How Bobcat can go from this docile and sweet static creature. . .
Bobcat, sometimes people feel like that too. Don't worry, it'll get better, not all men cats are like him.
This is Bobcat's morning face. . .
Recently, there was a terrifically lame attempt at banning cats from the internet for a day. Now, this pisses me off for several reasons:
A. I love cats and have three of my own.
B. The official date of this pathetic exercise is in September which shares the month with another idiotic celebration called International Talk Like a Pirate Day and that fabulous day known as my birth on the 19th.
C. Let's face it, cats rule the planet and there is nothing we can we about it.
So, in the face of all this anti-cattiness on the internet, I am striking back with the following:
and lastly. . .
see more Lolcats and funny pictures
What is the only thing better than a circus?
Do-do-do-do
Do-do-do
Do-do-do-do
Do! Do-do-do-do-do. . .
A cat circus, that's what!
I demand, with all respect, approbation and intemperance, that Wildcat, hereafter known as Exhibit X, obey, transfix, adhere to, concur and comply with all laws, jurisprudence, acts, decrees, charters, forms, commandments, covenants, stipulations and ordinances afforded me under the declaration of the 2009 sui generis Sovereignty Accord of Black Kitty.
Let it be known to all cat, kitten, kitty, pussy, pussy cat, feline, mouser, and tom, that Exhibit X refuses to afford me the rights granted to me under the above referenced declaration. Exhibit X has continually avoided compliance with the tenets of this accord as follows:
Throughout my entire life, with a handful of exceptions, I've always had a cat. Or two. Or three.
I can name all of them.
Chouca, Meo, Angel, Varmit, Sammy, Kitty Witty, Butch, Kit, Cat, Boo Boo, The Guy, Momma Kitty, Ché Boludo, Bobcat, Black Kitty and finally, Wildcat.
Each of them had a unique personality. Like Meo. She was a big, fat Siamese momma kitty and when I was a kid during a moment of great distress and began crying, like the time I tried to "adjust" my cowlicks with the scissors but ended up mowing my bangs down to the skull, she curled up in my lap and purred her little heart out. A mother first, a cat second.
Or Butch. A female Calico, who was run over by a car and managed to pull herself from the driveway with her two front paws around the corner of the house and through the open back door, suffering from a broken pelvis and the ball of her leg/hip joint snapped off. Once rewired by my godfather, Dr. Johnson, she lived a happy 13 years, "butching" around on her bum leg catching birds and mice.
Or Sammy. A gray and white American Shorthair who grew to a fiercesome 17 pounds of ass-kicker. Just ask the dopey Golden Retriever from down the street who would come to our yard with his personal tennis ball for a game of catch every now and then. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it, but Sammy whipped his butt and took his ball too.
Now I have Wildcat.
He just showed out of the blue one day. Like Bobcat and Black Kitty, great wandering felines who simply happened upon the right doorstep.
I named him Wildcat because the night he arrived, he had Black Kitty cornered on the front porch and was putting on a spectacle of cat intimidation that even real wild cats could've learned from. His body was twisted and contorted to such degree and his vocal emanations so loud and chilling that if I were a cat, I would have not had any second thoughts about getting away from such insanity.
The racket was loud and scary enough to roust me from my bed at 11:30 at night. I stepped outside to see what was going on and in the split second that I opened the door, Wildcat barged inside and made himself a feast out of the community food bowl. Right at home, whether I liked it or not.
Since then, he has become a part of the great cat family. Always rambunctious and never knowing when to quit, he is always on the lookout for something to do. Like, taking a giant leap from the floor to the bed and scrambling across my face at 700 miles per hour at 3 o'clock in the morning. Leaving me as a total, discombobulated wreck. Or diving under the covers as I seek safety to bite me on the ankle or toe. Or even launching himself onto the screen of the window from outside when he wants to come in.
Bobcat, Little Ms. Fussbudget, has learned to temper his aggressiveness with some scowling and guttural growls. Wildcat learned early on about Bobcat's razor sharp claws (we all have scars), yet this does not stop him fron an ocassional moment of bothering. Like plopping down just close enough to irritate, but slightly out of the danger zone from a quick swipe.
