There’s something wrong with these pictures
Here’s Onyx, of the Princess and the Pillow fame:
Here’s Pookie, my creaky old woman. That’s a rubber brush she’s using as her pillow:
I’m still trying to figure out why the young, fat cat gets the cushiest spot in the house while the arthritic one is banished to the floor.
The Princess and the Pillow
When I decided to get a second cat a couple years ago, I went to the shelter looking for… something. I wasn’t sure what. A quiet, mellow cat who wouldn’t antagonize my aging Pook, mostly.
What I found was a cute tortie just out of kittenhood and entering exuberant young cathood but who, sadly, curled in the back of her kennel, staring at the metal wall.
I thought she was depressed. I took her home.
I later learned she was plotting ways to escape and take over the world. I should have known—someone had named her “Voodoo” along the way. How much more of a sign does one potential adopter need, anyway?
By the time I discovered she had been legitimately incarcerated—possibly for murdering her former owners—it was too late. I was concerned about what would happen to her if I took her back and told the shelter people she was homicidal.
Eventually she mellowed and turned into a curious, mischievous cat who knows right from wrong but is not entirely certain morals ought to apply to her. Her murderous rage has been channeled away from humans and towards hair ties. We are making progress.
She remains convinced, however, that her station in life ought to be lofty.
She belongs on top of the book case. Or she would, if I would just move the boxes I put up there so she can’t make the jump. Failing that, she belongs on top of the computer alcove shelves. I put junk on those shelves. She tried the sideboard. I put junk on the sideboard.
Now I know why people accumulate knick-knacks: it’s to keep cats… if not on the ground, at least lower than the stratosphere.
This is a cat who will barely deign to stretch out on the floor. If she must be that low, she sleeps on the cat scratcher instead.
But all things being equal, she would much rather be someplace soft and cushiony.
Like the pillows on my bed. She loves the pillows on my bed.
But the other day, I fell asleep on the couch and, that morning, was running late. I forgot to put the pillows away. I left them on the back of the already cushiony couch.
I came home to a cat enthroned on a stack of pillows. She opened an eye at me and informed me that I could touch the pillows and die, or I could just leave them where they were, so she could enjoy the comfort due to her, and she might let me feed her later, if I asked nicely.
Pillows on the couch > pillows on the bed, by several magnitudes of cushiony-ness, apparently.
Last night I feel asleep on the couch again. I was feeling generous, so I left one pillow on the back of the couch for her, and stole one for myself.
My couch is only moderately comfortable, so when I do this, I inevitably wake up part way through the night and make my way back to bed.
Last night, I woke up, tried to roll over to get up, and realized things were a little… heavier… than usual.
I opened my eyes.
I had a pillow on my chest.
The pillow had a cat on it.
The cat was glaring at me, daring me to move.
The Princess and the Pillow had achieved Nirvana: couch pillows, human pillow, bed pillow. She had made a living, breathing, self-heating, rock-her-to-sleep bed.
I wiggled my shoulders a bit, hoping she’d get a clue. She flexed her claws, advising me to get a clue or die.
In the light of the TV, her face marking shone clearly: a big, yellow V. For Voodoo.
I scratched her head and went back to sleep.
Then, the next morning, while she was eating breakfast, I hid all the pillows. This cat needs a humbling.
She has seemed upset all evening. She’s had to settle for sleeping on the back of the couch. This is, apparently, not nearly as desirable as Pillow Nirvana. She keeps eying me from her end of the couch, calculating.
I’m not sure what she’s calculating, exactly. The calories in my dinner, to see if I will be fluffier and more comfortable by bed time? The relative level of humidity, to determine the loft factor in my hair?
I’ve gone from being the Lady Who Feeds and turned into Something On Which She Sleeps.
This cannot end well. It just can’t.
Not quite the evil genius she thinks she is…
My younger cat, who is an evil genius, hates water.
Like all cats, you say? Of course.
She also hates hair ties. She thinks they need to die. She has made eradicating them her mission in life. I am not sure why she wants them gone, or if I should worry about it, but there you have it. Hair ties are evil, and she will save the whole world from them.
This means that if I drop a hair tie into a tub full of water, she experiences an existential crisis. She must kill the hair tie, but she has to touch the water to get the hair tie. Hair tie. Water. Hair tie. Water.
For the record, so far she’s figured out that she can’t drink all the water out of the tub and the water is still wet no matter what paw she uses. She has not figured out how to get the hair tie.
The water is winning right now. She is not amused, partly because she really wants the hair tie, and partly because she really hates water.
Which makes yesterday the most awesome episode of self-inflicted torture I have ever seen.
I’d tossed a hair tie in the tub after my bath to amuse her (or me, whatever). She was sitting on the edge of the tub and turned around to yell at me. The water is my fault. She’s sure of that.
She didn’t notice that her tail fell in the tub.
It got soaked.
Eventually, she gave up yelling at me and jumped on the floor.
She immediately froze in place.
There was water on her. Water!
She tried to walk, and the water followed her.
She tried to spin around to find out where the water was coming from, and the water not only followed her, it also suddenly hit her back and head as her tail whipped around and sprayed droplets everywhere. She slowed down, taking one cautious step after another until she completed a full circle.
Source of the water: unknown.
Attempt to walk forward: water dripping on her feet!
Slow motion spin: source of the water still unknown.
Attempt to walk forward: water dripping on her feet!
It took her five minutes to get out of the bathroom. She collapsed in the living room and thumped her tail once, which just got more water on her. She tried to bolt off, realized that wouldn’t work, and went back to step - circle - step - circle.
She spent all night yelling at me, but it was worth it. She bit her tail at one point. That didn’t work out so well for her, either.
It was absolutely worth dealing with her yelling.
Hampster Brains
We are watching a hamster for my brother, who is watching it for his girl friend. Who has moved, so I’m a little unsure why he says he is “watching” it when it appears that he is, you know, stuck with it. Indefinitely.
The hamster has a ball you can put her in, and she rolls around on the floor. It’s, oh, I don’t know—the size of a nerf ball.
The cats are fascinated. They keep following it, but it’s too big to grab. And every once in a while the hamster turns around and runs at them, but she’s a hamster, so she’s not so bright. She keeps running. Right into them. And bounces off them like they were a chair or other piece of furniture. Except, unlike furniture, they jump backwards.
I’m not entirely certain this is a nice thing to do to the hamster, mostly because she seems to have concluded that if the cats jump away, so will the couch. She keeps hitting the couch and pausing, like she can’t figure out why it’s still there.
On the other hand, she’s a hamster. She probably doesn’t think very much at all. But then, neither do the cats. They’ll get on very well, I bet.
PPP, you get Pookie
Because she hates me.
(She’s on medication right now for an infection, and because she apparently can’t tolerate the normal, 2x daily antibiotics, she’s on the alternate, 3x with larger doses, antibiotics. Which means I give her one does in the a.m., and she runs away from me as soon as it’s done. By the time she decides to be friendly and comes to find me and get some attention, it’s time for her next does. Later, rinse, and repeat. She started to come see me last night, thought better of it, and ran away. Before I picked her up to give her the meds. See? She hates me. You can send her back when the meds are done, ok?)