In my not quite four years of having Cat as my servant, we've gotten along relatively well. She knows her place, and keeps my food dish full and has yet to chase me away from the top of her wardrobe, where I sleep at night atop the spare sheets.
So you can understand my surprise and displeasure when she walked into the kitchen the other night and yelled at me. Yes, moi, the most wonderful cat in the world.
I was doing nothing. Honestly. Seeking a big of peace and quiet from the television and Big Stupid's barking, I found a place to relax. More than large enough to accommodate me, it was out of the flow of traffic.
Yet in comes Cat, disturbing my peace and acting as if I'm waaaaay out of line just because I'm sitting on top of the range hood. Yes, I had to use the table and the stove as springboards, but what's so wrong with where I landed?
Sometimes I simply can't understand her. Instead of delicately licking the dripping water from the spout in the bathtub, she immerses herself in the thing when it's full of water -- ooh, even the thought of being that wet gives me chills. And rather than doing the polite thing and licking her paws clean when she eats, she wipes her fingers on paper instead.
Christmas is just around the corner, though, and I do feel that perhaps I should give her a gift in acknowledgment of the generally good job she does as my caretaker. I know many of you are authors and readers. Would you happen to know where I can purchase a manual for her -- perhaps one titled "Care and Feeding of the World's Most Wonderful Creature?''
Tabby
P.S. If you're looking for a book to give for Christmas, don't forget all the books Cat and her good friend Cammie Eicher have out there!
Showing posts with label dogs and cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dogs and cats. Show all posts
Friday, December 9, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
It's about time!
If you've missed me, blame Cat. First she bought a new computer (do you know how hard it is to study the manual without opposable thumbs?) and then she enticed me to lay around and do nothing by putting a wonderfully soft, fluzzy blanket on my favorite chair by the window.
Like solar lights, I do believe I've soaked up enough sunlight that I'm fully charged. Which is good since Cat put up a Christmas tree.
This is NOT one of those four-foot ones she usually has. (She's quite devious and tapes the tree to a table, As if I would even think of toppling it.) This one is taller than she is with bright lights and lovely ornaments hanging just within paw reach. A mountain of boxes with paper on them surround it, summoning up visions of running across the house and diving right into them.
Alas, Big Stupid will not allow such a thing. Just because she's a dog, and just because she lops all over Cat's lap in the recliner, she thinks she rules the house.
As if.
In the interest of pretending to keep peace, I allow Big Stupid to run me off when Cat's around. When Cat's gone .... let's just say that what happens in the living room stays in the living room. But there's nothing quite as fun as bouncing from the pew to the couch and back again, cutting closer and the closer to the tree each time.
I know what you're thinking: Sooner or later, I'm going to fall, the tree will go down and all those packages will be smashed. Cat will come home, see the mess and ...
Yes, amid the destruction she'll see one of Big Stupid's toys I dragged over and maybe even a few dog biscuits crumbs if I can find some on the couch. And then let's see who gets to sit on her lap!
Tabby
P.S. Still Christmas shopping? Why not order copies of "Bittersweet," Cat's historical suspense, for all your friends. The only thing that could make it better is if she'd given those folks a cat.
Like solar lights, I do believe I've soaked up enough sunlight that I'm fully charged. Which is good since Cat put up a Christmas tree.
This is NOT one of those four-foot ones she usually has. (She's quite devious and tapes the tree to a table, As if I would even think of toppling it.) This one is taller than she is with bright lights and lovely ornaments hanging just within paw reach. A mountain of boxes with paper on them surround it, summoning up visions of running across the house and diving right into them.
Alas, Big Stupid will not allow such a thing. Just because she's a dog, and just because she lops all over Cat's lap in the recliner, she thinks she rules the house.
As if.
In the interest of pretending to keep peace, I allow Big Stupid to run me off when Cat's around. When Cat's gone .... let's just say that what happens in the living room stays in the living room. But there's nothing quite as fun as bouncing from the pew to the couch and back again, cutting closer and the closer to the tree each time.
