A picture is worth 1,000 words.
Here is a 1,000 word complaint of Scam’s invasion of my space.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Trading Up
“Trading up” is an American luxury. When your car gets old, you trade up for a new one. When your family outgrows your apartment, you trade up for a house with a mortgage. When a man’s wife turns forty, he trades up for two twenty-year-olds. Most Americans view this practice not as a luxury, but as a Constitutional right bestowed by Heaven and the Founding Fathers upon everyone fortunate enough to be born within the boundaries of the fifty United States.
Being a wandering gypsy who has never managed to stay in the same house more than five months at a time over the past three years means that trading up on anything is far out of my financial reach.
But this Christmas may change that.
I happened across a picture of an adorable, fuzzy kitten with big, blue eyes. It had a red bow tied around its neck, reading “Merry Christmas.” My heart skipped a beat.
Here was a pet I could really enjoy! I imagine this tiny, fluffy kitten small enough to curl up in my hand. It does not yowl and screech like Scam. It does not skate up and down the hardwood floors of the hall at night like Con. It does not bite me on the foot. It mews gently and sleeps in its kitty bed with a big red bow tied around its neck.
I must have one! I’ll name it Bitty Kitty.
What about Scam and Con? Those feline fiends would eat my little kitty for lunch and then claim they only had salad with ranch dressing. It was easy to picture them picking their eager teeth with Bitty Kitty’s bones and flossing with the big red bow.
Furthermore, Scam and Con have reigned as King and Queen in my roommate Tiny’s home for twelve years. Through the ups and downs of her life, Scam and Con have been there. They were there through hard times at work and at home, breakups, heartache, despair, financial trials, and chipped manicures.
Obviously, those two cats are bad luck.
I approached Tiny with the picture of Bitty Kitty. She is emotionally attached to the feline fiends, and they are like children to her. Needless to say, this is a situation requiring caution, empathy, and tact.
“Tiny,” I began, tactfully, “Let’s get rid of your cats.”
Her eyes bugged. I could see the idea had never occurred to her.
I lowered my voice to a cautious, empathetic tone, “Let’s throw them out in the snow. They won’t suffer long.”
“How could you say that?” Her voice warbled with unshed tears, so I knew my caution, tact, and empathy had touched her heart deeply. It was working!
Time to break out the secret weapon—the picture! “This is Bitty Kitty.”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s trading up! We throw the old, worn-out kitties and the snow and trade up for this new, shiny model.”
“You know nothing about kittens, do you?”
“I know everything about them. They are tiny, cute, and quiet.”
“They’re hyper, mean, and destructive. They’re also temporary,” Tiny shook her head, “Within a few months, your Bitty Kitty will be gone, and we’ll just have one more cat in the house.”
I pondered her words. Were they a trick to throw me off the trail? The trail of a Scam-and-Con-free life?
Yes, it was a trick, but it did not work for long. Logic was on my side.
“If she turns into a cat, we’ll throw her out in the snow and trade up again. It is the American way of life.”
Indulging in the American way of life is a grand, patriotic gesture, but Tiny was unable to understand or appreciate my patriotism. She withdrew from the room, taking her precious, four-legged villains with her.
I always suspected she was a communist, but I never thought she would take it this far!
Being a wandering gypsy who has never managed to stay in the same house more than five months at a time over the past three years means that trading up on anything is far out of my financial reach.
But this Christmas may change that.
I happened across a picture of an adorable, fuzzy kitten with big, blue eyes. It had a red bow tied around its neck, reading “Merry Christmas.” My heart skipped a beat.
Here was a pet I could really enjoy! I imagine this tiny, fluffy kitten small enough to curl up in my hand. It does not yowl and screech like Scam. It does not skate up and down the hardwood floors of the hall at night like Con. It does not bite me on the foot. It mews gently and sleeps in its kitty bed with a big red bow tied around its neck.
I must have one! I’ll name it Bitty Kitty.
What about Scam and Con? Those feline fiends would eat my little kitty for lunch and then claim they only had salad with ranch dressing. It was easy to picture them picking their eager teeth with Bitty Kitty’s bones and flossing with the big red bow.
Furthermore, Scam and Con have reigned as King and Queen in my roommate Tiny’s home for twelve years. Through the ups and downs of her life, Scam and Con have been there. They were there through hard times at work and at home, breakups, heartache, despair, financial trials, and chipped manicures.
Obviously, those two cats are bad luck.
I approached Tiny with the picture of Bitty Kitty. She is emotionally attached to the feline fiends, and they are like children to her. Needless to say, this is a situation requiring caution, empathy, and tact.
“Tiny,” I began, tactfully, “Let’s get rid of your cats.”
Her eyes bugged. I could see the idea had never occurred to her.
I lowered my voice to a cautious, empathetic tone, “Let’s throw them out in the snow. They won’t suffer long.”
“How could you say that?” Her voice warbled with unshed tears, so I knew my caution, tact, and empathy had touched her heart deeply. It was working!
Time to break out the secret weapon—the picture! “This is Bitty Kitty.”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s trading up! We throw the old, worn-out kitties and the snow and trade up for this new, shiny model.”
