A Blog devoted to progressive politics, environmental issues, LGBT issues, social justice, workers' rights, womens' rights, and, most importantly, Cats.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
She's BEYOOTIFUL And She Knows It
Sometimes you just have to get yourself a little something special, to make life worth living. You know, like when you get all depressed and shit. Or, if you're really lucky, you have a wonderful partner who delivers the proverbial kick in the pants with a beautiful new 85-mm lens for the beautiful new Nikon D7000 he bought you.
At any rate, the Nikon was 2013's birthday present, and the lens was 2013's anniversary present, and it's a damn good ROI on 14 happy years together, so there.
And wut better way to celebrate one's favourite toy than by featuring one's favourite beasts through its ever-alert eye? Here's Madu:
It's true that Boy doesn't get equal camera time. He's usually asleep, and when he's not, loud noises, sudden movement, or light will scare him into running out of the house in a snit. Whereas Miss Thang is convinced she is the most beautiful creature in the world and all the pandemonium is just her fans showing their appreciation.
This is what it feels like at La Casa de Los Gatos, these days. Like we're mothering some kittens. And we desperately need a DRINK, goddammit.
You ever try raising kittens? Geezus, they're a pain. So, what's going on, we ask? Bandicoot was sick for quite a while, and then we had to leave him and go away, and he wasn't doing too great when we got back. We've spent the past couple of months curing him of whatever stomach ailment he picked up and making sure he's doing OK.
See, he's getting old. He wants to be fed about once an hour, all day. Sometimes he'll eat some kibble, but mostly he wants his food brought to him, and he always was a messy eater, and he's gotten a hundred times worse. Seems like he's not seeing or smelling too well, either. If you don't bring his food to him, he climbs up on the bed and pokes you in the face with one enormous smelly paw. Actually, his paws aren't smelly at all. Just big. Bigger than my eyeballs. Which is what he likes to poke, mostly. He doesn't want water from a bowl, either. He wants to lick the water in the shower. And his coat was a matted mess after the long stay at the vet. We're clipping and brushing and what-all, but he's a pig in a fur suit, he does not care for this grooming shit.
And Gustav is kinda sensing something in the offing because Bandicoot just wants to be left alone to sleep all the time. So Gustav has taken to howling every night, I mean Siamese cat x water buffalo bellows every night from, like, 1 am to 3 am. I'd kill him, except he's suffered enough already. I think. Little fucker. Sleeping like a baby next to me right now. Just half an hour ago he was trying to sit on Gojira's face and howling because she bit him in the ass. Apparently she does not care for this face-sitting business.
Gojira is still freaked out about Zingiber dying and won't go outside any more. She only wants to be at home, preferably in bed with us. (Fucking bitch wants to be RIGHT BETWEEN both of us, too, so forget a sex life.) And she squeaks like a motherfucker when she doesn't get her way. Also, too, claws. Hers are like tiny little razors. You can't tell you've been scratched till part of your leg bleeds and falls off. There's no possibility of trimming them, either. She's not the type to hold still that long, and we'd have to *catch* her first. Always an exciting sight, watching two rapidly aging people chasing an extremely lithe, swift, and nimble cat around. And when she's not being obnoxious and shrieking in your ear and bouncing off the walls, she's demanding attention. Pet me, pet me, scratch my ears, check my butt for poop stains, pet my belly so I can remove the skin from your hands. If she weren't so stunningly cute, she would have been a slipper a LONG time ago. Little bitch.
And MADU has suddenly developed a need for affection. What's with this? The lady with the French-perfumey big bosoms isn't giving him enough lately, or what? He's still running off to visit her regularly, I see him hiking down the road all the time, the little slut. Then he comes home and wants to drape himself all over us, and could we please pick him up and hold him so he can fall asleep in the most comfortable position and drool.
There was a time when the little fucker would barely give us the time of day. AFAHWC, we were convenient stepping stones for hunting mice on the hill.
I miss those days.
Yeah, so, WTF, y'all, check out the fucking heat wave that's cooking the whole middle of the country AND the eastern seabord, is this reality time for global warming deniers, or what? Will the stupid subside long enough for the marching morons to realize that they ARE every bit as stupid as everyone else has believed for years, and that global warming has finally decided to, like, personally cook their asses or something for being such fucking dolts? Only thing is, they'll be sure to take all of us with them when they go, y'know? Just to be assholes.
