Monthly Archives: August 2014

People who Knead People

Okay, just furr people knead people. Obi, in particular.

The brown kitten has been into my office several times in the last three hours to see if I’m done working yet. And I wasn’t. Then I was, but I was playing a game. Now I am, and I’m trying to blog. He came in. Sighed. Flopped pathetically to the floor.

Then he walked out.

So what I’m saying here is my kitteh has a need to knead. So here’s the latest Simon’s Cat for you to enjoy while I blow off today’s post.


Oliver is allergic to cow. He reacts to it in a variety of ways. As the main ingredient of a can of cat food, it makes him ill within minutes. Until recently, I hadn’t realized that his kitty crunchies had “meat meal” in them. This contributed to his chin acne – which has cleared up almost completely since switching him to seafood crunchies.

The juice from tonight’s steaks would have caused an immediate and violent kitten tummy explosion.

So the kittehs don’t get to lick steak plates.


Obi is a good boy. He is well mannered and generally follows commands. But tonight? He wanted steak.

He started by getting up on the coffee table after The Boy was done eating so he was eye level with the TV tray. This is kind of bad, but generally okay.

Then he scooted closer to the tray and fixed it with a stare. From me he got a warning.

Then he licked the steak knife. That earned him a scolding from The Boy. We look down on our pets licking the sharp edges of cutlery in this house. But…

It isn’t Obi’s allergy. And it isn’t his fault his brother has the allergy.

As The Boy put the plate down on the floor, I grabbed Oliver and pulled him into my lap. He was not happy. He tried everything to get away so he could take his rightful licks as Alpha food cat. For about five minutes, Oli and I struggled as Obi thoroughly cleaned that plate.

He was VERY thorough.

Toward the end, Oliver was sitting in my lap, pushed as far away as his legs would allow, staring at me with full fuzzy fury. As the brown kitten finished and The Boy picked up the plate, my grip on him relaxed.

He also relaxed. He knew there was nothing left for him. His life is ruined.

But no one exploded.


I generally don’t cook unless it involves a crock pot. The Boy makes our delicious meals and I do the dishes. But, since The Boy was gone this weekend, I was in charge of getting food into my belly. I took advantage of this circumstance to eat foods that The Boy doesn’t like.

Usually that means a junk food pizza, drowning in grease. But I had different ideas this time. Starting with smoothie-a-palooza on Saturday. Obi does not approve of multiple loud trips to the kitchen, but at least I wasn’t using the white box that inevitably leads to the smoke detector going off. 

Today, I decided to try an avocado pasta. White box, engaged. Obi sat on the other side of the kitchen to watch the white box and me cutting things at the counter. He brought his tweeting bird with him for reinforcements. 

Oliver wanted to be in charge of taste tests. Something about slicing open an avocado must sound like a tuna can because he was twisting around my legs and screaming for me to share. To shut him up, I set the avocado skin down on his breakfast plate. He shoved his face into the skin then backed up two steps and fixed me with a glare. This was NOT tuna. It was nothing he wanted to eat at all.

I tossed the offending skin into the trash can and turned to see Oliver leading Obi out of the room.

The Girl should stick to things in cans.