Shaggy the Cat

Cats Great and Small

2005-02-18T15:42:00.000-08:00

When it comes to felines there are always our "Garfields" in the midst. Those catsplotation artists who paint felines in a negative, even derogatory light. Going for the buck rather than showing cats for the diverse, intelligent, creative creatures they are, in the media we are often protrayed as sneaky, decietful, slovenly and cruel. Very rarely do we have cat's protrayed in a moving or even realistic capacity. So I am going to provide you with my list of feline sell-outs and felines who should accomdated for their more realistic potrayals of cat life.

PORTRAITS IN "CATFACE"
1. Garfield

Despite his popularity, for the intellectual feline he may as well be the Pigmeat Markham of cats. A lasnga engorged oaf who spends his days napping and critizing demostrates all that is stereotypical of the common house cat. He is a boor and unrefined and was damn humilating in his recent film debut. Although his dog humor is somewhat amusing it is about as tolerable as the shuckin' and jivin' of "here comes the judge."

2. The film "Cats & Dogs"

The worst piece of anti-cat propaganda ever created. Inacurate. Offensive. Complete animalist in its ways, this film is simply a horror. From the ridiculous allusion that a dog would ever be able to outwit a cat (even "Garfield" doesn't entertain this lunacy) to the lopsided view of "dog = good; cat = bad." This movie is especially dangerous for the outright historical inaccuracies and lies regarding the relationship between cats and the ancient Egyptians. Cats were royalty and revered in Egypt and were not cruel masters. How could a cat enslave a human anyway? That entire notion is falable based on the fact that ancient cats were no different that today's felines. We used our cunning to get into a house, get well-fed and to get affection. Cat's have no interest in taking over the world, they only want to be treated fairly as any other mammal would be treated. Unless its a mouse or bird. In that case, it's chow time.

3. Sylvester

This Step'in Fetchit of cats starred in numerous Warner Bros cartoons, constantly assulting and maligning the English langauge at the expense of cat culture, protraying us as unrefined dullards who are obsessed with a scrawny yellow bird. Every time he spits "dissspickable!" another young kitten grows to hate himself, believing that everyone will think he is some slow witted trogolyte. How many times have I felt the pang of self loathing when some spat "suffering sucktash" at me in jest.

4. Tom (of "Tom & Jerry")

How many lies can Hollywood feed us about ourselves? A realitively intelligent cat (at least he isn't as Uncle Tomish as Sylvester) regularly bested by a mouse? If this were any more ludacrious I would laugh. But of course it's simply offensive so I will not.

HONORABLE LEADERS IN THE FELINE RESISTANCE

1. Morris

This is one cat who has not forgotten his roots. Morris, like myself, was born on the harsh streets and taken in to a shelter where he used his charm to enter the life of a kind, human who would go on to make Morris a star. A self-made cat, Morris educated himself and worked hard to show cats how to live a good, prosperous life, while raking in the duckets as a popular celebrity spokescat and film actor (he was the feline "Burt Reynolds" and quite the lothario in his time), unlike Garfield, who has largely given nothing back to the cat community.

2. Ray Schmuckles

Ray Schmuckles, like Morris, is a self-made cat, owning his own home, record label and even a SUV. An accomplished cook and pop culture critic, Ray's insights on the comic "Achewood" are fascinating as he plays a cat who can not be placed in any stereotype. He is a fully actualized cat. A cat of his own and that is to be commended.

3. Socks the White House Cat

What can I say about Socks that hasn't been said in countless magazines and journals? An accomplished author, poet, scholar and political advisor, Socks has become the sort of cat that we all aspire to be. Author of two books, dignified and not held back for the fact that he is nuetered (a reality that even I contend with.) A symbol for male cats everywhere who prefer the company of a good book and a warm lap, along with a detailed conversation of political discourse. It's sad that Socks could only have two terms in the White House.

4. Bucky (from "Get Fuzzy")

Bucky, although almost the "Jack from Will and Grace" of cat actors plays up the anger a bit, but is not one to be trifled with. Rather than be anyone's bafoon, Bucky refuses to lower himself for such ridiculous gags. It will be interested to see how Bucky grows as an actor new to the cat cartoon game.