“You know nothing about kittens, do you?”
“I know everything about them. They are tiny, cute, and quiet.”
“They’re hyper, mean, and destructive. They’re also temporary,” Tiny shook her head, “Within a few months, your Bitty Kitty will be gone, and we’ll just have one more cat in the house.”
I pondered her words. Were they a trick to throw me off the trail? The trail of a Scam-and-Con-free life?
Yes, it was a trick, but it did not work for long. Logic was on my side.
“If she turns into a cat, we’ll throw her out in the snow and trade up again. It is the American way of life.”
Indulging in the American way of life is a grand, patriotic gesture, but Tiny was unable to understand or appreciate my patriotism. She withdrew from the room, taking her precious, four-legged villains with her.
I always suspected she was a communist, but I never thought she would take it this far!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Fuzzy Fashion Sense
Why don’t cats wear clothing? Pampered dogs, usually belonging to sweet old ladies or hotel heiresses, are often seen sporting sweaters, hats, and painted toenails. Cats, on the other hand, are like Adam and Even in the Garden of Eden—naked and unashamed.
Why?
It is not for lack of opportunity.
When I was a little girl, my brother, Toad, attempted to civilize our semi-wild outdoor cats by capturing them and dressing them in doll clothing. Toad, like any missionary on a quest to civilize savages, endured persecution for his efforts. The naked savages scratched, clawed, and bit, but Toad was patient and longsuffering enough to clothe them in doll dresses, bonnets, and—best of all—socks!
Once the cat was properly dressed, it was released onto the porch to pay for its wardrobe by dancing. If little Tommy Tucker, of nursery rhyme fame, can sing for his supper, it shouldn’t be too much to expect a cat to dance for its wardrobe.
We were never disappointed! A cat in a bonnet and socks will dance and cavort endlessly. Our cat, Butch, did not appreciate Toad’s kindness very much, and, despite the clothing, remained a heathen at heart. His dances, which should have been an outward expression of joy and gratitude for his newly acquired wardrobe, were mostly stripteases instead, so the sincerity of Butch’s conversion was often called into question.
Butch’s nudist tendencies were not our only reason to doubt his salvation. He was also lazy, mean, cursed like a sailor, and responded to his own baptism with what appeared to be a demonic fit. Toad still bears the scars of that baptism.
Cats do not run naked because they have no opportunity to be clothed, and they do not remain au natural because they lack interest in clothing.
I assure you cats are very interested in clothing, especially clean clothing. Have you ever seen a cat sleeping in a hamper full of dirty laundry? Neither have I. Cats will only sleep on fresh, clean laundry that you have just spent the last two hours washing, drying, and freeing from cat hair. Some people believe it is because the clothing is warm from the dryer. This is utter nonsense! Cats prefer clean laundry because it is clean, not because it is warm. If they were only after warmth, they would sleep on the heater vents, but they don’t.
Cats have a keen sense of fashion. It is misguided, by our standards, but keen nonetheless.
According to human fashion sense, dark colors are flattering and professional. Head-to-toe black is the best thing a human can wear.
Cats prefer contrast. They spot black clothing and immediately rush over to shed some white hair onto it for visual appeal. Most of my wardrobe is black or dark grey, and it is difficult to get out the door without Scam, my roommate’s fat, white cat, scurrying over to rub up against my legs and leave white hair all over me. Scam has no use for me any other time and never attempts to touch me unless I am wearing black. Scam’s disdain for me runs so deep that if I try to touch or pet her, she runs screeching away. But just let me walk in dressed for work, and suddenly she is seized with uncontrollable affection for me and winds around and around my dark stockings, purring with devotion.
Since their nudity is not caused by lack of opportunity or interest in fashion, I can only assume they remain naked because they are making some kind of political statement against clothing manufacturers, presumably because of the industry’s refusal to make cat-fur jackets.
Cats are very vain and do not care about anyone’s fur but their own. The fashion industry's nearly exclusive use of rabbit and mink is an insult to Kittydom.
I think they would like to see cat fur jackets and wraps become popular, but due to fashionistas' refusal to kill and skin them, the only way they can see cat fur in fashion is to shed on dark fabric whenever they get the chance.
There is more than one way to skin a cat!
Why?
It is not for lack of opportunity.
When I was a little girl, my brother, Toad, attempted to civilize our semi-wild outdoor cats by capturing them and dressing them in doll clothing. Toad, like any missionary on a quest to civilize savages, endured persecution for his efforts. The naked savages scratched, clawed, and bit, but Toad was patient and longsuffering enough to clothe them in doll dresses, bonnets, and—best of all—socks!
Once the cat was properly dressed, it was released onto the porch to pay for its wardrobe by dancing. If little Tommy Tucker, of nursery rhyme fame, can sing for his supper, it shouldn’t be too much to expect a cat to dance for its wardrobe.
