My sweet little girl, I know you don’t sleep all night, but us humans do. Jumping on my chest and blaring a “meow!” in my face at 4 in the morning just gets you kicked out, not a playmate to run around with. And about the litterbox - scratching the bathroom wall behind it for 10 minutes isn’t covering anything. You might want to set your sights a little closer to the action if you ever want to accomplish anything. (Oh, and for the record, my chili is not poopoo; you don’t have to bury it for me.)
baked.
A slight hijack from a parrot owner:
Tupac,my precious Conure(mini parrot breed about the size of a cockatiel)
- Just because the sun’s up does not mean I’m up. Squawking “Mama” at the top of your lungs does not get the cover removed from your cage, it gets a slipper thrown at the cage.
- I know you are happy to see I’m home but let me get in the fucking house before screaming “Mama! Out! Mama! Out!” over and over.
- Hi Opal!
- Just bcasue you can squish your butt against the cage and shit up to two feet away does not mean you are allowed to. You will stay in the cage all day for that and giving me sad bird looks will not reduce your sentence. Learn how to wipe the shit up though and maybe you’ll get paroled.
- There are things in your food I know you’re not fond of. Stop picking them out and flinging them out of the cage. Just eat around them for christ’s sake.
- Flying full speed at my head will also get you a day in the cage.
- When you sit on my shoulder and groom my hair,please don’t try to climb up my head by grabbing my ear in your beak and trying to pull yourself up. Your beak can crack peanuts in the shell-imagine what it does to my ear.
Contrary to popular opinion cats do not say “meow.”
Cats go, “MeNow, MeNow.”
Uh…maybe this is a dumb question, but if the cats bother you at night, why are they allowed in your room? My mother’s cats (3 pests) know damn well my room is off limits even during the day, and I keep the door shut when I’m asleep. The last cat, a siamese name Coco we had until 8 years ago, who was ever allowed room privileges used to sleep on my head occasionally, so I decided that was it. Nothing with 4 feet is allowed in my room.
Ok, this thread commands a reference to this comic strip, called Get Fuzzy. It’s new, and isn’t in that many papers yet (NY Daily News is one of them). What’s great is that although the cat and dog have human abilities, their personalities are still catty and doggy (respectively). Enjoy.
Q: Why are cats allowed in your room if they bother you at night?
[simple answer]
A: Because.
[A slightly less snippiy answer]
A: Because I live in an apartment and have no where else to put them and when I tried to just close the door, they stood on the other sid meowing for a few days or minutes, I could not tell, and doing the whole “paw under the door” thing. Plus, I love the little creatures and I really don’t mind too much.
RE: Get Fuzzy
It’s been around for a while and is even in the Dayton Daily News, Dayton, Ohio. I found it a number of months ago linked from The Dilbert Zone.
Great strip, good humor. Thanks for bringing that up, xtn, I think I’ll see what’s on for today…
Ladybird: it really isn’t daddy’s fault when Ladybird gets underfoot and daddy squishes her pretty tail, so don’t take it personally.
Princess: humans and cats have different appreciations for the product of your scent glands.
Babybird: no matter how long or how vigourously or WHERE you “knead” me, I am NOT going to lactate.
oldscratch, you do that to your cat, too? Bart lets out a nice drone, round about Eb, and I can easily croon out “Scotland the Brave” over his caterwauling. It amuses my folks to no end. (Well, that and the fact he’s tipping the scales at 20 pounds now.)
Esprix
My ex-housemate’s cat was a sweater-shagger. He’d fuck an old wool sweater in the kitchen for literally hours on end. Sometimes he’d get so jiggy he’d fall off onto the floor and lie there stunned for a couple of seconds.
Because if we shut the door, they claw and scratch at it all night (we have the torn carpet to prove it), and I can’t sleep through that.
And now, some requests of my cats:
Please do not stand on my bladder when I am sleeping in bed. Please understand that I don’t want to pet you when I am sleeping, and I don’t appreciate the one-claw wake up call (just enough pressure to get my attention). Please do not assist in my romantic bedroom endeavors. I can do this all by myself.
