Conversations with my cat…

First of all, we have to believe that Misty Blue, heretofor known as “Cat”, had to be born on the University of California at Berkeley campus.  That’s where the center of the social protests began in the late fifties, early sixties. She is an expert protester and her favorite form is the passive lay-in. Or is it lie-in?  Whatever…

She will intentionally lay down in the middle of human traffic, inside the mansion and refuse to get out of the way. She actually tripped my wife, late in her MS battle.  I do not kick animals.  I have however, been known to ease my foot under her body and propel her to the side with enough effort to lift and replace her about three feet away.  Most of the time, she just looks around, blinks a few times, yawns,  and (imagine “Thought Balloons” appearing over her head), “WTF just happened?” then she’ll probably put her head on the floor and go back to what she does best.  Close her eyes and conserve calories.

Wait. Did U say Food?I can’t count the times I’ve asked her to do the dishes.  She refuses.  Just lays there and stares at me aloofly.  Or I can talk to her about what needs to be done around the mansion.  She’ doesn’t seem to care.  She won’t volunteer to do anything.  She’ll lift her head, yawn, and go back to calorie-caching.  When she steps out of the cat box, I have asked her to do a simple little thing for me, like shake her feet and wipe them off on the towel provided just for that purpose. She’ll TB me, “What’s the point?  They’ll just get KL on them next time.”  Have you ever stepped barefoot on a couple of grains of kitty litter (KL) on a hard floor?

For something smaller than a sixteenth of an inch across, those little suckers sure hurt the bottom of shower-tenderized feet. And to top that off, she’ll leave the bathroom (where else would you put the cat’s potty?) and jump right onto the bed.  So we have grains of KL infused in the cover.  I have drawn the line on her attempts to get on the sheets.  One time she TBed me, “What?  You expect me to sleep on a blanket with KL in it?”

Cat likes to go outside and explore, of course.  She’s a big cat, probably the biggest in the enclosed complex. She eats like a bird … (no no, she doesn’t eat a bird, she eats like a bird… and not a vulture, either).  Shes 19 pounds, and gets a third of a cup of dry food in the AM, maybe a tablespoon more in the afternoon when I have my snack, and a single pouch of Whiskas cat food in the evening, right at happy hour. When we got her she weighed 20 pounds.  So she’s lost a whole pound in a fifteen-month period.

When K was alive, we grounded Cat for a few months because she was spending more and more time out.  When she didn’t come home until after dark, she was locked in.  Being inside for several months during the winter didn’t make any difference, weight-wise.  So I don’t think she was cadging meals off a neighbor.  But who knows? Again, she is mum on the issue.

We have a friend who has a cat just as big.  She says the breed, an English Shorthair, is a big breed.  Supposedly predominantly black and white with an identifying white tail-tip.  She has a white tail tip.  She’s black and white.  She has a little dark rust color in her black section, especially on the top of her head.  Doesn’t matter that she TBs, “But I’ve got big bones.”  In her case, the calorie conservation has worked conspicuously well.

One of the good things about having a Bobcat-sized feline is that people with small apartment dogs, lthose annoying iittle tiny yappers, go to the other side of the street when she’s out.  Specially if I’m wearing my “My cat eats small dogs” t-shirt.  Makes cat proud when I wear it.

How do I know?  She lays down in the middle of the mansion and smirks when she sleepsconserves calories.


As seen on TV

A currently running commercial on television says, “No one ever takes the second biggest cookie.”  Whoever wrote that stupid line never considered wives or mothers.  I cannot count the number of times  my wife or I would bring out a cookie for ourself and one for the other person.   Invariably, if I went into the kitchen and came out with and offered her a choice of two cookies, she would take the smaller of the two.  I knew she would, she knew she would, but I never didn’t offer her first choice.  Or there’s two cookies left in the cookie jar.  She would always give whatever child was in the kitchen the bigger one. So to the writer of that like.  Apologize to your Mama!

54 vb  (My cat typed that getting off my lap.I don’t know what it means.Maybe it’s cat code.)

If you had asked me six months ago, I would have said I was  dog person.  Dogs do things.  They run after anything that’s been propelled from it’s human companions hand.  They follow commands from their owners.  Roll over.  Fetch. Help the blind.  Guard military stuff. Capture crooks. Find drugs. They do all this so they can play with a squeaky toy. Dogs have no sense of worth.   There are thousands of names for dogs, unless they’re bird hunting dogs.  They they all have the same name. “No, over there. you Dummy!”

Cats are far too aloof for this kind of behavior.  My cat will come when I call her, but at her leisure  Other than being fastidious, she has no other attributes. Cats don’t do tricks.  No guard duty, no picking up dead wet birds in a cold miserable marsh.  They’ll play with a squeaky toy, but they ain’t gonna work all day for the honor.  Most of the time, cats practice killing things. Like squeaky toys, shadows, lasers, etc. My cat is welcome because she is something I can talk to.  If I talk to a dog, the critter’s butt, hindquarters and tail go into an uncontrolled high speed mayhem setting, knocking kids down, rapping adult’s shins, sweeping everything off the coffee table.  His tongue comes out, slopping dog spit all over everything.  A dog does not know the meaning of the word halitosis. They think you’re inviting them to become a human, on the couch, and they have a difficult time distinguishing between you and said couch.

But if you talk to a cat, she’ll look at you with the expression that says, “Do you really think I can understand any of the noises coming out of your mouth except the names for meals?  I also understand ‘Get down’, something that stoopid dog doesn’t.”  When I talk to my cat though, even with her superior attitude, it helps me to remember the mechanics of talking.  When to move my jaw up and down, what to do with my tongue, you know, that kind of talky stuff. What I say to her doesn’t matter, but it seems to make more sense to me that I’m talking to a quiet adult cat, instead of a wiggily, bouncy, utterly immature canine..

Maybe that’s the difference.  Cats grow up, Dogs don’t.