They're fricking huge, in the refrigerator, and I want them!
I mean, these things are beautiful. They must have 20 of them, all bigger than one of my forepaws. All pink and pretty, and surely very juicy. They have to be for me. Right? Right???
I've been asking for at least one since 7:30 this morning, but will anyone bother?
Something unusual. The People stayed home all day yesterday. That never happens; someone always disappears for a little while, but they were there all day yesterday, and spent a decent amount of time entertaining me. And food! The Woman cooked for me again, just like she did about a month ago.
They started early in the morning (well, early for them, it was kind of late for me.) The Woman got up and fed me (perfectly stinky stuff, very gratifying) and read the paper for a little while, and then the Man came home from where ever it is he goes most days and some nights. Once he was there the Younger Humans came downstairs and they started digging around in these freakishly huge socks that have been hanging on the wall—the dang things were stuffed with goodies, even new toys for me. While they did that the Woman had stuff in the oven for their breakfast—of which I got nothing, and it smelled pretty good, too.
Then the fun started. They’ve had all these shiny boxes under the tree I am not allowed to climb for a couple of weeks now. It was pretty and all, but they were getting in my way…well, yesterday morning they started handing the shiny boxes to each other and ripped the coverings off. That was wicked awesome—they balled up the coverings and threw them across the room for me, so I could chase them and leap over the chairs and stuff.
And then there were boxes! Most of them were too small for me to climb in, but I at least gave it a shot. At one point I think they had six boxes on the floor for me. The last box was really big; the Younger Human, the one with all the hair all over his head and face, opened it up and took its innards out for me, and that was a blast to climb in. It was still had some balled up newspaper in it, all the better to dig around in.
It was quiet for a while after that, but then the aroma started settling in the air. She was doing it, she was making me another turkey! And those slimy noodles! Really, the only thing missing was something fishy, but I’ve heard her say she doesn’t “do” fish. Phfft. I like her, but she does have a serious personality defect. Who doesn’t want fish???
It was a busy day all around, what with all the paper and boxes I had to play with, and later on the hairy Younger One and his Better Smelling Friend helped me play with my new toys. I was so tired I forgot to get up at 3:30 this morning to sing to them. I think I slept in until almost 8 o’clock, and the Woman was very happy to see me jump up on the bed to remind her I needed breakfast. I mean, she actually got out of bed and went downstairs to get me food before she made her bed or changed her clothes. That, like, never happens.
I think it was my birthday or something. It should happen more often.
Every cat needs a high perch like this to oversee all his People.
Make sure your People get you one.
They’re screwing with my mind.
A few days ago they leave—at night—and come back hours later with two people. I wasn’t too sure about them at first, but I realized underneath all that hair that one of them was the Younger Human. The one who first brought me home. I recognized his smell, but I didn’t recognize the other person. I’ll tell you what, she smells better than he does, that’s for sure.
These younger people, they know how to treat me. He plays with me the right way—he knows how to swing my toy through the air so I can jump up to attack it (nothing personal to my Other People, but chasing things along the floor is, well, boring.) And she doesn’t grab me and hold me in her lap when I don’t want to be held. She lets me sniff her hand and decide if I’m in the mood to be petted.
It occurs to me…maybe my People are just too old for me.
In any case, I like the young people. They can stay.
What’s the point of having a tree in the house if you’re not allowed to climb it? I mean, come on.
And what’s with the white stuff falling out of the sky and covering the ground? It’s kind of pretty, but it sure didn’t make the Woman very happy. In fact, she even said a few choice words about it, grumbling a whole heck of a lot until she peeked out the window. Someone, she says, shoveled the driveway for her. Whatever the hell that means. But it made her happy, happy enough that she sat down to watch TV and let me stretch out across her lap for a long nap.
She’s warm when I need her to be. It would be nice if she’d get up in the morning when I want her to.
Can you believe it! They brought a tree into the house! It’s fricking huge, too, going all the way up to the ceiling. It’s like my own personal wet dream. A tree of my own!
I’ve spent my whole life looking out the window at trees, and they’ve always appealed to me. I know birds spend quite a bit of time sitting in trees, so my hopes are pretty high that sooner or later one will pop out—snack time!
What I don’t get is why they put all these shiny things on it. They’re fun to play with (even though I get yelled at) but the tree would have been awesome without them. The Man put lots of bright lights on it, and the Woman put the shiny dangling things…I had loads of fun playing last night while they were asleep (a good time to play, because they can’t yell at you then.)
And I haven’t tried it yet, but they put the little sofa close to the tree, so I can make a leap from it to the top of the tree—just in case that bird shows up.
The only problem, as I see it…that tree tastes nothing like I expected it to.
