RevSpork

Every kitty needs a bosom for a pillow

Jack and Mimi have been in charge of our household for over a year and a half now, and every spot in the apartment is fair game for running, barfing, and sleeping - including my wife's bosom.

Last Sunday, my lovely wife sat down for yet another wearily amazing episode of "Mad Men."  She and Mimi have their Sunday nights down pat: Mimi always sits on the couch with her, claiming the right end of the sofa, where she curls up and passes out while Tori watches Jon Hamm do something amazing on the tube.  After the end of the show, Tori checks out Television Without Pity to see what everyone else thought of the episode (almost always their best yet), while Mimi sits impatiently outside the office door, looking up at her and silently demanding she get her ass into bed.  After committing herself to bedtime ablutions, Tori then climbs into bed.  Mimi follows, finds herself a spot along Tori's legs, and soon both are asleep.  It's very cute, and if it weren't a marriage breaker I'd include a photo. 

Mimi apparently decided last week that the end of the couch wasn't cushy enough.  She occasionally walks onto Tori's lap for a grooming and a short snooze, but my this time my wife wasn't sitting up; rather, she was slumped on the couch.  Since the lap seemed out of the question, Mimi aimed higher, climbing onto Tori's chest, padding and pummeling her breasts until they seemed properly comfy, and settled down for a little nap. 

I'm not sure what annoyed Tori more: that Mimi was lying on her boobs, or she was blocking her view of the TV.  I suffered no annoyance whatsoever; I burst out laughing and couldn't stop until I had taken a sufficient number of photos from my cell phone.  Mimi was nonchalant about the whole ordeal; she loves a camera and willingly posed, blissfully perched on Tori's chest.  It almost broke my heart when Tori gently picked Mimi up and plopped her on the couch. 

We knew we had one feline comedian in the household; Jack is usually our slapstick cat, jumping around like a maniac and bonking into anything more solid than water.  Mimi's humor is subtle almost to nonexistence: she's the Margaret Dumont to Jack's Groucho Marx.  I'm pleased as punch to find out she has a screwball streak after all. 

The weekend of my cold

It was only a week ago when I first felt a little soreness in my throat.  By Thursday, the sore throat had become a full-blown cold.  Unlike the cold from six months ago, which mutated into a nasty case of bronchitis, this particular cold virus has largely come and gone.  The weekend was ruined, and I had to cancel both my volunteer work and a weekend project this week, but the weekend weather sucked anyway, so at least everyone else in Chicago was miserable. 

Tori was home, but she was unfortunately preoccupied with a Christmas card project, so Mimi took over the job of nursing me back to health.  Although her chicken-noodle soup preparation skills need improvement, she stayed in bed with me all day Saturday, being careful not to hog the comforter as she normally does.  Tori did back her up on occasion, buying me orange juice and Nyquil.  By Sunday evening I was well enough to make pancakes for dinner. 

I'm now sufficiently recovered to go to work this week.  If I had sick time at either of my jobs, I'd be a little bummed about this, but since I don't, hooray for a full paycheck! 

There will be food

Did I give Jack a piece of turkey from my turkey sandwich?  Yes I did.  Am I spoiling him rotten?  Yes.  But in my defense, it's so cute how he begs. 

A million years ago, cats were powerful, evil creatures, ripping out the throats of any unlucky soul unwilling to offer bits of their turkey sandwich.  By the 21st century, cats gave up their strength and intelligence but never their desire for cold cuts.  So instead of ripping my throat out, Jack - a direct descendant of these terrifying creatures - instead embarks on a series of activities passed down over thousands of litters:

1. He hears Daddy rummaging in the fridge, hears the "cat sign" (the crinkling of the cellophane housing the cold cuts) and casually ambles over to the kitchen.  He never runs; that would be seen as desperate and uncouth.

2. He then looks up at me with his big yellow eyes as if to say, "Hey...ummmm, dude!  (He never remembers my name.)  How's it going?  Haven't seen you in a while.  I see you got some processed meat there, my man.  What a lucky guy!  Say, I don't suppose you could spare some of that, hmm?  You know, I heard on NPR the other day that cold cuts are unhealthy for a human digestive system.  Makes you run to the litter box more, know what I'm saying?  Didn't say anything about a kitty's digestive system, so I'm guessing I'm okay."

3. He then rubs himself against my leg.  I've lived with cats before, they all did this, and I find the practice utterly pathetic.  You squirm and try to run away when I skritch you and show you some genuine affection, but when I'm preparing a sandwich, then I get the love?  Screw you, feline.  I tell him to bugger off.  Jack knows this initial approach will fail, but he hasn't played all the cards in his paw just yet.