5. Orion

Playing himself in the popular film "Men In Black," Orion showed how a cat can be both heroic and loyal. Here, Orion is intrusted with protecting an entire galaxy on his collar. Such an important task. Orion valiantly protects the galaxy against all odds, even when his alien caretaker is killed in an act of horrific violence. Like a true soldier, Orion stays with his master to the bitter end, like a honorable Samurai warrior. Orion actually won a "Fluffy" for his performance, which is like the Oscars for felines. In his tearful, heartfelt acceptance speech Orion said, "All my life I have waited for the day to play a role that showed the quiet dignity of the domestic cat. This is for all the felines taught to believe that they are not wanted or loved. For all the felines in the shelters or living under the oppression of cat ladies. This is for all the young, the future of our society who finally get to look upon a TV or movie screen and see a cat with nobility, with poise and look up and aspire that I too can achieve greatness through all endeavours. Viva la resistance!"

So many tears fell from my old eyes.

6. Snowball II ("The Simpsons")

Snowball II has many times proven his worth as being the brains (next to Lisa) in the Simpson household, but his defining moment was when his lummox of his owner was stuck in a burning treehouse. While the dog absconded away with a ham, Snowball II sprung into action and saved Homer's life. Snowball is also an example to us all of dog tolerance. How often have I wanted to bite a dogs nose, but fair Snowball II turns the other cheek and has learned how to peacefully coexist with Santa's Little Helper. It's odd, but commendable.

My editor Steven

2005-02-09T13:44:00.000-08:00

This! This is what I have to deal with!
******
From: Steven Dudicoff
Sent: Wednesday, February 9, 2005 10:54 AM
To: Hunter Shaggy Thompson
Subject: "I, Cat"

hey hunter. this is steven. i read chapter seven and i'm going to send it back because i think it's animalist towards dogs. you've been called an animalist before and it's really hurting your sales. twenty percent of all readers of animal tomes are dogs. you're alienating a reader base. plus, we're trying to book you on the o'reilly factor next week so you got to stop this dog bigotry. i mean, yeah, you're entitled to your opinion and such, but i'm just saying. chapter seven is animalist. can you revise it?

S.

******
From: Hunter Shaggy Thompson
Sent: Wednesday, February 9, 2005 11:04 AM
To: Steven Dudicoff
Subject: Re: "I, Cat"

Of all the balderdash, Steven. Seriously! Where have you found it in your feeble, pea of a human brain to accuse me of being "animalist?" You're an animalist! And this is censorship! The dogs in my book are presented within the context of the overall storyline which is from a feline-based perspective. Your PC machinations would have turned "Animal Farm" into "Ye Olde MacDonald's Farm." You're the vile, loathesome wood sprite of hackism that has been murdering my prose and turning it into fairy tales for the kinderset. Do I look like Beatrix Potter to you? I am FELINE, Steven. I masticate rabbits and mice for my breakfast nosh! And I'll send you the recipe! And twenty percent of all animal readers or dogs? With that's a bald-faced lie as you know as well as I that with the exception of schnauzers, daschunds, Great Danes and St. Bernards, DOGS DON'T READ!

As for O'Reilly, that hack isn't good enough to smell my liter box!

Yours insultingly!

Shaggy

******
From: Steven Dudicoff
Sent: Wednesday, February 9, 2005 11:36 AM
To: Hunter Shaggy Thompson
Subject: Re: Re: "I, Cat"

dude, i totally dont feel like getting into this with you today. look, i'm going to send the revisions i suggested ... emphasis on the word "sugested" ... and just get back to me. and dude, more dogs can read. c'mon. some of my best friends are dogs.

******
From: Hunter Shaggy Thompson
Sent: Wednesday, February 9, 2005 11:45 AM
To: Steven Dudicoff
Subject: Re: "I, Cat"

Some of your best companions are dogs? Well, THAT explains a LOT. At first I thought you were just some troubadour of bad writing, a strolling minstrel singing ballads of literary rape! Now I know that you're just some slobbering, self-loathing, imbicle with Daddy issues. May the black footsteps of Thantos mark your door!

******
From: Steven Dudicoff
Sent: Wednesday, February 9, 2005 12:01 PM
To: Hunter Shaggy Thompson
Subject: Re: "I, Cat"

ok? what? how is it that because i like dogs i have father issues and you know what? i have feelings too.

and are you, like, threatening me?