I know what you're thinking: Sooner or later, I'm going to fall, the tree will go down and all those packages will be smashed. Cat will come home, see the mess and ...
Yes, amid the destruction she'll see one of Big Stupid's toys I dragged over and maybe even a few dog biscuits crumbs if I can find some on the couch. And then let's see who gets to sit on her lap!
Tabby
P.S. Still Christmas shopping? Why not order copies of "Bittersweet," Cat's historical suspense, for all your friends. The only thing that could make it better is if she'd given those folks a cat.
Monday, June 13, 2011
What was she thinking?
I'm a bit miffed today and with good reason.
Once again, my servant Cat Shaffer has allowed a book to be release without my editing -- and once again, her new novel has no cat in it.
Seriously, now. If ever there was a story that called for cats, it's "Bittersweet," her new historical romantic suspense novel. Yes, there's a hero to fall in love with, a heroine to root for and a bad guy who threatens them and their happiness ... but not one cat.
Since "Bittersweet" is set on a farm in northwest Ohio, there were many opportunities to include cats. When Coulter (he's the hero) goes out to the barn, he's never greeted by a cat. There's never a cat on the porch, or in the parlor.
I attempted to tell Cat about this appalling oversight when she was writing the story, but sometimes she's as dumb as a dog. Instead of taking my suggestion to put a cat in the sickroom with the heroine, she said, "Hush now, Tabby, I'm busy."
I'm not saying "Bittersweet" isn't a wonderful story, I'm simply saying it could have been magnificent with a cat or two in it. Especially if that cat was a sleek, intelligent gray tabby such as moi.
Ah, well, what's done is done, I suppose. Now if you'll excuse me, I just saw Big Stupid heading for the water dish and I need to get there first. Trust me, no one wants to drink after a dog.
Oh, before I forget, here's a taste of the new book for you!
Bittersweet by Cat Shaffer
Coulter Bancroft returns from battle seeking the peace of his family farm. Instead he finds chaos: his stepmother dead, his father dying and his fiancée married to another man. His pain reaches a new level when he learns his father’s will demands a legitimate heir by Coulter’s 30th birthday to keep his inheritance—and guardianship of his teenage half-sister.
Amelia Strong has her own secrets to keep. When Coulter takes her in after she collapses in front of his horse, bruised, sick and frail, Amelia can’t imagine that within a few weeks, she’ll offer to marry him and give him that heir if he will divorce her and set her up to begin a new life after the child is born.
What neither of them realizes is that Amelia’s beloved, listed among the war’s casualties, is actually alive and going mad. When he spots Coulter and Amelia in Cincinnati on their honeymoon and begins to stalk the Bancroft family, the result is a suspenseful game of cat-and-mouse game that can only end in death.
Chapter One
October 16, 1865
Northwestern Ohio
“Damn that man!”
The wind caught the wooden door, banging it against the side of the farmhouse as Coulter Bancroft stalked into the kitchen and tossed a sheaf of tied papers on the table. The thud of his boots on the wooden floor was as unyielding as the fury in his eyes; the wailing wind echoed his harsh voice as he called for his sister.
His first shout of “Caroline!” brought her running into the room. She came to a dead stop, grabbing a highback kitchen chair for support. Her eyes widened at the fierceness of Coulter’s expression and the tenseness of his stance.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he demanded.
“About what?” Caroline stammered, knitting her hands together.
“This!” Coulter shook the papers at her. “What our father did to us.”
Her hands tightened on the chair back until her knuckles turned white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, then, let me tell you.” Coulter spread the papers across the table. “There’s a lot of fancy lawyer language in there, but here’s what it comes down to: We’re about to be out of a home. That apple orchard out there? Gone. The cows and horses in the barn? Gone, too. Trust me, our father’s good friend, William Cahorn, Esquire, explained it to me in great detail.”
Mimicking the elderly attorney’s mincing tone, he said, “Your father’s will is quite specific, Bancroft, and he was of sound mind when he made the changes. If you do not produce a legitimate heir by the time you are thirty, the entire estate reverts to your cousins in Illinois. In the meantime, I am authorized to provide you with the funds to continue operation of the farm and to allow for the needs of you and your sister.”
