Open Caption

Too many captions options are in my head. I can't choose just one. So I'm opening it up to all of you. Wow me with your insight into the feline mind - or just your ability to mock them.


Hi! I'm da wide-mouth Hollis!

Dude - they can see your tonsils from space!

Are they gone yet? Did your big mouth scare them away?

Don't bother me. I'm practicing my cries for when she gets home.

Hey! Cover your mouth when you burp!

MMMWWRRR! I have killed the Great Tiger!! Hear me ROAR!!!!

If I hide back here, maybe she won't eat me too.

Peekaboo????

Autumnal Hiatus

Lately I've either been dug in deep...

















Been bumping into things all over the place...
















Or have just been hiding away from the world best I can.
















But one way or another, I'll be back here soon to continue to wow you all with various pearls of wisdom, ranting, and hilarity.

Occasionally, all at the same time.

It's a Hard Duck Life

Because I can't resist a good animal story - and not because I'm bowing under pressure from certain people for a new post posthaste - here is a quick link to an absolutely adorable chain of events. Although not too encouraging with regard to the common sense of ducks. Plus Spokane! Where my wundebar cousin works and where I had a delightful day, during my visit a few years ago, as I waited for her to finish work .

Enjoy!!

Duck Crossing

Sit on My Face and Tell Me That You Love Me

Hollis: [jumps up on the bed by my head and meows loudly] Hel-lo-ho. It's 5:30am. Did I wake you?

Me: [rolling over] What gave you that idea? Go move the curtain back over the window. You're silly sister knocked it away again.

Hollis: Look at the lovely light coming in the window.

Me: [groping blindly under the pillow] Where's the damn eye visor?

Hollis: [meows again and bumps head on my shoulder] You should scratch and love me now.

Me: [patting Hollis' head blindly] Go jump on Feaghan.

Hollis: [mewing deep in throat] If you don't scratch me, I'm going to go stalk Feaghan.

Me: [reaching off the edge of the bed] Stupid billboard and DVR receiver lights. You could see to Guam with those damn things. Maybe I can get a throw pillow over my eyes.

Hollis: Hey, look at the pretty pillow!

Me: I'm gonna use that pillow Hollis. Pick one of the others.

Hollis: Hmm. Soft pillow

Me: If I position this right...

Hollis: I like soft pillows

Me: There. That should give me another hour or so.

Hollis: Oh, good. Now I can make a nest.

Me: OW - Hollis? Hol - lis!

Hollis: Hang on, I'm nearly there. Few bumps to knead out yet.

Me: THAT'S MY NOSE!!!!

Hollis: Well, that took a lot out of me. Let me sit here for a minute and catch my breath

Me: DO YOU MIND?!?! You're not exactly a featherweight with your baker's dozen there, fluffy.

Hollis: [wriggles] Eh, no, still too bumpy. [stands up on pillow then slowly climbs off] I'm going to my window seat.

Baxter: [jumps up on opposite side of bed] Hey! Whatcha doin'?![bumps sore right shoulder with bony head] Are you awake?

Me: [sigh] No.

Baxter: Pillow!! [jumps up on pillow] Wow. Great view of the lights from up here.

Me: Oh for cryin' out loud!!! THAT IS MY FACE!!

Baxter: What?!

Hollis: [from foot of the bed] She's not in a scratching mood.

Feline Fun for Engineers

Good Day Sunshine!!

What A Way to Greet the Morning!

I confess - I am a child-skipper. Whenever I'm reading a blog and someone goes off into paragraphs of glee about their kid(s), I skip down, tune out, phase away. My friend Moyra got me hooked on dooce.com and I get a kick out of it and read it every day, but when the author does her monthly letter to her three-year-old daughter? I'm gone.


Don't get me wrong, I love kids. Someone else's kids. I am a kick-ass babysitter, mostly because I (nearly) always tell the truth to kids so long as it won't scar them for life. Kids are quick - they know when you're lying or hiding something and they lose respect if they catch you at it.

Good thing I don't usually get caught.

I'm crazy about Moyra's boys, enjoy hearing about Melissa and Alizia's kids, and am literally tickled purple (I don't do pink) by my cousin Julie's loony threesome. If (when) my sister and Marcy have kids, I'll be the most fabulous aunt you have ever seen. If nothing else, they'll always have music and laughter with me.

