Isitreadyyet? Isitreadyyet? Isitreadyyet?
What? No? Well then. Isitspringyet? Isitspringyet? Isitspringyet?
Isitreadyyet? Isitreadyyet? Isitreadyyet?
Emotions are running high as the Self Help for Cats staff work night and day applying the final finishing touches on our first book, Time Management for Cats.
The entire Self Help for Cat organization is happy to nearly have this one done. As you can see, the editor is getting grumpy!
Brody was wandering the house meowling, belting out the lonely tones of his kitty blues. Nothing, it seemed, could satisfy the crater of existential cat angst that had opened in his feline soul. His distorted wailing was grating at the last small flecks of sanity still clinging to the interior of his sapiens’ skulls, like remnants of last week’s lasagna makings.
Careening like a mini-tanker on steroids, he moved through the bays and coves of each room in the house, searching the shores for elusive satisfaction. His warbling tones echoed off the walls and wood and into his people’s ear canals, their brains, and straight to their “can’t stand it anymore” buttons, deep in the folds of grey matter.
Finally, the grey matter spat up a solution.
“Maybe it’s time to break out Brody’s Kitty Sweater!”
I can’t say Brody likes wearing his Kitty Sweater, not like he should. It’s perfect for him, adorable and very stylish, a neat knit pattern in lovely shades of gold and teal. The best part is the look on his face when you slip it on him. He looks just like a kitty question mark. What is this?
I think the comfort the sweater provides is not so much as a source of warmth as it is a source of challenge. The challenge of how to wiggle out of it. At any rate, it works as good as anything to quiet his case of the kitty wintertime blues.
Yes, it’s definitely Kitty Sweater weather. And if the sweater doesn’t do the job, maybe the hot little sequined number below would do the trick.
Yesterday the vet told Hank, “Older cats do a lot of howling.” No freaken kidding.
My cats used to be silent, back when they were younger and exercised their bodies and not just their vocal cords. Now it’s like backstage at the opera house at any given hour of the day, and sometimes it starts to feel like a cat looney bin around here.
I’d like to know what on Earth gave my cats the green light to vocalize their incredible existential angst all the time?? Haven’t they noticed we humans may bitch and complain for a period of time, but we rarely emit the kind of death-moans that cats turn out like no tomorrow.
This morning, Brody thought 5 am was his cue for a solo aria of pathetic woe, presented not ten inches from my left ear. His true talent, however, lies in warbling through the apartment singing the cat blues to the world at large. It’s not pretty. It’s unnerving. I can tune the cat out, but I can’t tune Hank out, and he can’t tune the cat out. So I might as well not tune the cat out.
Life is thus made more anxious by anxious cats. They pick up our anxiety and give it back in feedback-like feline warbling. Sleep is ruined. Mental peace, ruined.
And now to find the experts knew this would happen years ago. It’s apparently a commonly known fact, older cats howl a lot. What else did they fail to warn us about??
I swear younger cats should have to wear a label. “May eventually emit brain-curdling noises throughout the night, leading to a reduction in complete well-being and brain power for any nearby humans.”
The blood-curdling howl ripped me from dream state, and I awoke knowing someone was doing something horrible to something else out there in the night. Then it all snapped into place like two Legos and my feet flew out of bed bringing me along running with them. It was five AM and I had to stop the painful sounds of torture — if not any actual torture itself. I had to consider, what would the neighbors think?
Sure enough, I had awoken to the horrible sounds of another battle-supreme between the two cats who otherwise can’t get enough (sleep on top) of each other. The “brothers” who are not related, the boys who fill our days with joys have lately become a troubled duo. Call them Paul and John, they ain’t getting along, at least not all the time like they used to. Continue reading