Coulter’s tirade stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He dropped into a chair, staring for a long moment at the blank wall opposite him. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, calmer.
“What it means, my dear, is that our father has entailed the estate. If I don’t do as his will demands, our inheritance is gone.” His eyes moved to his sister, and he winced as her face turned pale with his next words. “You, dear Caroline, will become our cousin’s ward until you reach twenty-one years of age or he finds someone for you to marry.”
Her soft gasp wounded Coulter as bitter words could not. His anger eased into compassion. He had never felt so helpless, not even on the battlefields he’d come to know too intimately over the last three years. He wanted to console his sister and tell her everything would be fine, as he had when she was a little girl. He longed to make things right for her again. But it couldn’t be done. Not this time.
Red-hot anger began to well again. He struggled to contain it before it spiraled out of control. He’d scared Caroline enough.
He swung into the saddle and slapped the reins. Man and horse flew down the long path behind the barn and along the fence line that separated this farm from the next. Low-hanging clouds dimmed the sun, and in the far distance, he could hear the rumble of thunder, driven by the howling wind. He rode hard, mindlessly, losing himself to the smashing of Midnight’s hooves against the ground and the wildness of the oncoming night.
****
The fierce October wind slashed through the thin cotton of the woman’s dress as she stumbled across the rough ground, her swollen and bloody feet too numb to feel the cold mud between her toes. Each inhalation of the frosty air tore at her tortured lungs; each exhalation brought new pain from a broken rib.
It seemed hours since she’d jumped from the rattletrap wagon. Thousands of miles since she’d begun her run for freedom. She longed to rest for one tiny moment. Or risk looking back over her shoulder to see how many men followed. If any man followed. Yet she knew even a split-second’s hesitation could mean the difference between safety and capture.
She gasped as an errant root smashed against her ankle, sending her to her knees. With the last of her strength, she forced herself up and onward. She didn’t know where she was headed; she no longer cared. As she struggled toward the brightness that must surely signal a break in this endless forest, the gray clouds above her loosened and rain began to fall. In seconds the drizzle began to sheet, turning the leaf-covered ground beneath her into a morass of mud and dying vegetation.
She heard the thunder of hooves as she finally reached the light at the edge of the woods. Her soul cried out, for this surely was the angel of death stampeding toward her, swooping down to take her away. She fell to her knees in surrender, caring not whether she was transported to heaven or hell, only that she be freed from the torment awaiting her if she was captured.
****
The storm matched his mood. Coulter rode hard until he caught a movement at the edge of the woods. Cursing into the wind, he pulled hard on Midnight’s reins as a woman stumbled out in front of him, falling onto the muddy trail and into unconsciousness. “Whoa, Midnight! Stop, boy!”
Coulter fought to keep from trampling her, his heart in his throat as the big stallion reared up, halting inches from the silent heap collapsed in the middle of the road. Coulter swung down as the horse’s front hooves touched the ground, and ran to what looked like nothing more than a pile of old clothing. He knelt in the mud, oblivious to the cold rain pouring down his worn hat and across his shoulders. His breath caught at the sight of the young woman.
Damn, he could have killed her. Had Midnight been a few steps further along the dirt road, or his pace a little quicker, the horse would have smashed the life out of her. Coulter gathered the fragile body into his arms and set the woman on Midnight’s back. He swung up behind her, shook the reins and raced for home. He rode as if the devil pursued, holding his burden close with one arm. The woman stayed silent except for an occasional moan, her head lolling against his broad chest. Fear traveled alongside as an unseen companion; Coulter’s heart caught in his chest every time her shallow breathing slowed.
The ride home seemed interminable, the way made harder by the unrelenting rain and the slick mud road underfoot. Finally the buildings that made up the Bancroft farmstead came into view. With a thankful heart, he rode up to the house. “Minnie!” Coulter cried as he slid off Midnight’s back, holding tightly to the small burden in his arms. He slapped the horse on the rump, and Midnight headed toward the barn.