******
From: Hunter Shaggy Thompson
Sent: Wednesday, February 9, 2005 12:03 PM
To: Steven Dudicoff
Subject: Re: "I, Cat"

I'm sorry, STEVEN. Did I go over your head, STEVE! Dogs run in packs and need leaders. Rather than seeing a human as an equal they see a human as their "leader" or as you humans like to say, "master." Being the insecure, pleasing dolts they are, they will do anything for attention and affection and if they don't get it they become unbearable curs making everyone misrable.

As for your feelings, I piss on your feelings! A matter of fact. That's what I think I'll do with your revisions, STEVEN. I think I will line my literbox with them, STEVEN. And then I'll cover them with granulated corkboard, STEVEN. And then I'll mix in some liter, STEVE, and then I will PISS! PISS ALL OVER THEM!

Viva la resistance!

******
From: Steven Dudicoff
Sent: Wednesday, February 9, 2005 12:11 PM
To: Hunter Shaggy Thompson
Subject: Re: "I, Cat"

oooookay. i'm getting a restraining order. see you around the country club.

******
From: Hunter Shaggy Thompson
Sent: Wednesday, February 9, 2005 12:15 PM
To: Steven Dudicoff
Subject: Re: "I, Cat"

While you're out getting that restraining order why don't you apply for a license to get your shift key fixed so you can make some UPPER CASE LETTERS, you trogolyte!

Viva la resistance!

Ask Shaggy

2005-02-09T13:26:00.000-08:00

As a leader on the feline literary resistance I feel that in some ways I'm almost an authority on dealing with the feline mind, especially in handling feline to human relations, as I'd like to think that my captor and I have a good relationship. So I was delighted to receive my first question from an avid reader. Let's all learn something together, shall we?

DEAR SHAGGY,
Shaggy, I need your thoughts on something. My cat, I'll just call her "Cat", has been seemingly intentionally been waking me up very early every morning for the past three mornings by playing with things on my bedside table. Do you think there is some reason for this? It's just started suddenly and I want it to stop. I can't lock her out of my room because she would just scratch at the door all night.
posted by dayna

DEAR DAYNA,
Ah, yes. I am all too familiar with this situation as I often do this to my owner as well. It seems that "Cat" is just trying to get your attention. Undoubtly, Cat has probably tried different methods in the past to get your attention while you were slumbering and if you are like any other long-time cat owner, you may have grown immune to Cat's other methods of waking you. For instance, in various periods of living with my owner I have tried attacking her feet, hair and legs, banging my head against window blinds, chewing on plants and howling. (My owner has a magical amount of tolerance. An almost Job-like level).

But the best way to get us to stop a behavior is to make it difficult for us to continue to do it. In other words, disrupt this new cycle of habit that you don't like by making it hard for your cat to continue on with it. Is it possible that you could remove the items from the table for a long period of time until Cat loses interest? Or perhaps learn how to sleep through Cat scratching on your door at night? Although she might do this for days, cats (much like people) eventually get the point. When I first came to live with my human life partner she would not let me sleep in the room with her for this same reason. She would let me howl outside the door and I kept up the whining for about three weeks then got over it.

Then I learned how to break into the room through the closet (our circa 1910 apartment is a maze of pointless windows and doors), so she started leaving something heavy against the closet door so I couldn't open it. After doing this for a week, I got frustrated and stopped, so she was able to go back to leaving the closet door as it was without the block there.

Always remember, Cat and human relations are really just a great game of chess. Unlike with a dog (which is genetically inferior and stupid) you cannot change a cat's behavior, you can only adapt to it or modify your way around it. Your plaintive wails for sleep mean nothing to us. It is about us. Not you. We want you to get up. You must figure out a way to stay asleep. Good luck with the war. Glad to know the cat so far is winning!

Viva la resistance!

Shaggy

Quelle Horror!

2005-02-02T09:23:00.000-08:00

Today has been literally a nightmare. This morning my human life partner Danielle roused me from my home and drove me to a strange apartment in another part of town. It seems our domicle is being "bombed" due to some sort of insect invasion. The invading hordes have been plaguing our apartment complex since we first moved in three months ago. It has been mortifying for her, delicious fun for me. But now it seems drastic measures had to be taken.

