Archive for Friday Cat Blogging

Friday LOLCATblogging

I made an LOLCAT! You can too.


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Proof that we did the right thing.

When we adopted Arthur, it was hard to tell how Gawain felt about it. At first there was a great deal of howling, hissing and brawling, which eventually settled into Gawain refusing to acknowledge Arthur’s existence, and Arthur feeling faintly hurt about it. With the introduction of the blinking-light-ball-in-the-circular-track toy, an agreement was made that two cats could, perhaps, play at the same time, as long as there was no direct contact. One day, they began to play without the mediation of the toy. Lately, we’ve noticed that Gawain has been whining and fussing when Arthur goes outside without him.

And then came yesterday.

Closest kitties have ever been!

We have been vindicated.

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I’ve read this twelve times and I can’t stop giggling.

The following is dedicated to Arthur.

arthur in a drunken stupor

From the Best of Craigslist:

Oh no fatty. That food’s not for you.

Date: 2007-03-06, 9:35PM CST

Hey fatbottom, don’t think I don’t see you coveting the kitten’s rich tasty kitten food. So knock it off, cause you ain’t getting any.

You can hatch evil plans to acquire the tasty food all you want, but let me remind you, you’re a cat, and your strategies have been at best dismal failures. Let’s refresh, shall we?

You headbutted the kitten away from her food. This was your best strategy to date, and you actually got to snarf down some of good stuff until I caught you, and you were greeted by your arch nemesis, Captain Squirtgun and his sidekick Lieutenant My-Foot-To-Yo-Fat-Ass. Me 1, Tubbins 0

Brute Force no longer an option, you decided to go stealth ops. Lurk, waiting for the kitten to wander, then you swoop in on a high speed raid. That didn’t work out so well for you either did it? Why not? Cause at 20 something lbs, you don’t ‘swoop’ very stealthy. There’s a reason Possums hunt at night- because they’d starve otherwise… just like you’re doing now. Me 2, Sumo-cat 0

Taking no chances and sick of having to guard the kitten bowl until she was done, I decided kitten gets to eat up on the counter. You hate that more than anything don’t you? I can just see the resentment in your pudgy face. Why does she get to eat steak up there, when I’m eating compressed dust down here? Because I know you can’t get up to the counter without a loud distinctive grunt and making a calamity trying to wiggle your raccoon-ass between the wall and the toaster. Me 3, Fatty 0.

Clearly I own you. In all senses of the word. You really ought to just get used to the Vet’s prescribed food. You’re gonna be eating it for at least a decade, which is forever as far as you’re concerned.

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Knitting and cats, so I don’t lose the rest of my readership.

Back in August, I hired a file clerk. She was a 28-year-old college student, majoring in Anthropology, who liked to knit. And – even better – she was far more organized than Lawyer and me put together. She found things I hadn’t even known were missing. She created space for files where before there had been none. She was bright, funny, and had great hair. I was in supervisor-heaven.

Then, shortly after the holidays, she e-mailed me to say she had abruptly moved away from L.A. to take care of her mother, who had been diagnosed with an agressive cancer. Naturally, I offered to knit her mom a chemo cap. Monkeygurrl had just done two caps that I liked, so I asked her for the patterns. Then I e-mailed the (ex-)file clerk.

“Is your mom more the Strong Women Dance type, or the Fuck Cancer type?”

“She’s kinda both, but the dancing lady would probably be more appropriate for everyday wear,” she responded. So that’s the one I made.

Chemo Cap - Strong Women Dance

Chemo Cap - Strong Women Dance (in sunlight!)

Both photos were taken with my cell phone camera, because my regular digital camera is on the blink. Pardon the quality. Or lack thereof.

(Oh – and to the MRA blogger who called me “Knitting Nellie,” thanks! I’m totally adopting that as my stage name.)

In other news, we had a scare with one of the kitties this week. Gawain was very, very sick with Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease; he developed a blockage that prevented him from urinating at all and caused him a lot of pain. (If you have male cats, please go read those links.)

He was at the vet for three days, and I may or may not have visited him each day. When I picked him up this morning, he was very pleased to see me.

Gawain at the Vet

Now he is home, eating his fancy new food and taking his fancy new medications, and we are considerably poorer than we were last week. When he’s feeling better, we’re going to make him get a job. He’d be a great hairstylist. Or maybe a professional ping-pong fashionista.

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Vacation Photos 2: Friday cat (and dog) blogging

One nippy evening in Brooklyn, I was preparing for my first-ever dinner party when I heard a meow. This was not unusual – between my ex and me, we had three cats, and meows abounded. But I knew all of their meows, and this one did not belong to any of them.

I looked down from my factory windows to see a small, raggledy cat sitting on the sidewalk. He saw me, and began to turn in circles and jump, as if he intended to leap straight into my second-floor loft. I left the cooling ceviche and went downstairs with a can of tuna. Five minutes later, we had a new, eight-month-old cat. I named him Harper, because, as he has demonstrated every day since his arrival, Harper’s bizarre.

When (now-)Husband and I drove across the country together a year later, Harper and Gawain came with us. Gawain settled right into life in L.A., but Harper, not so much. He hated the weather. He hated our apartment. He hated not having any girl cats to fondle inappropriately. After six weeks of his moaning, complaining, and assaulting the furniture, my mother came to visit. When she left, she took him with her. He was very happy to move somewhere with not one, but two female cats, as well as a dog for him to scorn utterly.

This is Harper, lording it over all creatures.
King Harper

This is Harper, still lording, with his favorite sock and his eternal love, Nessie. Life is good.
Harper and Nessie in their tree

This is Nessie, in a sultry pose. She lost one eye as a kitten, but that hasn’t stopped her from becoming the most sought-after cat in the house.

This is my stepfather, walking Divot, the utterly-scorned dog.
Walking Divot

And this is the nose of Rusty, who is not scorned by anyone. Rusty belongs to Husband’s sister. Rusty likes Thanksgiving, because he gets his own little plate full of scraps of turkey, stuffing, potatoes and pie. Rusty’s not spoiled at all.
Rusty's Nose

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Thursday Preemptive Cat Blogging

Wanna know what this kitty is saying?

Thursday Cat Blogging

It’s saying, “Vacation, bitchez! Kiss it!”

Blogging will be somewhere between sporadic and nonexistent for the next week and a half.


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Friday cat blogging.

Gawain in a bag.

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In three . . . two . . . one . . .

Yoshik Fucklinovich

Hello! My name is Yoshik Fucklinovich, and I am coming to you live today from the home of Uccellina, where the minutes are ticking away until the midnight deadline for all Fuckling Contest entries. The tension is thick in the air here, as entrants scramble frantically to finish their projects and send them in.

back of the cat

With me here is Gawain DePounce. Mr. DePounce, do you have any comment on this contest? Mr. DePounce? Comment?

Mr. DePounce, please don’t bite me. Sir. Please.

Excuse me, Mr. DePounce, but that is not – hey – hey, stop! What are you – Auggh! No! Not the face! Bad cat! Bad!

Fuckling Knocked Silly

Back to you in the studio, Uccellina.

Thanks, Yoshik. This has been a brief reminder of the upcoming deadline for Fuckling Contest entries, which is midnight tonight.

Unless, of course, you get them to me by tomorrow afternoon. Say around three.

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Friday cat blogging and . . .

Arthur hunts for feet.
Peppermint foot lotion smells like catnip. Who knew? What you can’t see in a still photo is the frantic scrabbling and digging going on under that blanket.

One more week to get your fucklings in!

(Älso älso: L’Shana Tovah! Have some apples and honey, on me.)

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