“Minnie!” he shouted again, taking the back porch steps two at a time. The housekeeper gasped as he kicked open the door to the warm kitchen.
“Lord, Mr. Bancroft, what have you there?”
Available now from Turquoise Morning Press at e-book retailers; coming soon in print
Once again, my servant Cat Shaffer has allowed a book to be release without my editing -- and once again, her new novel has no cat in it.Seriously, now. If ever there was a story that called for cats, it's "Bittersweet," her new historical romantic suspense novel. Yes, there's a hero to fall in love with, a heroine to root for and a bad guy who threatens them and their happiness ... but not one cat.
Since "Bittersweet" is set on a farm in northwest Ohio, there were many opportunities to include cats. When Coulter (he's the hero) goes out to the barn, he's never greeted by a cat. There's never a cat on the porch, or in the parlor.
I attempted to tell Cat about this appalling oversight when she was writing the story, but sometimes she's as dumb as a dog. Instead of taking my suggestion to put a cat in the sickroom with the heroine, she said, "Hush now, Tabby, I'm busy."
I'm not saying "Bittersweet" isn't a wonderful story, I'm simply saying it could have been magnificent with a cat or two in it. Especially if that cat was a sleek, intelligent gray tabby such as moi.
Ah, well, what's done is done, I suppose. Now if you'll excuse me, I just saw Big Stupid heading for the water dish and I need to get there first. Trust me, no one wants to drink after a dog.
Oh, before I forget, here's a taste of the new book for you!
Tabby
Bittersweet by Cat Shaffer
Coulter Bancroft returns from battle seeking the peace of his family farm. Instead he finds chaos: his stepmother dead, his father dying and his fiancée married to another man. His pain reaches a new level when he learns his father’s will demands a legitimate heir by Coulter’s 30th birthday to keep his inheritance—and guardianship of his teenage half-sister.
Amelia Strong has her own secrets to keep. When Coulter takes her in after she collapses in front of his horse, bruised, sick and frail, Amelia can’t imagine that within a few weeks, she’ll offer to marry him and give him that heir if he will divorce her and set her up to begin a new life after the child is born.
What neither of them realizes is that Amelia’s beloved, listed among the war’s casualties, is actually alive and going mad. When he spots Coulter and Amelia in Cincinnati on their honeymoon and begins to stalk the Bancroft family, the result is a suspenseful game of cat-and-mouse game that can only end in death.
Chapter One
October 16, 1865
Northwestern Ohio
“Damn that man!”
The wind caught the wooden door, banging it against the side of the farmhouse as Coulter Bancroft stalked into the kitchen and tossed a sheaf of tied papers on the table. The thud of his boots on the wooden floor was as unyielding as the fury in his eyes; the wailing wind echoed his harsh voice as he called for his sister.
His first shout of “Caroline!” brought her running into the room. She came to a dead stop, grabbing a highback kitchen chair for support. Her eyes widened at the fierceness of Coulter’s expression and the tenseness of his stance.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he demanded.
“About what?” Caroline stammered, knitting her hands together.
“This!” Coulter shook the papers at her. “What our father did to us.”
Her hands tightened on the chair back until her knuckles turned white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, then, let me tell you.” Coulter spread the papers across the table. “There’s a lot of fancy lawyer language in there, but here’s what it comes down to: We’re about to be out of a home. That apple orchard out there? Gone. The cows and horses in the barn? Gone, too. Trust me, our father’s good friend, William Cahorn, Esquire, explained it to me in great detail.”
Mimicking the elderly attorney’s mincing tone, he said, “Your father’s will is quite specific, Bancroft, and he was of sound mind when he made the changes. If you do not produce a legitimate heir by the time you are thirty, the entire estate reverts to your cousins in Illinois. In the meantime, I am authorized to provide you with the funds to continue operation of the farm and to allow for the needs of you and your sister.”
Coulter’s tirade stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He dropped into a chair, staring for a long moment at the blank wall opposite him. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, calmer.
