Photo of the Week--12/12/11

All those funky little "details" I like to find in architecture? Sometimes nature likes to remind me that She came up with them first. I got this shot in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in a lovely park that was only a block from our hotel. The tree was too huge to get in one shot—at least, not without crossing the street and putting the city back in the frame.  But I really took the shot to get the interesting vein-like appearance of this tree's roots; the pretty little dilute tortie was a bonus.

Wordless definitions: puzzling

What is it about jigsaw puzzles that cats find irresistible? Every single cat I've owned has been unable to stay away from them. Okay, I get that the little pieces are fun to play with, but one cat (the late, great Antonio the Mighty Mouseslayer) would climb into the puzzle box while I was working on it, even if there were pieces in the box. Here we've covered the puzzle in progress and still Clio sits on top of it, right next to the box, as if she has to make sure no more of those tricksy pieces escape. I could just have easily chosen a picture of Gigi sitting on the puzzle, or under the puzzle table with a couple of lost pieces, looking straight at the camera with an innocent "who me?" expression. I guess it's one mystery I can't put together.

Wordless definitions: bliss

Really no explanation needed here, right? Face it, if you weren't afraid of hurting your back, you'd be rolling around in front of the fire this winter, too.

Wordless definitions: bellicose

Webster's defines bellicose as "favoring or inclined to start quarrels or wars," and the word certainly fits when talking about these two felines. Clio (the fat orange cat) is top cat, by virtue of her larger size and reach. Gigi (the plump grey cat) would like to be top cat, and often sneaks up on Clio, instigating fights in hopes of finally coming out the winner. She doesn't give up, even if she just lost the other day. (It reminds me of when I was a high school junior, lost out on first chair in band, and kept challenging to get it back every week. Stupid braces.)

Anyway, I noticed a few weeks ago that both cats were spending a lot of time lying on the floor a few feet from my desk, so I bought this little cat condo to make them more comfortable. Clio immediately started colonizing it, and now spends quite a bit of time there every day within easy reach of petting. Gigi isn't so forward, but she likes to sneak into the bottom hidey-hole, the better to strike at Clio when she isn't watching. You can see by her narrowed eyes that she was getting ready to attack—or would have if I hadn't stopped her. Silly cats.

Photo of the Week--3/22/10

Why didn't we find any pigeons during our visit to Istanbul? Was it because it was December and it was cold, or was it because of fat, sassy cats like this one? We walked around a lot during that weekend and here found a real-life version of a Lesley Anne Ivory painting. This kitty was pretty comfortable on the carpet, even with Boy tickling her ears.

Wordless definitions: invitation

Come on, if you saw that furry bundle of pudge rolling around on the ground, could you pass it by without stopping to play? Or at least give that big belly a rub? If you say no, it's only because you can't hear the accompanying audio of chirps and meows that accompanies this feline invitation.

Photo of the Week--3/8/10

Ah, so now we know why we couldn't find any pigeons on the Greek island on Santorini: the numerous local cats keep them in check! Now, you may be thinking, ew! dirty stray cat, don't pet that thing! And maybe we were thinking the same thing, but you have to understand: we were catless during our four years living in London, so a cat would have to look pretty gross for me not to try and give it a scritch. This one looks fat and sassy and clean, so we let Boy say hello. Besides, what a nice backdrop, with the caldera and mountain in the background!

Wordless definitions: persistent

I suppose this definition requires a bit of explanation. If you go into my sewing room, you'll see a bit of a mess: piles of spare fabric, stacks of pants that need altering, boxes with projects inside. The boxes are there to keep project materials together in one place, and to keep cats out. This isn't always the best strategy. You see, cats love piles of fabric to curl up and shed hairs upon; they also love boxes. Sometimes when I bring out one of my boxes to work on a project, I have to forcibly prevent Callie from climbing into it. There are enough spare cat hairs around this place without her directly sitting upon something.