We were never disappointed! A cat in a bonnet and socks will dance and cavort endlessly. Our cat, Butch, did not appreciate Toad’s kindness very much, and, despite the clothing, remained a heathen at heart. His dances, which should have been an outward expression of joy and gratitude for his newly acquired wardrobe, were mostly stripteases instead, so the sincerity of Butch’s conversion was often called into question.
Butch’s nudist tendencies were not our only reason to doubt his salvation. He was also lazy, mean, cursed like a sailor, and responded to his own baptism with what appeared to be a demonic fit. Toad still bears the scars of that baptism.
Cats do not run naked because they have no opportunity to be clothed, and they do not remain au natural because they lack interest in clothing.
I assure you cats are very interested in clothing, especially clean clothing. Have you ever seen a cat sleeping in a hamper full of dirty laundry? Neither have I. Cats will only sleep on fresh, clean laundry that you have just spent the last two hours washing, drying, and freeing from cat hair. Some people believe it is because the clothing is warm from the dryer. This is utter nonsense! Cats prefer clean laundry because it is clean, not because it is warm. If they were only after warmth, they would sleep on the heater vents, but they don’t.
Cats have a keen sense of fashion. It is misguided, by our standards, but keen nonetheless.
According to human fashion sense, dark colors are flattering and professional. Head-to-toe black is the best thing a human can wear.
Cats prefer contrast. They spot black clothing and immediately rush over to shed some white hair onto it for visual appeal. Most of my wardrobe is black or dark grey, and it is difficult to get out the door without Scam, my roommate’s fat, white cat, scurrying over to rub up against my legs and leave white hair all over me. Scam has no use for me any other time and never attempts to touch me unless I am wearing black. Scam’s disdain for me runs so deep that if I try to touch or pet her, she runs screeching away. But just let me walk in dressed for work, and suddenly she is seized with uncontrollable affection for me and winds around and around my dark stockings, purring with devotion.
Since their nudity is not caused by lack of opportunity or interest in fashion, I can only assume they remain naked because they are making some kind of political statement against clothing manufacturers, presumably because of the industry’s refusal to make cat-fur jackets.
Cats are very vain and do not care about anyone’s fur but their own. The fashion industry's nearly exclusive use of rabbit and mink is an insult to Kittydom.
I think they would like to see cat fur jackets and wraps become popular, but due to fashionistas' refusal to kill and skin them, the only way they can see cat fur in fashion is to shed on dark fabric whenever they get the chance.
There is more than one way to skin a cat!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Furry Lies
Rob Kopack (whoever he is) once wrote, “If cats could talk, they would lie to you.”
Until I read this quote, I relied solely on the wealth of information found on the World Wide Web, supplied by its founder and master Al Gore, for information on cats. Judging from the vast store of knowledge on Wikipedia, Google, and various other search engines and websites, Al Gore must be quite the expert on cats.
Apparently, so is Rob Kopack.
Scam and Con, the feline masters of my roommate, Tiny, lie so often that if they were humans, they would have already been elected to the Senate.
Their favorite lie is the “food” lie. I haven’t been fed! Feed me! I’m starving to death! Look at me, Scam whines, I’m wasting away to skin and bones.
Right! So far, she has “wasted away” to about thirty pounds of blubber and fur.
Dissatisfied with merely lying about the food, they emphasize the lie with drama. These would-be thespians follow you throughout the house, meowing pitifully and piercing your soul with big, sad eyes that cry out for nourishment. If you are not careful, you will find yourself believing the lie and giving them extra cat food, which they gobble with the ravenous gratitude of starving refugees.
Then they throw up on the rug.
That’s how you know you’ve been had!
Another recurring feline lie is the “it is time to wake up” lie. Most jokes are funny once, and a few are funny twice, but Scam and Con never cease to be amused by this one. They repeat it every night sometime between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m. There are few things worse than being awakened from a sound sleep by a lying cat. It may be advisable to "let sleeping dogs lie," but I would be content to let lying cats sleep!
At times, they break the law of Moses by bearing false witness against their neighbor--me. Those of you who are familiar with my accounts of Scam and Con know they lurk inside the door, waiting for Tiny to come home so they can accuse me of chasing them into the garage with a spray bottle.
Lies!
In Biblical times, breaking the law of Moses earned the criminal a free ride to the stone pit.
I've never stoned anyone before, but I'm willing to try it. I checked the web for the best way to stone a cat, and the punishment will be carried out tonight!
I have the necessary weapons (according to the World Wide Web) on my desk in front of me, so it is just a matter of time before Scam and Con face the judge (me) and are stoned for being blatant liars. Ah, sweet justice!
Say your prayers for Scam and Con. I have a bag of catnip on my desk, and I'm going home to get these cats stoned.
Justice is not quite dead.
Until I read this quote, I relied solely on the wealth of information found on the World Wide Web, supplied by its founder and master Al Gore, for information on cats. Judging from the vast store of knowledge on Wikipedia, Google, and various other search engines and websites, Al Gore must be quite the expert on cats.
Apparently, so is Rob Kopack.
Scam and Con, the feline masters of my roommate, Tiny, lie so often that if they were humans, they would have already been elected to the Senate.
