Well, today’s the day: the girls are one year old.
They wanted to have a little celebration, but as is often the case with young folk, things got out of hand. I was dismayed at the scene I found upon coming home this afternoon.
Tink demands to know who took ‘the lash goddamn beer’:
Zeugma, emboldened by drink, attempts the Macarena:
Tink is less successful with the Macarena:
Tink, declaring that she can drive ‘jush fine’, demands that Zeugma give her the keys:
They are so grounded.
Don’t know what it is about cats that can provide endless entertainment out of nothing. B and I have been cat servants to Thor (and several others who have left for the catland beyond) for about 10 years now. Just his coming and going amuses me, because it’s quite ritualized but never exactly predictable.
Once upon a time, we had this belligerant cat. I backed out of the driveway, put the car in reverse, and happened to glance back to the house and see her, through the front livingroom glass, frozen upon the dining room table. She stared at me, and I stared at her, and thought *#@#(%_(##&, looked at the clock, put it in drive, and without my face wavering or our eyes disconnecting, she heard the car click into drive and resumed her business.
That’s the thing about cats. They know when they’ve got you. You can’t manipulate a cat.
Well, yeah. Zeugma and Tink have me whipped, to the point where even the spray-bottle “no kitties on the kitchen countertops” initiative has mostly gone out the window. Zeugma’s the grunty runt (she’ll demand to be held and then make little guttural noises like she’s straining at enjoying it), and Tink’s the social one who makes friends with every guest.
And yeah, I know there are probably issues about a 34-year-old man who talks about his cats like his cousins talk about their kids.
But, um, I was in town today, and I bought a little clear acrylic window birdfeeder for the outside of the sliding glass kitchen door (it’s OK; they’re indoor cats). They’re gonna get so much entertainment.
That, Mike, is the most sadistic thing you could do! My cat repeatedly hit her young head on the window, attempting to get at those insolent birds. We’d hear a hard *thump* and some sounds that were remarkably like swearing, in catspeak.
She’s not an indoor cat though, so when we moved we stopped feeding her live birds by way of the birdfeeder. 10 years later she will still leap at the window when a bird is stupid enough to land within her line of sight.
Nothing wrong with being in touch with your “feminine side”, Mike. Before we had kids, we took our dog with us everywhere, even visiting friends for dinner (but only if they were dog people too). I see that I misspelled belligerent. I thought it looked odd. Losing brain cells at alarming rapidity these days.
Loved the party pictures! But you know someday the girls are going to be very upset that embarrassing photos of them were on the Internet 😉
Torill: hm. I hadn’t thought of it that way, and that’s disturbing. I live in a second-floor apartment, and when the birds land on the balcony outside that kitchen door, the girls watch intently, but know that there’s something in between them and outside: they’ve never made a run at the glass. No sadism intended whatsoever; I love the girls, and if they do what you’ve described, I’ll definitely take it down. But they do like to sit at the door and watch the comings and goings outside, which is what gave me the idea. Does that sound OK, or would you still be concerned? If it’s five feet high and out of reach, do you think that would be all right, or would you still call it “sadistic”?
Because I want to make my girls happy, and now you got me worried.
Oh, they will be entertained 🙂 Indoor cats are probably quicker to adjust to barriers like windows. My cat has always been a vicious hunter and is used to actually catching the birds when she jumps. She catches fish out of aquariums and has a long-term project of learning magpie speak, so they will let her close. I don’t think you’re a sadist, Mike, actually I think your girls are spoiled silly and taking full advantage of it.
Oh, see the way cat servants talk.
Since 1966, our cats have been Androcles, Felix, Oscar, Artemis, Athena, Mango, Ignatius, Balou, and Thor. All were indoor/outdoor cats. Our back yard is a kind of cat heaven, with little wild spots and lots of birds, squirrels and Norwegian roofrats coming and going.
Of all those cats, only Artemis was a true hunter. She could catch anything, including Monarch butterflies on the wing. She once presented us with a headless squirrel.
Oscar was a defensive hunter. Every spring, some dumb young Stellar’s bluejay would harrass Oscar. And every spring, within two weeks of the jay’s initial forays, Oscar would get it. Oscar proved the rule there are old jays and bold jays, but no old bold jays.
The rest of them just seem to have bird fantasies. They sit and hope. Sometimes they even get into the stalking pose. But the birds get away every time. My wife had about 6 bird feeders out. The big challenge was keeping the squirrels away. The cats just watched.
And of course, being easily entertained, we watch the watching.
All right. Long-time lurker here, and Friend of Mike (a secret society not unlike the Masons). I’ve refrained from posting until now, but at this point I feel compelled to share with you all the depth of Mike’s subjection.
When he says “whipped,” he *really* means whipped.
I’ve had the honor and the pleasure of cat-sitting for the girls on a couple occasions. They are as delightful in person as they look on screen. They’re also, for the most part, low-maintenance children. Give them some food and attention and they’re happy.
Mike, on the other hand, is a high-maintenance parent. Food. Check. People time. Check. But imagine my surprise when he told me that I should only fill their bowls with water from the refrigerated Brita pitcher.
I’m still laughing at him. (But I’ll add, in case I’ve just offended anyone, that I wonder if I’m a bad parent for not doing this.)
Mike, my sincere apologies. But I couldn’t take it anymore. The world had to know.
And so the depths of my subjection are revealed. In my defense, I’ll offer than chronic renal failure is one of the leading killers of older cats, and I figure anything I can do that might keep their kidneys happy is a good thing, including giving them the same filtered water I drink.
Well, OK, again: whipped. Or as John puts it, a cat-servant. But the only things my girls have ever caught are the occasional moth (mmm, good), some ladybugs (which taste bad, and get spat out), and crumpled-up Post-It notes from the office wastebasket (Zeugma’s prey of choice).
My cat drinks water from the Brita filter on the faucet–I had one cat who actually climbed into the sink and drank the water FROM the faucet.
Maybe Torill’s cat is a headbanger–or needs glasses–or therapy.
My cats have always treated the windows as 24/7 tv–Wild Kingdom, all day. They’ve yelled at birds, pawed at the window and meowed back and forth to each other about the groundhogs, rabbits, foxes, deer and, once, hogs, that have ambled through my back yard.