Repost, Glorious Repost.

A repost: for your reading pleasure and my tenuous grasp on sanity.  From wayyyy back in 2015, I bring you an ode to my furry darlings.  Thanks for your patience (and continued support!)

International Cat Day – August 13, 2015

Several weeks ago, the world as we know it celebrated International Cat Day, a global celebration of our feline buddies.

While I was able to restrain myself from planning a parade or costumed ball, I thought I’d at least write a special post.

I currently don’t have much of a life outside of work, but I do have an overly-large collection of semi-“squee !!!” inducing photos of my hairy kids clogging the memory on my phone and some random thoughts on the cat psyche.

Voila. I’d rock out a tidy post and clear some photos from my phone cache at the same time.

(Do note that there’s a “Psych!” in the term “cat psyche” and it most likely won’t be coming from my mouth.)

And then…Saturday got away from me, as things tend to be doing a lot of lately, and the magical opportunity to laud my kitties passed.

::sigh::

Until I was forcefully reminded this evening by a 15-lb orange and white furby repeatedly head-butting his full body weight into my ankles…

::Ahem:: Pay attention to me. Now.

::Ahem:: Pay attention to me. Now.

that OHMIGOD, every day is International Cat Day in our house.

So in honor of the four-legged children of my heart, I would like to share some…hmmm…let’s call them “introspections,” that have recently come to me (with conveniently corroborating photos.)

This is the face of a cat. This is not the face of an innocent cat. There is no such thing.

This is the face of a cat. This is not the face of an innocent cat. There is no such thing.

Ditto

Ditto

I have learned that breakfast is not just the most important meal, but it is the most important thing.  Ever.  In the whole, wide world.  Breakfast in itself is so powerful a thing that it erases the memory of every other good thing that has ever happened in the history of time including dinner the night before (and all the breakfasts and dinners in the past) AND IS THE ONLY THING STANDING BETWEEN CIVILIZATION AND THE FORCES OF EVIL, GOD HELP US, WOMAN, OPEN THE DAMN CAN!!!

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I have learned that the act of eating breakfast is so exhaustive, it throws one immediately into a twenty-hour slumber.

I own a 1300-square foot, two-story loft.  I can’t move an inch without tripping over a cat.

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However, when the vacuum cleaner makes an appearance, I couldn’t round up a cat with a hooker and a stack of hundred dollar bills.

I want to know: is it really necessary to run ahead of me to the bathroom, especially in the middle of the night, bellowing the kitty version of “All’s Clear!”?

Make way, make way!

Make way, make way!

I’ve learned that not only do they watch TV when they think I’m not around…

Surfing, really?

Surfing, really?

But they watch really weird stuff.  With great absorption.

I draw the line at buying him a surfboard. Or little surf shorts. Or flip flops.

I draw the line at buying him a surfboard. Or little surf shorts. Or flip flops.

And they sit way too damn close to the TV.

You know if you sit that close, you'll put your eyes out.

You’ll put your eyes out.

If there’s an empty box, bag or handbag…

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There’s a cat to fill it.

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But they are always the best present.

As I’m sitting here writing, I have two warm, snugly little sweethearts curled up against me, grumbling slightly when I inconvenience them by shifting under their persistent burrowing, but fairly intent on deafening me with purrs.

And love.

So here’s to International Cat Day.  Today and every day.

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And to Keegan and Brodie, furkids extraordinaire, for being made of awesome.

Cat Rules 101 – Rule 32: Nocturnal Noises

Rule 32 of the Cat Rules 101 Compendium regards Nocturnal Noises.

Quite simply, Cats are never responsible for them.

Shortly after going to bed one night, I was woken by a really loud noise.

It sounded like someone had “cow-tipped” a 300-lb. rat, and the big fat rat was desperately scrambling, with its giant scratchy ratty toenails, to right itself on the hardwood floors. It fell. It scrambled. It scratched. It took out a lamp. It fell again. Scratchie, scratchie, scramble, scramble.

I sat up terrified. Burglars?  Thieves breaking into the house?  David grumbled something in his sleep that sounded like “Fracklefarklefrack. Cats.”

I grabbed my glasses and squinted through the darkness. Cats, yeah, for sure; where are the cats?

Brodie, typically the first against the wall in a shenanigan revolution, was fast asleep at the end of the bed. Well, was fast asleep. He cracked an eye open by a slit, like, “Awww, Ma. I’m sleepin.”

I peered through the gloom for Keegan, who should have been curled up on the other corner of the bed.

Keegan, the good cat, who never misbehaves or causes trouble. Keegan, the quiet, dignified cat.

No Keegan.

Giant rat falls over again. Louder. Thump. Scramble, scramble. Scratchie, scritchie, scramble.

“Keegan?” I whisper.

Silence.

“Keegan??” Louder.

Thump. Scratchie. Scrible. Scramble.