Their favorite lie is the “food” lie. I haven’t been fed! Feed me! I’m starving to death! Look at me, Scam whines, I’m wasting away to skin and bones.
Right! So far, she has “wasted away” to about thirty pounds of blubber and fur.
Dissatisfied with merely lying about the food, they emphasize the lie with drama. These would-be thespians follow you throughout the house, meowing pitifully and piercing your soul with big, sad eyes that cry out for nourishment. If you are not careful, you will find yourself believing the lie and giving them extra cat food, which they gobble with the ravenous gratitude of starving refugees.
Then they throw up on the rug.
That’s how you know you’ve been had!
Another recurring feline lie is the “it is time to wake up” lie. Most jokes are funny once, and a few are funny twice, but Scam and Con never cease to be amused by this one. They repeat it every night sometime between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m. There are few things worse than being awakened from a sound sleep by a lying cat. It may be advisable to "let sleeping dogs lie," but I would be content to let lying cats sleep!
At times, they break the law of Moses by bearing false witness against their neighbor--me. Those of you who are familiar with my accounts of Scam and Con know they lurk inside the door, waiting for Tiny to come home so they can accuse me of chasing them into the garage with a spray bottle.
Lies!
In Biblical times, breaking the law of Moses earned the criminal a free ride to the stone pit.
I've never stoned anyone before, but I'm willing to try it. I checked the web for the best way to stone a cat, and the punishment will be carried out tonight!
I have the necessary weapons (according to the World Wide Web) on my desk in front of me, so it is just a matter of time before Scam and Con face the judge (me) and are stoned for being blatant liars. Ah, sweet justice!
Say your prayers for Scam and Con. I have a bag of catnip on my desk, and I'm going home to get these cats stoned.
Justice is not quite dead.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Meant To Be Free
When I moved in with Tiny, I knew she had cats, but I was under the impression they were old, infirm, and likely to die at any moment.
They are old, but their only infirmities are mental and psychological disorders. Death is apparently afraid of them, and the only way they will cross the Jordan River any time soon is if someone ties them up in a gunny sack and tosses them in the water.
I would volunteer for the job, but I have a feeling they would escape from the sack and drown me.
I do not have the stamina to kill a cat—especially a cat with the stamina of Scam or Con. Starving them is out of the question, as Scam is fat enough to survive a famine. I can’t imagine anyone drunk enough to buy them, so I opted to remove them from my presence in the kindest, most loving way imaginable.
I released them into the wild. All creatures are meant to be free!
It was easier than I envisioned. All I had to do was step onto the back deck and leave the door open. Scam disappeared under the porch, and Con vanished into the atmosphere in a streak of brown fur.
We’re FREE! They seemed to say, FREE!
I wished them the best of luck and went indoors to bask in cat-free serenity. I was sipping my cup of celebratory coffee when Tiny shuffled in, glamorously attired in a fuzzy bathrobe with a towel on her head.
Maybe she wouldn’t notice for a few hours. After all, it’s not like cat-free serenity is immediately detectible to a cat-lover. By the time she realized they were gone, they would be off pursuing their dreams of fame, fortune, and a life of crime.
“Where are my cats?”
“Cats?” I blinked innocently and sipped my coffee, “Are they gone?”
“There’s uneaten food in their bowls!”
Zounds! I had forgotten to hide an important clue!
Tiny scurried around the house, calling frantically for Scam and Con. I decided to give her a few moments to search before telling her they were outdoors, frolicking in the sunshine and irritating the neighbor’s Doberman. She would be relieved, of course. Once she realized the benefits of cat-free serenity, she would probably even thank me.
“I think they might have gone outside,” I observed at last.
“Outside? How would they get outside?”
“Through the door. I went out earlier, and I think they may have slipped out.”
Tiny concealed her relief with a shriek of fright, “Oh! My babies!” Jerking the back door open, she raced into the yard, bathrobe flapping in the breeze. “What if something attacks them? They have no way to defend themselves!”
Nothing but claws, teeth, and sarcastic wit.
God created wild animals with natural survival instincts. They could catch mice or steal garbage. If that failed, I was pretty sure they could make a living as professional poker players in a seedy casino out west. They might even become very successful.
Unfortunately for all of us, but mostly for me, Tiny found them both and brought them back to continue wreaking havoc on my already stressful life. It turns out Scam was too stupid to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime chance and tried to set up housekeeping under the back deck. Con was a little more adventurous, but not much.
Oh, they made a big deal out of coming home. You would have thought they were Marco Polo returning from exotic and dangerous lands by the way Tiny petted and made over them that day. She even reported their adventure at work, as though common sense had saved them from the wilds of Hendersonville instead of pure, simple laziness.
I guess some creatures were not meant to be free.
They are old, but their only infirmities are mental and psychological disorders. Death is apparently afraid of them, and the only way they will cross the Jordan River any time soon is if someone ties them up in a gunny sack and tosses them in the water.
I would volunteer for the job, but I have a feeling they would escape from the sack and drown me.
