One of the best things about my life is the time I spend alone with my kitties. Like any four friends we have developed a special style of communicating. They sound pretty much how you would expect. Some chirps, purrs, meows and all completely adorable. On the other hand I use my “cat voice”. It is loud and high pitched. If that weren’t enough most statements end with “MEOW, MEOWMEOWMEOW”. For instance I might say when I find Roverlee eating something she shouldn’t ” NOW THAT’S NOT WHAT A GOOD KITTY DOES, RUBBER BANDS ARE YUCKY!!! M,MMM! (Shorthand for you know what)
While here in the house no big deal. They really do respond to it. Most mornings I open up my “beauty parlor” and give them a chance to face the day freshly coiffed. When done my “cat voice” doles out the rewards. DOES ANYONE WANT A TREET!!!! WHERE ARE THEY? ARE THEY IN HERE? M, MMM? (Picture me pointing to the cabinet where they are stored. Cats swarming, pandemonium without the pandas.) YOU ARE RIGHT!!! M, MMM! Phyllis crunches as she eats her hard treats. The Sisters munch quietly on soft treats. What could go wrong?
Sooner or later I must leave the confines of The Little Blue House. Fact is my “cat voice” comes with me. If I encounter a cute baby I inevitably stop and remark OH, LOOK AT YOU, M, MMM! YOU SMELL A LITTLE FUNNY BUT YOU ARE SO CUTE, M, MMM!
This can be awkward. Not nearly as difficult as my encounters with dogs. Almost always dogs smell better than babies. Problem is the owners of dogs are more sensitive than the owners of babies when it comes to how you address them. Small dogs present the biggest dilemma. The first M,MMM and the owner feels insulted. I am NOT calling your dog a cat. As if! It’s just that I don’t have a “dog voice”. My “cat voice” has to cover all cute things. If I knew a way to make dogs smell a little worse while making their owners a little less sensitive that would be ideal. I’LL KEEP YOU POSTED! M, MMM!
It was so hot that I gave the kitties new names to “celebrate” the heat wave. See if you can guess who’s who! Spicy Southwestern Chipotle is a special kitten to me. I also love Lemon and Rosemary. I can’t forget Garlic and Herb either! Funny names for sure. After sweltering for days I was calling the ladies “my three rotisserie chickens!”. It seemed only natural to find a “flavor” to match their personalities!
They really didn’t let the heat get to them. I was only worried when the power went out. A lightning strike was the cause according to my emergency radio. As the temperature rose I activated my Plan K. Before I had kittens it was called plain old Plan B. That plan just didn’t anticipate feline needs well enough. So it was back to the drawing board and Plan K was hatched. I would scoop up all the ladies and whisk them to my air-conditioned car! Or die trying since they tend to resist both scooping and whisking. As luck would have it the fans and A/C roared back to life and Plan K was put back on the shelf. No scooping or whisking on this day-but a valuable drill like this keeps me sharp.
SPOILER ALERT: I AM GIVING THE ROTISSERIE CHICKEN ANSWERS! IF YOU WANT TO GUESS STOP NOW AND WRITE DOWN YOUR ANSWERS! GOOD LUCK!
Spicy Southwestern Chipotle is…..
Our own little senorita-ROVERLEE!
Lemon and Rosemary is……….
My little kitchen helper-PHYLLIS!
Garlic and Herb must be……….
The main dish herself-RENATTA!
Kitty Kisses to All Who Played!
Spicy Southwestern Chipotle is………..
(Post by Matt) I’m not old really, except in gay years. Still the world has changed considerably in the last 4 or so decades. Growing up was a process quite a bit more, let’s say, less structured. Kids like me had a lot of time on our hands. So unlike kids today we didn’t waste it texting or playing video games. We were much more imaginative. We watched television. When remotes first came around my Dad couldn’t see the need. “That’s why I had kids” he’d say. Frankly it was the first time he offered a plausible explanation for why he kept us around…and the last.
One show in particular aroused my interest. And my ire. Lassie was a dog who weekly performed amazing rescues. “What’s the matter girl?” someone would say. Invariably the message being conveyed was that Timmy was down a well. Or maybe trapped in the old abandoned mine. Timmy was a lot of things but risk averse wasn’t one of them. Everyone marveled at Lassie’s predictably heroic actions and welcomed Timmy back like the Prodigal Son. Where were the social workers for pete’s sake! I mean who let’s a dog babysit a kid! After the first mine cave-in, didn’t anyone think it wise to keep a closer eye on the little daredevil!? I guess not. ONE WEEK later he was down the well! One question gnawed at me. Why didn’t they get a cat? That dog was terrible at keeping the kid in line and brought bushels of bad luck. Maybe a cat could’ve turned this mess around. “For crying out loud” the cat would implore-”fill in that well and board up that mine before somebody breaks their ever lovin’ neck!” Tragically, necks were risked because of the inability to recognize the wisdom of cats.