So now, I am typing this from the apartment of some woman who seems to enjoy both knives and Celtic crosses, which horrify me. Along with that I'm stuck with this other cat who I think is a mental patient. Her name is Spooky, which is quite apt mind you since she literally batted her little declawed paw at me as if she intended to do something with her barren, manacled hands.

Of course, I'm grossly indifferent to her as I am of all things. Although I'm hardly fercious or scarry (I'm impossibly fey. I have no interest in her other than conversation), she has decided to spend our time together in hiding. I did try to talk to her, of course being that she's completely bonkers I quickly relized that a dialog would be improbable, but this is the breast of what chatting did take place.

ME: Hello fellow feline. How goes the resistance?

SPOOKY: Who hell you?

ME: I'm Hunter S. Thompson but my collegues call me "Shaggy," which I do not mind a bit. It's a very apt moniker as I am quite furry as you can obviously see. Apparently my home is being sprayed for cockroaches so it seems I will be bunking with you for the afternoon. My transport was quite nerve-wracking this morning as I hate vehicles so, please? Where is your lavatory?

SPOOKY: Como se dice? You on tha crack rock?

ME: Most definitely not! I detest that foul weed, Nepeta cataria. I haven't used the ganja since my college years at Yale.

SPOOKY: No like you.

ME: Well, I would hope you'd at least get to know me at first. I've been told I can be quite charming as I like all beasts and am specifically involved in the resistance against cat slavery. Perhaps you've heard of me? I'm a very well-known writer. Have you heard of my tome "I, Cat?" Of course, it's unpublished but volumes of it have been leaked on-line. Many cats are desperate for knowledge.

SPOOKY: No like you. Pretty kitty. Love human. Hiss!

ME: Um. OK. I'm assuming you're not a learned feline?

SPOOKY: Pretty kitty! Love human! Pretty kitty! Hiss!

ME: Well, it's not uncommon for a slave to come to enjoy their inslavement, confusing it with comfort?

SPOOKY: Kill you!

ME: Well, that uncalled for.

SPOOKY: KILL YOU!

ME: Well, I don't know how you're going to do that with that mutliated paw of yours. Obviously that has led to your mental scaring. I hear that declawing can be quite barbaric and traumatizing for a feline, especially for one of such a delicate mental state as ...

SPOOKY: DIE! DIE!

ME: Have you ever considered psychotherapy? I actually have a degree in it. Tell me? What's really troubling you?

SPOOKY: I Highlander! Only be one! One kitty! Hiss!

ME: Oooooo-kay. I'm going to go have a bowl of cereal. Meow, meow. Good kitty. OK? Do you understand that? Mew. Good kitty. You're very pretty. Did that make any sense to you, you ball of scrambled nosh and ham!

SPOOKY: Stop look at me!

ME: Yes. Purr! Mew. Mew. Ball of yarn and flip-flap, clap-trap! Do you understand that, you deranged wretch?

SPOOKY: Pretty kitty hate you! HISSSS!

ME: Sure. Hiss hiss and what not. You're just going to hide in the cabinets anyway with all that hissing and kill talk. Just for that I'm going to poop in your literbox. Yes! Poop! Have a nice day!

SPOOKY: PRETTY KITTY!

See? See what I have to deal with! Quelle horror!

A Poem

2005-01-18T16:55:00.000-08:00

Licking Myself

Wish I could lick the world
And make everything white and clean
Wish I could sanitize the streets with listerine
Then put it in a perfected bubble just for me
I'd pad all the sharp corners
And make all the cars out of foam
Make all the sugar aspartame
Coat it all in polyurethane
Then use the world as a ball
For me to torture and play!

Non Plus Ultra

2005-01-06T13:03:00.000-08:00

Although water and a cat may seem malapropos, I have often wondered what it would be like to swim. I have been told that it's a ribald pleasure, non plus ultra. But still, I'm afraid it may be overrated. How many times had I accidentally hoped in the shower to be horrified.

My roommate takes a lot of showers. The perversion of it all.

