I am not a sissy.
I am not afraid of children.
I am not afraid of children dressed up like dinosaurs, princesses, ninjas or anything else.
I just happen to dislike the doorbell.
Really!
I'm not afraid of the children, and I'm not afraid of the doorbell.
I just prefer to hide under the sofa on Halloween, that's all.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
The British One left early this morning to help some other humans paint a teahouse in Cincinnati. This means it's just me and Softie in the house, which is just like old times. Softie has been graced by my presence in her life for the past seventeen years. I've been letting her care for me since I was a tiny kitten, full of energy and mischief.
Softie loves to sing to me, although I have to admit that sometimes her tuneless warbling makes my ears hurt. I enjoy the attention, and as I am normally on her lap when she sings, I get lots of stroking, petting and chin scratches. It's worth the inconvenience of tone-deafness. A big plus is also that she substitutes certain words in the songs and turns them into songs about me! The themesong to "Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang" becomes "Pretty Pretty Kitty" and "Ice Ice Baby" becomes "Black Black Kitty." She and the British One have lots of shiny round music makers, and whenever they listen to them she can turn any regular song into a song about me. It's very flattering.
I am a much better singer than either of the humans. I don't sing as much as I used to, but in my prime I could really belt out a mournful number in the middle of the night. I found 3am to be perfect for a concerto. I would find a suitable spotlight to sit in--the moonlight streaming in the kitchen window was always nice--and I'd sing mournful songs about loss and woe. Sometimes I would bring my favorite stuffed toy into the spotlight with me and sing songs of heroic struggle and death, and then try to rip the stuffing out of it.
Sometimes when the windows are open I hear other cats singing their songs in the night, but all modesty aside, my songs are easily much better than theirs. My rhymes are top notch and my tunes are very catchy.
Not to toot my own horn too much, but I am considered the Paw McCatney of the musikitty world.
Softie loves to sing to me, although I have to admit that sometimes her tuneless warbling makes my ears hurt. I enjoy the attention, and as I am normally on her lap when she sings, I get lots of stroking, petting and chin scratches. It's worth the inconvenience of tone-deafness. A big plus is also that she substitutes certain words in the songs and turns them into songs about me! The themesong to "Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang" becomes "Pretty Pretty Kitty" and "Ice Ice Baby" becomes "Black Black Kitty." She and the British One have lots of shiny round music makers, and whenever they listen to them she can turn any regular song into a song about me. It's very flattering.
I am a much better singer than either of the humans. I don't sing as much as I used to, but in my prime I could really belt out a mournful number in the middle of the night. I found 3am to be perfect for a concerto. I would find a suitable spotlight to sit in--the moonlight streaming in the kitchen window was always nice--and I'd sing mournful songs about loss and woe. Sometimes I would bring my favorite stuffed toy into the spotlight with me and sing songs of heroic struggle and death, and then try to rip the stuffing out of it.
Sometimes when the windows are open I hear other cats singing their songs in the night, but all modesty aside, my songs are easily much better than theirs. My rhymes are top notch and my tunes are very catchy.
Not to toot my own horn too much, but I am considered the Paw McCatney of the musikitty world.
Friday, October 29, 2004
After a soggy start to my morning, the clouds disappeared and my pursuasive tactics worked on the British One, who opened the door to the deck. I spent a glorious afternoon lounging in the sun, dozing and warming my fur. Aahhh, bliss!
Today has not been without trouble, however. Softie snatched me up as I was walking down the hallway and put those awful medicine drops in my eye. She knows I don't like it, and she knows it upsets me, but it still happens to me three times a day. The two humans even have the nerve to tell me it is for my own good! In my younger days they would not be able to get away with it.
As awful as the eyedrops are, they are not the worst part of my day. Every evening the humans sit down in the lounge to read and watch a little television after dinner. I am quite happy to curl up on one of their laps, but as much as I'd like to have a nice nap, I know I must remain alert. I know that sometime during the course of the evening one of them will arise, go into the kitchen and get the evil, vile medicines from the big, cold foodbox. I know the evil, vile medicines will be mixed, put into a syringe and forced down my throat.
I HATE it. The medicines are supposed to taste of chicken, but they taste horrible and metallic. They make me foam at the mouth. The humans tell me they wish they didn't have to give them to me, and they tell me they wish I didn't need them, but I don't believe them. If they didn't get a perverse joy out of giving those evil, vile meds to me, they wouldn't! Personally, I don't believe that I need the meds.
Ever since they started taking me to see that horrible vet, Dr. R, things have gone downhill for me. Dr.R knows all about my tummy problems, and she knows all about my arthritis. She recommended a special, bland food, which is reason enough for me to dislike her. Plus whenever I have to visit her office it involves a journey inside the metal monster, which makes me sick to my stomach. Dr.R never sees me looking my handsome best. She always sees me covered in drool, trembling. It is not pleasant. To top it all off, she is the one who prescribed the evil, vile medicines. I cannot believe that Softie and the British One believe the stuff the doctor tells them about me.
You'd think I was on my nineth life or something.
Today has not been without trouble, however. Softie snatched me up as I was walking down the hallway and put those awful medicine drops in my eye. She knows I don't like it, and she knows it upsets me, but it still happens to me three times a day. The two humans even have the nerve to tell me it is for my own good! In my younger days they would not be able to get away with it.