4. Jack flops down on the floor, offering his belly.  "Really!  I love you, what's your face!  You are the sunbeam of my life!  Don't you love me as well?  You wouldn't chase me down the hallway or wake me up during the day to skritch me if you didn't!  Now gimme some turkey, dammit."  Again, I've seen this crap before; mother cats no doubt teach begging to their kittens before their eyes are even open.  I'm unswayed.  But Jack's not done yet.

5. At that point, Jack presses his head against the floor, then performs a somersault.  This is beyond cute.  In my opinion, this took time, practice, and - most importantly - hard work to pull off.  Mimi, for example, couldn't pull off a somersault if she got a whole salmon out of the deal.  So Jack did something cats don't normally do: worked hard to refine his begging technique.  Sufficiently charmed, I pull off a piece of turkey and hand it over. 

6. After nom-nom-noming his treat, Jack will look up at me, resuming his begging stance until I give him another piece or walk away with my sandwich.  But he will not do the somersault again.  He knows well enough not to overuse his talent. 

Now Mimi - that's a different story.  If both my wife and I are in the kitchen, then Mimi must complete the threesome.  But she's too much of a diva to do anything she considers beneath her station.  She'll just sit there and look up at us.  So she's not rewarded as much.  And you readers out there, don't think you can get a piece of my sandwich by performing somersaults.  Jack does it naked on a hardwood floor: let's see you try THAT.

Advice for those recruiting cats for Xmas cards

Don't.  Just don't.

Of course, I warned my wife that cats do not celebrate Christmas and thus are not into wearing goofy Santa hats, but did she listen to me?  Nooooooooooooooooooo. 

So enjoy the video and remember: cats are not fans of Christmas.  They much prefer Thanksgiving.

The box of doom

Woe the poor fellow who dares reach for an old utility bill.

Help! I'm trapped in the office!

Jack is throwing a freaking fit outside the office.   He's meowing incessantly and angrily, scratching at the door, and at one point he hit his head against it. What crime have I committed?

I'm guilty of hiding chicken from him again.  And boy, is he pissed.

Cats are carnivores, of course, but like us, they have their tastes.   Jack likes fish and beef and has no problems with lamb, but GOD HELP US ALL he loves chicken.  When we first got him, the people at PAWS told us they found him somewhere on ther West Side.  In my opinion, they found him in an alley behind a Harold's Chicken Shack. The kid is chicken-crazy.   

The first time Tori and I brought home a bucket from Harold's, you would have thought we had ten cats instead of two, given all the meowing Jack belted out.  He kept jumping onto the coffee table, demanding we share RIGHT NOW.  We'd spritz him with the water sprayer, but it was like poking a psychotic killer with styrofoam.  We finally stuck him on the back porch so we could eat in peace, but the meowing wouldn't let up.  When we finished our dinner, we gave him some meat to shut him up, and he chowed it down in three seconds flat before resuming his demands for chicken.  Jack was insatiable.

Eating the leftover chicken was even worse - we actually had to barricade ourselves in our bedroom, furtively munching away for maybe fifteen seconds before the meowing, scratching, and bonking began.  We thought the Nazis had found us - "Hühnchen raus!   Hühnchen raus!"  We haven't brought home fried chicken since. 

Yesterday Tori and I were feeling lazy - neither of us wanted to cook - so we went to Dominicks and bought one of their baked chickens, plus some potato salad and cole slaw.  Immediately upon coming home, we put a confused Jack on the porch ("What did I do now?"  "Nothing, dammit, just enjoy the cool breeze.") and ate while fending off Mimi (who also loves chicken but is not as enthusiastic, plus she's slower and easier to scoot away).  When we finished we gave them some scraps and put everything away.

Yes, I spoil the cats rotten, and now I'm paying for it.  I'm in the office, finishing this post, wiping my hands.  As I  prepare to break out, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid-style, I'm hoping I can make it to the kitchen and put the rest of the chicken carcass away before I'm run down by Jack the Chicken Freak.  In case I don't make it, tell Tori I love her. 

Jack takes a well-deserved destruction break.

What does Jack, our feline pain in the ass, do when he's not climbing onto the mantle and knocking down photographs, harrassing Mimi, getting into the garbage, attacking invisible bedsheet monsters, and other activities that make his mommy and daddy wonder if there's a "666" under his furry little forehead?  Why, sleeping in the fake fireplace, of course.  However, I'm sure he's dreaming of creating chaos on an even larger scale, and I don't doubt he will try to make his dreams come true.

Mimi wants to kick your ass.

...and quite frankly, I don't blame her.  After all, you are interrupting her nap. 

Now worship her like the QBD she is and let her get some sleep.

P.S. Note to Jima: Miss Mimi greatly appreciated your visit and skritches last Friday and has asked me to inquire of your spousal unit if she would mind contracting you out as a love slave.