You are never going to believe it. I mean, I still don’t. After all the crap this week, all the noise and strange people and getting locked in the bathroom for hours on end, what happens?
She locked me in the freaking closet!
Not just for a minute or two, but for over two hours. In the fricking dark.
Really, what did I do that was so awful? Why am I being punished every single day? I’m sweet, I’m personable, and I’m pretty. Why am I being treated so horribly???
They locked me in the bathroom! Not once, not twice, but just about every freaking day this week. I didn’t do anything wrong; I was just minding my own business, curled up on the chair, when the Woman grabbed me and shoved me into the little downstairs bathroom.
And she obviously had been planning on this, as there was food and water and a bed already waiting for me in there. But why? I didn’t poop on her pillow. I didn’t bring some dead thing into her bed. I bit her, sure, but only on the top of her head, and only by accident (I was licking her hair, it smelled really good, and I just wanted to see if it also tasted good.) I didn’t mean for it to hurt.
She muttered things about Strange People and Ceiling Fans and Loud Noises, but what does that have to do with punishing me?
The food and the bed are still in the bathroom. Not a good sign. I need to hide for the rest of the day, just in case…
Yesterday was a very good day. It was like the People finally get it! The Woman spent hours preparing a perfectly wonderful meal, just for me. It damn near drove me nuts, having to be patient and wait through all the smells drifting through the air, and then while the People taste tested everything to make sure it was perfect. Once they were satisfied that the meal was up to par, they both cut up the meat into bite size pieces for me, and even added these slimy (but very tasty) noodles to my plate.
And today! There was more! Again they tasted it first to make sure it was good enough (though I don’t know why—it’s not as if it changed from yesterday); while they ate I stood on my perch and stared at the Man, aiming my thoughts at his head (and worried that his skull might be a tad too dense), mentally chanting “mine, mine, mine.”
Again, it was very tasty. They also ate this orangey-looking thing that smelled like it was something I would want, but neither offered any to me. That was okay—this time. I was quite stuffed from the turkey and noodles.
Now I wonder what’s on the menu for tomorrow. It’s about time that they finally started giving me the sustenance I deserve.
How’s this for unfair? The Bipeds cooked this dinner last night that smelled like it should be mine. Very meaty, the aroma was all over the house. But did I get any?
The woman looks down at me and apologizes, saying that if I ate any in ten minutes I’d have flames shooting out my ass.
I don’t know what onions are and I don’t care, but goddammit if you’re going to cook something that smells like that, you better give me some. I mean it. Next time, you better give me some, or I really am going to poop on your pillow.
What, you expected me to blog every day?
She thinks she's spoiling me. She insinuated it in a sacarcastic sort of way, in any case. I was sitting on the ottoman, waiting (patiently, I might add, no matter what she thinks about the 15 times I tried to crawl into her lap, stick my head up her pants legs, and head butt her thigh) for her to get up and go into the other room--it was time, after all; I always get to sleep in the chair after the news is over--when she did actually did stand up and then lifted me from where I was at to the seat she had so considerately warmed for me.
Her comment? "I don't spoli you, do I?"
Hey, I'm not stupid. I know a snotty rhetorical question when I hear one. It's right up there with "Are you hungry?" first thing in the morning.
Hey, lady, how about a nice "Well, duh!"
My People were up very, very early today; it wasn’t terribly early for the Man, but it was Way Too Early for the Woman. And no matter what they tell you, it wasn’t my fault. I kept my mouth shut this morning, I didn’t sing for them, and I didn’t stand in the middle of her chest trying to smell the inside of her nose (though I really would like to, as it smells especially obnoxious today.)
No, they were up, I think, because there was no electricity. The Woman can’t sleep without a fan going, and this thing in the hallway kept chirping. It was loud, annoying, and hurt my ears.
He walked out the front door, yelling back something about wind and freaking cold, and she provided a warm lap for me, which truth be told I appreciated because it really was getting cold. I let her read the comics by flashlight, and when it was light outside, she fed me early, very early, and went back to bed.
Of course, the phone rang just a little while later and woke her up, but by then I was full and sleepy, all curled up in the blankets on her bed, so what do I care?
She even gave me my dinner early.
That means I can start bugging her for breakfast at 6 a.m. tomorrow.
You know, I try to be helpful. As annoying as humans are, they feed me (and yeah, as hard as it is to admit, they feed me well), and change the litterbox with acceptable frequency. So I try to do my bit, but do they appreciate it in return?
Take this morning. The Man gets up early most mornings and wanders off for the better part of the day. I know he hates it when the alarm clock goes off, so I try to get up the stairs a little before that happens, and I sing for my people. It’s better to wake to music, isn’t it?
Do they like it?
I stood out there in the hall, singing at the top of my lungs, and what did I get?
“Stop it, Max.”