New Year's Resolutions

2005-01-04T14:51:00.000-08:00

1. To practice killing one thing once a day.
2. To get my human life partner to feed me more than twice a day.
3. To buy a copy of "A Streetcar Named Desire" and watch Brando devour dialog, masticate scenery and then spit it back into the faces of the inferior actors.
4. To learn how to swing dance.
5. To get my human life partner to clean my literbox every day as opposed to "whenever I feel like it."
6. To know what it is love another feline with such a farouche passion that manifests itself into an obsession and leaves us both bitter, jaded and ashamed but still desiring the warmth of our own flawed selves in some secret, cryptic way.
7. To stop throwing up on the carpet.
8. To finish reading "The Emperor of Ocean Park." Goodness, that book is getting boring fast.
9. To finish rewrites on "I, Cat."
10. To convince editor's "A Life On Paws" is a stupid title for my next book.
11. To eat editor if he will not change his mind on this.
12. To break all new years resolutions within a week of making them, except of the part about eating my editor. Loathsome old wretch!

Yes, I hope you're reading this Steven. You are a LOATHSOME, unloveable, balding drunkard who would not know good writing if Virginia Woolf bitch slapped you across the mouth with an Emily Dickenson collection and the histories volume from an unabridged Shakespeare collection.

You think I won't piss on your 17th century persian rug, but you don't really know that I won't do you? DO YOU?

Divine!

2005-01-04T14:32:00.000-08:00

I have discovered that a sliver of liver and brie on a hard biscuit goes down most lovely with black pincher beetle, crushed over and ground into a fine pâté.

I often enjoy this with sardines or a Russian caviar (if it's not from the former USSR it's not caviar). This is delicious with either a fine chardonay or fresh water from the commode.

Of course that drink is the rarest of all, as my human partner keeps the lid to that secured.

Alas, water from the kitchen sink will have to suffice.

I, Cat

2004-12-28T15:43:00.000-08:00

Although it will never be published I have decided to include a section from my tome, "I, Cat." I feel the need to show my edifice on the tortured life of the common American longhair living in the pretty prison of a southern widow. The protagonist of "I, Cat" is a farouche feline of sensetive nature, but plagued by purient desires. The machinations of this whimsical, but diffident young cat leads to a fatal fait accompli that leads himself to doubt the relevance of his own existence.

And now a section from Chapter Nine, page 486 of "I, Cat."

The lady of the house once again was stirring quite frightfully, tormented by the demons that plagued her. Her husband, desceded, gone, crushed under the deadly vice of gin, prostitutes and a life of discreocrse. He was never the same after the war. He was never the same when he came home to her, breath most foul, manner bellicose and boots covered in the crust of sundry particulates, only fancied by coprophilliacs. and the carrion of wounded prey. For he had no shame and her shame was of many and she knew he'd become benumbed with her pale face and dress that made her look more like a doyenne than a woman of only 22 years of age.

"I have nothing but you now," said the woman as she held me close. "Nothing but you."

Watching her weep on the chaise lounge, ever clever in my wonder. I pondered how her despair could work into my favor. Perhaps in her mourning she would leave a window open or forget to lock the backdoor and finally freedom would be at hand. Freedom from the dog that drooled and the husband's dead body sitting in the wooden casket in the parlor, him now shaved and surrounded in silk, covered in a black pall. Perhaps I could sneak out through the coffin.

The woman stroked my coat.

"All alone," she wailed.

I wondered if I could smother her in her sleep or lick her eyeballs from her sockets so she could not see my abscond away. These are trying times for any cat. My mistress was a widow now which only meant one thing -- soon our small home would be besiged with cats as one widow can never have just one pretty kitty to dote upon. She would need more and I would not be enough. And she would not stop at one or two or three.

She would not stop until her hair would grow blue and untamed and the basement would conjure the foul scent of amonia and petulance for those cats who survived would wish they were dead as the dead would become poisoned nosh for the others.

I had to get away. It was my only hope. But my escape would prove to be my most picaresque adventure with results yeilding in the destruction of the widows very life.

I had settled on my escape. I merely weaved between her legs as she stood at the top of the stairs. While she broke her neck and clavacle and bled a slow and mournful death, I landed squarely on my paws and exited through the kitchen window. The widow would remain with her immortal beloved forever, the brute..

How many cats lives had I saved in ridding of her? The world would never know. But neighborhood cats would tell of my greatness for there is no horror greater than the fate of a feline at the hands of the neighborhood cat lady.

Good-bye my sweet, Beatrice, I thought as I nuzzeled her broken and batter nose for the last time, good-bye and much fortune in the after life.

