Bag Boy

Hey, lady.

I was a little skeptical last night when the boy was tossing all that noisy, crinkly paper around the room as he was “opening his birthday presents,” I think you called it.  I even produced one of my infamous death glares as you wrapped me up in some of this paper like I was a baby being swaddled.

IMG_0251Since you look a little confused, let me explain why you’ve now discovered me curled up for a Sunday nap inside this gift bag.  Once the paper was gathered up and stuffed into the bottom of the bag, I realized it can be tamed and, therefore, there was nothing to be afraid of.  It also provides the ideal amount of padding that makes a perfect substitute for the basket of freshly cleaned laundry you don’t want me sleeping in.

I don’t know why you’re bringing up the fact that the bag toppled over just as I was drifting off into a deep sleep.  Your photographic “proof” of the gift bag sagging under my weight is nothing more than an optical illusion.

Anyway, if this thing ends up in the trash like all the other great things I find to lie on around here, I’m sleeping on your clean towels.  Just sayin’.





An Inconvenient Truth

Hey, lady.

You seem to think I need to share all of my things with Orville.  My food, my litter, my windows…oh, the list goes on.  My point is, you have this idea that when everybody shares, we’ll all get along.

Tonight I was pretty pumped up about curling up for a nap in the cradle at the top of my–I mean, “our”–cat tree.  But when I stepped into the living room, I saw that Orville was already sleeping there.  No worry, I thought to myself.  We can share that spot!  The lady would be proud of me for taking the initiative to share with Orville.

Extra padding, just the way I like it.

Extra padding, just the way I like it.

The problem is, Orville didn’t want to share.  I didn’t feel I deserved to suffer just because he wasn’t being polite, so I squeezed in the best I could.  And by “in,” I mean “on.”  And by “on,” I mean I lied down right on top of Orville.  But let’s not forget what’s important here:  we were sharing!

Lady, there’s no need to bring up the fact that Orville eventually screamed out when he realized he couldn’t move under my weight.  That’s completely beside the point.  You don’t have to yell at me…sheesh.

Anywho, don’t expect me to put any further effort into this “sharing” you keep speaking of.  You had your chance and you blew it.


Claws and Effect

Hey, lady.

It’s been awhile since I’ve hassled you with my concerns.  It’s been a busy few weeks, what with my obligation to douse my new surroundings with my scent, and then nursing you back to health while you were ill.  (Are you done coughing yet?  Sitting on your stomach while you cough is like sailing a stormy sea in an inner tube.)

So anyway.  As you know, I’ve surprisingly taken quite a liking to the brand new kitchen table and chairs.  And please, don’t start chewing me out again for the claw marks I carved into the table.



You think I did it for no reason at all, but I can assure you it’s not true.  I did it as a warning.

You see, lady, the kitchen chairs are my new favorite napping spot.  I mean, I spend more time napping on these chairs than I do in my beloved cat tree.  But you and the man seem to think it’s pretty funny to sneak up behind me and grab my tail while it dangles out the back of the chair.


Can’t touch this!

Now, I have a business proposition for you:  if you agree to leave my tail alone and let me nap on my chair in peace, I’ll agree to keep my claws off the table.  Take it or leave it.  I’ll give you some time to think it over.  When you’ve made up your mind, I’ll be sharpening my claws on the cat tree…


Christmas Tree, (N)o Christmas Tree

Hey, lady.

Christmas is right around the corner and it’s my favorite time of year.  It’s not because I always get a new supply of feather wands and catnip mice, but rather it’s that you always put up that glorious tree.  Few things make a cat feel quite so stealthy as disguising itself among the clusters of artificial evergreen needles.

Okay, okay, I’ll admit there was an…”incident”…in a Christmas past.  But lady, there are twelve days remaining until Christmas and there’s not yet a tree up in this house.  I can’t imagine why!  You act like I broke the darn thing.  Oh, wait…





Man of the House

Hey, lady.

It was recently made startlingly apparent to me why there had been so many boxes strewn about for the past couple of weeks.  And I have to say, it was really nice of you and the man to purchase this new home for me.  Really, really nice.  However, that doesn’t mean you get off scot-free.  I still have a few bones to pick with you, which means we need to lay down some new house rules.