“Be quiet Max.”
“Dammit, Max, shut up.”
He did get up, and he did make it out the door at his usual time, but do I get any thanks?
Ok. You come home, I jump in your lap, you pet me, and then remark "Damn, your fur is cold."
Doesn't that inspire a lightbulb moment for you?
Turn up the freaking heat! Just because I have a fur coat, that doesn't mean I want icycles hanging off my already-useless nipples!
Well, I tried. I had my chance this morning to get even with the Man for taking me outside, but it didn’t quite work. I had him on the stairs at 4:30 in the morning, and wound between his legs, even stood on my back legs and pawed at him, but he kept his balance.
I was nicer to the Woman; she was still sleeping when my stomach started growling, so I just jumped up on the bed and waited, patiently, curled up on her back. It didn’t take long, and she was duly grateful for the extra few minutes of snoozing. She didn’t take too long getting down the stairs and fed me right off the bat.
She did scowl at me later—the Man phoned home and tattled on me, told her I’d tried to kill him on the stairs. Phfft. If I’d really wanted him dead … She reminded me that he’s the one who pays for my food, especially the Good Stuff.
Well, fine. I won’t try to kill him, but I’m not going to curl up and kiss his a$$, either. At some point he’ll figure out that feeding me is his honor.
One can hope.
He took me outside! The Man picked me up and took me out the front door, where he (with the help of the Woman, I'll remember that) allowed one of those sticky little people to come up to me. While he held me tight he told the kid that he could touch me! Holy freaking overflowing litterbox!
When he's not looking, I am going to poop on his pillow.
We used to have a dog. He was there when the Younger Human (where the hell did he go, anyway?) brought me home; I admit, at first I was terrified of him, but he made it clear right from the bat that he didn’t intend to turn me into kitty cacciatore, so we kept our separate peace. He fulfilled his position of being the family gas bag, and since they were so absorbed in the vast quantities of fur he shed all over the place, they rarely noticed how much I was leaving on their clothes and furniture. He left me alone, so all in all he was alright for a dog.
No, cats and dogs don’t always hate each other. We can co-exist, and I understand that my feline predecessor treated the dog as if he was her own child. A little weird, but whatever.
He’s gone, too, now, though I’m pretty sure he’s not off with the Younger Human; my People can talk about the Younger Human in the present tense, but they talk about the dog with sadness tinged voices.
This afternoon the Woman was looking at a picture of herself and the dog while I bathed on the window perch in her office. She glanced over at me and said “I still miss my Booger Bear, Max.”
I could point out that she has her species a little mixed up, but I won’t; she did seem genuinely sad and in need of something. I can never be sure what ‘something’ it is that humans need, but they seem to enjoy it if I spend a few minutes on their laps, so I abandoned the bath and jumped up in her lap and did the cute thing—you know, standing up on my back legs and rubbing my face against hers. It’s demeaning, but what the hell, it does seem to make her happy.
I gave a little purr and let her pet me a little, and didn’t bite when she rubbed my tummy (people, get a clue, we bite because we hate that…)
She seemed happier after that.
I even got fed my dinner 45 minutes early.
It’s something to remember; tolerate a little of their fawning in exchange for food.
Works for me.
But I don’t love them.
You know, in spite of what the People say, I’m not really a wuss. Yes, I enjoy lying in on my special window seats and staring at everything going on outside, but that doesn’t mean I want to go outside. Why would I? There are sticky little people outside, little creatures who would pull my tail and grab at my fur, while shrieking and screaming, and I have no desire to be that close to them.
There are also DOGS out there. I see them—the dog across the street, that white furry thing everyone calls “Lucky.” You might think he’s trained and well behaved, but if I put a shock collar on you, you’d do whatever I wanted, too. And face it, shock collar or not, if he wanted to take a bite out of me, he would.
And I’ve seen those birds. Those suckers are huge. We’re not talking dainty little sparrows here, we’re talking football sized crows. You have to respect a bird that could lift up one of those small sticky people and carry it off. They outweigh me. I see the odds.
But that doesn’t mean I’m a wuss, or chicken, or a ‘fraidy cat. It means I have brain, for Pete’s sake. Inside I have food almost on demand, several warm beds, several window seats, two laps to choose from, and a litter box that’s cleaned on an almost regular basis. Why would I want to go out there when I have all this in here?
Felines have very sensitive hearing; this isn't just a personal affliction, it's a scientific fact. We hear better than humans do, and certain noises are not only unpleasant, they're downright painful.
Bearing this in mind, people, please stop singing.
You don't sound half as good as you think.
In fact, you don't sound good at all.
So, stop. Just stop.