I love the Christmas postcards and e-mails I get from far-flung friends with pictures of their kids and updates on their schenanigans so I can keep tabs on what's going where and who's doing what. But I have zero interest in having children of my own and while I understand the all-consuming obsession parents have for them - especially the first one or if there's an only - I'm an eye-roller when it comes to epic odes to their latest poop or hour-long conversations on breast-feeding or artificial insemination or the cuteness of baby clothes (these are examples of ACTUAL CONVERSATIONS I've had the dubious pleasure of sitting on the cusp of.) Oi Vey.

I also never coo.

All of which makes me have to laugh at myself when I go off about my cats. Because I have a double X chromosome, genetics has instill a latent mothering syndrome in my DNA and it rears it's ugly head when it comes to my cats. This may be somewhat of a cliche, but I think I avoid being a punchline by refusing to refer to myself as their mother (I do not give birth to cats - my life may be many things, but it hasn't become an alien movie yet.) And as my sister has one more cat than I - two if you count Feaghan as my mother's cat - she holds the crown as reigning Crazy Cat Lady allowing me to escape that cliche as well.

After yesterday's post, I figured y'all were free of any feline ra-ra-rees for at least another week, but this morning's montage could not be resisted. Every morning the sun rises over the metallic peaks of New York City and shines a bright light directly into my bedroom and kitchen. Usually this is greeted with an ARGH from me, especially if Baxter has knocked aside the super dark shade and curtain in the night, thus allowing the morning sun to shine right onto my face. But this morning's wonderfully Spring weather was a joy and had me repeatedly smacking the snooze button and rolling deeper into my covers as the cool air and tempting sun wafted through the open bedroom window. It all was too much for Hollis who I found fully seduced and rutching around in the window seat in convulsions of pleasure, rollicking in the sunbeams with all the passion of a sun worshipper's unholy devotion. And so I share her with you.

Simple joys, simple pleasures.

Talk to the Animals

I am the Cat Whisperer. Cats just like me; well, most animals do. The only cat I've ever met that didn't like me at all, ever was my mom's friend Andy's cat Dusty, but since I maintain that Dusty is a demon incarnate anyway, that works out for us. That cat has ruined more pantyhose of mine than you can possibly imagine - back when I wore pantyhose. I swear Dusty's bi-polar too; he'll gladly let me scratch him while he's curled up on the bed or couch, but as soon as Andy or one of his sons enters the room, it's all hissing and growling and swiping at my pantyhose. Fiend.

Every since I can remember we've had cats in our home. I really don't know why; my mother has never been a pet person until recently. My dad enjoys them, though he's a dog person now, but it's really my sister who's responsible for the introducing the feline element in our home. The story goes (though Dad claims he doesn't remember this happening) that my then three-year-old sister prayed for a cat at evening prayers and the next morning, there was this tabby cat meowing on our front porch. When Nanje (my sister) saw the cat, she said "Mommy, Mommy, Jesus sent me a kitty." And that was that. It's not like you can tell the kid that she can't keep the cat that Jesus sent her. So Irving Katz entered our lives and maintained his dominion for the next 20 years.

I have a hard time existing without feline companions; I've done it for several years at a stretch, but it's not pretty. Currently I have a three cat household; two are mine while the third belongs to my mother. My two are calico twins, one with a black patch over the right eye and one with the patch over the left. I got them at St. Giralda's Animal Shelter two days after moving into my apartment seven years ago. I went in for one cat and came out with a pair because they were clearly very bonded, frolicking around in their cage and making my mom laugh. I've never regretted it.

They are both female cats as calicoes are only ever female, and their names are Baxter and Hollis after two minor characters in the great Silverado, but more because of the flawless Kevin Kline's delivery of "No, I'm not Holland," except when I was naming the twins, I thought went "No, I'm not Hollis." I like Hollis better anyway.

Baxter (above right. I haven't figured out how to label yet; you're lucky to be getting pictures at all at this point) is the scaredicat of the two, jumping at the least sound or movement, transitioning from complete purring bliss to rocket launch across the room in a heartbeat. I have to hold her down when I cough or sneeze or she'll have a seizure from leaping straight up into the air with fright. She doesn't like to be held, but she'll lie next to me and curl herself around my arm or my head if I'm lying down, rolling around and purring with delight, so ecstatic with joy that she'll often roll herself right off the bed. Sometimes when she's curled into and around me, only the judicious placement of my arm prevents her from falling off the bed. Occasionally, I'll drop it out from under her quickly so she wobbles on the edge for a second and can see how close to the edge she is. Don't worry, I always catch her. And she always rolls right back into the same position.