Srsly, this heat is nothing to fuck with. Remember to wear sunblock, stay cool and aerated, go to a public place that's airconditioned, or your local pool, or whatever. Stay indoors, if you can. Drink LOTS of water, but not too much too fast. Stay safe!
That's Bandicoot. The big one. Gustav, the normal-sized kitty sitting next to him, has been desolate for the past two days.
Bandicoot was very, very sick this weekend, and we have no idea what happened. He spent all of Thursday night vomiting (yes, all fucking night, like every couple of hours). As you all know, certain people at La Casa de Los Gatos have extremely sensitive stomachs. We're talkin' hear someone/thing yarking within the limits of hearing distance, and barf along in tune. We're talking smell anything barfacious, like shit, stale piss, vomit, rotting corpses, and it's technicolour yawn time in old Hollywood city.
We're not naming any names now. We are not. But let me tell ya, anybody who has hardwood floors and can sleep through cat barfage, well, you're a better man than I am, Nelson.
Cats barf all the time, right? No big deal? I mean, do you know how much cats barf? If someone could figure out how to turn cat barf into a power source, we could probly run the whole planet very efficiently with low pollution thankyewveddymuch.
Wrong. If your cat barfs a LOT? Like all night a lot? Take the little fucker to the ER. They're really sick, and chances are their core temperature has dropped really low and they're completely dehydrated from all the vomiting, and if their gums are white or bluish, they may have been poisoned and could be close to death.
He was crying in a strange voice, and no beast in pain goes unheard in these parts. That's the policy. So we bundled him up and took him to the vet, and he had a chest x-ray and a sonogram and a blood panel, and I plan to plate him in gold when he returns. Lets just say it cost an arm and a leg, but I am grateful.
He has feline enteritis. Not the panleukopenia (FPV) kind. It made his tubby hurt a lot. He's on painkillers, antibiotics, and an IV drip for fluids and has been in the hospital for two days now. We're leaving in a little while to bring the babby home.
Oh, and Gustav, up there? When Gustav's mom threw a blood clot and had to be ... killed, OK? She was killed. Gustav was desolate. He had never really been separated from his Mom and didn't know how to cope. Bandicoot very kindly took him under an enormous Maine Coon paw and kept him company and kept him out of trouble and slept next to him to keep him warm, and put up with his bullshit. (Gustav was extremely neurotic and crazy when he first came, attacking all the other cats constantly and yowling in a voice like a Siamese on crack. Rescue kitteh. Bad history. Tranquilizers for two years.) So ever since The Coot has been in the horse spittle, Gustav has been inconsolable. And when he's inconsolable, he yowls. LOUDLY. You know, just in case you don't realize he's, like, suffering, or whatever.
Geezus, I can't wait for it to stop. He didn't let us sleep much so I ended up taking a pill, which I hate (I don't like taking medication of any sort and react badly to most of it, but two days without sleep is too much) and I have a splitting fucking headache from the medication. I sure hope he quits yowling soon or I'll have to kill myself.
Just kidding. If I killed myself I would miss out on the joy of bringing our own dear Bandicoot home at last, after two whole days away!
Just look at that little punim. Who could resist such a one?
Our very own part-Irish President goes HOME to claim his heritage! President O'Bama, whose ancestors come from all over our world and whose relatives live in every part of it.
And we pulled a Rupert today, too. Blog, read, blog, write, putz around, and then we're gonna watch a movie, yay.
It's getting close to surgery scheduling time.
Have I mentioned how much I hate being cut on? I like to think my integument would go with me to my grave, intact. I've been lucky, never a broken bone in my long life, and this is my fifth surgery EVER (that includes the tonsillectomy as a kid, and the replacement of my left knee, and the two arthroscopic knee surgeries which resulted from accidents).
This will also be arthroscopic surgery. They don't use anesthesia for that anymore. They give you a drug called Versed, or *twilight.* It puts you under, but you can regain consciousness during. I seem to remember doing that briefly, but they hadn't started sawing on my leg yet at the time (thankyoudeity). I seem to remember someone putting their hand on my eyelids, and a voice saying "Close your eyes. Close your eyes."