But Black Kitty on the other hand, still hasn't come up with a worthy defense. He, the perennial loner and lover of all things, has taken to slithering under the couch for a kitty nap or curling up inside the cat condo that no one else has anything to do with. Although, Black Kitty has learned that if a chase ensues, simply by stopping and spinning around with a hiss will halt all Wildcat pursuit. Hey, if it ain't running, I guess I don't want to eat it. Or harass it.
RETREAT!!!!
Yet, episodes such as this will never stop the intrepid Wildcat. He's always on the lookout for something to do. He is an adolescent after all and has much to learn. And of lot of that learning I fear, will be the hard way.
Take for instance, giant birds. They look tasty enough and maybe they'll run too!
Look good to eat from a distance.
On second thought though. . .
Where is Black Kitty? I think I'll just harangue him instead. . .
To understand what goes through the golf-ball sized brain of a cat would take a room full of Cray supercomputers, but then again, supercomputers don't speak kitty.
Bobcat, fed up with the interloper, launched an all-out, frontal assault on Wildcat at this morning's breakfast prayer meeting. Black Kitty, as nervous and on edge as ever, imploded as he scrambled for the door making his way around the flying Meow Mix and cat fur. I think he even got a few punches in on the way by just for fairness.
I guess it's time to seize the day and the cat carry cage thing and haul ol' thundernuts off to Doc Randall.
Ironically, as I was hurling the hissing, snarling beasts out the door, one of them landed a claw on me. And out of the whole bizarre exercise, I'm the only one left bleeding. Damn cats.
And people want to keep chimps as pets??
Well before Wildcat's arrival, when it got really cold about a month ago, I put an electric blanket out in the dog cat house. Well, since Wildcat thinks he is top dog cat now, he immediately took over the dog cat house blanket. Since then, Black Kitty, who sadly, much prefers to be a majority-time outdoor kitty cat, has pulled a major head fake and sneaks in there to claim his ground when Wildcat is not looking.
What this has lead to is a nanny-nanny-boo-boo politicking between the two outside cats. A first come-first serve competition, in which the winning cat gets the warmth and protection of the blanket and house, while the loser squats on the ten square inches of blanket that protrudes from the front of the dog cat house. Only inches apart, they tolerate one another throughout the night, if only for the toastiness of the electric blanket.
This has been working out fairly well until last night when both cats were surprised to find a new housemate took over the abode. And I'm guessing that it must be Mr. Baggins, Jr.
What will they do now?
. . .is always wild.
A bizarre and horrific story out of Connecticut and the reason why humans need to understand, animals are animals, not cutesy little things we project our human attributes upon. Even my cats, as domesticated as they are, will turn into buzzsaws of screeching death when they feel fear. Just ask the gals at my vet's office.
Last night it rained over two inches under the explosions of big thunderstorms and it appears that it's too wet for gardening today. But after being cooped up for days with a cold, I decided to get out and about Camp Burning Toast to see what happening anyway.
With cats in tow. . .
I slogged around the pond through the sloppy mud and grass to find a dead turtle. Can turtles drown? He's an old guy, so I suspect that it was just his time to go. Before we arrived, a vulture was having a feast.
Bobcat was cautious.
And Wildcat seemed uninterested as he dried his paws on the back of my shirt.
We observed the excess water as is babbled from the pond and down into the creek system through the back 40.
But a little running water is nothing for young felines.
Bobcat will never be outdone by the new cat, an interloper in the standard of her kitty brain.
Wildcat had to one-up her though, as he checked out the bluebird house. Sorry Wildcat, it's a little early for the bluebirds. Give it another month.
Well, all seems well and good. I guess I didn't miss much in my Nyquil-induced hibernation. Sure can't wait to do some fishing though! I think it'll be a good year. Another 13 pound bass this year? Maybe, just maybe.
Ambient Temperature: 64°
Soil Temperature: 54°
Time: 10:30 a.m.
Date: February 12, 2008
I couldn't stand it. I had to cast of the chains of illness and go have a walk around the garden.