I do not have the stamina to kill a cat—especially a cat with the stamina of Scam or Con. Starving them is out of the question, as Scam is fat enough to survive a famine. I can’t imagine anyone drunk enough to buy them, so I opted to remove them from my presence in the kindest, most loving way imaginable.
I released them into the wild. All creatures are meant to be free!
It was easier than I envisioned. All I had to do was step onto the back deck and leave the door open. Scam disappeared under the porch, and Con vanished into the atmosphere in a streak of brown fur.
We’re FREE! They seemed to say, FREE!
I wished them the best of luck and went indoors to bask in cat-free serenity. I was sipping my cup of celebratory coffee when Tiny shuffled in, glamorously attired in a fuzzy bathrobe with a towel on her head.
Maybe she wouldn’t notice for a few hours. After all, it’s not like cat-free serenity is immediately detectible to a cat-lover. By the time she realized they were gone, they would be off pursuing their dreams of fame, fortune, and a life of crime.
“Where are my cats?”
“Cats?” I blinked innocently and sipped my coffee, “Are they gone?”
“There’s uneaten food in their bowls!”
Zounds! I had forgotten to hide an important clue!
Tiny scurried around the house, calling frantically for Scam and Con. I decided to give her a few moments to search before telling her they were outdoors, frolicking in the sunshine and irritating the neighbor’s Doberman. She would be relieved, of course. Once she realized the benefits of cat-free serenity, she would probably even thank me.
“I think they might have gone outside,” I observed at last.
“Outside? How would they get outside?”
“Through the door. I went out earlier, and I think they may have slipped out.”
Tiny concealed her relief with a shriek of fright, “Oh! My babies!” Jerking the back door open, she raced into the yard, bathrobe flapping in the breeze. “What if something attacks them? They have no way to defend themselves!”
Nothing but claws, teeth, and sarcastic wit.
God created wild animals with natural survival instincts. They could catch mice or steal garbage. If that failed, I was pretty sure they could make a living as professional poker players in a seedy casino out west. They might even become very successful.
Unfortunately for all of us, but mostly for me, Tiny found them both and brought them back to continue wreaking havoc on my already stressful life. It turns out Scam was too stupid to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime chance and tried to set up housekeeping under the back deck. Con was a little more adventurous, but not much.
Oh, they made a big deal out of coming home. You would have thought they were Marco Polo returning from exotic and dangerous lands by the way Tiny petted and made over them that day. She even reported their adventure at work, as though common sense had saved them from the wilds of Hendersonville instead of pure, simple laziness.
I guess some creatures were not meant to be free.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Kitty Companionship
Wikipedia defines the cat as “A small carnivorous mammal that is valued by humans for its companionship…”
Companionship? Really?
It would be nice to have a small, warm companion waiting for me at home. This imaginary pet is always glad to see me. It lies contentedly on my feet, warming them without shedding on my socks. It sympathizes with my troubles and never throws up on the rug.
I have tried to establish a companionable relationship with my roommate’s cats—Scam and Con—to no avail. They do not place much value on human companionship. As far as I can tell, they do not place much value on anything beyond food, water, and the joy of disturbing my peace at 4:00 a.m. by caterwauling outside my bedroom door.
Wikipedia may be wrong about companionship, but it is dead right when describing them as carnivorous! I thought I might be able to earn their affection by feeding them delicacies which my roommate, Tiny, withholds as inappropriate for feline consumption. Show me a well-fed cat, and I will show you a beloved human.
Or, so I assumed.
I purchased a package of artificial crab meat for $4.68 and took it home to win the hearts of Scam and Con.
I have news for you.
They have no hearts to win, and if they did, it would cost more than $4.68.
They crowded near me, purring like fuzzy chainsaws and yowling greedily. I sat down on a chair and tossed pieces of artificial crab their direction. They gobbled it up and crept closer to my feet. This was the moment of truth! Any time now, one of them would lie down to warm my toes and sympathize with my troubles.
They worship me, I realized, smugly. I am benevolent and kind. I bestow good gifts upon their worthless, furry selves. They stand in awe—“OUCH!”
Scam bit me on the foot! Not on the toe, mind you, which would have been painful enough, but on the arch. Have you ever been bitten on the arch? A good friend of mine once dated a guy who—
But I digress from the treachery of Scam and Con.
That was the last time I fed them anything at all. They are permanently stuck with the dull, unimaginative meals of dry cat food which Tiny doles out every evening. She has been feeding them for twelve years, and they are no closer to having a companionable relationship than Congress is to paying off the national debt.
I have eaten Tiny’s cooking, so I can hardly blame the cats for refusing to accept her meals as sufficient payment for loving companionship.
All the same, I would like to meet the author of that Wikipedia article on cats and their value as companions to humans. I have a gift for that mysterious author—the remnants of a $4.68 package of artificial crab.
Let him try it sometime!
Companionship? Really?
It would be nice to have a small, warm companion waiting for me at home. This imaginary pet is always glad to see me. It lies contentedly on my feet, warming them without shedding on my socks. It sympathizes with my troubles and never throws up on the rug.
