Cat Rules 101 – Rule 25: Holiday Decorations

Regarding Cat Rule 25: Holiday Decorations

All holiday trimmings must be approved by The Decor Committee.

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Their decision, once made, is absolute.

Cats don’t like change without their consent.

– Roger Caras

 

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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

Cat Rules 101: Rule 71 – Staff Vacations

Rule 71 of the Cat Rules Compendium 101, addresses the issue of Staff Vacations.

Quite simply: the cat must not allow them.

The feline is to be constantly mindful that servitude is the greatest possible honor for the two-legged and is known by all to be a lifetime, 24/7/365 commitment. Humans should not be encouraged to “relax,” “vacation,” or “take time off,” since people training is typically challenging enough for even the most patient Cat Master and indulging lax behavior will undoubtedly take its toll on the cat’s hard-earned comfort.  Quite simply, there must be NO days off for staff.  Period.

Corollary 1 of Rule 71:  Disciplinary Action

While unpleasant, this is vital. Remember, spare the claw, spoil the human.

Should the disastrous happen, and the help fail to show for a mandated dinner service or affection shift, regardless of any “replacement staff” sent in their stead, the feline’s reaction must be swift and merciless to discipline the errant employee.

Upon the human’s return from any ungranted “leave,” the cat must immediately show his contempt for their irresponsibility.  The cat should shun any attempt to apologize or make up: they should not speak or display the slightest fondness or attention to the human.  This may be difficult as the employee, fearing job security, will likely abase themselves and grovel in an endearing fashion.

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(Note, if there is more than one Cat Master in the home, it is imperative they present a united front or the crafty human will attempt to circumvent behavioral correction by “dividing and conquering.”  Cats must stand united: weakness cannot be allowed.)

Should the staff member fail in their “retraining” and by their actions indicate a future unexcused absence, such as taking out a suitcase or folding clothing into piles, the feline must take extreme measures and cut off ALL freedom and privilege.

While tiresome and inconvenient for the Cat Master, this is the only way to properly discipline the servant and prevent future abandonment of their post.  The feline must rescind any personal privacy previously extended and relentlessly monitor the human’s every move.

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This “invasion” of the human’s “privacy” includes the human’s litter box time or instances when they exhibit their bizarre fascination for standing in the nasty rain closet, both exertions in which the human, apparently out of shame for their baldness, prefers to mask in secrecy.

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The human must be reminded that the cat is the one in control and freedom, once granted, may be taken back if the human has proven an unworthy steward.

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As a most drastic measure, the cat may even physically restrain the human with their body.

These actions, while extreme, are required if the feline is to maintain the God-granted superiority between the species and insure the continued comfort and luxury of their lifestyle. While it may be deemed by some as harsh, if done in a true spirit of education and enlightenment, without anger or resentment, it is truly a kindness and enacted in the best interests of the human.

He may live; but he can live only as the servant of others; compelled to perform such labor, and to perform it at such prices, as they may see fit to dictate.

Cat Rules 101: Rule 1

Please note: this is the Master Rule, the Rule that Must Not Be Broken.

Rule 1 is to be noted and retained to memory completely and as follows: 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 the anticipation of breakfast 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 IN PARTICULAR IT SHOULD BE KNOWN THAT BREAKFAST IS THE ONLY THING STANDING BETWEEN CIVILIZATION AND THE FORCES OF EVIL, GOD HELP US, WOMAN, OPEN THE DAMN CAN!!!

img_0568“One should not attend even the end of the world without a good breakfast.”
Robert A. Heinlein, Friday

Food and Memories

This past week spent with my family brought back so many wonderful memories of years past, and especially had me thinking of times when my Granny was still with us.  I’m going to phone it in today with a re-post of a tribute I wrote a couple of years ago to her and her wonderful cooking.

From April 7, 2015 –

I still crave my grandmother’s cooking, although she’s been gone now for more than 15 years.

My Granny

She wasn’t a “chef,” or a fancy cook, but she prepared delicious, abundant meals and she poured her love for her family into every casserole and every slice of cornbread. I think because she and my granddaddy had lived through the Depression, when times were so hard and food was scarce, it was important for her afterwards to make a feast of every family meal.

Sunday dinner at my Granny’s was a momentous occasion. (And Sunday dinner means lunch, by the way. In the old South, “supper” is the evening meal.)

She started cooking for Sunday on Saturday morning.

She always had two or three meats (ham, a beef roast, fried chicken, fried catfish or country-fried steak with white gravy) along with one or two types of potatoes (mashed with gravy/sweet potato casserole/potato salad), a vegetable medley casserole, macaroni and cheese, black-eyed peas, fried summer squash, fried sweet corn, green beans, slow cooked turnip greens with fatback, fresh sliced tomatoes in the Summer and fried green tomatoes in the Spring, and my all-time favorite, cornmeal–battered okra (the super crispy, slightly burned pieces are the best).

Hushpuppies, fresh-baked cornbread, yeast rolls and biscuits to sop up the gravy, or to slather with butter and her homemade plum jelly. Coconut cake, banana pudding, pecan pie, strawberry shortcake and peach cobbler would satisfy your sweet tooth (should you have any energy left to open your mouth.)

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I have dined at some of the finest restaurants in this country. I’d trade every one of those meals for one more chance to sit at her table.

Of course, she never sat at her own table. She bustled throughout the entire meal, filling up glasses with iced tea and water, fetching a fresh batch of biscuits from the oven, replenishing the chow-chow. After everyone else had stuffed themselves senseless, and the table was cleared, she might stop a moment for a small plate for herself.

She was always urging you to eat more. “But your plate is empty!” she’d wail.

Biscuits, butter and jelly

Bulging eyes, tightening belts, groaning tummies and protests of being “full as a tick” had no impact: She’d just sniff and mourn that “you must not have liked it.”

Jewish grandmas got nothing on Southern grannies for food and guilt.

There are days when I yearn for for the food of my childhood.

Her food.

I’ll pick up squash and fresh tomatoes from the farmer’s market. I even bake biscuits. I have the technology, recipes and equations that should make them taste the same, but they never do.

Southern food is au courant. Farm-to-table is all the rage. You can spend a fortune on something called “soul food” in trendy restaurants in New York, Chicago and L.A.

The true soul of Southern food isn’t just grits and greens, though; it’s the passion that goes into making them.

It’s the time and care in the cooking, the bond of the family at table; the joy of generations sharing stories and sustenance, passing down the memories along with the recipes.

It’s my Granny, piling up my plate not just with food, but with her love.

“We believed in our grandmother’s cooking more fervently than we believed in God.” ― Jonathan Safran Foer