Sir Higson Nick, Earl of Fluffytail, departed this life for the Summerland at 1 a.m., July 31, 2006.
Thank you for the days,
Those endless days, those sacred days you gave me.
I'm thinking of the days,
I won't forget a single day, believe me.
I bless the light,
I bless the light that lights on you believe me.
And though you're gone,
You're with me every single day, believe me.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Sunday, July 30, 2006
The Summerland
Once again I feel the magnetic pull of the Summerland.
Last night I edged closer to the foot of the bridge and had myself a look. It doesn't seem nearly as long as it did two months ago. It would not take very much energy for me to cross the bridge, and I find myself fighting to resist the urge to inspect it a bit more closely.
I wonder if it would be ok to put a paw on it to test out the sturdiness?
Last night I edged closer to the foot of the bridge and had myself a look. It doesn't seem nearly as long as it did two months ago. It would not take very much energy for me to cross the bridge, and I find myself fighting to resist the urge to inspect it a bit more closely.
I wonder if it would be ok to put a paw on it to test out the sturdiness?
Thursday, July 13, 2006
A Proper Chippy
It has been nearly a whole week since I last had a taste of succulent, juicy cod, and I must figure a way to persuade the humans to go out and get some for me.
Last Friday, my humans apparently discovered what the British One called "a proper chippy" and although I am not sure what a "proper chippy" is, it appears that it is a place to get delicious battered cod and vinegar-doused, thick fried potatoes.
As soon as they carried in the bag I smelled it, and knew I had to have some. Naturally I was not interested in whatever Softie was having, because it wasn't cod, but the British One certainly had some, and I knew I must make some of it mine.
I tried the subtle approach first, which was to stand under his feet in the kitchen whilst he dished it up. I stuck closely to him with my tail held high, and when he sat down I made sure he knew I was there with a few taps of my paw on his leg. He thwarted me every time I tried to reach a paw onto the plate, and a few times he even had to raise his voice to me. Which didn't matter in the least. I wanted some cod, and I would have some cod!
He made the mistake of putting a tiny morsel on the tip of his finger, which he offered to me. I was ever so eager for a taste that I momentarily forgot my dignity. Yes, I bit him!
He decided a better tactic was to cut away the batter, slice up the fish into small, kitty-bite sized pieces and serve it to me on a clean dish. Hey diddle diddle, I was over the moon!
But it's been AGES since last Friday. I must have more fish! I must locate this "proper chippy" and move in.
Last Friday, my humans apparently discovered what the British One called "a proper chippy" and although I am not sure what a "proper chippy" is, it appears that it is a place to get delicious battered cod and vinegar-doused, thick fried potatoes.
As soon as they carried in the bag I smelled it, and knew I had to have some. Naturally I was not interested in whatever Softie was having, because it wasn't cod, but the British One certainly had some, and I knew I must make some of it mine.
I tried the subtle approach first, which was to stand under his feet in the kitchen whilst he dished it up. I stuck closely to him with my tail held high, and when he sat down I made sure he knew I was there with a few taps of my paw on his leg. He thwarted me every time I tried to reach a paw onto the plate, and a few times he even had to raise his voice to me. Which didn't matter in the least. I wanted some cod, and I would have some cod!
He made the mistake of putting a tiny morsel on the tip of his finger, which he offered to me. I was ever so eager for a taste that I momentarily forgot my dignity. Yes, I bit him!
He decided a better tactic was to cut away the batter, slice up the fish into small, kitty-bite sized pieces and serve it to me on a clean dish. Hey diddle diddle, I was over the moon!
But it's been AGES since last Friday. I must have more fish! I must locate this "proper chippy" and move in.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
A Neighborhood Showdown
I may be getting up there in years, but I can still put a good scare into uppity young cats who think they can waltz into my garden any time they feel the urge.
Case in point: yesterday I persuaded the humans to let me venture outside (in the front!!) before they took their evening walk. The weather was so lovely that I took umbrage with the fact that they had left me cooped up indoors all day, so I parked myself right in front of the big entry doors and wouldn't budge. They had no choice but to let me outside to sniff the cool evening breeze. Softie took the opportunity to mess with her plants and flowers, and the British One sat on the porch reading the newspaper while I surveyed my domain.
And it was a good thing I inspected it too, because who should wander over to the edge of my property but Gordon, the young ginger cat who sometimes escorts Softie to the bus in the mornings!
Immediately I was on guard. I crouched down low and hid behind a large flowerpot on the porch, keeping my eyes trained on him. He couldn't see me, and continued sniffing the neighbor's flowers as he edged closer to my front garden. My tail swished with anticipation—I couldn't wait to jump on him the minute he stepped a paw onto my lawn!
Of course Softie had to open her big mouth and warn Gordon that I was watching him, and when he saw me he flipped his tail a few times and then flopped over on his side, rubbing his head all over the neighbor's sidewalk while trying to look as harmless as possible.
I continued to give him the evil eye, and positioned myself into a Sphinx-like pose on the top step of the porch. Gordon rolled over on his back, still watching me coyly with big golden eyes, and stretched out his paws. Oh how I wanted to leap from the porch and give him a good whack across that smug face! I think he realized that I meant business too, because he stood up, tucked in his tail, and scooted a bit further away, turning twice to see if I was following. When he saw that I wasn't, he flopped over on his side again and rolled around.
All too soon it was over, and I was scooped up into the arms of the British One and put back inside the house, where I could not inflict damage on Gordon's insolent arrogance.