I have tried to establish a companionable relationship with my roommate’s cats—Scam and Con—to no avail. They do not place much value on human companionship. As far as I can tell, they do not place much value on anything beyond food, water, and the joy of disturbing my peace at 4:00 a.m. by caterwauling outside my bedroom door.
Wikipedia may be wrong about companionship, but it is dead right when describing them as carnivorous! I thought I might be able to earn their affection by feeding them delicacies which my roommate, Tiny, withholds as inappropriate for feline consumption. Show me a well-fed cat, and I will show you a beloved human.
Or, so I assumed.
I purchased a package of artificial crab meat for $4.68 and took it home to win the hearts of Scam and Con.
I have news for you.
They have no hearts to win, and if they did, it would cost more than $4.68.
They crowded near me, purring like fuzzy chainsaws and yowling greedily. I sat down on a chair and tossed pieces of artificial crab their direction. They gobbled it up and crept closer to my feet. This was the moment of truth! Any time now, one of them would lie down to warm my toes and sympathize with my troubles.
They worship me, I realized, smugly. I am benevolent and kind. I bestow good gifts upon their worthless, furry selves. They stand in awe—“OUCH!”
Scam bit me on the foot! Not on the toe, mind you, which would have been painful enough, but on the arch. Have you ever been bitten on the arch? A good friend of mine once dated a guy who—
But I digress from the treachery of Scam and Con.
That was the last time I fed them anything at all. They are permanently stuck with the dull, unimaginative meals of dry cat food which Tiny doles out every evening. She has been feeding them for twelve years, and they are no closer to having a companionable relationship than Congress is to paying off the national debt.
I have eaten Tiny’s cooking, so I can hardly blame the cats for refusing to accept her meals as sufficient payment for loving companionship.
All the same, I would like to meet the author of that Wikipedia article on cats and their value as companions to humans. I have a gift for that mysterious author—the remnants of a $4.68 package of artificial crab.
Let him try it sometime!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Speaking Kitty
In the interest of fairness, you must admit that I had never owned a cat, and, therefore, should not be expected to have a clear understanding of the inner workings of their fuzzy brains. My roommate, Tiny, has owned cats for twelve years and has developed an eerie ability to discern the meaning of their one-syllable remarks and erratic behavior.
“Scam was meowing at my door at 2:00 a.m.,” I might observe, “It was like a nightmare.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘meow.’”
“Yeah, but was it a ‘feed-me’ meow or a ‘something’s wrong’ meow?”
Not wishing to appear a fool, I contemplate my answer carefully. Unable to formulate an intelligent response, I opt for direct translation. It sounded like this: “Me-YOW.”
“Oh. She was just trying to get on your nerves.”
What a shock.
Scam and her brother, Con, have had it in for me since day one. I can’t say I blame them. They spent their days in blissful oblivion before my arrival, sunning themselves for hours on end and shedding on the coffee table. They still sun themselves for hours on end, but I chase them off the coffee table or any other visible surface any time I happen to catch them.
Their revenge is to tell on me when Tiny gets home.
“Meow.” They whimper pitifully as soon as her key turns in the lock, “Meow!”
She gives them a skeptical look and says, “Liars!”
How does she know? Does she actually understand that they are saying, “Rana chased our fuzzy tails into the garage with a spray bottle today,” or is she simply so familiar with their character that she knows whatever they are trying to say is bound to be a lie?
Is there a way to really understand what they are saying? More importantly, is there a way to speak rationally to them and be understood?
It would be wonderful to sit down on the couch and say, “Con, please remove your furry butt from my line of vision, and go hide in the garage.” Con would understand, agree, and disappear into the garage to hide for the next seven hours.
You can plainly see the benefits of speaking Kitty. I speak Spanish moderately well and have dabbled in certain other languages. Since childhood, I have been fluent in Pig Latin, and, I reason, anyone who can speak Pig should be able to speak Kitty.
How would I learn? I turned to the Almighty World Wide Web and its illustrious, infallible founder Al Gore for the answer.
According to www.wikihow.com, one can decode Kitty by listening carefully. A short meow is a standard greeting, whereas multiple meows express an excited greeting. Who knew? A mid-pitched meow is a plea for something, but the “something” can range from cat food to a private yacht, and you will never know the difference.
They also communicate non-verbally, but something is lost in translation. For example, dilated pupils could mean the cat is in a playful mood and wants you to toss it a ball of yarn, or it could mean the cat feels aggressive and wants to claw your ankle. When a cat slowly blinks its eyes, this means it is blowing you a kiss. I am not making this up! Al Gore stands behind these facts, so they must be true.
You are supposed to blink at a cat to make it feel comfortable with you. In theory, if you blink at them, they will love you. I blinked at Con, but he ignored me, so I don’t know if it worked. I have my doubts.
Another benefit of speaking Kitty would be the ability to understand why they yowl in the hall at 2:00 a.m. Are they singing? Complaining of hunger pangs? Delivering the Kitty version of the Gettysburg Address? For all I know, Scam and Con are talented public speakers with undiscovered talent.
Or they could just be trying to get on my nerves.