I crept downstairs, based on the noise, expecting a scene of tsunami-like destruction. At the least, the kind of damage that a 300-lb rat would inflict on a living room after consistently falling over and scrambling to right itself.

I turned on the light.

No flipped over furniture. No tossed cabinets. Not even a beat-up, discombobulated rat. Simply a small, slightly-chubby, orange and white cat. A cat calmly sitting in the middle of the floor. A cat looking up at me with the most innocent expression I may have ever seen on the face of a small, slightly-chubby orange and white cat. Nothing dumped over. No chaos. No calamity. I swear to God he smothered a yawn with one immaculate paw.

“Keegan! Jeeezuuusss. We’re sleeping!”

He started to lick his butt.

Shaking my head, I climbed the stairs, crawled back into bed and drifted back into sleep.

Minutes/hours pass.

WHOMP! SCRAMBLE! SCRITCHIESCRITCHIESCRAMBLE!

I leapt from bed, ran down the stairs and peered again into the gloom. Dear God, what is up with the racket!!!

I turned on the light.

“WTF? Keegan!”

What was he doing to make all that noise? Juggling with power tools? Rollerskating in circles? Re-arranging the furniture? Sliding down the hallway on just his claws? What the hell was he trying to do, drive me completely insane?

Frustrated, I stormed down the stairs, swooped him up and carried him to the couch. Shaking my finger in his furry face, I explained to him that it was sleepy time and that meant for ALL of us. I pointed to the corner of the couch.

“Go! Sleep!”

Keegan looked suitably chastised. He curled up on the assigned cushion.

I went back upstairs and back to bed.

Time passed.

Thump. Scratchie. Scrible. Scramble.

At this point, I was getting really angry. I don’t usually lose my temper with the cats, but I was exhausted and this was ridiculous. Some sick feline game. Well, in theory, I was Mom. Breadwinner. Possessor of thumbs.  Opener of cat food cans. Certainly due some form of respect and obedience.

“Keegan!” I hissed, into the blackness.

Thump. Scratchie. Scrible. Scramble.

Wearily, I drug myself to the stairs. I flipped the wall switch and the stairwell filled with light.

“That’s it, you furry little bastard.” I snarled. “It’s seriously sleepy time now. No more of that.” I snatched him up and dumped him on the foot of the bed.

David groaned in his sleep and pulled the covers over his head.

“Keegan! Stay there. Sleep. Now.”

Keegan obliged and I climbed back into bed. Finally, I think. He’s finally tired, too. I’ve won.

I felt fairly smug, in all that silence, so eventually I drifted off to sleep.

WHOMP! SCRAMBLE!

Furious, I scrambled out of bed only to find Keegan sleeping peacefully on David’s feet.

I looked over the rail.

The darkness was very quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

I slowly walked down the stairs.

Quiet.

Wait a minute. Where was Brodie?

Scritch.

I turned on the light.

It dawned on me then, they’re working in shifts. I’m outsmarted and outnumbered.

A cat will do what it wants when it wants, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.

Frank Perkins

Cat Rules 101: Rule 118: To Scratch or Not to Scratch

Rule 118 – The desirability of the item intended for the scratching pleasures of the feline  is proportionately related to the expense of the item being scratched unless, of course, the item is designed to be scratched.  Or, furniture.

Once upon a time, way back when the earth was green and there were dinosaurs, I purchased a scratching post.

And not any ordinary scratching post.  The love for my feline masters was so great that I sacrificed my weekly grocery budget (not theirs) and bought them this lovely $75 (seventy-five dollar) scratching post.  I’ve had car repairs and medical procedures that were less expensive.

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Please note that the fuzzy things on the sides of the Luxury (24k solid gold core) $75 Scratching Post are not, in fact, tuffs of fur, battle scars of well-earned active usage.

They’re cobwebs.

There are a few other things my enlightened felines will scratch, most notably the few nice pieces of furniture that I have.  Oh, and the inserts to other scratching devices.  But not while they are actually installed in said other scratching device.

IMAG2587They prefer them à la carte.

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It recently occurred to me that perhaps they just didn’t realize how awesome this deluxe scratching post was, since it had been largely ignored since its arrival. On a whim I purchased a bottle of “miracle” Kong Naturals Catnip Spray from an enthusiastic clerk at Petsmart, who assured me the the “highly ethical” spraying of feline crack cocaine all over the post would be just the ticket to lure them to target. There, finally exposed to the overlooked sisal splendors and cushy carpeting, they would pluck to heart’s content, sparing my furniture and door posts.

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Response immediately after light spraying of Kong Naturals Catnip Spray.

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Response 10 minutes after saturating scratching post with entire bottle of Kong Naturals Catnip Spray.

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To get further away, he’d have to leave the room entirely but the early afternoon nap relocation wasn’t scheduled for another 45 minutes, and that of course, would not be a wise conservation of energy.

Energy that he could use later.

To scratch the furniture.

When my cats aren’t happy, I’m not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they’re just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.
 – Percy Bysshe Shelley