I hate losing consciousness. I don't like pain much, either, but you know what, pain is something we can all put up with. It's no fun, and it can be depressing. But if the choice is taking pain drugs that turn you into a zombie or suffering a grinding pain for the hours that you're awake, but being mentally functional, I'll take the pain. And going under is the worst kind of loss of control, isn't it? I have to do this. I keep telling myself I have to do this. But I have weird reactions to drugs, not having taken many in my life. Most painkillers just knock me out for days. Vicodin gives me projectile vomits, and the last time I had Versed, I slept for three days. I just could not open my eyes, except to drink and pee. It felt like a very bad binge drunk hangover. So I guess I can look forward to a little Percocet and a lot of pain (I hate Percocet too, but my body tolerates it -- I lose my appetite and I can't sleep, but at least I'm not horking my innards out or unconscious for more than 12 hours at a stretch).
Of the 260+ books on the list for the year, I've barely read 60. Bah. Perhaps I'll save the fiction to read post-surgery. A lot of George Eliot, some Tolstoy, Don Quixote (I'm re-reading it), some Flannery O'Connor and Wallace Stegner and William Faulkner. I guess I'd better try reading all the film books before surgery. Can I do it? There's only 20 or so. I'll have to re-read Kurosawa's Something Like An Autobiography, and also Stuart Galbraith's The Emperor And The Wolf, a book on the long filmic collaboration of Kurosawa Akira and Mifune Toshiro.
So, books, film, and music, all geared up and ready. Now to put the house in a sparkling state of cleanliness and shut down the food garden for the year. All the barrels and pots need to be scrubbed, bleached, hosed down. The deck needs to be sealed. Can I do it? I hate being a gimp, I really do. I used to do all this stuff myself, for years. Now I need to rely on others. But hopefully, this surgery will put me in a position where I can exercise my way back to a reasonable shape. I don't need to be able to run up or down the stairs in the dark, four at a time, like I used to. I just need to be able to haul brush down the hill. Weed for 10 hours at a stretch, instead of having to get down off the hill because my leg is cramping. Is that too much to ask?
Enough whining. Tomorrow we have a hike planned. Let us hope that cramps, pains, etc. are under control by mid-day and we can at least try for a mile. And then it's home, sweet home, and playing with fancy machines. And eating some fine, fine ribs and roast potatoes and stir-fried choy with my two dearest friends. The obligatory tormenting of the resident felines proceeds apace. They got their pillow moved from the middle of the bed to one side, and judging from the chorus of howls that went up, you would have thought we dissected them individually without anesthesia. How pussy-whipped are we? The pillow is back in the middle of the bed, even though all the little bastids are now sleeping sprawled out all over, everywhere *except* the pillow.
The GARDEN CALLS, goddammit. Although in a muted voice. Smell fall in the air? I do.
I'm off then, my precious little liberal vampire-rats. (I've fallen in love with Sara Benincasa and find myself emulating her speech patterns. Jesus fuck, be grateful, folks. I'm reading about a special class of employees of the early Kampuchean throne, and the first Muslim ruler of Champa. These people specialized in punishing anyone guilty of lese-majeste. Suffice it to say that I will not repeat what they did because I lost a week's sleep to nightmares over it. If you absolutely MUST know, go buy yourself a copy of Alfons van der Kraans' book, Murder and Mayhem in 17th-century Cambodia. And don't come crying to me when you have nightmares too.)
And this blog was BROKEN this morning when I checked on it! Troubleshooting: they call it that because it's a fuckin' heap of trouble and you're ready to start shooting by the time you figure it out.
Anywho. I fixed it. Somehow, a line of text in the template that called a javascript got borked. I commented it out, but, you know, after three years of not even looking at software, ever, I had forgotten how to comment out stuff in HTML.
Maybe it's just time to throw out all the fucking software manuals. Or read them. But who's got the time?
La Casa de Los Gatos is planning to make the pigmeat today. Baby back ribs cooked with cherry juice, cherry preserves, jalapenos, garlic, red wine vinegar (just a smidge), a little palm sugar. With a side of baby bok choy and golden roasted potatoes.
Food is one thing that is not lacking in this house.
The fall is coming, isn't it? Feel it in the air? The sky is a richer, darker shade of blue, even in the hottest part of the day. The light is more golden. The tomatoes have finally set fruit, but the deer have harvested several of the plants for me. I want venison carpaccio SO BAD! So fucking bad.
