Tag Archives: cat

What was found is lost again…

We arrived home from our trip to Yellowstone on Sunday evening. Monday morning, The Boy was off to work. I stayed at home for some quality time with Kitten Thunder.

If you’ve been reading for a while, you know that Oliver is a mama’s boy. Perhaps – and you wouldn’t be alone in this – you’d think that he’d spend the morning with me on the couch. You’d be wrong. I’d assumed that as well. I was wrong.

Instead, my brown kitten spent the morning with me. We rubbed the belly. We snuggled. We actually, really, physically snuggled. No aura snuggling on Monday. He laid in my arms. He climbed under the blanket. He stretched over my leg. And, oh, how Obi put the purr on.

Oliver was nowhere to be found.

When I had to get up to do some errands, Obi followed me around as I got ready. He looked very concerned when I left. I rushed home as soon as I could and we snuggled some more.

Oliver was nowhere to be found.

When I went downstairs to work out, Obi went with me. When I put some funky red stripes in my hair, Obi helped. When I packed my bag for my trip to Sheridan, Obi furrowed his brow. I could tell that he recognized that my small bag was bad news.

In the evening, Oliver was found. He snuggled with me all night.

This morning, Kitten Thunder followed me to the basement where I get ready. Obi looked forlorn on his supervision chair. Oliver was sitting under his throne. When I walked around the corner with my bag – the first time he’d seen it – his eyes got wide. If he was a cartoon, his jaw would have dropped and bounced on the floor.

I just texted The Boy. No answer. I’m hoping he is pinned down by grey and brown fuzzies, getting the snuggling they all deserve.

***

Since I am five hours away from Kitten Thunder, I don’t have pictures of them to post today. So instead, I will show you a steamy photo of The Boy. Sorry, friends on the Book of Face, I know you’ve seen this already.

Who nose?

Who knows the answer to the question they pose?
Who knows why this post’s volume is low?
The noses…know.

***

It’s Thunder Thursday! My grandma sent me this picture. I know the first time I saw it on Facebook it got a HA! out of me, so I thought I’d do my part for popular culture and blog it on.

In-bread cat.

 

 

My stick

Lately, Obi has been bringing his feather stick up onto the couch at snuggle time. It’s his favorite toy this month. After snuggle time he’s up for a game of “I’m throwing the feather stick on the floor – well I’m bringing it back onto the couch.”

What he does NOT want, The Boy found out, is to have someone play with the feather stick. Obi wants to play with the feather stick. Not with The Boy and the feather stick. Attempting to play with Obi won The Boy a big fat dirty look this evening.

Luckily, The Boy made a new cave for Obi over the arm of the couch. This cave has blanket bunched up on the floor so it is comfy for laying in wait. And, should a brown kitten need to run at break-neck speed across the house and into the cave, the opening of the cave is pretty easy to access.

Good save, Boy.

"Stay away from my cave. And my feather stick."

Cookie Monster

Obi takes his job of being a little brother very seriously. Sometimes, he extends his bratty tricks to more than just Oliver. Today, he tried them on me.

"Tuna chip cookies are my favorite."

I had some tea and peanut butter cookies on the coffee table in the living room. Obi came up to give me a quick hug and use me as a stool to look out the window. And then he spotted them. Cookies!

From my lap he stretched over to the table to sniff my cookies. I told him no. He jumped down to the floor and put his feet on the table to sniff the cookies. I told him no. And here’s where little brother training kicked in: he reached up and put a paw on my stack of cookies.

You don’t want them now that I’ve touched them, right?” He met my eyes with a look of victory.

I reached over and wrapped my cookies in their paper towel. Yes, I did.

Time to pull out the stops on this: he BIT my cookies.

You don’t want them with my spit on them, right?

Luckily, no cat spit penetrated the paper towel. Later, Obi did have his chance at a cookie when a good sized chunk fell off my cookie and rolled under the couch. Now I’ll put up with a cat paw or a little kitten spit, but I’ve seen what’s under that couch. Deal. Breaker.

I fished it out for Obi. He sniffed. He licked. He walked away.

I hate cookies.

