kragore: (Bailey)
It's been a while since I've popped around to chat, but I find myself needed to express a series of events that occurred to my humble golden self yesterday.

After a normal sleep/eat/poo cycle, She Who Feeds Me encouraged me into the Chariot. I do greatly enjoy this, so it didn't take much. Early day Chariot rides mean lovely walks in the park, splashing around like a "chuk el head" (whatever that is, sounds foreign,) or visiting my best girl in the world, Ms Kitty.
(My Best Girl, Kitty:

It was a Ms. Kitty morning, and I was booted (rather unceremoniously,) through the door and left to my devices while SWFM took off in my Chariot again.
Don't be fooled - I let her use it, long as she feeds and cares for it.
The day passed uneventfully until She returned to gather me home.

There was a smell I smelled. I knew this smell. I had smelled it before, this smell. In my nose.
By the time we got home, I had placed it. FurBall. I've had FurBalls before. They make decent enough companions, when they are not being sharp. They can't speak proper, and generally don't know how to behave, (unlike my highly trained self), but I tolerate them, as they leave behind the most amusing treats. Treats that SWFM proclaim "gross" and "disgusting" and amuse me even more in her indignation.

SWFM let me in. I ignored the FurBall in the crate. I had more pressing business in the backyard.
I have Her well enough trained that she understands this look by now. Only took 4 years. Upon letting me back in from my evening constitutional, She called me over the the crate.

I hate crates.
They tried to stuff me in one once to take me away from my first home, and I'm not proud to admit, I might have "flipped out" as the puppies say.
So I do not like this crate. I do not like that it is in my house. But it does contain a FurBall, which is interesting.
She called me over and bade me sit, and then down, and she opened the door. The FurBall, a mere puppy, wobbled out, and then had the audacity to hiss at me! At my lovely golden face! When all I did was lay there, the very picture of my long suffering ancestors!
As she has become accustomed to my Looks, I mustered what could only be translated as "Well, you brought it home. It's your problem, and should it mar my beautiful self with those, those Switchblades, it's your own damned fault."
With a sigh that I summoned from the very depths of my toenails, I punctuated my displeasure by turning around, sitting upon SWFM in the process, and proceeded to ignore the rude little creature.

I must say, I'm unimpressed. We shall see if the FurBall comes around to acknowledging me as Master and Commander of the Abode, or if it shall need to seek more Furball friendly pastures.
kragore: (Default)
So, Housemate and are watching his mother's cats while she is away snow-birding. One of whom is Morris. Yes, orange tiger, just like the commercial.
He's an enormous cat (bigger than Butch) who's painfully shy. He hates men, and is usually found lurking under the beds. A tight fit for a cat I'm estimating weighs 20+ lbs. I mean, to look at him, he's about 1/2 the size of Mr. MWP.
He's started to warm up to me (mostly because I'm female and live in the 'warm' room, I think,) but the past few nights, he slinks up onto my bed and purrs his giant fluffy heart out. He's not super keen on being touched, and that's ok, so I just share my bed with him. Sometimes, it's like he wants validation - he'll sneak up to the head of the bed, I'll scritch his ear for a second, and then it's back to the foot of the bed. He's quite pleasant company, and leaves a nice large warm spot for my toes. :)

I rather like this cat a great deal, and will be sad to see him go home. I mean, he's splayed out 6 ways to sunday, and even still he's purring in his sleep. And he's got he cutest little pink cat toes!

- k.
kragore: (Default)
Dear Canine,

We felines do not roll in filth.
Nor are we subjected to such insane torture by the humans.

Do you notice a coincidence?

- The Cat

So sad...

Jul. 19th, 2007 04:29 pm
kragore: (Default)
“We who choose to surround ourselves with lives more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps, we still would live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan. The life of a horse, often half our own, seems endless until one day. That day has come and gone for me, and I am once again within a somewhat smaller circle."

- Irving Townsend, "The Once Known Prince"
kragore: (Default)
It never fails that the Kats know and hate it when The Man leaves town.
They gear up for this, I swear, packing themselves tightly with kitty puke and crap so that when the door closes behind him, on his merry way to somewhere that doesn't allow him to return to see to their needs every night, they explode with odiferous rebellion.

We have one of those nifty Booda dome litterboxes to cut down on the fall out from the litter party Cyn has every night. But one of the four leggers, in their rebellion, has decided that it's perfectly acceptable to do their business on the little kitty steps leading to the litter, rather than to go use the litter it's self.
Also, one of them has decided to boycot the wet foot by snarfing it down, and then puking it up all over the kitchen.
Not really when I needed when I got home from work.

Let's home we can survive the next few days...

- k.
kragore: (Default)
Citgo spoils his fur-brats something awful, but it's nothing I wouldn't do myself, if I had two fur-brats of my very own.
In fact, I am guilty of spoiling them for him when he's not looking

Recently, the spoiling contained a bigger, better, now with more platforms, cat-tree-nest thingger.
It stands about 3.5'-4' high, has two platforms, a dangly-ringy toy-thing and a circular nest on the top with a hole in the bottom, (to provide better "annoy you in the middle of the night with the ringy-toy" action.)
This is great, because it means the Great Black and White Hunter can fully strech out and sharpen his claws on something other than the couch and the bed. It also means they have a nice high perch from which to stare distainfully down on the outside world.

The carpet upholstry of this thing is sandy biege and orangey-biege.
The same orangey-biege that adorns the fur of Little Orange Howler. One could say she is well camoflaged in unnatural environments

Sitting here, from my vantage point on the couch, I watched (after many minutes of intense consentration) as the Little Orange Howler, in a rare display of dexterity, lept from the floor, to the second platform, and up through the hole into the top nest bit. There she settled down and has been napping contentidly ever since.

Later, I watched the Great Black and White Hunter stroll in, circle the cat-tree twice, and with far less grace than Little Orange Howler, launch himself skyward. His head had just creasted the rim of the cat-tree when he realized:
a) it was already occupied,
b) he was already in midair, and gravity was beginning to work,
c) There was very little he could to to avoid stepping on the LIttle Orange Howler.

By some grace of the cat gods however, he managed to fling all four appendages in opposite directions at once, and plant each heavily clawed paw on the very rim of the cat nest.
He stopped, looked around for a while, admired the view, gave off the air of "Well, I meant to do that", and stared at the Little Orange Howler for a few moments, as if he expected her to reliquish her spot to him.

When she didn't even twich an ear at the great, suave beast balenced percariously over her, he gave up, and with an equally as ungraceful heave, launched himself back to the ground. Only after the cat-tree wabbled back a forth a little bit did Little Orange Howler look up as if to ask, "Did I miss something?"

She then rolled over and went back to sleep, one ear poking out from the top of the nest, one paw dangling down through the hole, a perfect vision of relaxation.


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