The Republican Party is in some kind of crazy death spiral, where every candidate is top of the heap for two to six weeks, then flames out to some disgraceful embarrassing level. Today, Michele Bachmann, who was last month's "tea party darling" (notwithstanding the fact that there is no such entity as the Tea Party registered in the US as a political party; although there sure are a shitload of vultures making business off the "tea party" meme) clocked in at a lousy four per cent (4%) of the Republican electorate's support. Behind Sarah Palin, Ron Paul, Willard (Mittens) Romneycare, and Rick (Dick) DinglePerry.
I'd shed a tear, but I seem to be fresh out of delicate lawn handkerchiefs with lace edging.
So RickDick DinglePerry is the pig at the top of the heap right now, and who's putting money on his staying there? He's already making calls to Repugnicant leaders everywhere, begging them not to keep pressuring Chris Christie and Jeb Bush to jump (or bellyflop, as the case may be) into the race.
Thad McCotter is still in the race, but a life-support system attached to his candidacy showed a remarkably flat line.
Yes, it's that time of week again, and despite missing my best (and fattest) feline buddy, I still celebrate me some kittehs on a weekly basis (in between daily and hourly celebrations, of course, which are required by Our Feline Overlords).
What are the little fuckers up to, or rather, what have they been up to lately?
We got Bandicoot some chewable vitamins because he's getting old, and the sparkle in his eyes was dimming some. Needless to say, he quickly figured out that these are dispensed of a morning right after the hoomin wakes. Right, you got it. Every morning on the dot, 17 pounds of fat, hairy, stomach-swinging Bandicoot (with inch-long claws of a painful sharpness) proceeds to leap on me in anticipation. And if I don't wake up, why, he just extends those little razors and pokes me till I do. He will lick noses, exhale on me, sneeze on me, poke me in the eye with a paw, all until I wake and give him his treat.
Cat snot, ew.
Gojira would like a taste of Bandicoot's chewy vitamins, but since she already acts like she's huffing speed, she is SO not getting any. Ever since Zingiber abandoned La Casa de Los Gatos for his other home (I still maintain they're xenoanthropology grad students from a different planet out here doing fieldwork), she's taken to dragging this little toy around and making "Come watch me hunt and kill, kittens" noises (Zingiber took to doing this after he adopted Gojira and took her under his Mighty Muffin Maker -- not with real mice, of course. He was too stupid for real mice. But he regularly hunted (mostly unsuccessfully) a series of toy mice which he would then bring her, dragging them up the stairs with loud yowls).
Every night she brings the stupid thing upstairs and places it on the floor on one side of the bed or another. Throwing it down just means she'll repeat the trip. She's also (for whatever reason) decided she can't be touched or looked at with intent at certain times. Any attempt to make contact, real or virtual, leads to loud, indignant meeps, leaping and running away, frequent licking of the spot on which someone might have touched her if they weren't across the room, and terrified expressions, sometimes in quick succession.
What do I know? I hear cats make a substance in their brains that's analogous to LSD. I could believe that.
Madu is a punk cat. He got two ear piercings last week. He's a fucking idiot, too. He never seems to win a fight, but he sure knows how to get in them. Of all the animals who have lived at La Casa de Los Gatos, this is the only one who seems to get in a fight every fucking week of the year. The others got in a couple of fights, and that was it, they got the shit beat out of them and it never happened again. I'm beginning to think this dumb fuck goes to sleep in the middle of a fight. There's no other explanation for the weekly bod-mod attempts.
Gustav has taken to mugging us for pettings. Yes, the same Gustav who spent the first two (or more) years in this house acting as if he was going to be eaten by the Horrible Hoominz is now sticking his face in a person's face occasionally, asking loudly for hugs and kisses and pets. See, Prozac works miracles.
They're all getting old (except Gojira, in whom youth, quite literally, springs eternal). Right along with the rest of us, I guess.
But it's Caturday, and the garden is calling, so I'm off to enjoy the beautiful greenth, and the hot golden sun and deep blue skies of Paradise! Happy Caturday, all!
Happy Fourth of July, all. Enjoy lying back, relaxing, resting, hanging with family and friends.
This feline is crawling into the overgrown garden for yet another valiant battle with the goddamn weeds. They're taller than me right now (OK, so I'm height-impaired, let's get THAT out of the way shall we, and quit the snickering?), especially the dog-fennel, and the buddleia has dead branches that could prove to be a fire hazard. Wish I had rappelling gear to make me feel secure on those slopes, but them's the breaks.
