Monday, October 31, 2011


It is the night the two leggers call "Halloween".

For 364 days of the year, two leggers constantly tell their spawn:
1. Never talk to strangers.
2. Never take candy from strangers.
3. Never go outside after dark.
4. Always be respectful of your neighbors.
5. The Devil is bad. (Unless he has a reality show)
6. Witches are bad. (Unless they have a reality show.)
7. Ghosts are bad. (Unless their name is "Casper" and then they are just annoying.)

Then on October Thirty-First, the adult two leggers say to their offspring: "Screw it, go out and do all those things, just make sure you wear a disguise so no one knows who your parents are."

We knew the day had arrived when my two leggers came home with ten large grocery bags of assorted candies. Eight of them were immediately hidden in the two leggers closet and declared to be the female's "Candy stash". The rest were poured into a large bowl shaped like the open cranium of a zombie thingy. This bowl seems to amuse the two leggers and they take great pride in showing it to all the little beggars that show up at my door.

The two leggers then don their costumes. The male dresses as a cowboy. (He's a native Texan with an overgrown mustache thingy, how hard can it be?) The female dresses as, well, a jewelry salesperson who has just returned home after a long day at work.

Within 20 minutes, the doorbell thingy rings. The micro-two legger is dressed as a fairy princess and appears to be approximately three years old. Something about the male's mega-stache strikes fear into her little heart and she runs screaming down my deck leaving a cloud of miniature wings and sequin thingies.

This amuses me.

The next time the doorbell thingy rings, it is a young male dressed as either a dog thingy or a werewolf with a terminal case of mange. He seems unaffected by the power of the mustache, but he too flees due to the fact that Ivan, upon spotting a strange dog thingy on my doorstep, has attacked the male two legger causing him to scream in agony and splatter blood upon the candy.

This too, amuses me

Shortly after the blood is cleaned up and the cowboy is bandaged, the doorbell thingy rings a third time. This time my doorstep is graced by three two leggers of the early teen variety. They are dressed as vampires and have that certain  "I ain't scared of nuffin but books with no pictures" look in their eyes. The mustache holds no power over them. Ivan has been locked in the bathroom where he is currently menacing an errant cotton swab. The two legger holds the zombie head candy dish out to them. With smug looks on their ashen acne pocked faces, they reach in and grab a handful of warm drippy awesomeness. They look at each other and run off into the night retching and screaming. 

Sometimes my choice of hairball thingy placement is nothing short of genius.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

World Series Staredown

At first I was annoyed.

For the second year in a row, the male two legger's favorite baseball team, The Texas Rangers, have managed to extend the interminable baseball season all the way to the championship series. This means several extra weeks of the male dressing up in his teams colors, eating peanuts, and yelling at the talking box thingy. (This behavior is different from football season only in the implementation of the peanuts.)

This also means that I will not be shown my proper attention until either the Rangers cease their winning, or they win the whole shebang.

However, I am a firm believer in the old saying: "When life hands you lemons, mark them up three times and sell them to Ivan as "canary eggs".

So I decided to derive some amusement.

I parked my happy butt squarely in front of the talking box thingy.

By positioning my handsome mug directly in front of home base, I was able to ensure that no pitch could be seen without proper obstruction.

The male devised a cunning plan to thwart me. He utilized the laser pointy thingy in order to distract me. Unable to resist the red dot, I chased it until the male burned out the batteries. I then resumed my vigil. Soon, he attempted to lure me away with the feather stringy thingy. I was not amused until Ivan streaked into the room, causing a total beer and peanut shell apocalypse.

The two legger finally stopped yelling at the talking box thingy and immediately began casting aspersions upon the character of all felines.

By the time Ivan's path of destruction had been properly cleared and bulldozed, I had resumed my place and the male had resumed his. Thus resumed the staring and the yelling.

By the seventh inning thingy, the male had surrendered to the fact that I was going nowhere and resigned himself to watching 40% of the game while listening to the commentary. I quickly discovered that by saying the simple word "Mrowr" approximately 7.3 times per minute ruined what little pleasure he was receiving.

Oddly, I find myself becoming a fan of baseball.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Crazy Ivan Part II

That's it.

I'm calling it.

Ivan is officially insane.