This can be especially problematic when I'm working on something large, like a quilt. Once it can't fit in a box any more, I fold it up and hang it on a rack, or place a book on top to protect it from catnaps. In this instance, I thought by folding the quilt and placing it on the rickety end of my ironing board, I would prevent the cat from using it as a bed. Silly me. Callie is so persistent in sharing her fur that I caught her napping in this very position. Of course when I ran downstairs to fetch my camera, she woke up to see what the fuss was about. Still, you can see she isn't particularly inclined to give up her comfy new bed. And now you see why I always wash a quilt once I've finished it....

Wordless definitions: particular

Why is it some cats prefer to drink from a running faucet? The water doesn't taste any different, and it's harder to get. I think they just like the power of sitting somewhere, expecting you do something, and seeing you do it.

Wordless definitions: sun worshippers

Took this the other day, the umpteenth consecutive of sub-freezing temps, when the sun was shining in the window, promising heat and warmth. (Lying, lying sun!) I found all three of my cats indulging in the sun's rays, and I really wanted to join them for a little nap, but work called. Darn. Next time, though, I might not resist.

Wordless definitions: Standoff

I took this picture because I heard a low growling coming from the dining room and saw this little tableau: Clio (big fat orange cat) treed by Callie (skinny brown cat) and growling because she felt intimidated. This is the funniest cat dynamic; 11-pound Clio routinely wins fights with Gigi, who is close in size, but let barely-7-pound Callie stake her ground and Clio will back down, growling all the way.

Of course, because I entered the room Callie nonchalantly looked away, as if to say, "What, me cause trouble?" Clio stopped growling, but she didn't look away from Callie ... she knows that cat is psycho.

Photo of the Week--10/5/09

Here's the next in my series of "people and places" photos. We took a trip to Italy in January 1999, so it rained a bit, but it was still a pleasant place to visit. We spent some time in the Roman Forum, ruins of the ancient city of Rome. We wandered around and noticed there were quite a few cats who seemed to live there; then we saw a "cat lady," someone who comes to visit and feed the cats. So although these cats are not pets, neither are they feral; they're friendly enough, and this one sat quietly as Boy posed for a picture. (You can tell by his fake smile that even then he hated posing for me ... it's as almost as if he knew they would end up here, heh heh heh.) If there was a cat on our trips, I usually managed to take a photo, so expect more in my "people and places" series, because cats are people too.

Wordless definitions: Obstruction

Good thing Callie's so cute, or I might suspect her of deliberately trying to get in my way.

Kitten puddle!

Yes, it is possible to cuddle half a dozen kittens at once. All it requires is flexibility and no dignity.

Amuse yourselves for a while...

... I have a big assignment due on Monday and I'd rather not work over the lovely weekend, so no blogging for a while. You don't really need me to keep you entertained, really, do you? It's easy to amuse yourself, just ask Clio:

(Sorry I didn't get the piteous meowing that preceded this. If you have a cat and you've never tried the Cat Dancer, do yourself and your cat a favor and get one.)

A feline lapse of judgment

Cats are perverse. Anyone who has every been owned by a cat knows this. You think you find a food they like, and two weeks later they turn their noses up at it. You try to read the paper and they come and sit down on it. You try to use the computer and they walk in front of the screen or nudge your mouse. You scoop their litter box and they immediately have to use it. You try to sleep and they decide it's time to play. It's like they're continually requiring you to prove your devotion.

In the case of my masters cats, the perversity is particularly obvious in their choice of lap time. My cats are not overly affectionate beasts. They have some dignity; they're not likely to grovel on the floor and beg you to pet them, and they're not continually following me around, seeking attention. If I'm convenient and they're in the mood, then maybe they'll pay me a visit. Gigi, the former feral, is the least likely to seek attention, and also the most predictable. If I'm sitting at my sewing machine in her upstairs safe room, she will jump on the back of my chair and purr while I scritch her ears. If it's cold out and I'm safely lying in bed, she'll join me for a cuddle—but that's it. For a crazy skittish animal, at least she's predictable.