Missing our Zingiber more than ever, on these warm summer days when he would walk through the tall weeds, his eyes the same perfect shade of green, the giant whipping plume of his tail marking his passage through the overgrown garden. His quiet cat-smiles (that slow, lazy blink of the magnificent orbs) at all the other small life.
I never saw Zingiber kill anything, not even a fly. Poor sweet silly feline, gone and so sorely missed.
For all you other cat-lovers, here's a thoroughly enjoyable video:
Actually this is for terrorist nun Sister GTG, who sends me kickass links like these.
Today's celebratory story is about one Ms. Rosalina Ruiz, a 4-foot 11-inch 100-lb. bundle of serious dynamite! Ms. Ruiz works as an aide to elderly patients, and needs her car to do her job. So when she was washing said car at 4:30 fucking am, and some hulking idiot (6 feet tall, 200 lb) jumped into it to steal it, she went all deadly motherfucker on his ass.
She jumped into the car, screamed, yelled, pulled the keys away from him and basically kicked his ass nine ways to Sunday. I'm guessing she seriously damaged his nuts along with his um, manly pride, because when the cops showed up 15 minutes later, they picked him up without a problem.
I'm not recommending anybody do what Ms. Ruiz did, but it sure does warm the cockles of my heart to see this feisty little lady beat ass. Oh, yeah, she's 45 years old. The story doesn't say how old he is, but it's a fair bet he's half her age or younger. And, she's cute as well as feisty.
For the third day in a row your faithful blogviator is suffering an intensely painful headache. Plenty of research was done, but brain says "No bloggee or I KEEEL yew."
I obey.
If all is well tomorrow I will continue opining on the fucking Aryanzona situation. Or the oil disaster in the Gulf. Or something useful like that.
For now, we leave you with the birfday celebration of one Maru teh Scottish Fold kitteh of Japan:
It is to die for. I ask you: is Maru not teh kyootest?
I mean, all Marus are cute but this one is a fucking viral sensation.
Yep, it's that time of week again, and despite the weird weather (thanks a fucking heap, global warming deniers!), the denizens of La Casa de Los Gatos — well, some of them, anyway ...
A bout of misfortune has leveled the human denizens. The feline denizens might appear to have been leveled, but, trust us on this, this is their normal response to everything.
Note that Zinge is easily two to three times the size of any other cat in the house. We take this opportunity to mention that his favourite sleeping position is on top of any nearby creature. Yes, he will crush every last molecule of air out of your lungs.
Also, to ensure you don't roll over while he's sleeping on you, he hooks all 20 razor-sharp claws in for better grabbage and rotatage. No, it's pointless trying to escape. Yes, the pillowcases have bloodstains.
Whadya mean, "Why do you put up with it?" There's a choice?
Besides, he's better than an electric blanket on cold nights. If you can push his 22-pound bulk into a comfortable position, that is. Plus, he purrs. There's definitely something to be said for a warm, enormous, purring ginger cat snuggling up on a cold night. What it is, we don't know just yet. We suspect it's in the nature of "GERROFF ME YOU FAT FUCKING HAIRY LOUT!"
Over on Treehugger.com, some fine individual posted a few videos that will touch you to the very depths of your soul.
Watching these, who can say that animals do not feel love, joy, gratitude, kinship, friendship — all those emotions that we arrogantly assume are reserved only to us humans?
Here is a gorilla named Kwibi, meeting again someone who helped raise him a decade ago:
Kwibi clearly has not forgotten his human friend, to whom he clung, and by whose sleeping place he stayed all night, calling and crying out. If we could understand his words, what would they say? "I love you, I remember you, I've missed you all these years? Thank you so much for saving my life?"
And what about this lion, returned to the wild to live among his kind?
Obviously, he hasn't forgotten the people who loved him and played with him when he was just a cub. What a joy, to be privileged to witness the friendship between these members of two different species.
And here, a dog tells her person how happy she is that he came home in one piece, safe, from a battlefield far away.
Hey, little doggie, you tell that human. Hey, human person, lucky you to be the object of such lavish affection!
Love is love. It doesn't matter what race you are or, obviously, even what species you are. La Casa de Los Gatos is grateful for these beautiful glimpses of the enduring power of love.