The ant mounds I treated last week appear to be abandoned except for the giant one in the compost pile. I poked it with a stick and ants appeared, but not thousands of them as before. My chemical warfare is working.
The potatoes that Beatrice and I planted a couple of weeks ago have not come up yet, but just to make sure, I dug down and found happy little potato nuggets setting beautiful roots, so it's just a matter of time before the tops breach the good earth. The soil is still a little chilly and is prohibiting speedy growth.
In the meantime, I will have to accept the fact that the only joy I will receive from gardening right now will be watching the seeds we planted sprout up inside the house.
We planted three varieties of tomato: Brandywine, Big Boy Hybrid, and yellow Jubilee. Also, jalapeno, cucumber (burpless), white creamer peas, purple hull peas, moon and stars watermelon and last but not least, an oddity in the plant world, Lunaria annua, aka "money plant" or "Honesty." Named so, because of the flat, silvery seed pods that resemble coins.
I just caught something out of the corner of my eye and thought it was the biggest squirrel I have ever seen. Turns out it was Wildcat chasing Bobcat up a pine tree.
Now get down from there!
And you. You're a BAD kitty!!
Ambient Temperature: 29°
Soil Temperature: 39°
Time: 5:30 a.m.
Date: February 3, 2008
Well, Puxatawny Phil, thanks for your glorious spring outlook you dirty little wombat!
The garden is coming back to life, whether it wants to or not. Someone, namely me, has the fever and it is an illness with no cure. My thumbs are already turning green after a long winter sleep.
Beatrice and I spent the weekend with an all-out assault on the weeds, brambles, scrub bushes and fire ants which took over the garden last summer. Most everything is dead, which facilitates easy removal, although the ants are alive and well. Especially the giant mound in raised bed number 7, which served as last years compost pile. WE MUST RETAKE THE COMPOST PILE!
Beatrice led the charge on the riding lawn mower, which was recently repaired for a dollar to a dime.
The damn field mice made off with half of a wiring harness that controls the ignition and fuel pump. God only knows what these mice do with the plastic coating. Maybe you can enlighten us Mr. Greasywrench on the propensity of small rodents who shred the sheathing off electrical wires.
I spent the afternoon turning dirt, folding in composted manure and lime and pulling out those dastardly weed things that the stinkbugs love so much. And I poked around in an abandonded ant bed or two ensuring that no one was home before I turned the dirt over. You really don't want to stir these ants up because they don't call them fire ants for nothing.
In bed #2, we planted a row of red potatoes, which after a week of living in the warmth of the kitchen, had sprouted eyes and were looking for a new place to call home. Bed #2 seemed like a prime candidate, so we cut the potatoes down, isolating the budding eyes, leaving behind enough potato to form a root mass and planted about a dozen of them down the middle of the row. If they survive the next couple weeks of cold weather, we should have a deluge of red taters by mid to late spring.
In other news. . .
Camp Burning Toast is much like the United Nations rotating Security Council presidency, we have a rotating parliamentary body in the form of animals. The last seat was vacated by a skinny black dog, who had apparently escaped from some form of bondage and spent about a month with us before departing into the great unknown. Friday night, I heard cats howling outside and found Black Kitty all bowed up and ready for a fight in a face off with another cat. I stepped outside assuming that my mere presence might scare away the intruding cat. Buddy, I was flat wrong.
In my lifetime, I've raised an army of cats and I know, understand, and can emulate perfectly cat behaviour, body language, calls, and let me tell you, this skinny little beast, had you heard him in the woods in the dead of night, would have scared the skin right off your body. He knew how to curl his body up into the oddest, and probably for another cat, most frightening contortions ever seen, and when I breached to doorway of the porch, he paid no attention to me. Black Kitty, who is a lover not a fighter, and who would throw himself in front of the mouth of past body president Black Puppy only for the affection of a few licks, did not know what to think of this feral animal.
I tried my best to intervene in the situation which resulted in both cats charging into the house at the same time. Black Kitty scared to death (he's a nervous cat anyway) and the new cat quite comfortable in his new surroundings. So, I guess we have a new cat and of course he has the curse of big furry cat balls leading me to predict a trip to the vet in the near future.
