He looks just like Coney!

On Saturday night I read a mystery called Cries and Whiskers by Clea Simon. It's the third in a series about Theda Krakow, a freelance journalist who covers the club scene in Boston, and her cat Musetta. (Musetta does not sleuth. So far, though, the two stories I've read from the series have involved cat rescues and music.)

The characters are likable, the cat is realistic, and although they are technically termed "cozy," there's nothing cutesy about them. I'd recommend them to fans of amateur sleuth mysteries who also like to feel like they're meeting interesting new people.

I sleep wrong one night and end up with a sore, gimpy leg for a week.

And yet Coney? ( Sleeps like this all the time! )

Also, for sagitare--I know you love his fangs, so here is a good yawn for you!

Bathing beauty Bengal cat!

I just dropped into the public library a minute to check my email and see who was eliminated from The Amazing Race. Go, hippies!

The plane was late getting in on New Year's Eve and I walked through the door of my place at just after midnight. So I decided to bag the Marquee show, since it would have involved digging out my car (my brother drove to the airport and we left his car there, so he offered me his, but he was going to see a friend and I didn't like to drive his car for the first time at night or leave him stranded--OR park his car on the side of the road!)

Anyway, the cats were glad to see me.

I'm unpacked and have done my laundry. Mitzi was glad to see me yesterday. I've cleared my parking spot, more or less. I still have no idea what time zone I am in. And I perceive that after last night's thunder-snowstorm, it's hailing again, so I think I might go home.

Bye-bye, Goths! I realize this means that rotten fighting couple is probably going to win the Race now, but at least the hippies are still in it with a chance!

Such a ferocious breed...

Speakersspeakersspeakers...

Because cats never go on strike...



y2kara, green_knight this one's for you!

(If you are confused by the above, check out this link. You may be more confused, but I guarantee you'll laugh!)

So apparently, by April Fool's Day, all cats in Halifax must be licensed.

I don't actually mind that. Someone else, however, is going to have to explain to them that this doesn't mean they can drive.

(Not Coney!)

I meant to post about this and I wish I had a picture but I was afraid to startle him. And I wanted him to get down and fast.

You know the hood over the stovetop, where the fan and the light live?

I came into the kitchen a couple of nights ago and there was Vlad, spread out like Spiderman on it, looking over the edge. I showed him the water bottle and he was all, "Yes, I know, just a second, I have to figure out how to do this..." and eventually hopped down and thence to the floor.

I sometimes wish I knew what was going on in his mind. It's a good thing he's cute.

( As long as I'm engaging in picspam--here are a few of Coney and Vladimir! )

You may note that, while Vlad seems capable of embarrassment, Coney has no shame, or dignity, or sense of proportion. Which is why we love him (and his tummy.)

(Unlike, say, MySpace, where you can have hundreds of thousands of friends you don't know.)

However, Catbook doesn't seem to mind that kind of thing. As a result, my cats have been added by some flame-point RagDoll in New Jersey, who has something like 2500 friends. What a tomcat!

(I consider that harmless. I just wonder if the cat is really that friendly!)

We got a new chair over the weekend from my parents. (Well, new to us.) Coney loves the new chair.



Bojo loves the new chair too, and also Coney. Who is beginning to love him too. Really.

My parents are coming to visit for the weekend (and incidentally bringing me their old large TV, so when I watch the CFL I can see what's going on.) They may come to the barn barbecue, I'll have to check with them when they arrive tonight. We may also hit the Bedford Waterfront cancer benefit thing.

Now, my guest room (read, "full of junk but you can sleep there") used to have an air bed in it. When Mum and Dad moved out of the house and into the apartment they gave me one of their guest beds, the three-quarter size one from my brother's room. So now I don't have to be afraid of the bed deflating under a guest, but I did have to put it together so I can sleep in it this weekend.

I just want to tell you that Coney is an excellent foreman, but Bojo was the one who really got in there and got his paws dirty putting the bed together. He's a really helpful cat. So much so that he nearly ended up made up into the bed, which he did not find one bit funny.

Anyway, we're set for the weekend. Tonight I'll swap out the duvet on my own bed because my mother has allergies, and put on a new clean one I have.

And the vacuuming job from last night will have to do.

I just heard from the woman from whom I got Coney and his late sister Kinsey. It seems their actual mama, a tiny Siamese named Sushi, is still alive and well. She's sixteen years old and as far as I know is an indoor-outdoor cat, in a community where there are not only loose dogs, but coyotes. She's either very lucky or tougher than a regimental sergeant-major. Or both.

It was good to hear.

Okay, I am a really bad cat-mother. I hate to even admit to this but they say (and by "they" I mean the Catholic Church and my own mother) that confession is good for the soul. So here goes.

As I mentioned, I got to bed at about one-thirty this morning, which is actually sort of early for me. But Bojo started in on his thing, which he occasionally does, where he started marching back and forth across my upper body, purring to beat the band and occasionally head-bumping whatever body part he could reach. (Like, for instance, my eyeballs.) A person who has no cats might be surprised to learn that a nine-pound cat is perfectly capable of stomping--if Godzilla walked on all fours, and purred? Same effect.

After several minutes of this I'd had enough,and I'm afraid I gave one of those heaves of the bedclothes that sort of looks like you're playing that Inuit tossed-in-a-blanket game. And Bojo sailed through the air and landed on the other end of the bed, down near my feet.

Where he settled down, purring much more quietly, and went to sleep.

I was immediately ashamed of myself but I didn't dare apologize to him for fear of starting the purring/stomping cycle all over again. It's clear from his behaviour that he's used to eating people food off people plates, but I harbour grave doubts over whether he's ever been allowed to sleep in a people bed before. You'd think he'd have developed a little restraint over the years.

Anyway, by this morning he seemed to have forgiven me.

The thing I'm really ashamed of is, every time I think of the catellite launch I have this horrible tendency to giggle. Apparently I am not a kind person at all.

1) Last night Vlad was sitting on an end table when Bojo jumped up to say hello. Immediate ferocious growling from Vlad. Bojo reacted by going over and industriously sniffing his face. Which is pretty much how Coney handled episodes of growling from Vlad. Either the growling is getting less fierce or else nobody takes Vlad seriously.

2) Coney and Bojo have advanced to the point of wrestling, but I notice that when Bojo pounces on Coney, Coney retains his feet. Which is only interesting if you know that when Coney is pounced upon by kittens, he immediately keels over in a "you got me" fashion. Come to think of it, I don't think he used to keel over for Kinsey, either. Clearly, Coney knows (a) who to humour, and (b) who might accidentally disembowel him.

3) Hertel is good for removing stains from carpeting, including the blood and guts of Coney's prey. By which I mean he got raspberry juice all over the floor the other night, but Hertel got the stain out. Hey, he might be a vegetarian, but he still has fangs!