It bears mentioning that since I have kept company with cats I haven’t fallen down a well or been trapped in a mine. Case closed collie!
So, at 3AM this morning, guess who is yowling outside the door? Ms. Renatta! You guessed it! So, Matt goes to the door and says, “Hi Renatta. What’s going? You wanna come in?” She looks up at him quietly, turns and walks away. Then Phyllis and Rosalie come buzzing right on in!
Matt was really mad! LOL hehe
(Post by Matt) Before I get back to what I was saying it might shed some light on things to talk about Harold. There is no Harold really, not now. But once Harold mustered his men in the Battle of Hastings. The year-1066. He was ultimately defeated by William the You Know What. But ever since then I have liked that name. A lot. Since my everyday life at home with the cats looked as if it would never afford me the chance to meet an actual Harold I had to create one. He works with Rich at the firm. “How’s Harold?” I ‘ll ask. “How’s who?” he replies. “You know the fellow you work with-Harold!” “Do you mean Howard?” “Of course not-I don’t even like the the name Howard! Now quit the Abbott and Costello routine and tell me how Harold is!” You need to make your own fun-and sometimes your own Harold.
What I am getting to, and I am getting to it I assure you, is the sacredness of naming names. It’s a theme that runs through history. Let’s run alongside for a moment. Moses had a lot on his plate. We know for sure it wasn’t meat and milk-not at the same time anyway. We also know he had to deliver his people out of Egypt. Naturally he needed inspiration and back-up to convince Pharaoh. So he went to YOUCANTEVENSAYIT. That’s right-BUTDONTSAYIT. When it came to the most dreaded part of any meeting-the question and answer-he spout’s off by asking “So what’s your name? You know in case anyone asks. Personally I’m not the curious type but it might give me a little more clout if I drop your name.” You know from Sunday school how YOUCANTEVENSAYIT felt about that. It isn’t even necessary to point out how the Egyptians loved cats. Or how Mother Arlene would sometimes say, “I wouldn’t know him from Moses housecat” or was that Adam’s? Not important since I am not going to point that out either.
Which brings me to Baby Whiskers, Sister Whiskers, and Auntie Whiskers. Or if you prefer Bullet, Dingo and Bandit. Alternately, Catfish, Goldeneye and Frittatta. I could go on and on-but you already knew that. The power of names is not to be taken lightly. I have found in life that it is easier to create an imaginary Harold than to pin down the true spirit names of cats.
Good question. A lot of things happened over a long period of time. It didn’t seem that they were connected. You see I am 46 years old. But I used to be younger-a lot younger. The whole story starts in the mid 60′s with my father. I might get back to that. Since a cat knocks over a Christmas tree and shatters dozens of glass ornaments in that part of the story I probably will. I kept getting older but not really growing and I met Joe Tomlinson. No time really to explain Joe. It’s too bad really. No smarter, funnier man has ever crossed my path. He introduced me to St. Francis of Assissi, not in person of course. He also challenged me with Socrates, Buddha, Confucius and Jesus. And they all ended up having a hand in me ending up with three cats. But it probably was St. Francis who clinched the deal. Of course I didn’t know it at the time. But you probably guessed that.
I think friendship is important. If a friend needs a favor I will do my best to help out. It really is one of my worst qualities now that I reflect on it. Because I DIDN’T want any cats. It wasn’t in my plan. O.K. I didn’t have much of a plan but what I did have certainly didn’t include a litter box. Or something that shed hair as big as tumbleweeds. But I ended up with both by doing a favor for my friend Keith. Just cat sit for my friend he said. She is staying with me but I am allergic. She will find a place of her own in a week or so and then the litter box and the bales of hay-I mean hair- will be out of your life forever. It didn’t work out that way. But you probably guessed that.
Do any of you track this very simple, but very cute site? http://www.catsinsinks.com/
Well, Matt and I arrived in Hawaii today, leaving the girls to torment and torcher Uncle Kenny for 10 days!!! And even though we’re excited for our trip I had to post some photos of the girls! I’ll post a few of the vacation pics too (just in case you might be interested).
I like to call this one, “Sunset from our cheap hotel… you’d never know we were cheap by seeing this view!”
Curiosity killed the….
Well, maybe not, but it sure was a BIG surprise to Matt when little miss Bandit (aka Renatta) decided she wants part of the Bunches of Oats!