As awful as the eyedrops are, they are not the worst part of my day. Every evening the humans sit down in the lounge to read and watch a little television after dinner. I am quite happy to curl up on one of their laps, but as much as I'd like to have a nice nap, I know I must remain alert. I know that sometime during the course of the evening one of them will arise, go into the kitchen and get the evil, vile medicines from the big, cold foodbox. I know the evil, vile medicines will be mixed, put into a syringe and forced down my throat.
I HATE it. The medicines are supposed to taste of chicken, but they taste horrible and metallic. They make me foam at the mouth. The humans tell me they wish they didn't have to give them to me, and they tell me they wish I didn't need them, but I don't believe them. If they didn't get a perverse joy out of giving those evil, vile meds to me, they wouldn't! Personally, I don't believe that I need the meds.
Ever since they started taking me to see that horrible vet, Dr. R, things have gone downhill for me. Dr.R knows all about my tummy problems, and she knows all about my arthritis. She recommended a special, bland food, which is reason enough for me to dislike her. Plus whenever I have to visit her office it involves a journey inside the metal monster, which makes me sick to my stomach. Dr.R never sees me looking my handsome best. She always sees me covered in drool, trembling. It is not pleasant. To top it all off, she is the one who prescribed the evil, vile medicines. I cannot believe that Softie and the British One believe the stuff the doctor tells them about me.
You'd think I was on my nineth life or something.
A Soggy Day
It's a never ending battle between myself and the two humans. I love them both, but bless them, they are not very smart. The British One usually gets up first. He seems to have a morning routine of sitting in one of my many sleeping chairs and looking at a glowing box. His fingers dance around a flat black board (which for some reason I am not allowed to walk on, but do anyway) and he clicks on something he calls a mouse. I know what a mouse is, and that little plastic thing doesn't qualify.
As decorum suggests, I entered the room to greet him. This is his cue to get up and follow me to the kitchen for breakfast, but he rarely does. I cannot tell you how many times I have stood in the doorway asking to be followed to the kitchen. I'm gentle at first, but as the minutes pass I must resort to loud demands and even sleeve tugging, which is quite demeaning, to say the least.
Even the dreaded sleeve tugging doesn't always work. He insists that I "go tell Mummy." Normally I would do it, because she is rather an old softie and gives in to my demands. Sometimes it's almost as though she understands me, but I know she's not clever enough so it must be my excellent pursuasive skills and handsome tail.
Recently, however, I have been loathe to go into the bedroom to wake her and give her kitchen suggestions because she has been feeling poorly. She went away a few weeks ago and was gone overnight. When she came home she had a strange apparatus attached and I wasn't allowed to lay on her lap. She has been home ever since, which is odd because before she went away overnight she was the one getting up early and driving away for nine hours, five days a week.
But I digress. If the British One won't budge, I reluctantly venture into the bedroom to give Softie breakfast suggestions. Today I was fortunate, because she was already awake, reading, and cheerfully invited me up onto the bed. It's easy for me to climb on the bed now because the pair of them put a kitty-sized stepstool at the foot of it. I'm a very handsome fellow and in no time she was stroking and cuddling me and listening to my breakfast fantasies. It's quite easy to get her into the kitchen.
After breakfast is served--which decorum suggests is never even sniffed at once it is placed before me--the sliding door to the deck is supposed to open and I am supposed to go outside to do my daily routine. Softie and I often argue about the opening of the door because she is not clever enough to remember that it is supposed to be opened after breakfast. How she cannot remember something as easy as this simply proves my theory that she is not very bright. Since today is drizzly, the humans have conspired against letting me go outside.
Let the battle commence!
As decorum suggests, I entered the room to greet him. This is his cue to get up and follow me to the kitchen for breakfast, but he rarely does. I cannot tell you how many times I have stood in the doorway asking to be followed to the kitchen. I'm gentle at first, but as the minutes pass I must resort to loud demands and even sleeve tugging, which is quite demeaning, to say the least.
Even the dreaded sleeve tugging doesn't always work. He insists that I "go tell Mummy." Normally I would do it, because she is rather an old softie and gives in to my demands. Sometimes it's almost as though she understands me, but I know she's not clever enough so it must be my excellent pursuasive skills and handsome tail.
Recently, however, I have been loathe to go into the bedroom to wake her and give her kitchen suggestions because she has been feeling poorly. She went away a few weeks ago and was gone overnight. When she came home she had a strange apparatus attached and I wasn't allowed to lay on her lap. She has been home ever since, which is odd because before she went away overnight she was the one getting up early and driving away for nine hours, five days a week.
But I digress. If the British One won't budge, I reluctantly venture into the bedroom to give Softie breakfast suggestions. Today I was fortunate, because she was already awake, reading, and cheerfully invited me up onto the bed. It's easy for me to climb on the bed now because the pair of them put a kitty-sized stepstool at the foot of it. I'm a very handsome fellow and in no time she was stroking and cuddling me and listening to my breakfast fantasies. It's quite easy to get her into the kitchen.
After breakfast is served--which decorum suggests is never even sniffed at once it is placed before me--the sliding door to the deck is supposed to open and I am supposed to go outside to do my daily routine. Softie and I often argue about the opening of the door because she is not clever enough to remember that it is supposed to be opened after breakfast. How she cannot remember something as easy as this simply proves my theory that she is not very bright. Since today is drizzly, the humans have conspired against letting me go outside.
Let the battle commence!
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