This morning, the house became Mad Max's Thunderdome, with Max (and no, she wasn't named after THAT Max) finding the kitchen chairs her favored point from which to strike, while Scully preferred to hide in the big empty microwave box and entice Max to peek in, so she could leap out at her. The result: almost identical nose scratches. The match was called when the pushy and obnoxious human insisted on putting sting-y peroxide on their noses. Ouch. Each satisfied that they'd kicked the other's furry butt, they then remembered that it was International Nap Straight Through Till Tomorrow Day. What little angels they are when they're unconscious.
On top of 8 trillion other things I have to do this week (a possible slight exaggeration), ear drops twice a day for Max the cat now, who really doesn't want them. I mean, reeeeeeally doesn't want them. Have you ever watched Olympic wrestling? Not that she doesn't find the initial step amusing. That's a definite impish grin on her face as I try to catch her. She knows I'm not in her league. Moving at the speed of light (or close to it) she goes straight from the floor to the back of the sofa in one leap, across the back of it, onto the nearby chair, bounces off the cushion and up onto the server, skids across that (what the hey, I didn't need two matching candlesticks anyway, one is perfectly sufficient), onto the floor, doubles back and zips under the length of the coffee table, out to the kitchen and up onto the counter (so kind of her to miss the coffee mug that I stupidly left close to the edge) ... there's one thing I can guarantee -- if I get reincarnated as a cat, I will be way lazier than this ... off the counter and out of the room, and then, suddenly the game stops and she sits there in the middle of the living room floor, washes a paw, and looks up at me with a, Well, let's get this $%#& over with expression. Let's me pick her up, changes her mind, and the wrestling begins. How do cats twist and turn like that? Do they have a spine? If so, is it made out of Silly Putty?
But eventually the deed gets done and she stares into my eyes with that, Ok, where's my treat? I better get a damn treat! look. And of course she gets one of her favorites. Wouldn't it be nice if we adult humans got a treat for every unpleasant task we had thrust upon us? Boss drop a pile of folders on your desk just before 5:00? Here's a handful of chocolate-covered cherries. Bus running late? How 'bout some chewy nougat? Doctor about to stick a scope up your ... uh ... here's a giant, super-duper-sized, heart-shaped box of top-of-the-line chocolates. Seems fair.
Now it's time to brave the chilly drizzlies outside to go get cat food. Ok, I'm pushing it. Really, I have a business thing to take care of, a library book to return (yes, there are still actual paper books in existence, and some nice people in a big stone building willing to say, "Here, take some home with you"), yes, some cat food to pick up, and then for damn sure, I'm going to buy myself a treat.
Scully & Max never met a gargoyle they couldn't destroy. I have several small stone gargoyles that sit on the back of a shelf. Cool-looking figurines that I, gargoyle aficionado that I am, would love to display more prominently, if only for my own enjoyment. I used to have four of them. Now I have three. Cat lovers can probably picture how that came about. Yes, one cool little figurine met its demise after encountering The Furry Fists Of Death, which sent it sailing off the windowsill, through the air, and onto the floor. I think some of it is still under the refrigerator. Try sweeping while being ambushed by furry attackers. As any cat could tell you, swatting pieces of broken knick knack across tile can be the highlight of a feline's day. But today I brought home a gargoyle big enough to stand its own ground. Probably. Hopefully. As you can see in the photos, Max even gave it a kiss. Can't help wondering if she paid attention months ago when I watched "The Godfather" on TV. 'Cause the "Kiss Of Death" would not bode well for the new gargoyle. Was that a conspiratorial look that passed between Scully & Max as they gazed upon this stony new visitor? Only time will tell.
Huge, intense, yellow-green eyes, almond-shaped, watching every move, flanking me left and right … lithe, fur-covered bodies, waiting to strike …
No, I'm not about to be abducted by aliens. I should be so lucky. Instead, cats. To the left, Max. To the right, Scully. Inches away; one on the chair beside me, the other on the arm of the chair. Why? Because the bag of cashews & raisins & almonds I just opened bears a close resemblance to their treats bag -- Whiskas Temptations, to be exact. And even sounds the same when you pull open that zip-lock. Whoever thought up the design does not have cats. Otherwise, they’d have known that even lifting it out of the closet would perk up kitty ears and lead to: the 7 Levels of Cat Manipulation:
1) Staring with big, accusing cat-eyes (Hey, I want some! Remember last week when you made me give back that mouse I made dizzy by batting it around? You owe me!)
2) Whining pathetically (Awwww, you never let me have any fun)
3) Pawing at human’s hand or item of interest (Is that what I think it is? It doesn't smell nice 'n stinky, but I'll settle)
4) Climbing onto human’s lap (I love you. See -- cuddling. Love, love, love. NOW GIMME SOME!)
5) Clawing at human's hand, hoping to dislodge possible edibles (Well, screw this, I'm just gonna TAKE IT)
6) Glaring with resentment when placed on the floor (Excuuuuse me?!!!)
7) Walking away with feigned indifference (Oh, please! I didn't want any of that crap anyway. Got no frickin' stinky smell. What good is it?)
But then their human reaches into the bag for another handful. Bag rustles …
Repeat steps 1 - 7.
This is why some people have hamsters.
But ya know … gotta love ‘em anyway. We’re programmed that way, aren't we? Forgiveness is doled out even when your brand-new window shade ends up resembling confetti. And when the new plant you bought becomes a little green nub sticking up out of the potting soil. And of course when, with much chuh-chuh-chuh-hack-hack-hack-wheeze-wheeze-wheeze-kerplooey! they deposit a nice big hairball (and whatever else in it) right smack in the middle of your pillow. And then look up at you with an "Am I adorable, or what?" look. The wonderful world of cats.
Scully is about 8 years old. She's the calm, logical one. Except when she isn't. She's tiger and white, and yes, cuddly as hell most of the time. I think you can guess who she was named after. Max is orange tiger, around 4 years old, and for the most part, anti-social. Although she does have her moments. Most of them involve food.
I decided to give them their own blog-within-a-blog, since they've been so kind as to allow me to reside in THEIR house. I have no doubt that they think their lives are far more interesting than mine. They're probably right.
Writer of horror, sci-fi, other genres. Servant of cats. Multiple cats, who kindly allow me to live here (at least until they figure out how to open Fancy Feast cans themselves). Contact me at: GargoylePhanNB@gmail.com