Crazy. Cuckoo. Nuts. Out of his tiny head. Loco.

I once heard it said that the definition of insanity is as follows:

"The repetition of identical actions with the expectation of differing results."

Therefore, Ivan is insane.

Every night for the last week or two years, Ivan has followed the female two legger into the bathroom for her nightly cleansing. As soon as she fills the tub thingy with warm water, he plops down between the female and her intended destination. (The recently filled tub thingy) He does this in the hopes that he will be able to chomp her ankles.

The Chomping of the Ankles is a pastime that Ivan has enjoyed since kittenhood. When Ivan was first brought here, there were bare ankles everywhere just waiting to be chomped. The two leggers were unaware of Ivan's favorite game and had no defense. In their innocence, the male would walk through the house in shorts and unshod feet, while the female wore dresses and pantyhose. This provided a target rich environment for an accomplished ankle chomper such as Ivan.

But the two leggers soon learned.

The male carried the water squirty thingy with him at all times while wearing shorts. The female began wearing long slacks or boots when wearing skirts.

Ivan went into a deep blue funk.

Finally, taking pity on the sulking mound of orange lumpiness, I informed him that every evening just prior to her going to bed, the female allows her ankles to be bare in the 4.6284 seconds that it takes her to enter the tub thingy. All he needed to do was to loll in an endearing manner upon the heated floor of the bathroom. The female would believe him to be basking in the radiant heat of the bathroom and may even pause to give his ample belly a scratch. Once paused, her ankles should be his to toy with.

This ploy actually worked.


After the first unexpected munch, the female began to take precautions. She took to covering him with a towel  before making the 3.6 tailspan journey from the sink to the tub thingy. Ivan was and is utterly confused every time he is suddenly thrown into brief darkness only to find that the female has inexplicably teleported from the sink to the tub thingy. He emerges from the darkness to hear the female giggling. To make matters worse, the female then proceeds to "baptize" Ivan with sprinkles of water upon his dense little noggin.

Tonight, for the three hundred, and ninety-fifth consecutive night, Ivan has entered the darkness and emerged only to be "baptized" once again.

I can only say that Ivan is fortunate that the female has not resorted to actual Holy Water for the nightly "Baptism".

The smell of burning cat is most unpleasant.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Glare Into My Eyes

One of the questions that I am often asked is: "Given the relative size between two leggers and cats, how can cats dominate two leggers so completely?"

The obvious answer lies in our greater intelligence. However that response is too general. It is not just our advantage in intelligence that makes us superior, it is in the ways that we utilize this intelligence. It is not amusing to us to simply outsmart our two legged minions. Outsmarting them is too easy and soon grows tedious and beneath us. We must find other, more amusing methods to bend their feeble minds to our will.

My personal favorite manner of domination is HYPMOSIS.

Hypmosis is akin to the two legged discipline of "hypnosis" but much cooler because we use an "M" instead of an "N".

I perform hypmosis pretty much on a daily basis against my two leggers. Unlike the two legger version, we require no swinging watch, swirly spinny thingy going round and round, creepy music, or injection of psychotropic drugs to induce a hypmotic state. (What card holding feline could possibly resist smacking a swinging watch or swirly spinny thingy?)

No, we use our eyes.

A hypmosis session is initiated by the hypmotist placing themselves between a two legger and whatever talking box thingy program that they are currently watching. It is best used during "prime time" or in the case of male two leggers, when there is a sporting event on.(preferably one of those sporting events referred to as "playoffs" or "championships")

Once you have their full attention, (you know you have their full attention when they start saying words like "Scram!" and "Get off the entertainment center you useless, no mouse catching, catfood munching, litterbox soiling, furniture marring, curtain shredding, blood letting little hairball dispenser!" thus proving that they are speaking to you) stare unblinkingly into their eyes.

If you continue to stare without breaking eye contact, within a few moments, they will fall into a deep hypmotic sleep. Though their eyes will remain open, you will know you are successful when they stop ranting and start asking questions of you like "What?" and "Whattayawant?" followed quickly by "What?" again.