Midnight, my very own Grumpy Old Cat Lady, you were fixed 18 years ago. This means that you can no longer Make Kittens, and in fact shouldn’t even be interested in that activity. Even if you COULD still Make Kittens, you shouldn’t try to do so with my husband. Granted, he’s hairy, but he’s the wrong species, sweetheart. And he’s not likely to get into the mood for it, no matter how many coy looks you give him over your shoulder, while presenting your butt to him. He just isn’t into cat butts. Be glad that he’s willing to cuddle you while he’s watching TV.
Achilles, leave Midnight alone. She’s 19, and she doesn’t want to play Tag, or Gotcha, or any other kitty games. She just wants to Make Kittens with Bill, or snuggle on him, or sleep. Just don’t bother her, and your nose won’t have those ugly scratch marks on it. In fact, I’m surprised that she hasn’t slapped your nose clean off your face.
And Achilles, see, it doesn’t work for this OTHER cat, either. Granted, you have an exceptionally hard head, but you simply cannot batter your way through the door with it. We’ve cut a cat door into Lisa’s room, you can go through the hole! You don’t need to run into the door. I’m not worried about you hurting yourself, but I am a bit concerned about the door.
Lisa (your Mom) is NOT going to produce another bottle for you to nurse on. She only fed you with a bottle because you were too young when we got you, and you couldn’t eat solid food. Now that you can eat solid food (and catch it yourself, if it’s foolish enough to come in the house), you don’t need a bottle.
Speaking of food, Achilles, your Mom is perfectly capable of feeding herself. She does NOT appreciate it when you bring her your catch of the day, be it living, dead, or in any state in between. We all appreciate your efforts at pest control, but we would just as soon admire your kills from afar. Dropping your trophies into your Mom’s lap while she’s studying is likely to startle her, to say the least. Just line them up in the hallway, we’ll all gather around and say what a good kitty you are, and love you.
Please don’t chase the milk jug rings under my bedroom door and then cry pitifully because you can’t get them. That bedroom is Off Limits, and you know it. I’m allergic. We’ll fish them out every now and then, but we are NOT getting up in the middle of our sleep to give them back to you.
It is not necessary for you to wear, kill, and/or eat my hats. I put those hats on a shelf so I can grab one when I go outside. You don’t need to knock them down and play with them. This goes double for the one with the feather on it. You don’t need to knock my coats down from the hooks, either. I’ve had the same coats and sweaters for years, they haven’t changed. You don’t need to Investigate them.
I don’t know how, exactly, you managed to train me to turn the bathroom faucet on for you, but you’ve certainly done a good job. But I’ve got to tell you, Achilles, your head is gonna get wet EACH time you stick it under the faucet when it’s running. Really. Don’t look so surprised.
Sniffing things…please don’t ask to sniff my alcohol swab. It smells just as bad as the last one, though you do make a funny face when you get a good whiff of it. And we’re not going to let you sniff a jalapeno again. We let you sniff ONE, and some juice dripped into your nose, and you were quite lively for some time after that. Not that I blame you, but we’re not going to let THAT happen again, no matter how hard you beg to sniff the pepper.
while I was growing up, we had two Siamese cats. One was a “king of the world” kind of guy, weighed in at over 20 pounds, was NOT the typical sleek Siamese. It caused my oh-so-prooper mother no end of consternation that, inevitably, when she had her bridge playing friends over, Moki would saunter out into the middle of the living room (sans stuffed toys like the other MK’s did), sit on his haunches, with one leg extended, casually drop one forepaw into his crotch and proceed to lick his extended leg - which , of course, would cause him to move back and forth, back and forth, which would mean his paw (the one in his crotch) would make these circular motions, and yes, his penis would extend… “We don’t need no stinkin’ opposable thumbs!”
My dear sweet Heifer: I love you dearly, and I know you’re a little slow on the uptake, but please remember two things. We’ve been over this hundreds of times, okay?
-
Those lumps under the covers at the end of the bed? They’re our feet, not mice. Trust me. If there were mice in the bed, I would call you. You do not need to attack and kill them, especially in the wee small hours.