“What it means, my dear, is that our father has entailed the estate. If I don’t do as his will demands, our inheritance is gone.” His eyes moved to his sister, and he winced as her face turned pale with his next words. “You, dear Caroline, will become our cousin’s ward until you reach twenty-one years of age or he finds someone for you to marry.”
Her soft gasp wounded Coulter as bitter words could not. His anger eased into compassion. He had never felt so helpless, not even on the battlefields he’d come to know too intimately over the last three years. He wanted to console his sister and tell her everything would be fine, as he had when she was a little girl. He longed to make things right for her again. But it couldn’t be done. Not this time.
Red-hot anger began to well again. He struggled to contain it before it spiraled out of control. He’d scared Caroline enough.
He swung into the saddle and slapped the reins. Man and horse flew down the long path behind the barn and along the fence line that separated this farm from the next. Low-hanging clouds dimmed the sun, and in the far distance, he could hear the rumble of thunder, driven by the howling wind. He rode hard, mindlessly, losing himself to the smashing of Midnight’s hooves against the ground and the wildness of the oncoming night.
****
The fierce October wind slashed through the thin cotton of the woman’s dress as she stumbled across the rough ground, her swollen and bloody feet too numb to feel the cold mud between her toes. Each inhalation of the frosty air tore at her tortured lungs; each exhalation brought new pain from a broken rib.
It seemed hours since she’d jumped from the rattletrap wagon. Thousands of miles since she’d begun her run for freedom. She longed to rest for one tiny moment. Or risk looking back over her shoulder to see how many men followed. If any man followed. Yet she knew even a split-second’s hesitation could mean the difference between safety and capture.
She gasped as an errant root smashed against her ankle, sending her to her knees. With the last of her strength, she forced herself up and onward. She didn’t know where she was headed; she no longer cared. As she struggled toward the brightness that must surely signal a break in this endless forest, the gray clouds above her loosened and rain began to fall. In seconds the drizzle began to sheet, turning the leaf-covered ground beneath her into a morass of mud and dying vegetation.
She heard the thunder of hooves as she finally reached the light at the edge of the woods. Her soul cried out, for this surely was the angel of death stampeding toward her, swooping down to take her away. She fell to her knees in surrender, caring not whether she was transported to heaven or hell, only that she be freed from the torment awaiting her if she was captured.
****
The storm matched his mood. Coulter rode hard until he caught a movement at the edge of the woods. Cursing into the wind, he pulled hard on Midnight’s reins as a woman stumbled out in front of him, falling onto the muddy trail and into unconsciousness. “Whoa, Midnight! Stop, boy!”
Coulter fought to keep from trampling her, his heart in his throat as the big stallion reared up, halting inches from the silent heap collapsed in the middle of the road. Coulter swung down as the horse’s front hooves touched the ground, and ran to what looked like nothing more than a pile of old clothing. He knelt in the mud, oblivious to the cold rain pouring down his worn hat and across his shoulders. His breath caught at the sight of the young woman.
Damn, he could have killed her. Had Midnight been a few steps further along the dirt road, or his pace a little quicker, the horse would have smashed the life out of her. Coulter gathered the fragile body into his arms and set the woman on Midnight’s back. He swung up behind her, shook the reins and raced for home. He rode as if the devil pursued, holding his burden close with one arm. The woman stayed silent except for an occasional moan, her head lolling against his broad chest. Fear traveled alongside as an unseen companion; Coulter’s heart caught in his chest every time her shallow breathing slowed.
The ride home seemed interminable, the way made harder by the unrelenting rain and the slick mud road underfoot. Finally the buildings that made up the Bancroft farmstead came into view. With a thankful heart, he rode up to the house. “Minnie!” Coulter cried as he slid off Midnight’s back, holding tightly to the small burden in his arms. He slapped the horse on the rump, and Midnight headed toward the barn.
“Minnie!” he shouted again, taking the back porch steps two at a time. The housekeeper gasped as he kicked open the door to the warm kitchen.
“Lord, Mr. Bancroft, what have you there?”