After considerable time and trouble, I think I have finally overcome the communication barrier. Last night, I was lying on the couch when Con appeared on the coffee table.
“Me-YOW,” He asserted, rudely.
I grabbed the spray bottle and chased him into the garage where he hid under a cabinet for the rest of the evening.
Plainly, he understood me. I have mastered his language.
“Scam was meowing at my door at 2:00 a.m.,” I might observe, “It was like a nightmare.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘meow.’”
“Yeah, but was it a ‘feed-me’ meow or a ‘something’s wrong’ meow?”
Not wishing to appear a fool, I contemplate my answer carefully. Unable to formulate an intelligent response, I opt for direct translation. It sounded like this: “Me-YOW.”
“Oh. She was just trying to get on your nerves.”
What a shock.
Scam and her brother, Con, have had it in for me since day one. I can’t say I blame them. They spent their days in blissful oblivion before my arrival, sunning themselves for hours on end and shedding on the coffee table. They still sun themselves for hours on end, but I chase them off the coffee table or any other visible surface any time I happen to catch them.
Their revenge is to tell on me when Tiny gets home.
“Meow.” They whimper pitifully as soon as her key turns in the lock, “Meow!”
She gives them a skeptical look and says, “Liars!”
How does she know? Does she actually understand that they are saying, “Rana chased our fuzzy tails into the garage with a spray bottle today,” or is she simply so familiar with their character that she knows whatever they are trying to say is bound to be a lie?
Is there a way to really understand what they are saying? More importantly, is there a way to speak rationally to them and be understood?
It would be wonderful to sit down on the couch and say, “Con, please remove your furry butt from my line of vision, and go hide in the garage.” Con would understand, agree, and disappear into the garage to hide for the next seven hours.
You can plainly see the benefits of speaking Kitty. I speak Spanish moderately well and have dabbled in certain other languages. Since childhood, I have been fluent in Pig Latin, and, I reason, anyone who can speak Pig should be able to speak Kitty.
How would I learn? I turned to the Almighty World Wide Web and its illustrious, infallible founder Al Gore for the answer.
According to www.wikihow.com, one can decode Kitty by listening carefully. A short meow is a standard greeting, whereas multiple meows express an excited greeting. Who knew? A mid-pitched meow is a plea for something, but the “something” can range from cat food to a private yacht, and you will never know the difference.
They also communicate non-verbally, but something is lost in translation. For example, dilated pupils could mean the cat is in a playful mood and wants you to toss it a ball of yarn, or it could mean the cat feels aggressive and wants to claw your ankle. When a cat slowly blinks its eyes, this means it is blowing you a kiss. I am not making this up! Al Gore stands behind these facts, so they must be true.
You are supposed to blink at a cat to make it feel comfortable with you. In theory, if you blink at them, they will love you. I blinked at Con, but he ignored me, so I don’t know if it worked. I have my doubts.
Another benefit of speaking Kitty would be the ability to understand why they yowl in the hall at 2:00 a.m. Are they singing? Complaining of hunger pangs? Delivering the Kitty version of the Gettysburg Address? For all I know, Scam and Con are talented public speakers with undiscovered talent.
Or they could just be trying to get on my nerves.
After considerable time and trouble, I think I have finally overcome the communication barrier. Last night, I was lying on the couch when Con appeared on the coffee table.
“Me-YOW,” He asserted, rudely.
I grabbed the spray bottle and chased him into the garage where he hid under a cabinet for the rest of the evening.
Plainly, he understood me. I have mastered his language.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Battle for the Kitchen
PETA is wrong about me. I do not hate animals. I eat them, but I do not hate them. You could even say that I enjoy them very much—especially with BBQ sauce!
There are certain animals I can’t eat, though, and the cat is at the top of the list. Cat lovers often extol the cleanliness and virtues of their feline companions, exclaiming, “They are such clean animals!”
They lick their own butts. Enough said.
Cleanliness notwithstanding, I have no personal grudge against cats and have always been willing to let them live their lives in liberty and the pursuit of happiness. At least, I was until last month, when I became the unwitting victim of a diabolic feline scheme to wreck my peace of mind.
My new room-mate is the proud owner of two cats—Scam and Con. I, not being familiar with cats at all, researched their behavior on the internet. I wanted to know what they like to eat, what makes them happy, and—most importantly—what keeps them away! I found a wealth of information on keeping cats away, which I utilized immediately.
According to the Almighty World Wide Web, cats are repulsed by the scent of citrus and can not come near orange peels. Al Gore is the founder and master of the Almighty World Wide Web, so how could it be wrong? I rushed to Wal-Mart and stocked up on citrus-scented cleaning supplies. My intent was to make the kitchen so citrusy that Scam and Con could not approach to scatter cat hair in the vicinity of the people food. I have a horror of cats in a kitchen.
I cleaned the floor and started polishing it with Orange-On. To me, this translated as “Cat-Be-Gone!” Unblinking, they observed my toil for a while before traipsing onto the polished floor and skating across it like some four-legged Sonja Heine!
