Friday, December 15, 2006

A one year hiatus in reporting does not end the madness

In the immortal words of somebody, reports of this blog's death were greatly exaggerated. Updates may not come very quickly, but the insanity of household cats continues unabated, like a forced death-march for the tired and weary. Prisoners may despair of life, but the only relief in sight is the grave. All of my feline angst has compelled me to do writing therapy, and so communicate the horrors of the past year.

In general, they are the same uncouth creatures that lived in my house a year ago. Puke on the floor, cat hair adorning every exposed surface, random dingleberrys discarded in the corners, the doorframes still looking like modern art. Yes, same feline population, same issues, different year. They still are costing me money and economically, I fail to see the investment potential. One cat is an investment, two is a real estate venture on the Florida coast, and three is a used car purchase. Anything more than four is a bankruptcy and IRS audit waiting to happen. Perhaps it is my own patience, but it would seem that they getting more annoying, as maturity is solidifying their already obnoxious habits into full-blown character traits. Let's take a look at all of them, one at a time. Welcome to my autopsy.

Fuzz is still stupid and with the demise of Tubby, is definitely the house favorite. His ignorance knows no bounds, though he is fundamentally unchanged. His penchant for "love" still is inopportune but no one but me seems to notice. He was sick earlier this year, which for some reason caused him to urinate in the bathtub regularly. He is all better, but while dealing with this it occurred to me that cats are really big frauds. Let me explain.

Cats are known for being fastidiously clean, licking every part of their body at any of time of day, certainly saving their nether regions for dinner guests, birthday parties, and other photo opportunities. However, in my years of cat ownership, I have never seen one of them vacuum the floor, or wipe down a counter, or brush dander off the couch, or clean up the avalanche of clothes, books, or knick-knacks they themselves are the cause of. They don't even clean out their own catbox, which is particularly grievous given the fact of indoor plumbing. Of course, puke doesn't sit long on the floor, depending on what it was originally and whether the other cats have eaten recently. Other than that, I'm not sure why we consider them "clean". If I took a shower every day and lived in a dumpster, it's doubtful many would praise my wholesomeness.

Regarding solidification of character, Pooky definitely takes top prize. Since it is popular with our government to consider foreign (and domestic) irritants to their own policies as "terrorists", it would not be inappropriate to refer to "Pooks" as the terrorist of our house. He still sucks necks, he still runs through the house like a raving madman, and he still attacks every other cat randomly and seemingly without provocation. The only difference now is that he is twice the size. In the past year, not only has he achieved full frame size, he now has the bulk that makes him the largest cat we own. And he knows how to push his weight around, literally. His sisters (Chubbs and Claws) still put up with the neck sucking thing, and this is particularly horrendous when they go into heat.

Because of financial priorities, these ladies have not been fixed, so when they go into heat, it’s a quite a sight for the uninitiated. Most the cats ignore them, as their own..(ahem)..reasons.. for wanting to consummate such passions have been surgically removed. To be sure, Pooky definitely falls into the eunuch category, yet he still insists on foolishly going through the motions. As you would expect, this generates all sorts of comments from the human beings in our house, and all I can say is that it’s a good thing my children understand what sex is. It is very obvious Pooky does not.

Socks is still the Wench, though she is finally settling into an old and cantankerous category of feline that I loathe. Her habit of staying by the door for hours, being let outside only to demand re-entry within 2 minutes is just as powerful as ever. She has all but stopped hunting and spends her days sleeping on the couch (muttering and groaning throughout, no doubt dreaming of chasing that elusive mouse or bird). The couch is her new favorite place because I think everyone in the house has kicked her off their bed, plus she can't stand the other cats who have staked out mattress territory already. Unfortunately, Socks has also become a favorite target of Pooky who so enjoys chasing her. That is, until I start chasing him and he retreats to under the bed. I like the idea of Socks being tormented, but not in the house, since they usually leave a wake of destruction in their midst.

Oatmeal (the Oat) and Trouble (Baby Bubba Dooba or just Bubba), aka as "The Brothers", are elusive, shy, and mostly stay away from the house, except to eat. Which suits me just fine. They spend more time indoors during the cooler weather, but since we're having a Havana Christmas (70 F during the days for the last 2 days), they move in and out, quietly and mostly unnoticed. By me that is. My wife gets a panic if they're not around, when I have the opposite problem. All eight in the house makes me panicked.

The sisters (the above mentioned hussies) have grown much fatter and are quickly developing into that ill-tempered feline of the sort that no cat owner would be complete without. When not rolling on the floor in estrogen ecstasy, or rump-up and whining, looking for partners in unbridled fornication, they manage to hiss, snort, and look mightily self-assured in their attitude, which I define as a feline funk. They don't like anybody, except when in heat, where they like anything breathing. It really makes me nervous when they focus their attention on me, but fortunately this is not often, as theirs is probably the most finely tuned Jeff-radar of the bunch. Give this a guy a wide berth, they silently say. And yes lady cats..I am the enemy.

Last but not least is the unchanged Boo, who remains as afraid of her shadow as ever. Still known as the Puker, she holds down less than 50% of what she eats. She is getting better about deposits on the kitchen floor rather than the living room or hallway, where yet another stain can be immortalized. The only really annoying thing about this cat that I've noticed lately is that she will survey her domestic domain with her tongue barely sticking out. Imagine a petite black cat, elegant and haughty, with a bit of pink tongue sticking out. She looks mentally deficient, but then again, referring to a cat, I repeat myself.

Much more could be said, but my head hurts thinking about these beasts. If you happen to be the neighborhood, stop by. I have a warm, purring Christmas gift for you.