-
That long black furry thing that always seems to be following you around? It’s your tail, dummy. It’s part of you. It’s attached. Stop looking so surprised when you catch it and bite it and it hurts. Don’t give me that look. I didn’t do anything.
Thank you. You may return to chasing your sister cat around now. And tell her to stay out of the tub.
[[Twinkle was also a stray someone found & I adopted another cat thru the vet who died unexpectedly]]
Who died? The cat or the vet?
To my cats:
Hoppy: Just. Shut. Up.
Banshee: When I shout it does not always mean that I am mad at the Great Dane. Stop terrorizing her - she’s too old to withstand much more! (And you know and I know that you are just using my anger as an excuse!)
Newt: Why do you insist that I pet you when we both know that eventually, after moments of ecstasy, it will only infuriate you?
Cinder (Destruction): How much paper and cardboard do you really need to shred per day? And please, you know that I am glad you are learning to be a real cat, and that includes being in my lap, but remember the claws! Claws out are BAD! I am neither cardboad nor paper!
Zippy (Chaos): You will not always get your way. Sometimes I will pick you up and remove you from my bedroom. Scolding me will not stop me. Also, when I am moving a chair, it is to change the A/C filter or a lightbulb. It is NOT to give you a ride.
As for the dogs:
Ralph: sometimes you will not be the center of attention. Get over it.
Garby: If you wouldn’t run away from the tiny little kitty, she might not chase you so much.
Dottie: Don’t be so darned cheerful in the mornings. It gives me the headache. And keep your cords out of the water when you drink. And Don’t Chase Kitty!
To All of you dogs: Don’t come to wipe your face on me whenever you drink! Remember: your carcasses would feed the cats for a Very Long Time, indeed!
Ah. I feel better already. I won’t bother with the fishes. They never listen anyway.
The only thing a cat is good for is violin strings.
JillGat: the cat died, not the vet. I realized after I wrote that that it wasn’t too clear. I adopted the cat through a woman who was a client, who volunteered for a pet rescue organization. I had the cat, Nimue, for 6 years and then I came home from work and she was dead on the sofa :(. It turns out she had a bad heart and basically died of a heart attack. She never showed any symptoms or anything. It was the first time I’d ever had a pet die and I was DEVASTATED.
She was one of the coolest cats I’ve ever known, very friendly, and very chatty. She used to follow me around the house talking. Once I had a party and she sat on the sofa between two of my friends and chatted with them. She was a real sweetie.
On a funny note, one of the things I threaten Pippa (the BitchCat) with is, “Do you want me to sell you to the violin factory?” or when she JUST WON’T STOP chasing Cio-Cio, I tell her, “Pippa, you’re going to be riding a Stradivarius!”
I really shouldn’t have read any of this when I have a cough. I’m about to choke myself! Although I cannot have housecats (allergic) and I seem to be having a hell of a time keeping my outdoor cats alive, I have had a WONDERFUL time reading all of these posts. Keep 'em coming!
Ahh, so many similarities to, and memories of, the felines in my life. . .and the urge to post messages to some of them:
To the late, sainted, neurotic Nick: Yes, we all still miss you, especially at Thanksgiving. It is sooo nice to be able to eat a turkey dinner without your paws in my dinner plate.
To the equally late, perhaps beatified, congenitally-deaf Tinker: Yes, we know why you insisted on riding the canister vacuum. I’m trying to get the editor of the feline edition of the Joy of Sex to add a chapter on it.
To the infamous Buster: We hope you’re happy and that your new family keep you supplied with beer and Cheetohs when you’re lying on your back, looking over your enormous tummy at a football game on TV.
To my Classy Sassy (the gray Tribble with a tail): You’d better start cooperating with getting those mats out of your fur or I’m buying a Flowbee. . . .
Finally, to Starlet O’Hairy, the furry diva child I swear has to be the cross-species offspring of Cher and Madonna: Yes, I love you. Yes, you are beautiful. No, I don’t have the time to worship, adore, and groom you 24/7, if only because someone has to get the money to pay for your meals. No, although he is nice to you, the retired gentleman across the hall is not about to become your love slave; his wife really wouldn’t like it.