Attention, fellow felines … if you live in a house with stairs (the more the better) this is a must-do:
Take a golf ball, or some other hard rolling object, and carry it to the topmost stair. Set it down, and push it over the edge. Listen as it loudly bounces down the stairsthunk-thunk-thunk-thunk and then a nice whirrrrrr as it rolls across the floor at the bottom.
Run down stairs, as heavy footed as you can, get the ball, and run back up.
Repeat the process.
Trust me, your People will love this.
All right, I was just lying there on the chair, licking myself, when the Woman comes up, picks me up without asking, and hugs me while cooing "Ooooh, you are so cute."
Well, yeah, lady I know that, but come on.
People have odd traditions. You’d never find a bunch of cats throwing costumes on and going door to door, begging for treats they’re normally not allowed to have. It was sad, really, to see all these small humans posturing their imagined cuteness for candy that neither smells bad enough to be good nor reeks enough to get them high.
Cats never beg. We demand. And we usually get what we want.
Take tonight, for instance. My people were sitting outside with the neighbors and their small, sticky male offspring. I was hungry—it was only half an hour until dinner time, and my stomach was rumbling loudly—so every time one of them came into the house for one thing or another, I hollered at them.
And what do you know, after my incessant demands (and some forced cuteness; I don’t mind the small sticky person so much, and I’ll humor him by letting him wave at me through the screen, which seems to make them all happy) the Woman ran inside—yes, she ran—to fill my plate with some nice Trout Fancy Feast.
Begging doesn’t work.
But demanding, in a tone that says “this is my right, and you are my servant” invariably does.
Humans are so gullible.
Something interesting: my entire nose fits into just one of the Woman’s nostrils. She gets all pissy on me when I do this, but what does she realistically expect? I mean, come on! Something up there smells like it buried itself in deep and died. It’s putrid, foul, and disgusting smelling. I love it!
It’s not like I bother her every ten minutes for catch a whiff. Out of common courtesy I wait until she’s asleep. I creep very carefully onto her sleeping body, sit gently, and jam my nose up the closest nostril as far—and as delicately as I can. It’s not as is I’m trying to wake her up. It’s not my fault if she a)sleeps too lightly, and b)has this thing about me standing on her boobs.
I don’t know about these bipeds. I’ve already made it clear that cats don’t love people, but the Woman keeps picking me up and cooing “I knoooowwwww you lovvvve me.”
Look, lady, you paid someone to cut my nuts off. No, I don’t love you. Besides, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t get so bent out of shape when I stand outside the bedroom door at 3 a.m. to sing. I have a good voice—you should sit up, listen, and appreciate the gift of my musical talent.
Oh, and tell the Man that if he ever locks me in the bathroom again, I’m going to poop on his pillow.
Newsflash, Lady: Yes, you do look like a bed, and yes, those do look like pillows. I don’t care if your nipples invert; they’re comfortable, and while you are sleeping, I am going to curl up on you and set my head on one of them. You might as well get used to that.
In what word is it acceptable to come home an hour and fifteen minutes late when you have a hungry feline waiting for you? Okay, so it was really only fifteen minutes late, but I'm still extremely annoyed about this time change. Yeah, sure, the bipeds always leave dry food out, but they knowthat's not what I want.
I'm not obsessed with food. It just seems that way.
And what's with this "No, you can't sit on my lap right now?" bull? I don't care if you have to pee. Hold it and let me have my throne.
Oh yeah, and if you don't change my litterbox tonight, I'm going to poop on your pillow.
A common misconception among those chosen to care for our species: when we wind our way through your legs while you are trying to walk down stairs, we are not trying to kill you. That would be counterproductive; if you die, who will open the cans of food?
Really, we're only trying to piss you off. And it seems like we're doing a very good job.
Ok, let’s start with today’s “time change.” I don’t care what the people say, it was a BAD IDEA. Sure, their fancy little timepieces might have said 8 a.m., but my stomach said it was 9 a.m. and that’s the latest I should be forced to wait for food. I’m not a bad cat. Most mornings I wait patiently for the Woman to drag herself out of bed before I begin my daily reminders that I haven’t been fed since the night before and I am starving to death.
This time change is an egregious error. I was not about to wait until one of those bipeds decided they’d had enough rest. I was hungry, dammit, so of course I started calling out to them. Gently at first, of course. But when they were still wrapped up in those blankets when my stomach was growling so hard it hurt, I let them have it. Yes, I howled my head off, until the Man finally got up.
But would he lower himself to opening up a can of Fancy Feast for me? No. He read his stupid newspaper first.
Look, people, get a clue. We don’t love you. We love your opposable thumbs. Accept that and we’ll get along much better.
I am Max, a feline currently being held hostage by humans who think they own me. When they're otherwise occupied, watching their inane squawk box of stuffing their faces, I will overtake the computer and tell the world what I really think.