Baxter doesn't meow a lot and so when she does it's more like a gurgle, as though her voice isn't used to the activity, so it begins as a "me" but gets caught in her throat halfway out so the "ow" is ragged and gurglish. She also has a butt fetish - thankfully, not mine. She loves to have her hind end scratched and patted, so much so that she literally backs it up into my face to the point where I have to swat it away and then reiterate the "no tushy in the face" clause in our cat/owner contract (you should see the fine print on that!). And she's tiny, no matter how much food I give her, she just burns it off like no body's business. Baxter employs the eat-a-little-
then-go-away-and-come-back-later-to-eat-some-more manner of supping. This poses a challenge as her sister eats anything that isn't nail down (and is very crafty in how she gets it too) and makes meal time...interesting.

But for all her nervous issues, Baxter seems to be the dominant one because Hollis just can't do without her. In the early days when Baxter would sometimes get stuck in the bathroom, (oh the places you'll go!) Hollis would stand outside it and meow or track me down till I figured it out and released Baxter from her horrible imprisonment. And if Hollis gets into a scrape with Mom's cat Feaghan, it's Baxter who comes streaking in from three rooms away at the first cry to corner poor Feaghan in revenge. Do not mess with the Baxy.

Hollis is our imp. Such a trouble maker. Her main nickname is Stinker because she is a crafty one when it comes to getting what she wants. She'll be eating Baxter's food when I'm standing right next to her and I'm all "I'm standing RIGHT HERE" and she's all "Glup, glup, glup, mmmm food".

Another nickname I call her is Pasha as she's always demanding to be adored. Never met a person she didn't demand love from, although some do take longer for her to warm up to than others. I get home from work and it's "ME - OW" I go into the living room in the morning and it's "ME-OW" all "you've been awake for 45 seconds now, why aren't you petting and adoring me?"

Since she eats everything she can get her paws on, she's got herself a belly that still doesn't seem to slow her down. I laugh to see it wobble back and forth beneath her as she trots from one room to the other. She's agile and fearless, which sometimes ends with her head caught in the handles of a plastic grocery bag and when she can't get herself loose, she just drags it around with her until I set her free. Nearly every night, Hollis will inevitably, without fail, climb up the bed and onto my lap and settle on my bad knee like a heat seeking missile. I've had a brace on the dang thing and she's just climbed right on top of it.

She also head butts my chin for kisses and treats, which is our little trick together. Every morning when I get out of the shower, she comes up on the bed for about 10 minutes of nuzzling and sniffing. Apparently she really likes my shower gel, cause she'll sniff my arm and then lick it a little to find out how tasty I am for that day (very). Then I get ready while she waits or at least until the blow dryer comes out. Soon as she sees it she's off like a shot for better things - like the food bowl - until I'm done drying, which is when she returns for the exit treats she gets every day as I'm leaving the apartment.

Last week after I came home from choir rehearsal and had managed to finagle a parking spot without too much of the usual drama, I'd already fed the little buggers and was in the living room talking to my mom and here's Hollis climbing up around me on the couch and meowing at me with such intent and focus you'd have thought I was wearing cat nip perfume.

She's such a talker, sometimes just wailing away in the kitchen for no reason, just cause she's there and no one is rushing out to see to her needs. So she comes and finds us instead. There she was last night, emphatically demanding my attention. Mostly because she missed me, and it's always nice to know someone missed you.

And lest I forget, Feaghan is a tortoise-shell calico who keeps to herself a lot in Mom's bedroom because the twins tend to gang up on her, though I maintain that she gives as good as she gets. Poor Feaghan had a lot of upheaval with moving from MA to PA to MA to NJ all in the course of 3 years, so it's taken a little while for her to feel safe, but she's out and about without too much trouble most days now. Her claws are sharp and massive, mostly because I never cut them, which is her own damn fault as she's sliced up my arms on several occasions in my attempts to groom them, so she can just live with them now. She doesn't meow - she squeaks like a damaged squeeze toy. She loves having her ears scratched and spends most of her time lying on Mom's lap, keeping her company.

