Not Broken, Just Bent.

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: http://www.flickr.com/photos/metabomber/4821521599/)

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.

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

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.
grr.
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.