I made an LOLCAT! You can too.
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.
We have been vindicated.
The following is dedicated to Arthur.
From the Best of Craigslist:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wanna know what this kitty is saying?
Blogging will be somewhere between sporadic and nonexistent for the next week and a half.