I hated to part with my hard-earned cash, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I went to the Happy Pet Shop and purchased an eleven-dollar spray bottle of “Cat-Away.” It contains a blend of herbs that cats find especially repulsive. I felt kind of cruel and guilty for making life so unpleasant for these mute beasts, but my guilt vanished when I arrived home and discovered that Con had been playing in the cold fireplace and tracked ashes all over my fresh Orange-On floor! This meant war! I unleashed my eleven-dollar weapon of mass repulsion and sprayed down everything in the kitchen.
Scam and Con followed me through the kitchen and watched me soak the cabinets with Cat-Away. Apparently, it would take a few moments for the scent of the herbs to reach their tiny kitty noses and send them screeching away.
Con, the more agile of the two, leapt onto the cabinet to sniff the bottle. I held my breath—anticipating his violent reaction.
"Not bad", he seemed to say,"A tad too minty for my taste, but delightful, nonetheless."
It was time to wield the deadliest weapon—pepper! According to the Almighty World Wide Web, cats are not only repulsed by pepper, but it irritates their sensitive skin. I was not aware that cats had sensitive skin, since I have never seen one rubbing its legs with Jergens after a shave. It was worth a try.
I sprinkled a little pepper near the cabinets and left for work. When I returned, Scam was lying in it. Was this the kitty version of self-flagellation? Had Scam committed some grievous sin which required atonement?
She probably had, but I doubt her conscience bothered her too much about it.
I did the only thing an intelligent, capable woman can do when matching wits against two fuzz balls with brains the size of peanuts.
I gave up.
The good news is, once I surrendered, Scam and Con never again exhibited the slightest inclination to go near the cabinets or hang out in the kitchen. They sun themselves endlessly in the big, bay window in the living room, hidden from view by the heavy drapes. It’s almost as though they realize they got the best of me, so they don’t need to flaunt their victory.
Almost.
There are certain animals I can’t eat, though, and the cat is at the top of the list. Cat lovers often extol the cleanliness and virtues of their feline companions, exclaiming, “They are such clean animals!”
They lick their own butts. Enough said.
Cleanliness notwithstanding, I have no personal grudge against cats and have always been willing to let them live their lives in liberty and the pursuit of happiness. At least, I was until last month, when I became the unwitting victim of a diabolic feline scheme to wreck my peace of mind.
My new room-mate is the proud owner of two cats—Scam and Con. I, not being familiar with cats at all, researched their behavior on the internet. I wanted to know what they like to eat, what makes them happy, and—most importantly—what keeps them away! I found a wealth of information on keeping cats away, which I utilized immediately.
According to the Almighty World Wide Web, cats are repulsed by the scent of citrus and can not come near orange peels. Al Gore is the founder and master of the Almighty World Wide Web, so how could it be wrong? I rushed to Wal-Mart and stocked up on citrus-scented cleaning supplies. My intent was to make the kitchen so citrusy that Scam and Con could not approach to scatter cat hair in the vicinity of the people food. I have a horror of cats in a kitchen.
I cleaned the floor and started polishing it with Orange-On. To me, this translated as “Cat-Be-Gone!” Unblinking, they observed my toil for a while before traipsing onto the polished floor and skating across it like some four-legged Sonja Heine!
I hated to part with my hard-earned cash, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I went to the Happy Pet Shop and purchased an eleven-dollar spray bottle of “Cat-Away.” It contains a blend of herbs that cats find especially repulsive. I felt kind of cruel and guilty for making life so unpleasant for these mute beasts, but my guilt vanished when I arrived home and discovered that Con had been playing in the cold fireplace and tracked ashes all over my fresh Orange-On floor! This meant war! I unleashed my eleven-dollar weapon of mass repulsion and sprayed down everything in the kitchen.
Scam and Con followed me through the kitchen and watched me soak the cabinets with Cat-Away. Apparently, it would take a few moments for the scent of the herbs to reach their tiny kitty noses and send them screeching away.
Con, the more agile of the two, leapt onto the cabinet to sniff the bottle. I held my breath—anticipating his violent reaction.
"Not bad", he seemed to say,"A tad too minty for my taste, but delightful, nonetheless."
It was time to wield the deadliest weapon—pepper! According to the Almighty World Wide Web, cats are not only repulsed by pepper, but it irritates their sensitive skin. I was not aware that cats had sensitive skin, since I have never seen one rubbing its legs with Jergens after a shave. It was worth a try.
I sprinkled a little pepper near the cabinets and left for work. When I returned, Scam was lying in it. Was this the kitty version of self-flagellation? Had Scam committed some grievous sin which required atonement?
She probably had, but I doubt her conscience bothered her too much about it.
I did the only thing an intelligent, capable woman can do when matching wits against two fuzz balls with brains the size of peanuts.
I gave up.
The good news is, once I surrendered, Scam and Con never again exhibited the slightest inclination to go near the cabinets or hang out in the kitchen. They sun themselves endlessly in the big, bay window in the living room, hidden from view by the heavy drapes. It’s almost as though they realize they got the best of me, so they don’t need to flaunt their victory.
Almost.
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