Everyone? Meet Wildcat.
He's not too fond of the other cats obviously, but he's a juvenile and removal of his manhood should reduce the incidences of cat on cat violence. In the meantime, Black Kitty will just have to toughen up and Bobcat, well she has razor blades for claws and knows how to use them.
Anyway, I like my new kitty. He's got spunk, ain't afraid of shit, including the lawn mower, and well, just seems like my kinda guy.
Might have to stock up on Heineken though.
Black Kitty - 3
Cutesy Veterinarian Helpers - 0
I'll put it to you this way, human skin is no match for a terrified, buzzsaw cat.
Black Kitty's surgery went off without a hitch, almost. He managed to mangle two of the girls at the vet's office, but he seems no worse for wear after the whole ordeal. The frowning women of the doctor's office on the other hand. . .
Last night when we arrived home, I let him out of the cage and he stumbled and bumbled around, obviously still under the influence of some narcotic, the lucky bastard. I let him outside, whereabouts he tore into some food, alternating between two bites of food, 20 to 30 laps of water and several episodes of just staring off into space. Must have been some good dope. All of this was followed by insatiable scrotum-licking sessions lasting 5 to 6 minutes. Then, in an instant, he disappeared.
This morning, he was there, purring up a storm in the early fog. And happily munching away on his food.
Good kitty. Everything's gonna be alright.
Next obstacle?
Moving into Bobcat's house.
Cats are incredible creatures. Intelligent, sneaky, affectionate and sometimes a downright pain in the butt. The black cat above, Black Kitty, is no exception. He greets me every morning with purrs and guttural meows, crashing his thick head into my ankles for a rub. Today was his big day or at least it was supposed to be.
See, he just showed up one day. Completely feral, untouched and untouchable. I guess he's been living around the house now for almost 9 or 10 months and it's just been in the last couple that he has allowed anyone to touch him. He is the lap cat of all lap cats now with a complete and full undertanding of the power of the human hand.
And much to the chagrin of Bobcat. . .
. . .I'd like for Black Kitty to become a part-time inside cat like Bobcat is. Only one problem: big, furry, cat balls.
For those of you who've never owned a cat, let alone a male cat, let me explain. Big, furry, cat balls lead to one thing and one thing only, well two things, but thankfully Bobcat is fixed.
Big, furry, cat balls lead to spraying, the instinctual marking of territory by the male. It's not a big deal when it's on a bush or the hedges, it's another when he splatters your couch. It doesn't stink in the normal sense of the word. It's stink like the stink has been distilled, refined, pressurize under the graviational pull of Jupiter, ionized, ozonated, concentrated, fermented, agitated and just for good measure, if you could piss off stink, this is what pissed off stink would smell like.
In a word, bad.
So today, Black Kitty was going to the vet for big, furry, cat ball removal surgery.
I bought a brand new pet carrier and everything. I had it all planned out, except for one thing. Cat intuition.
This is the first morning in months that Black Kitty has not been on the porch waiting for me. I suspect that he knew, he somehow understood that his big, furry, cat balls were hanging in the balance. Bastard!
I'll get you and your big, furry, cat balls tomorrow buddy!
Cats are amazing creatures and never cease to amaze me with odd behaviors and doings. Curious, agile, affectionate and independent are a few likable qualities you can find in your feline friend. And if there is one thing cats do better than any animal, it's getting comfortable while they sleep.
Bobcat is no exception. And if there were cat-sleeping Olympic events, she'd be a sure-fire gold medal winner.
Although sometimes, I think she's just an attention hound.
Funny!!!!!!
Thanks LawDog.
Bobcat loves to be scratched right there.
Some of you may not know this but cats have scent glands in the sides of their heads, not to mention many other places in the feline body. Most of them have a little hair or two protruding from these facial glands. So, the next time your cat is rubbing up against your leg or your cabinet door for that matter, he or she isn't saying they love you. They are saying, "My property! Other kitties? Hands off!!!
Well honestly, they probably do love you. You feed them, why wouldn't they??
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