1.  There appear to be more rooms in this new house than there were in the last one.  This makes it harder for me to keep my eye on you.  Therefore, you must check in with me at least once an hour so I can be sure you’re not causing any trouble.

2.  The new windowsills aren’t roomy enough for me to sit on comfortably.  However, the spacious counter below the window in the kitchen is just perfect.  This must mean you plan on amending your “no-cats-on-the-counter” rule.

3.  There are two bathrooms in this house.  TWO.  I hope this doesn’t mean my annual number of baths is going to double.

4.  It appears there is another cat living here, but he spends all of his time in the bathroom and I’m pretty sure he’s mocking me (photographic evidence below).  You must make it a priority to stop this.  No one mocks Winston Montgomery.  No one.



Life is Like a Box of Boxes

Hey, lady.

I’m the type of cat who will leap right into a cardboard box, no questions asked.  Until now.

What kind of an explanation do you have for bringing me a box full of boxes?  I mean, there are at least ten boxes inside this one box.  Why are they not all out on the floor for me?  You know how much I like to play Musical Boxes…


I don’t want to give the impression that I’m condoning this behavior, but if I don’t get inside this box, my fur will probably all melt off and my bones will turn into fire-breathing snakes.  So I’m going to make it work, but under protest.  I fully anticipate a fancy box condo before you retreat to bed tonight.




Happy Fur-eaking Thanksgiving

Hey, lady.

You wanted a list of things I am thankful for, so here goes.

I am thankful for the bits of food that fall to the floor when you’re cooking.

I am thankful that Orville is smaller than I am, which gives me an advantage when we fight over the cat tree.

I am thankful for the little fish shape of my arthritis treats.  They may not taste quite like Pounce, but at least they’re cute.

I am thankful for the 363 days a year when you don’t give me a bath.

I am thankful for the crunchy, delectable leaves that blow into the house this time of year.

I am thankful for the man’s online shopping obsession that keeps the house constantly stocked with new and unusual boxes.

And…I suppose I’m thankful for the particular quartet of idiots I got stuck with.  It might be the ‘nip talking, it might be that I got an extra two minutes of sleep today, or it might be the whole “Thanksgiving” spell taking over me–but all in all, you guys aren’t that bad.  


I guess I'm a LITTLE thankful for my adopted brother...

I guess I’m a LITTLE thankful for my adopted brother…

Tuna Threats

Hey, lady.

What is this stuff you have poured in my dish?
It’s not what I’d hoped for; I want tuna fish.
Empty it out, and let’s try it again.
Now go to the cupboard and open a can.
Wait–what are you doing?  You’re walking away!
When cats make demands, you’re supposed to obey.
Now fetch me some tuna, a canned, tasty treat
or I’ll knock all your junk off the shelves while you sleep.


Your lack of obedience angers me.

Your lack of obedience sickens me.


Stopping to Smell the…the…

Hey, lady.

Why do the man’s shoes smell like…like…another cat?!?!  And no, I’m not talking about Orville.  I know what Orville smells like, from his ears all the way down to his butt.  The cat I’m smelling on the man’s shoes is definitely not Orville.

Lady, you need to reign in your man.  If I could talk, I’d do it myself.  But you need to explain the meaning of the word “commitment” and be sure he understands that the scent on his shoes is the ultimate form of betrayal.

But also be sure he understands that he can regain my trust for the low price of a freshly caught tuna and ten straight minutes of back scritching.

Winston can't be...



Reality Check

Hey, Winston.

I can’t believe you’re so hard on our mom.  I mean, she’s the best mom EVER!  Sure, every now and then she slips up when she turns on the vacuum cleaner, lets strange people invade our house (I mean, your house!…please don’t bite me…), opens a can containing something other than tuna, or locks us out of the room at night if we try kneading her hair while she’s sleeping.  But overall, what’s there to complain about?

But seriously, you should probably start being nicer to Mom.  I overheard her telling Dad the other day that she’s going to put you on a diet and exercise regimen–YOU, not me!  So while she has you panting your whiskers off, I’m going to watch from one of the pillow forts Dad makes for me and pat myself on the back for being the good child.

Neener neener!