May the long time sun shine upon you All love surround you And the pure light within you Guide you all the way on.
Yes, spring is finally here (reality check: there will be more rain!), and the flowers are blooming and the trees are rustling and raining down scented flower petals, and the weeds are growing faster than I can keep up, and would you believe all our lazy louts are fast asleep in bed?
Geeze. Good thing we don't pay them a wage for this disgraceful behaviour. Buncha fucking louts.
Given that I've had a shitty time trying to sleep for about a year now because they MUST examine the replaced knee daily, and poke it (with claws), bite it (yes, really), jump on it, and sleep on it, I really ought to shake out the covers and scream at the top of my lungs, "Wakey, wakey, the sun's burnin' yer eyes out, ya great spalpeens!"
Fair's fair, and all that. OTOH, the little bastids will just wait till I pass out from exhaustion tonight before doing the horizontal mamba all over me.
I mean, so far, I've had: hair licked, nose bitten, stomach leapt on, legs scratched (through layers of covers and pjs), ass bitten, face clawed, hands and feet shredded, and eyelids licked. Wool mice stuck in bedroom slippers. Spit-covered foam balls in robe pockets. I'm waiting for the mouse in the backpack. They haven't figured that one out yet. (They did put enormous eucalyptus borer beetles in my gardening boots one year. That was interesting.)
Eh! It's time to rip the weeds up before they turn into a fire hazard, might's well let the li'l guys sleep. Enjoy your caturday, all!
The alarm of choice appears to be small woolly mice with bells on their necks this week. Curse the day we ever bought them toys. Especially noisy little toys. Bandicoot has now adopted one of Zingiber's more obnoxious habits — every night, as soon as the lights are out, he waddles downstairs, "catches" (yeah, right, fatso) one of the mice, and begins the loud trilling call that cats use to signal other cats regarding the imminent massacration of a particularly choice or tasty piece of prey. Shaking the poor mouse vigorously, he ascends, with a muffled meow and a heavy tread, all accompanied by the tinkling of the mousie's bell, scandalized at the failure of the hoominz at La Casa de Los Gatos to notice, admire, and praise his mouse-dispatching skillz.
Note small woolly mouse in foreground with red wool tail and golden bell attached by red wool.
This usually gets the other cats all excited. Some come to praise in loud tones. Others come to admire. Still others come to steal the prey. Soon, the chase is on. Two twenty-pounders thundering around the bedroom, cannoning off furniture and other obstacles, while the other three, lighter fellows engage in some hearty face-punching, mouse-stealing, tail-biting, and the like.
Shenanigans increased by the slippery smoothness of the hardwood floor which often sends one or more of the offenders caroming under the bed to hit a wall (that runs close by our ears) with a resounding thud. You wonder if they're wearing protective gear that we don't know about. By rights, they should all, at this point, have multiple broken bones. I would, if I crashed into a wall with so much noise.
In the event, the desired effect is achieved. We are wakened, furious, and unable to go back to sleep for quite a while. Time we spend smoking frantically on the front porch with a glass of wine, while thinking the nastiest possible thoughts about pets, cats, people, sleep, and politics in general.
Life with cats. Often more entertaining than TV, until it comes time to pay the piper.
Normally, our Caturday posts are happy posts. Goodness knows, there's plenty of shit happening in the world out there that's just plain depressing (Haiti, Darfur, North Korea, South Africa, Afghanistan, Chechnya, Kazakhstan, ... do we need to go on?), if not actually suicide-inducing.
But every now and then we have to say goodbye to one of our sweet little four-footed friends, here at La Casa de Los Gatos.
Although Reggie never lived with us, we met him in his wild adventurous yoof, when he was found by none other than SGTG, longtime friend and general terrorist nun. He lived very happily with the SGTG household for many years, curling up in bed to spoon with his hoominz and demanding belly rubs in his generally sweet, if somewhat clueless, way.
Copyright ThePoliticalCat all rights reserved 
Copyright ThePoliticalCat all rights reserved 
Copyright ThePoliticalCat all rights reserved 
Copyright ThePoliticalCat all rights reserved 
Copyright ThePoliticalCat all rights reserved 
Gustav, Zingiber, Gojira
No, Zingiber is not lovin' on Gojira, he's squashing her
Same cats, different view
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