Available now from Turquoise Morning Press at e-book retailers; coming soon in print
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
And now there are two
As my Faithful Readers know, I share my abode with Cat Shaffer, my favorite writer of all time, and an overgrown mutt I prefer to call Big Stupid (see below). Now Cat, who is so misguided, tells everyone that Big Stupid is actually a great big Sheltie, and her name is Maggie.
Since Big Stupid was here before me, I assume that in a moment of madness, Cat decided to get a dog and, when her senses returned, came for me. Although I prefer she not hold me or spout that "pretty kitty" nonsense at me, I will allow her to pet me since she rescued me from a cage at the animal shelter when I was just a wee kitten.
Side note here: At least the shelter did one thing right. They kept the dogs on one side of the building and us cats on the other. Although, with their brute force, the canines might have helped us with the escape we had planned. Hmmmm ...
Anyway, Cat's People live beside us. Her girl and her girl's girls have three cats, which I think is absolutely marvelous, even if they get to run around outside and I don't. I mean, the more cats, the better, right?
To my shock and horror, I looked out my favorite window and saw something big, black and noisy tied to the porch at her People's house. Although I rarely lower myself to listen to a thing Cat says, I paid attention for a time and discovered the big, black, noisy thing is called a Bella.
And it's a dog.
Yes, another dog. A black lab, I believe.
I suppose I can endure its yaps and barks if it stays over there. But one of Cat's People brought into my house to give it a bath. Personally, I can't see the reason for a bath. If it would just learn to groom itself like decent cats do, it would be far better off.
Anyway, they took the Bella thing upstairs. I heard water run. I heard a Girl shout something about being all wet and then the Bella came running downstairs, shaking water everywhere. Let me tell you, it was almost more than a civilized feline can endure, hearing loud shouts of "No, Bella! Stop, Bella! Get outside, Bella!" echoing through my house.
I find it of great interest that the Girl People did this while Cat was away. As soon as she walked in a short time time, I tried to tell her about the horror I was forced to endure. I used my most cultivated yowl to inform her about the stink of dog shampoo lingering upstairs, the damp towels on the bathroom floor where I like to lay in the sunshine and their audacity in using our facilities to bathe a Bella.
Poor, feeble-minded Cat. She refused to listen to a word I said. And to add insult to injury, she actually petted me on the head and said, "Poor baby. Did you miss Mommy?"
Oops, I hear her coming up the steps, so I must abandon her computer and sneak back on top of the printer, one of my favorite places to sleep.
Oh, and in case you didn't know, you can now buy Cat's most marvelous romantic suspense, "No Safe Place" from Turquoise Morning Press, as an e-book or in print. Be generous and buy one for yourself and one for a friend. Maybe the royalties will enable her to buy me a better band of cat food!
Tabby
Since Big Stupid was here before me, I assume that in a moment of madness, Cat decided to get a dog and, when her senses returned, came for me. Although I prefer she not hold me or spout that "pretty kitty" nonsense at me, I will allow her to pet me since she rescued me from a cage at the animal shelter when I was just a wee kitten.
Side note here: At least the shelter did one thing right. They kept the dogs on one side of the building and us cats on the other. Although, with their brute force, the canines might have helped us with the escape we had planned. Hmmmm ...
Anyway, Cat's People live beside us. Her girl and her girl's girls have three cats, which I think is absolutely marvelous, even if they get to run around outside and I don't. I mean, the more cats, the better, right?
To my shock and horror, I looked out my favorite window and saw something big, black and noisy tied to the porch at her People's house. Although I rarely lower myself to listen to a thing Cat says, I paid attention for a time and discovered the big, black, noisy thing is called a Bella.
And it's a dog.
Yes, another dog. A black lab, I believe.
I suppose I can endure its yaps and barks if it stays over there. But one of Cat's People brought into my house to give it a bath. Personally, I can't see the reason for a bath. If it would just learn to groom itself like decent cats do, it would be far better off.
Anyway, they took the Bella thing upstairs. I heard water run. I heard a Girl shout something about being all wet and then the Bella came running downstairs, shaking water everywhere. Let me tell you, it was almost more than a civilized feline can endure, hearing loud shouts of "No, Bella! Stop, Bella! Get outside, Bella!" echoing through my house.
