Tag Archives: grudges


There’s not much to tell about my return home from my trip. The kittehs held a grudge for as long as possible, but I have been forgiven. Oliver and I have napped and snuggled and napped and snuggled. Then, this afternoon, we saw what real grudge holding looks like.

The Boy came upstairs to tell me about kicking Obi while they were on the stairs. Obi Underfoot, as you may recall, has a tendency to get close to feet. It was bound to happen.

Obi seemed to agree with this and came out of the cave to forgive The Boy. Then The Boy stepped forward to scritch Obi and stepped on his toe.

With a squeak of pain the brown kitten disappeared into the cave.

He gave The Boy a wide birth, and several glares, throughout the afternoon. He was caught in the kitchen while we were unloading groceries and The Boy forced him to hear an apology.  Obi heard. He did not forgive.

It took chicken at dinner time for that.


It’s Thunder, um, Sunday! Here is the newest edition to Kelly’s family, Captain Jack. From all reports it sounds like Mustang Sally has decided to like him. Who could resist?


An Angry Letter to Albertsons

"Make sure I look mad. Can you Photoshop me angrier?"

Dear Albertsons Grocery Store,

In the words of The Girl: What. The. Heck?

Last week, The Girl opened a new jug of milk. I heard the glorious crack of a milk ring and ran to the kitchen to receive my new toy. The only thing I like from the kitchen more than my weekly milk ring is tuna. But did I get tuna that day? No. Did I get a milk ring? No.

Why? Because the milk ring on that jug was a solid ring and The Girl, in spite of her best efforts, could not get it off the jug. She apologized. We assumed it was because we had milk with the red cap because you were out of the milk with the blue cap. We ASSUMED life would resume its normal, wonderful course this week.

But no.

This week The Girl came back from the store with blue capped milk. All was going according to plan. I heard the crackle of the new milk being opened and ran to the kitchen. The Girl was pouting at the milk. No ring for me. Again.

I repeat: What. The. Heck?

Seriously, Albertsons, I have been a customer of yours for eight years. I haven’t held things against you in the past – like when you changed the labels on Friskies to trick The Girl into bringing home pate-style food. Gross. Or when you let The Girl buy tuna in oil without pointing out her error – she won’t let me drink tuna oil because she “doesn’t want to lubricate my insides.” Whatever that means.

But this, Albertsons, will not stand. Bring back my peel-style milk rings. Or else.

Oh, and if you’re thinking along the same lines of The Boy – a.k.a. Mr. “Oh no, he only has a 20 year supply of milk rings in the house” – well, you just ask him in the morning what that kind of attitude will get you. That’s right. I have plans for HIM.