Belated Caturday!

ICHC

Those lazy little slackers never did remind me to post my regular Caturday diatribe. Hairy fuckwits. As the not-so-happy beneficiary of their hairball disgorgement (thanks to the summer weather, they're shedding like deciduous trees in Fall; also, brushing and combing? Not on their menu of preferences), I'm posting belated Caturday greetings to all in the hope that they'll at least leave off my pillow, deity.

In the event, apart from hairballs, life at La Casa de Los Gatos has been uneventful. Regular pissing in the hallways followed by teh employment of teh Scooba for removing all traces. Regular sleeptalking by Madu of the endlessly twitching tail (he holds it down when he sleeps; probably to keep it from twitching and waking him up). Regular threats of violence from Gustav who, after eight years with us has finally mellowed enough to not actually offer violence anymore, although he still has serious Tail Envy. (Gustav is a Japanese bobtail; his tail is best described as "looking like a chrysanthemum bud.")

Regular sproinging about the house by one Gojira Helen Wheels, who seems to think the fastest way to get from Point A to Point B is by bouncing off an intervening wall. She is also largely preoccupied with assassinating the local birdlife through the curtains. Why she doesn't actually try to do it from the other side of the curtains, where the birdies actually are, is beyond us. Somewhere in her tiny, demented brain, she probably considers the curtains part of the general birdishness of the Great Outdoors.

Late-night excursions by Bandicoot. Lying about in the mud aplenty. (It's August. One must water. Mud ensues.) Attempts to clip his copious bellyfur have led to naught. Also, pokeage. The boy has huge snowshoe paws with exceedingly long, strong claws, and he is fond of using them. When demanding pets.

Meanwhile, Zingiber, our favorite Cat of Very Little Brain, has developed a new fondness for his recently-laundered cloth doggie. (The damn thing must be stuffed with catnip.) Every single day it is thrown downstairs to reside with all the other fucking cat toys, fer crisake, you'd think he'd get a clue. But no, every evening, he lumbers up the stairs with it clasped firmly in his jaws, trying not to trip over it, while vocalizing much in the manner of a mother cat trying to demonstrate (and call her young'uns to) a fresh kill. Eeejit. Feckin' eejit. Will ye no leave the puir thing alone, ye great gob?

Guess who

What the hell, at least the lazy fucker is getting some exercise. At 23 lbs., he desperately needs it.

Stumble It!