Bye-bye, Socks

Nineteen years is a pretty good run. Hats off to ya.

It's come to this

Kitten war. Yes, kitten war. Where cute meets cuter and gets banished to the "Losing-est Kittens" wall of shame.

Is it just me or does Tinkerbelle look a bit underage?

Isabel, the pufferfish

I received a postcard from the Madame today. It read: "Dear Henry, the Mister caught a pufferfish. He said it looked just like Isabel. He threw it back. He said, how can you eat a fish that looks like one of your cats?"

I googled Northern Pufferfish and here's what I found. I can't locate a good image of Isabel to show you for comparison. But it's unnecessary. This, indeed, may as well be Isabel--from her tortoise shell markings to her corpulent white underbelly to her tailfin. Well, she doesn't really have a tailfin, but she usually has crusty protrusions that bear some likeness. The poor rotund beast has a home health nurse that provides assistance with hygiene. That chore used to fall to The Dog, may he rest in peace.

Hefty Max

Someone forgot to take out the trash.

The better to hear you with, my dear

I'm sure by now everyone's seen the ubiquitous photo of the four-eared cat. So instead of penning something pithy, I'm shining the spotlight on the second-graders who've apparently been pinch-hitting for the world's copy writers.

The Daily Mail Online
"If Batman had a cat, it would probably look something like this. The household pet, named Yoda, was born with an extra set of ears. ..."

The Sun
Cat Yoda has Four-ce Ears
"Don't worry – you’re not seeing double. This is Yoda – the four-eared cat. ..."

The Guardian
"While all cats are said to have nine lives, very few are as unusual as Yoda, a two-year-old feline with four ears. ..."

Metro
"As hearing aids go, they don't come better than this. Meet Yoda, the two-year-old moggie who was born with four ears. ..."

Sky News
"Unlike the cruel and unusual punishment of the cat o'nine tails, this cute cat o'four ears is nothing to be afraid of. ..."

The Current
"Meet Yoda, a four-eared cat from Chicago. Yoda's extra ears—which are not thought to help him hear—are not attached to the base of his skull, with one placed slightly behind the other. They are believed to be the result of a genetic mutation. Valerie and Ted Rock took him under their wing when they spotted him as a kitten sitting on a pub bar...."

Henry's Travels:
"This is the story of Yoda the feline alcoholic, who'd trade all four ears for just one good liver..."

Unwed mother

Her plight is all too familiar. She succumbs to the charms of O'Malley the Alley Cat, then he hits the road and leaves her to raise Marmalade, Mango and Porridge all by herself. And so she is forced to take up at a nearby farm, depending on the kindness of suckers.

George Bush hates bald eagles

...and grizzly bears, wolves, whales, big cats and all kinds of other animals who still exist because of laws that protect them. What this endangered Florida panther would do to you with his massive jaws and enormous claws is what George Bush is attempting to do to the Endangered Species Act. (The answer is: eviscerate)

I am spitting mad. Please don't allow this affront to my wild cousins. Speak your piece.

Ethyl, sans Lucy

Another of the Madame's parents' cats. She asked me to post this, then gave me "that look." The Madame wants me to tell you that yes, there is a Lucy. I presume she was off somewhere learning her letters. Or consorting with Tigger or Raeford.

Smilla's sense of camouflage ...

... is quite poorly developed, actually. Unfortunately, she was born with a coat that makes it difficult to blend in—unless she is surrounded by miniature Holstein cows. Yet every night, she wedges herself between the bed pillows and imagines she's invisible. But Madame and Mister, who can effortlessly distinguish between a blue pillowcase and an 11-pound black-and-white cat, attempt to delicately lay their fingers upon her. She immediately evinces her anxiety with a piteous me-eee-eeeeeeeeee that has the timbre of Mary Tyler Moore squealing "Mister Graaaaaaaant!" Without a moment's hesitation, Smilla flees. At which point, I take up my station at M&M's fingertips: Ahhhh, a little farther behind the ears. Now, just under the chin. There, perfect.

Does this make sense to you?

Why is it that I'm not allowed on the kitchen counter but this poor-excuse-for-a-feline is given free reign to terrorize the Lady's wedding dress?

Before and after

What a difference 12 years and 17 extra pounds can make.

I would like to sit in this chair, but there is no room for me. Not to mention that it smells.

Tigger

I have said before, and I'll say it again, that my blog is not a forum for cute cat photos. The lady of the house tries my very patience on this issue. So when she approached me today with a photo of her Dad's cat that arrived in the post, I put my paw up in defiance. Then she screwed up her face, leaned in close and hissed: So, how's your latest blog entry going? The one about Billy Ray Cyrus' poor parenting skills? Can't WAIT to read it!

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Tigger.

Be kind, or else!