Feaghan is our hunter. She emits a very distinctive, low-throat growl that you can hear two rooms away. Always - always - this means that she has some toy in her mouth. She has amassed a collection of them - and helped herself to the twins' hedgehog, Montjoy. Feaghan's favorites are the blue fuzzy ball, the big, red, fuzzy ball, and of course, Percy, her hamster. Her hunting instinct has been cultivated by sheer bribery; Feaghan always receives treats as a reward for hauling her trophies from the bedroom to the living room. Basically, she gets treats for anything that she does because my mom has become easy in her advancing years. Nearly every day a parade of toys make their way from the bedroom to the living room, strewn along the pathway in places designed for me to trip over them. Then in the morning, they manage to migrate their way back into the bedroom again. The best is when I come out in the morning, or home in the evening, and find Percy on his hind legs, all prepped and ready to go, waiting for a call to arms to start marching.

An island of misfit cats.

The Beagle Has Landed!

All hail Uno the Beagle, Best in Show at the Westminster Dog Show last night.

Though I remain a cat person (cat whisperer extraordinaire), I still love the doggies and I cheered wildly (startling my semi-comatose kitty who was lounging on the bed with her favorite blanket, utilizing my leg as a back rest) when the spunky Beagle puppy beat out that prissy toy poodle and the painfully embarrassed standard poodle. There were other contenders, but thos poodles were the dogs to beat. Judges frickin' love poodles, which I just don't get. I mean, what is the deal with the poodles? The toy one reminded me of Paris Hilton with a noblesse oblige attitude that made me want to smack her. A true kick me dog. And I just felt sorry for the standard who looked mortified by the bouffant ponytail and the cotton ball swatches of fur on its tush that apparently is the breed standard for grooming. The toy had the exact same cut, and how embarrassing is that when you show up at an event and some bitch has your exact same haircut? Give the dog a break. He's not that high up on the food chain to begin with (tm Robin Williams).

So I was really glad to see the beagle win Best in Show last night at the Westminster Dog Show. I've had it on the last two nights while I've been (cough) "working" on my freelance job (it's nearly done so no worries) having tuned in to the event sporadically in the last few years, pretty much since I saw Christopher Guest's hilarious movie Best in Show. I confess, I still view the actual handlers and owners at the real show through Guest's slightly nutty lens always wondering, which one is in therapy with its dog? Did the Weimaraner loose its busy bumble bee?

But the real entertainers are the dogs. I always look for the mop dog (though I missed him last night - stupid snow storm), officially know as the Komondor of Hungary. I could never own one though; I'd always be trying to untangle the cords the make up the coat. But it's always a riot to watch one trot down the lane with all those cords sweeping the floor. Own a dog like that and you'd never have to sweep the floor.

My favorites tend to be the large dogs, which mainly reside in the herding, sporting, working, and hound groups, because they're just so awesome. I used to view all yip yip dogs as inconsequential, but I've been slowly wooed over to some of the smaller dogs like the Norwich Terrier, the Dachshund, and of course, the Beagle. But I don't like the Boston Terrier, or the Bulldog, and I'm not a fan of long-haired dogs. Family loyalty pulls the Shih Tzu into the fold or my father will disowned me (and his dog's a sweetie) and my aunt's Westie mutt is too damn cute to be a kick me, so they can come too.

But there's something to be said for the breadth and majesty of the Irish Wolfhound, the Scottish Deerhound, the Retrievers (six different breeds of retrievers in the show!), the gorgeous Doberman Pincher last night and imposing Great Dane. There were four new breeds added to the American Kennel Club this year, including the Tibetan Mastiff, who received a warm welcome and sixth prize in the group competition. Look at that face! Love them big dogs!

The show is also great as a source of information. The announcer for the show at the Garden describes each breed, both good points and aspects to watch out for, often with a commentary about what sort of living environment best suits the dog and what sort of family arrangement is would thrive in. For instance, Great Danes, for all their size, don't require a lot of running room and can make good apartment dogs - if you don't plan to have any furniture since they'll take up all the room. Which would explain the enormous Great Dane I sometimes see being walked in my apartment heavy, Weehawken neighborhood. Seriously, you could drive my car under that dog and still clear two inches. Also, some of the sporting dogs have water resistant coats (cool!), others webbed toes (hee), and there are other genetic specialties this show imparts that my incessant need to know soaks up. After the announcer has dropped his know-how, the commentators for the network build off of the dogs' descriptions and will sometimes add in a particular insight about the owners, trainers, or handlers, or about the particular dog itself, how many awards its won, whether it's the last show for a retiring dog, etc.

Honestly, this show is a real trip every time.

Huzzah to the doggies!