilitator

The Cat as Noah

The Cat as Millenium Falcon Pilot

The Cat as Earthquake Measurement Device

The Cat as Air Raid Siren

The Cat as Miss Manners Etiquette Expert

The Cat as Persistent Halloween Abolitionist

The Cat as The Great Communicator

The Cat as Cat Rights Activist

The Cat as DJ LightRanger BigDawg Recommends:

The Cat as Time Management Expert

The Cat as BlogRush Blog Traffic Carnival Barker

The Cat as Entomologist

The Cat as Seismic Event Sensing Device

The Cat as Contemporary Office Accessory

The Cat as Procrastination Facilitator

The Cat as Escape Velocity Engineering Technician

The Cat as Ego Booster

The Cat as Master of the Art of Shunning

The Cat as Alien Life Form

The Cat as Discerning Shopper Visits k8company!Two

The Cat as Olympic Contender

The Cat as Ant Command Post Monitor

The Cat as Not the Normal Cat

The Cat as Cause of Near-Death Experience

The Cat as Fire Control Officer

The Cat as Entertainment Center

The Cat as Benevolent Protector

The Cat as Laser Guided Missile

The Cat as Environmentally Friendly Doorbell

The Cat as Cosmic Alarm Clock

The Cat as Reincarnation of Queen Anne

The Cat as Pizza Aficionado and Critic

The Cat as Television Critic

Cats with Hands

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Things to Consider when Adopting a Cat or Kitten

Things to Consider when Adopting a Cat or Kitten

Pet Diaries

The Cat Decrees..

A Purrfect Way to Begin

The Cat as (gasp) Cat