Post Traumatic Party Syndrome

Yesterday we had a small gathering of friends over to the house. Normally, one might call this a housewarming party but, since we’ve lived here for 53 weeks, the house is already pretty warm. Instead, we chose to celebrate only having one house.

Cleaning the house was enough to make Kitten Thunder nervous. I decided they would be safer and saner if I created Thunder Sanctuary in my office. I got a refill for the pheromone ball. I put in the food and water. I put up a cute sign asking people to ask me if they wanted to meet our fuzzy little celebrities. Then, with 15 minutes to go before guests were supposed to arrive, we locked them in.

I should mention that they both love my office and would normally spend all evening in there anyway.

But not THIS evening. First Oliver cried. Then Obi cried. Then Oliver cried. Then Obi cried. Then someone threw someone against the door. Then Oliver cried.

“Hey guys? After you set me on the bed someone accidentally shut the door on their way out. We’re locked in!”

Oliver yowled at the door for three hours. Except when we were out in the driveway and he yowled at us from the window. And once when he yowled so loudly through the heat vent that I thought he’d somehow gotten upstairs where I was giving a tour.

Obi, I think, would have taken a nap after the first three times we ignored his request to come out.

I was sitting on the front porch with a couple people and I glanced through the window and saw the hook of a grey tail go by. The Boy had decided to try and calm Oliver down. He was not anticipating that Kitten Thunder would rush the door.

Since things were slowing down, we just let them stay out. Oliver pounced on me the second I sat down and purred on my lap – eyeing anyone that came near to make sure they knew that I was HIS girl. Obi plunked down in the middle of the room so he could be seen – but not touched. No touching.

So…would they have been like that all evening? Or would Oliver have panicked and managed to race out the front door and down the street, not stopping until he was too far to find his way back? We’ll never know. But next time, I’m locking them in the room in the basement.

***

Why the reference to post traumatic party syndrome, you ask? I have two very clingy kittens today. And I’ve sacrificed a lot of paper towel to the upchuck gods. Oliver can’t figure out why I refused to feed him again.

Right now, Kitten Thunder is snuggled together on the cat shelf. Together they’ll get through this.

Video snapshots: Abuse and neglect

I got Oliver and Obi a new toy yesterday. It has light up eyes and makes “life like squeaky noises” which, in all honesty, sound more like laser fire. Why does it light up and make noise? Because, according to the box, cats hunt at night. For giant mousies with laser beam eyes.

Oli and Obi in a pre-Thunder. Cuteness like lightning.

At the end of a long day, sometimes the kittens need some quality time with The Girl. And if The Girl tries to show The Boy a video of Kitten Thunder on the camera, sometimes The Boy decides to make a film instead.

This is, by the way, exactly how Obi chooses to be snuggled – near The Girl, but not being touched in any way. Once in a while he kicks me in the back of the head to let me know he cares.

Cats are gross.

I warned you.

I got home tonight and took a deep breath. Ooh, did I miss a litter box cleaning? Why yes, yes I did forget to clean the litter box on Tuesday while I was sick and having to sit at my desk fighting Adobe over software. Stinky. And someone left me a gift outside the box to indicate their displeasure about my tardiness.

So I cleaned it.

Oliver came up to great me with goopy allergy eyes. He feels better but his eyes still get runny.

So I cleaned them.

I plunked down on the couch just in time to look into the dining room and see Obi vomiting. And walking. And vomiting. And walking. And vomiting. Then, to mix things up, he walked backward while vomiting.

So I cleaned it up.

Oliver, my poor put-down upon grey kitten, also has chin acne. He thinks it feels wonderful to have me scratch it with my fingernails. But then I have kitten zits under my fingernails.

So I cleaned them.

Finally, I sat down on the couch again. A grey kitten snuggled into my lap and looked up at me with the ultimate purr face. A brown kitten started kneading the couch behind my head. Then he bent low enough to give me a kitty-kiss on the temple before settling in for a nap. One brown paw rested gently on my shoulder.

Cats are awesome. And so worth it.

***

It’s Thunder Thursday! Today we bring you a kitten from across the pond. Kitalpha belongs to Holly of The Aluminium Foiled My Plans. Don’t worry about the mouse in the video. He wins.