The other two, however, are crazily perverse when it comes to lap time. Clio, the fat orange one, usually likes one session a day, while I'm sitting in a recliner watching TV or reading the paper. But sometimes she insists on lap time when I'm at the computer, ensuring that I can't type because she blocks access to the keyboard. This never happens in the morning, when I'm farting around, but always in the afternoon, which for some reason is prime brain time for me. Small brown Callie, on the other hand, usually only seeks lap time late at night—and I shouldn't even call it lap time, for she prefers to roost on my shins or ankles, whichever might be most uncomfortable. She has a gift for timing: if I'm thinking about getting up, or considering maybe it's time for bed, she will unerringly sit upon me and prevent any movement.

Of course, there is one rule that precludes all others, and it has to do with what I'm wearing. If I'm wearing black or navy pants, especially slacks, then Clio will seek me out so she can shed little blonde hairs all over me. And Callie, who never wants my lap otherwise, will unerringly climb into it if I'm wearing white pants—all the better to see the numerous black hairs she's leaving behind. Look for yourself: yesterday afternoon I'm minding my own business when Callie insists on sitting on my lap. I don't even have to be petting her; I can be messing around with the camera, trying to get the timer and the angle set; and still she sits. It's like a cat magnet: White pants await, and therefore must I go, says she. Luckily I know a good trick with strapping tape, or else I'd have to wear gray all the time, and that would be boring.

Curiosity made the cat annoying...

It's common knowledge here in our house that cats hate a closed door. They hate being shut out. If you close a door for any reason—maybe you want a little privacy, or some peace and quiet—as soon as you open the door you'll find a little crowd has gathered outside. Sometimes they don't even want to wait:



Of course, being shut out is a minor problem. What they REALLY hate is being shut in:



Now that I think about it, they may just hate any change to the status quo. There is one door inside our house that always remains shut; the basement door is right in the middle of our breakfast nook, and you couldn't walk from the kitchen to the family room if you left it open. On occasions that I travel down to the basement for a couple minutes—to pick out a book or visit the freezer—I will leave the door open. And this is what happens:



(Whoops, that video didn't come out well; you can't hear Calli crying as if she were lost and starving, but that's what she does.) You'd think our feline overlords would realize we could serve them better if their wants were at least consistent. But I suppose we couldn't demonstrate our devotion if they made it any easier for us, could we?

Gigi reports ... er, blogs

[Furtive glance. The coast is clear. The Grey Ghost can now report.]

It's been almost six years since I began living with the enemy. I was captured from my watcher's outpost, underneath the enemy's deck. They trapped me in a metal box and tortured me with medical probes. (They called it "going to the vet.") They imprisoned me in their house and began bribing me with tasty soft food. I know it is only because they are fattening me up so they can cook me and eat me later. So far I've managed to avoid being put in a pie, but I've had some awfully close calls. Although I usually manage to escape when the people get within ten feet of me, sometimes they trap me. It's my own fault, I suppose. The food lady gives really good ear scritches, and sometimes I break protocol and let her get close enough to catch me. If she cuddles me, I protest by purring as loud as I can. Eventually the vibrations cause her muscles to involuntarily relax, allowing me to escape.

Having observed these humans for many years, I am confident in sending this report to my superiors: the invasion will succeed. The humans are soft. They spend all their time watching strange flickering screens, both large and small. They won't even notice when our feline invasion force infiltrates and smothers them in their sleep. (Although I must note that the other feline occupants of the house, fat cat and skinny cat, will be less than useless; they can't be bothered to do anything but sleep and chase artificial mice.)

While I await your further orders, I will remain here, infiltrating the human house, preparing for our eventual victory and total world domination. If you see me sleeping on the humans' bed, it is only to stay warm and conserve my energy for the final battle. It has nothing to do with extra scritches. Nothing at all.

[Grey Ghost out.]

How to train your cat to talk

It's an occupational hazard of being a stay-at-home mom/writer, I suppose, but I spend a lot of time talking to my cats. Lately, Boy has been objecting very strongly anytime he catches me saying anything to them, even if it's something accurate, like "you're such a silly kitty." Here's how these conversations typically go:

ME (to cat, while scritching her ears): Calli, you're such a sweet kitty.

BOY: Intervention! Mom, you're turning into a crazy cat lady.

ME: I am not. Why can't I talk to the cat?

BOY: She's not going to talk back, you know.

ME: She could someday. After all, I talked to you when you were a baby and you couldn't talk back. And look at you now! You talk back to me all the time.