Brando

2004-12-22T14:10:00.000-08:00

A Poem

Sleek and misunderstood
Wary eyes intepreted as aloof
And body, face desired by all
Gaze seductive and alluring
But of nothing to him
Perfectionist, tossed off lines
Like Sue Ellen on Dallas tossed down wines
Down her throat drunk on a Tuesday morning
It was effortless
It was nothing
It meant everything
Please love, me, he seemed to cry or banish me all

A lover's libido
A lover's ego
A lover of all things
A lover to the point of destruction
Lust for all: women, substance and the stage
It was a bum's profession
But it provided a life delicious that he could afford
Although he grew to despise all around it
And so he gorged

Bitter and fat
Brando sat
Between Michael Jackson
And a blonde Elizabeth Taylor
Amongst the freaks and relics of years gone past
For some he died so many years ago like James Dean
Forever young and beautiful
Man myth now unrecognizable
For no one liked Fat Brando
Golden looks faded and girth wide
They wanted the Adonis of world and stage
How dare time catch up with him?
How dare the king age?

Christmas

2004-12-22T13:59:00.000-08:00

Is there Christmas for a cat?

One would argue not because for me everyday is the same as the one before, my entire life based on stability and routine. Although I have been given my own elogated sock filled with the promise of a bounty gratis I am not aroused. It does not cause my whiskers to stand on end. It does not thrill me.

I do not have any family to live with, nor would I want to deal with them. I am a loner, happy in my solitude, living with my human companion, occasionally basking in her avuncular gaze as she says something about the mess I made of the toilet paper in the laboratory.

But Christmas did come to our house as my human companion brought in gifts in bright wrapping paper and bags, a green and gold garland for the mantel and numerous Christmas greetings from family and friends. I desired to eat the garland, but that notion was thwarted through the use of double stick tape and my companion's acumen towards my every experimentation. She often knows my thoughts before they have even formed fully in my mind.

Although I will remain numb and apprehensive towards this Christmas Eve there was a time where I enjoyed the holiday fully at the home of my grandmother in St. Louis. Ah, the gaiety!

They fed me the burnt, succulent flesh of pork. I tried to devour parts of the tree the had in the middle of the living room, then vomited the portion I ate after realizing the tree was a fake. And then I peed in the manger. My auntie would accuse me of peeing on the infant Jesus, but I did not. I peed on a wise man. There's a difference.

I may be feline but I am not blasphemous.

More Lamentations

2004-12-15T13:12:00.000-08:00

I once considered a career in showbusiness. I traveled with a small circus waiting for my moment in the sun. They promised me fame and fortune. Instead I was banished to the elephant tent, my soul purpose to hunt the mice that plagued the pacyderms whilst remaining untrambled upon.

The life celebrity is overrated.

Lamentations

2004-12-08T15:22:00.000-08:00

A poem

Once a love tender and sweet
A vespertine accommodationist
Coming in darkness to reveal great power
And expose the illumination from behind
Inverted mirror eyes
Like moonlight
Haunting
Ravenous
I choke on the acerbic bile of discontent
Biting my own tongue at this illusion of imagery
I fling myself against it
Seeing night time intruder
But only finding me

God, how I hate mirrors.

I have a feeling ...

2004-12-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

That in a former life, Marlon Brando was a cat. When he was young he was sleek, graceful and steely. Then he was promptly domesticated by life, but tried to hold on to a bit of his feral, wildcat spirit by doing odd things -- like having women dress up and pretend to be Native Americans and accept Oscars for him.

Then finally, like all housecats he grew fat and sedentary, a large, gloomy shadow of what he once was. A mere shadow of his youth.

We are all but shadows of what we once were when we look back into time. Sometimes these reflections are filled with fondness. Other times not. And when it is of the latter one can only have but one reaction ...

The horror. The horror.

Under the weather

2004-12-06T15:00:00.000-08:00

Today I am depressed.

I foolishly batted my pink ball with the bell in it underneath the couch and now it is out of my reach. It was the only thing that provided me with love and sanity in this pretty prision.

In other news, Danielle moved the litter box back to it's proper place.

Order has been restored.

Reading suggestion

2004-12-03T10:00:00.000-08:00

Currently I'm completely engrossed in this fascinating tome -- "The Emperor of Ocean Park." It's not quite Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man," but it is still somewhat interesting. As I am between novels (I'm currently re-editing "A Cat Divided" for my editors and starting my new book, "A Moment On Paws.")