I showed him who is Boss around here. He'd be wise not to overstep his boundries, because the next time I might not let him get away so easily.
Case in point: yesterday I persuaded the humans to let me venture outside (in the front!!) before they took their evening walk. The weather was so lovely that I took umbrage with the fact that they had left me cooped up indoors all day, so I parked myself right in front of the big entry doors and wouldn't budge. They had no choice but to let me outside to sniff the cool evening breeze. Softie took the opportunity to mess with her plants and flowers, and the British One sat on the porch reading the newspaper while I surveyed my domain.
And it was a good thing I inspected it too, because who should wander over to the edge of my property but Gordon, the young ginger cat who sometimes escorts Softie to the bus in the mornings!
Immediately I was on guard. I crouched down low and hid behind a large flowerpot on the porch, keeping my eyes trained on him. He couldn't see me, and continued sniffing the neighbor's flowers as he edged closer to my front garden. My tail swished with anticipation—I couldn't wait to jump on him the minute he stepped a paw onto my lawn!
Of course Softie had to open her big mouth and warn Gordon that I was watching him, and when he saw me he flipped his tail a few times and then flopped over on his side, rubbing his head all over the neighbor's sidewalk while trying to look as harmless as possible.
I continued to give him the evil eye, and positioned myself into a Sphinx-like pose on the top step of the porch. Gordon rolled over on his back, still watching me coyly with big golden eyes, and stretched out his paws. Oh how I wanted to leap from the porch and give him a good whack across that smug face! I think he realized that I meant business too, because he stood up, tucked in his tail, and scooted a bit further away, turning twice to see if I was following. When he saw that I wasn't, he flopped over on his side again and rolled around.
All too soon it was over, and I was scooped up into the arms of the British One and put back inside the house, where I could not inflict damage on Gordon's insolent arrogance.
I showed him who is Boss around here. He'd be wise not to overstep his boundries, because the next time I might not let him get away so easily.
Monday, July 03, 2006
The Legend of Stinkfoot
So I accidentally stepped into my own poo the other morning as I was exiting my litterbox, which made my humans very excitable when they woke up and discovered little smelly paw prints tracked all over the kitchen floor.
You'd have thought the end of the world was nigh, the way they over reacted. There was a little too much dramatic wailing, cursing and gnashing of teeth for my liking. I sat and watched as they hauled out the buckets, mops and disinfectants, and although I wore my best innocent face, they somehow knew it was my doing (or pooing, if you will). I decided it might be in my best interest to hide.
Mysteriously, they were able to track my whereabouts with great ease, and the next thing I knew, I was being carried outside by Softie while the British One filled up a bucket of hot, soapy water. Obviously they had something wicked on their minds, and I wriggled and struggled to break free, to no avail.
Softie passed me over to the British One, who held me in his arms like a squirming baby. Just as I was beginning to calm down and enjoy the attention, Softie began wiping my back paws with a rough, wet cloth.
I kicked, I struggled, I cried. In an effort to keep my paws away from the damp rag, I even tried to burrow myself into the British One's shirtsleeve, which was quite impossible since I was lying flat out on my back. But Softie was very determined, and I concluded that it might be a good time to go into Zen-kitty mode. So I did. I let her wash my back paw, and then she rubbed the cloth on my other paw, evidently in an effort to add to the injustice already being served.
And just when I thought the humiliation was finally over, she brought out the dreaded scissors and clipped the fur from between my paw pads! I didn't enjoy it in the slightest, and Zen-kitty morphed into Thrashabout-kitty. Although she managed to clip a few small clumps from between my toes, I'm pleased to note that Thrashabout-kitty prevailed and I was set free. I shall file that little nugget away for future use.
Annoyingly, I now suffer the ignominy of being called "Stinkfoot" by my humans. How rude!
You'd have thought the end of the world was nigh, the way they over reacted. There was a little too much dramatic wailing, cursing and gnashing of teeth for my liking. I sat and watched as they hauled out the buckets, mops and disinfectants, and although I wore my best innocent face, they somehow knew it was my doing (or pooing, if you will). I decided it might be in my best interest to hide.
Mysteriously, they were able to track my whereabouts with great ease, and the next thing I knew, I was being carried outside by Softie while the British One filled up a bucket of hot, soapy water. Obviously they had something wicked on their minds, and I wriggled and struggled to break free, to no avail.
Softie passed me over to the British One, who held me in his arms like a squirming baby. Just as I was beginning to calm down and enjoy the attention, Softie began wiping my back paws with a rough, wet cloth.
I kicked, I struggled, I cried. In an effort to keep my paws away from the damp rag, I even tried to burrow myself into the British One's shirtsleeve, which was quite impossible since I was lying flat out on my back. But Softie was very determined, and I concluded that it might be a good time to go into Zen-kitty mode. So I did. I let her wash my back paw, and then she rubbed the cloth on my other paw, evidently in an effort to add to the injustice already being served.
And just when I thought the humiliation was finally over, she brought out the dreaded scissors and clipped the fur from between my paw pads! I didn't enjoy it in the slightest, and Zen-kitty morphed into Thrashabout-kitty. Although she managed to clip a few small clumps from between my toes, I'm pleased to note that Thrashabout-kitty prevailed and I was set free. I shall file that little nugget away for future use.
Annoyingly, I now suffer the ignominy of being called "Stinkfoot" by my humans. How rude!
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