BOY: Grrrrr!

Here I must confess that I not only talk to my cats, I often sing to them. Worse, I make up lyrics and sing them to the tune of something else. So Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus" becomes: "Monnnn-ster kitty! Monnnn-ster kitty! Monster kitty! Monster kitty! Mon-ster-er kitty!" The French folk tune "Alouette" turns into: "Calliope*, silly Calliope, Calliope, she's my precious cat!" Even TV theme songs provide fodder for my nonsense, as the "Spongebob Squarepants" theme transforms into: "Whoooooo lived in a hidey-hole under the deck? GIGI Round-eyes! If you try to pet her then she'll give you heck! GIGI Round-eyes!"

Surveying this list of songs, I think I have discovered my error in singing to my cats: I'm using the wrong kind of music. After all, when Boy was a baby, I often sang to him while I changed his diaper, and he eventually learned to talk. It must have been due to the power of DISCO!

Original version (Wild Cherry):	My version:
Play that funky music white boy	Change that dirty diaper, mama
Play that funky music right	Change that dirty diaper right!
Play that funky music white boy	Change that dirty diaper, mama
Lay down the boogie	Lay me down and change me,
And play that funky music till you die	Oh, change that dirty diaper till I'm dry
Till you die!	Till I'm dry!
Original version (Rick James):	My version:
She's a very kinky girl	He's a very poopy boy
The kind you don't take home to mother	And I should know cause I'm his mother!
She will never let your spirits down	You can never keep his diaper clean
Once you get her off the street	That boy is super poopy
She's a very special girl	He's a very special boy
From her head down to her toenails	From his head down to his toenails
?????**	I'm going to change his diaper now
?????	That boy is super poopy
She's a super freak, super freak	He's a super poop! super poop!
She's super-freaky, yow	He's super-poopy, yow!

Okay, I'll admit maybe I need an intervention.

*Remember, my Calliope is pronounced like the Greek goddess, "Cal-ee-OH-pee."
**I never paid that much attention to the verses.

Clio blogs! Shhhhh...

Never mind what my shrimpy little sister says, I'm the top cat in this household. I'm in charge of everything, actually. My plot for world domination is all going according to plan. Callie is obsessed with FRESH CHICKEN; and I must admit, FRESH CHICKEN is extremely tasty. More important, however, are my ongoing efforts to bend my people to my will. They are undergoing my Pavlovian training without even knowing it; it is quite easy to fool humans, really. Today the Toy Lady is out to lunch, leaving the computer free. Like any megalomaniacal supervillain bent on world domination and on the cusp of success, I must therefore reveal my plans to the world so that they may admire my genius. The Toy Lady will never find out; besides possessing a heavenly beauty, I am also a master of camouflage, as you can see from this photo.

The goal of Pavlovian training is to induce an automatic response from the training subject, and I am confident I have achieved this goal. The instrument of training is the "toy" known as the Cat Dancer, a simple tool with which I control the Toy Lady's behavior. With just one movement and a simple command phrase, I induce the Toy Lady to pick up the toy and twirl it around like a crazy person. The method is simple: I lie on the floor, emphasizing my natural cuteness, and give a series of coded chirps. The Toy Lady picks up the Cat Dancer and I reward her by chasing it.

By now, she is so well trained that it does not matter what time of day I give her the signal; she will respond. Last night, for instance, I brought the "toy" outside her sleeping quarters and gave the signal. (I'll admit, I might have had to meow very loudly a couple times, but she is lazy and it is very difficult to wake her up at 2 am.) Still, several minutes' effort aroused her from her slothful slumber and brought her to me, where she picked up the "toy" and threw it down the stairs. AhHaHaHaHaHAHAHAHA! She is completely under my control, and soon will put into effect further plans to place the world under my dominion. Do not think I am foolish enough to reveal those plans; I've watched enough James Bond films to know I should keep some secrets.

Just in case you do not believe me, I offer proof that I am the one in total control (and that my sister is an idiot). If the Toy Lady should try to warn the world of my upcoming domination, no one will believe her. I am just an innocent kitty cat...