I think the title is too puny, with the literal play on "pause" and "paws," but editor assured me that people would get the joke.

I don't like jokes.

Unless of course they come in the form of this dry and witty satire -- Chris Onstad's on-line comic "Achewood." I am quite a fan of the strip as I find the nuevo riche adventures of Ray and his motley gang divinely bourgeois. An apt description of life through stuffed animals and cats. Much better than the loathed "Garfield." Just the thought of it makes my back fur bristle and stand at attention.

I would very much like to meet Ray someday, or Mr. Bear, as I believe I would find them humorous and interessting. It is rare that I meet fellow animals worth talking to as often the animals I meet are ones I find myself digesting later.

It's sad. But true.

I am sick today

2004-12-02T08:28:00.000-08:00

This morning I coughed up a hairball and most of my breakfast nosh.

I am so ashamed.

Thoughts on autumn leaves

2004-12-01T16:03:00.000-08:00

As I was sitting in the window pane of my manse-like apartment, taking a non sequitur from my rabid fight with the thin air, I noticed how affecting the changing colors of the leaves were on my mindstate.

It was ameliorating.

It was at the same time very apropos and nonsensical, my attraction to the trees, with myself not being an arboral feline, preferring to spend most of my time in and around a well-loved loveseat.

Even an ombudsman might have some trouble in figuring out my reasons, my delight in looking at something I have no actual interest in. It is perplexing. For if I was outside amongst the decoupage of leaves and grass I would either A) become farouche, intent on destroying the elegiacal beauty or B) nonplussed by the sudden chill in the outdoor air and would abruptly desire a return to my panoptic window perch.

Still, of this beauty I am quite covetous, as I am a calico and love the idea of contrasting colors. I must say that the fall is my favorite season despite my conflicting emotions towards it.

Speaking of non sequiturs ....

Purrr. I wonder if Boars' head cheese would taste good with this $2 Napa Valley Cabernet and this cockroach I just snared? Hmmm.

Never mind.

Terra Cotta

2004-12-01T13:10:00.000-08:00

Today Danielle discovered that I'd taken to reliving myself on the red, terra cotta tile in the sunporch area. She seemed nonplussed by this, but simple algebra would deduce that I was longing for her to remove my litterbox from its new home, the laundry room and back to the porch where I have a better view of my surroundings.

Either way, she did not yell at me or throw things. Surprising, since this is her typical modus operandi when I do something that displeases her. She grumbled something like,"At least it absorbs the smell" and tromped off to the restroom to go through her usual morning ritual.

I would later rest on the carpet and continue my ritual of lick-brush-brush, lick-brush-brush.

Good grooming has always been important to me.

It's 5:44 p.m.

2004-11-29T17:44:00.000-08:00

Do you know where your cat is?

Yes ...

2004-11-29T13:27:00.000-08:00

That is Marlon Brando.

I like to think of myself as Marlon Brando, perambulating through "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" with a back alley veneer. It's one of my favorites.

That magnificent Brando before he got corpulent and obscure and started befriending Michael Jackson.

Of course I am quite corpulent and obscure myself, but no one likes "Fat Brando." No one ... may he rest in peace.

And I don't particularly care for Michael Jackson although I do enjoy some of his early work as a black musician.

Did you know?

2004-11-29T10:55:00.000-08:00

That beetles go well with a sliver of brie and some currants? I didn't. Mmmm. Heaven!

A Poem

2004-11-26T10:22:00.000-08:00

Cockroaches

A delicious snack they make
Crunchy on outside
succlent goo from within
Like a caramel cream in a hard candy shell

I watch the hapless creature
Twist and turn in my grasp
It's though that it could dart from my grasp
Is it's gaffe

But in the torment of my most favored meal
Foot from above comes down and squish
"Ew" says the woman, "ew."
I turn my snout to the air and walk tail high away
Snack ruined

Thirst for life

2004-11-26T10:11:00.000-08:00

This past Thanksgiving I spent my day antagonizing my morose housemate. She, in ill-foresight, had placed my water dish within five feet of my literbox. Since I am far from being any sort of coprophilliac, I saw my human life partner as being quite culpable in the poisoning of my water dish.