This is the moment that you make your demands known. It can be any demand. My favorites are:

1. Turn on the firebox thingy.
2. Feed me.
3. Clean the Royal Litter.
4. Blame Tiger Lily for the broken knock knacks laying strewn in the hallway.
5. Bring me the Royal Catnip.
6. Blame Tiger Lily for the broken wineglass in the kitchen.
7. Rub Ivan's tummy.
8. After rubbing Ivan's tummy, clean up the blood and go bandage yourself.
9. Feed me, and then go chastise Tiger Lily for knocking over the food container thingy in the hallway.
10. Pay no attention to the hole. (don't ask, it's a long story)

After making your hypmotic suggestion, no strike that, your hypmotic demand, tell them that it was all their idea and release them from their hypmotic sleep by smacking them in the ear.

Just one word of caution: Only use this if you are sure that your subject is indeed less intelligent than yourself. Backfires have occurred in the past.

Ivan is still recovering from the time he attempted to hypmotize the oven mitt.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

The Paw of The Land

As you are all aware, I have been somewhat perplexed as how I should treat Jaq.

Well, you may all sleep soundly now.

I have decided to take the bull thingy by the horns and revert to my most base nature.

I am of the opinion that I should smack her.

Before all you bunny hugging earth mommas start picketing and protesting in my front yard, please allow me to justify my decision.

I am a firm believer in the fact that to judge a minion's mettle, they must first be smacked. Not a bell-ringing, cross-eyed-causing, make-you-wander-in-circles-threatening-to-call-Dr.Phil type smack, but a semi-gentle-non-bloodletting-get-to-know-ya type smack. This will allow me to observe whether she is a "whiner", a "pacifist", or a "rabid, Katey bar the door, I'm gonna whoop some tuxedo butt" type of minion.

My dilemma was this: No matter how I approached her, she always moved just out of range of my smackin paw.

If I appeared to be submissive, she'd simply move demurely away. If I approached aggressively, she'd hide aggressively. She seemed to have a sense of when I was planning to give her an interrogative smack.

Most annoying.

I finally decided upon a course of action that has seldom failed me in the past.

It is an ancient form of  smacking originally developed in the Far East.Very mysterious and only practiced by the most cunning of felines. It is known as:

Tae Kwan Bushwack Karate Fu.

I of course, am a black and white belt.

Tae Kwan Bushwack Karate Fu is the ancient art of finding a hidey hole in the most unlikely of places and simply waiting there until the smackee happens to cross in front of the smacker. What separates the Master from the novice is choice of hidey hole, and timing.

Sometimes, the hidey hole is the most innocent of locations. I chose the royal litterbox.Logic dictates that if one is in the litterbox, one's mind cannot possibly be on the act of smacking. Therefore, this was the perfect place to set my trap.

The royal litterbox is of the type that has a convenient hood thingy provided to assure privacy. Hence, it makes a convenient little cave thingy in which to wait for an unsuspecting, previously unsmacked minion to happen by.

Unfortunately, what the ancient scroll thingies never covered was the scenario where a large orange dimwitted tabby kept walking by your hidey hole asking "Whatcha doin Boss?" After the third attempt at shooshing Ivan, I decided to inform him of my plan in the hope that he would move on and leave me to my devious plan.

Needless to say, my hopes were unfounded. Instead of withdrawing, Ivan decided to "hide" behind the royal litterbox and continuously whisper inanities such as: "You gonna get her good this time, Boss" and "She'll never know what hit her, Boss" between fits of thuggish snickering.

After an hour of patient waiting, I realized that my plan had a large orange flaw in it. I am unsure whether it was the snickering, or the fact that there was a gigantic furry basketball attempting to conceal itself behind the royal litterbox while trying to stifle giggles that alerted Jaq to the ambush. Either way, she was not tempted to become the cherry on the top of my smacking sundae.

So it is back to the drawing board thingy.

For now, I'll wait.

Her days of remaining unsmacked are numbered.

Sleep lightly Jaq, sleep lightly.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

You Don't Know Jaq

I find myself in unfamiliar territory.

This annoys me.

I dislike change.

I especially dislike change when I am not responsible for said change.

Let's review for a moment:

Two months ago, I hired a new minion, Jaq formerly known as Jack. Last week, I took pity on her and ordered the two leggers to bring her into my house. I did this to prove to potential minions that I am not a completely cold-hearted and ruthless tyrant. I do have a soft and mooshy side. I am capable of great acts of charity. In fact, someday there will be statues erected over the graves of my enemies in honor of my sweet lovable nature. My selflessness and loving character knows no bounds.