I only just learned that last week was Random Acts of Kindness Week, designated as such by the Random Acts of Kindness Foundation. To be certain that my eye-rolling was justified, I consulted good old Webster's, which assured me that the word random means that which occurs or is done without careful choice, aim, plan, etc. So this is a rather ill-informed holiday. Further, I question the institutionalization of kindness, as the potential for corruption in such an organization is boundless.

It just so happens that I was randomly kind last week, and now I worry that the individual to whom I was kind might think that I did so only to obey a direct order. And thus, I take back my compliment, Max. I do not think you would be handsome as a starlet's fur coat.

City Mouse, Country Mouse

Or in the feline lexicon: Urban Cat, Hillbilly Cat. This is one of Carla's parents' cats, Raeford, who lives on their farm. He was named after the poultry plant where Carla's brother rescued him, comatose, from underneath some pallets in a freezer. He was carried there inadvertently when a forklift moved some pallets from outdoors. Unfortunately, his littermates didn't survive. Raeford was a lucky kitten.

He is 15 now. Sometimes I feel sorry for him because he doesn't own a computer or have a blog. Other times, I think maybe there's something to be said for the simple life.

Will someone loan me a jackhammer?

Today the new, obnoxious cat—the one who never gives me a moment's peace—got introduced to the vacuum cleaner.

Cord: Liked it a lot.
Once the motor started: Not so much.

But then afterward, he decided to stage a love-in.

There is no justice.

Cats that look like Hitler

Today, I decided to surf the 'Net to see if I could find blogs written by other erudite cats like myself. What I found instead was a surfeit of inane Web sites, including one on which people post pictures of their "Kitlers." Most of them look more like Groucho Marx, Charlie Chaplin or Errol Flynn (I think the induction standards are way lax), but a few do sort of resemble the badly mustachioed psychopath. This is yet another example of how humans are having a laugh at our expense. Can these cats help it if they were born looking like der Fuhrer? Oh well, I guess it's better than being drowned at birth.

How I became self-aware

I'm not sure this is the appropriate title for this entry because I'm not positive how or why I became self-aware. I only know that I am. Before I began this post, I had been writing my previously promised "Why cats shouldn't be allowed to vote," which I ultimately abandoned. Because even as I wrote, judiciously crafting my argument, I found that I became uncertain of my position. As I increasingly struggled with myself, I began to realize: This goes beyond self-awareness. This is something more.

I have gone from foraging in a dumpster and sleeping under car hoods … to self-awareness … to philosophical reflection. How did this happen?

I was talking about it to The Madame (whom I have previously referred to as one of my "owners" and who is now, apparently, a contemporary). She recommended a book by Terry Pratchett called "The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents." It is about a group of swindlers consisting of a boy, a capitalist cat and a band of enlightened rats. The latter two had once been content to pilfer the culinary castoffs of the human species—their goal was simply to exist. The theory of their conversion to an advanced state is that they had begun feeding in the dustbins of an unseen magical university, whose refuse was enchanted (or tainted, depending on your perspective) with something I will liken to fairy dust (I prefer that to "wizard dust" but would like to assure you that yes, I know, fairies don't attend universities). I confess that before I was taken lovingly into this house, where I no longer have to make a bed in automotive machinery, I too subsisted on scraps. For lack of a better explanation, I am forced to consider that what happened to Maurice and the rats must have befallen me. Or at least something very near like it.

I don't think there are any unseen universities in this city, but how would I know? One can never be sure of one's proximity to the occult, be it a smattering of Tarot cards or a sprawling, invisible institution of preternatural instruction. To obtain some peace of mind and enable me to focus on what I'm newly capable of—rather than waste time looking a gift horse in the mouth—I'm adopting the aforementioned theory.

And now, dear readers, I must take my leave, as I am spent and require a nap.

There's An Intruder in the House

I can say with all candor that I've never met a human I didn't like. Cats are a different story. Isabel, Smilla and Pickles are sufferable enough, as they pretty much stay out of my way. But this cat pictured here is a whole different ball of yarn. He is called Max, though that is ostensibly a placeholder name given to him until my "owners" can find this stray cat a home with new people who would ultimately christen him something they thought appropriate. But more and more I hear them talking to him in an increasingly familiar way. "Max, come here!" "Max, stop chasing Henry's tail!" "Max, get outta my cereal bowl!" "Why Max, if you aren't the sweetest thing!" and other exclamations and admonishments beginning with "Max .....!" Frankly, I wonder if this freeloader is ever truly going to leave. My "owners" sometimes read my blog and so, for their benefit, I'm listing things I find intolerable about "Max!"

• He has been told that cats like having their tails swatted at.
  
• He swats at my tail.
• He chases me all over the place for the purpose of swatting my tail.

OK, that's about it, mainly because I have not let him get close enough to me to force any of his other bad habits on me. As I say in my blog subtitle, my kingdom has 1,800 square feet of space. "Max!" is taking up 1 square foot too much of it. And I think he's getting a little too comfortable there.