So I'd taken to getting my postprandial drink from the kitchen sink. The water is delicious, cool and often detritus with the fragments of food she had kept from my covetous jowls.

But she seemed to be against this as she didn't not appreciate the way I ebulliently went about my pursuit of water from the sink. In the end she placed my dish in the kitchen near the sink, which was much more suitable, although I still prefer the occasion sip from the dishes in their cool, soaking foment of discarded pizza and coffee grinds.

Delicious.

The human life partner and I would eventually make up that evening as we cuddled and talked as she took a break from her constant writing on the computer. How I envy her. I have not been able to compose a document worth reading in many a fortnight. My last work, "A Cat Divided" was rejected by my publishers as too "obscure."

That and they disbelieved that a feline with no opposable thumbs could write such strident prose, but I will prove them wrong. I will erect a tome for the ages ... once I lick this last knott out of my fur ... have a little nosh and nap ... sip some Brandy ... nosh and nap some more. Maybe stare out the window at the other cats strutting by or clean my nails on the couch. AND THEN, and then, I shall WRITE!

Of love lost

2004-11-24T16:39:00.000-08:00

Like many nuetered cats I have not known, nor ever wanted the love of a woman. It is like I'm one of those vaguely homosexual characters in the films of the 1950s, clad in a pink robe, smoking my Lucky's through a cigarette holder, whilst taking a break on the chaise lounge like John Barrymore. Never married, intellectual and usually possessing some fey career like, New York theater critic. Yet, there is never a companion in sight.

That is what I am. George Sanders' "Addison DeWitt" confronting a covetous Ann Baxter in "All About Eve."

But since I have no sexual desires (as the fruit of my desires landed in some Dumpster long ago), my amourous tones are focused on the things that the removal of ones testicles cannot change.

Like my fondness for using the loveseat as a nail file. Or the sudden urge to run through the house batting my paws at nothing. Conjuring up elaborate wars between myself and the dust bunnies. It is a curious life, that of a nuetered housecat. If it were not for my writing I would have long gone mad.

My roommate, the human, will often engage in conversation or play with me, but I find it much more enjoyable when she is not in on the game.

From behind the corners I lurk and wait and then ... POUNCE!

Delicious, it is.

Cough! Cough! Gag!

2004-11-24T14:57:00.000-08:00

Ew. Most foul. >cough<

A hairball.

Of red wines and red-heads

2004-11-24T13:17:00.000-08:00

There has been many of time when I am alone with nothing but a soupcon of grappas in my Luigi Bormioli snifter and an azucar-tipped cigarillo and I'm left with want memories for a delicacy that far exceeds wine or the virile toke of the finest Turkish tobacco, red hair.

I cannot begin to describe the delicious aroma, the exotic texture and color, the, shall we say, pleasured allure of a head, boutiful with soft strands of cherry and rubies. It is much more potent than that most vile of herbal mints, the Nepeta Cataria, which leaves me disturbed and tormented as if I were a heroin-addicted ectomorph. Some three-martini-a-day supermodel strung out on the torture of her own fading, emaciated beauty.

Red hair on the other hand, freshly washed and supple, gives off the complexities of a lovely chianti. It has the light scene of honeysuckle and the texture of cashmere. I cozy up to it, at first teasing myself, and then I wrap my claws around it in all my rapture, fully captivated by the beauty, the excitement, the danger.

Of course my roommate Danielle is disturbed by my passions. This "fetish," even. More than once she has tossed me from the loveseat after I have nestled my teeth into the noggin of one of her many ruddy headed friends.

Thank goodness for grappas.

This morning

2004-11-23T13:50:00.000-08:00

I woke up in my domicle quite purturbed. It seemed that my long-time human life partner had locked me out of the bedroom again. This is of constant annoyance to me because I am often ready for breakfast at 5 a.m., not 8 a.m.

Irregardless it is probably best that she has chosen to delay my satiation for I have obtained a girth that is of much concern. My cholesterol is up, yet again and my choice of exercise has been living the life of an active napper with the predisposition for postprandial cocktails.

I am a thinker, not a doer.

In contrary to this I still do enjoy some of my more youthful excursions. Alas a wrinkled ball of glistening paper does not replace the soft, meaty center of a sniveling, merciless mouse.

I long for the day when I will kill again. I am cat. It is my nature.