A letter from Kitten Thunder

Dear grandpeople,

We have come to realize, after watching The Girl and The Boy steadily clean the house, that you are coming to visit. While we’re happy to have you here, please excuse the people from any more cleaning. We do not like it.

The Girl has been putting away the clothing that makes our comfy downstairs napping spot on what she calls “the spare room bed.” We find her justification – that you’ll need someplace to sleep – to be suspect. We have at least twenty other places in the house that you can sleep. Have you ever considered the window sill in the reading nook? The sunbeam on the floor in the kitchen?

The Boy’s actions are even worse. All summer we’ve been pushing out extra fur and forming it into clumps which we’ve stored in the corners, along walls and on the staircase. We were so close. Just one bolt of life-giving lightning and we would have had a complete set of minions. Obi is ready to move into management. How are we supposed to move him up without minions? Sometimes people just don’t think.

And now, a word about breakfast. We don’t like to complain, but The Girl doesn’t feed us. And worse, she’s done a good job of convincing The Boy that she does. So while you are here, please feel free to open as many cans of cat food as you’d like. When she does feed us, The Girl gives us two cans each.

And one in the afternoon.

And some tuna at midnight.

Please don’t feel like you need to tell The Girl when you have fed us. She’s accustomed to us fending for ourselves.

Sincerely,
Your grandkittens,
Kitten Thunder

***

Thunder Thursday! This is my friend Jacob’s new kitten, Duc.

"I'm cute, therefore I am."

You do NOT talk about Fight Club

1st Rule: You do not talk about Fight Club.

2nd Rule: You DO NOT talk about Fight Club.

3rd Rule: If someone hisses or hides in a box the fight is over.

4th Rule: Only two kittens to a fight.

5th Rule: One fight at a time.

6th Rule: No shirts, no shoes. We’re nudists.

7th Rule: Fights will go on as long as they have to. Or until The Girl or The Boy thinks we’re getting too rough.

8th Rule: Since there are only two kittens in Fight Club, you have to fight.

"In answer to your question about what happened, please refer to rules number one and two."

Oliver has a black eye. And two scratches. He doesn’t want to talk about it. I can only guess this is because Kitten Thunder has founded a fight club and he’s following the rules about not talking about it.

That…or he kicked himself in the eye with his back claws, which don’t retract.

Yeah, one of those.

“I just don’t want to die without a few scars.”  ~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Sheri’s Cafe

There is a handsome man outside watering my plants. His name is The Boy and Obi thinks he makes for excellent OutTV programming.  Much better than “Roofers on the Neighbor’s House” which preempted his afternoon of Thunder Cafe. Roofers are loud and they don’t flutter or peep.

As awesome as Thunder Cafe is, my mother owns the best cafe in the state. Birds come from miles around to eat at Sheri’s Cafe. All sorts of birds…

The cafe is an open feeder that seats about six sparrows and features a variety of cuisine from bird seed to bread crusts. The feeder is mounted on a post on top of a three foot high fence – the fence that used to divide the yard into a cat side and a dog side. Customers at the cafe line up on that fence and wait patiently for their turn.

Excellent OutTV for Spade and Gracie.

On occasion, this programming turns very dramatic. Once in a while, a hawk will hear about Sheri’s Cafe. And for about three days he’ll have easy pickings, swooping down and snatching a waiting customer from the fence. No one really appreciates that the hawk will then sit in the birdbath and pluck his lunch, leaving feathers and the occasional head or leg to remind the world who is top of the food chain.

Hawks on OutTV make the kittens hunker. Down low.

After a couple of days word gets around that Sheri’s Cafe is in a bad neighborhood. The sparrows stop their patronage. After all, they want to eat lunch, not BE lunch.

A few days after that the hawk leaves. No one likes a restaurant where the cook glares at you and the waitress refuses to bring you more chips.

Slowly, very slowly, the cafe starts to get a few customers back. They survive and spread the word that the positive atmosphere of Sheri’s Cafe has returned. And the line on the fence is long once again.

***

Today is my mom’s birthday! Happy birthday, Mom!

Here’s Oliver doing present inspection before these pictures (that’s Spade in them) made their way to her house via special delivery by The Boy as he drove across the state last weekend.

"These are okay. Next time, consider expanding your pallet to include grey, lavender and peach."