And I'll gladly smack anyone who says otherwise.

Okay, I may have also considered the fact that the introduction of a new feline into my household may have chaotic repercussions. Perhaps the harmonic chemistry that flows through my abode may be adversely altered by the addition of another four legger. But I assure you that was not my primary goal.

It was just a pleasant side affect.

However, what I did not expect was my inability to smack her.

No she is not incredibly fast and agile. I simply cannot bring myself to swing at her.

You see, I do not smack without provocation. I must have a reason to smack. These reasons include:

1. Whining.
2. Eyeballing my stuff.
3. Whining
4. Laying in my spot. (My spot is anywhere that I may wish to lay whether at this moment or anytime in the foreseeable future)
5. Any other thing that may or may not annoy me.
6. Breathing in an annoying manner.
7. Possessing gray or monochromatic fur.
8. Having squirrel DNA or being sympathetic to anything squirrelish.
9. Whining.
10. Having a name like "Tiger Lily" or "Justin Beiber".

I find Jaq to be totally inoffensive.

This is incredibly annoying.

It seems that she has no irritating habits whatsoever. If she suspects that I wish to be in the space she currently occupies, she vacates it. If I decide that I want to eat her food, she moves aside. I have never heard a single whine coming from her general direction. She does not snore when she sleeps. She completely ignores Tiger Lily and simply avoids Ivan. She hates squirrels. She even munched an eight legger and left the legs for me as an offering.

Pondering this, I have formed a theory.

Tyrants sometimes need a cohort. Napoleon Bounaparte had Guinevere, Julius Caesar had Marie Antoinette and Ghengis Khan had Britney Spears.

Why should I be any different?

On the other paw, they all died.

I must ponder this further. In the meantime, I will continue to watch. She's gotta slip up sometime.

For now, I'll go find Tiger Lily.

Can't let my skills get rusty.

Saturday, October 1, 2011


As many of you are aware, a couple of months ago I decided to hire a new outside minion.

Jack has performed admirably over the last two months. Menacing squirrel thingies, irritating birds, and generally causing havoc in my yard, while at the same time endearing himself to my resident two leggers. (He plays the "homeless waif" role very well)

In recognition of his performance, I decided that he should be promoted.

I decided that his skills could be better utilized if he were brought into my house. He would bring a new flavor to our chaos casserole. A new scent to our potpourri of panic. A new gear thingy to our machination of mayhem.

So, in an uncharacteristic fit of generosity, I informed the two leggers that I would be cool with them bringing him into my house. But with one caveat:

I required that Jack be taken to the Vet thingy first.

No, I was not particularly worried about his health, or whether he was flea bitten or had some disease like Stillgotsmynutsotitus. (Apparently lots of cats have this, but it is treatable with surgery.) Why was I not worried? Because I knew something the two leggers didn't.

Okay, granted there are SO many things I know that they don't, but this little morsel of knowledge was especially juicy.

If the two leggers had simply taken the time and courtesy to sniff Jack's butt like any civilized being, they would have known what I knew from day one:

Jack was a Jill.

That's right, Jack was a Tom impersonator. For the last two months, the two leggers have been speaking of Jack as the sweet little tomcat that lives on my back deck. Now they are faced with the fact that what they thought was a sweet little juvenile male, is actually a four year old, spayed female that through deception and manipulation, managed to worm her way into their little hearts.

What I wouldn't give to have been in the room when the Vet broke the news. It musta been priceless.

So now Jack is part of my household. I have already informed her of the rules and demonstrated on Tiger Lily the consequences of breaking them.

Ivan of course, is confused. He had taken it for granted that the two leggers were correct in their assumption and had never bothered to give Jack a sniff.  I suppose I could have told him, but where's the fun in that?

When Ivan asked me why the two leggers were suddenly calling Jack "Jackie", I informed him that the two leggers had determined that there were too many mancats in the world, and so were taking males to the Vet to have operations that converted them to females.

Somehow, I do not believe that Ivan's next visit to the Vet will go smoothly.