I find it of great interest that the Girl People did this while Cat was away. As soon as she walked in a short time time, I tried to tell her about the horror I was forced to endure. I used my most cultivated yowl to inform her about the stink of dog shampoo lingering upstairs, the damp towels on the bathroom floor where I like to lay in the sunshine and their audacity in using our facilities to bathe a Bella.
Poor, feeble-minded Cat. She refused to listen to a word I said. And to add insult to injury, she actually petted me on the head and said, "Poor baby. Did you miss Mommy?"
Oops, I hear her coming up the steps, so I must abandon her computer and sneak back on top of the printer, one of my favorite places to sleep.
Oh, and in case you didn't know, you can now buy Cat's most marvelous romantic suspense, "No Safe Place" from Turquoise Morning Press, as an e-book or in print. Be generous and buy one for yourself and one for a friend. Maybe the royalties will enable her to buy me a better band of cat food!
Tabby
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Okay, YOU decide
There seems to be some question about whether dogs or cats are the smarter creature. My own servant, Cat, refuses to give her opinion publicly, although I have overheard her bragging about Big Stupid (who Cat calls Maggie) and the dumb dog's ability to follow complex commands and retrieve every toy by name.
Like many humans. she fails to understand that unlike a dog, we cats will never lower ourselves to do silly tricks like sit on command to get a dog biscuit. I mean, really. Talk about undignified.
I've decided to simply present the situation to you and allow you to make up your own mind. You will see pictures of me, the dignified creature sitting on the back of a chair in the warm house, looking out the window, and Big Stupid, stuck on the porch on a chain until Cat remembers to let her in.
So tell me, which are smarter, cats or dogs?
Tabby
P.S. If you're looking for the perfect Valentine's gift, check out "Be Mine, Valentine" from Turquoise Morning Press -- Cat and 11 of her friends have wonderful stores in it!
Like many humans. she fails to understand that unlike a dog, we cats will never lower ourselves to do silly tricks like sit on command to get a dog biscuit. I mean, really. Talk about undignified.
I've decided to simply present the situation to you and allow you to make up your own mind. You will see pictures of me, the dignified creature sitting on the back of a chair in the warm house, looking out the window, and Big Stupid, stuck on the porch on a chain until Cat remembers to let her in.
So tell me, which are smarter, cats or dogs?
Tabby
P.S. If you're looking for the perfect Valentine's gift, check out "Be Mine, Valentine" from Turquoise Morning Press -- Cat and 11 of her friends have wonderful stores in it!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The price of keeping order
Life is difficult as a Very Important Cat. Most difficult is keeping the exploits of my live-in servant, Cat Shaffer, hidden as well as possible.
That, of course, is not easy. Despite her name, Cat is not fleet-footed nor a good jumper. She is rather clumsy, actually.
Which is why I rush up to see the action when she goes Upstairs. Downstairs is her province, hers and Big Stupid, the dumb dog that occupies space for no good reason. Upstairs is mine. It has a high wardrobe for me to sit on (and attack Big Stupid from), the kitchen sink that occasionally drips lovely fresh water for me, and a tall towel cupboard with no door, the perfect place to hide.
Big Stupid has enough brain cells to stay on Cat's big bed when we're all Upstairs. Oh, she tries to come into MY places, like the bathtub and under the bed. But we all know what one good whoosh of an un-declawed cat can do, don't we?
As she is prone to do, Cat announced to Big Stupid and me last night that she was going to take a bath. I like it when she takes a bath. Big Stupid stays on the bed and I go into the bathroom before the door closes. I walk the edge of the bathtub, play in the foamy bubbles Cat puts into the tub and yell at Big Stupid if she ventures off the bed and to the other side of the door.
The room was cozy and full of nice scented steam as I jumped off the tub and onto the floor. Instead of sitting inside the sink, one of my favorite places, I decided to curl up on the bath mat. I didn't think to tell Cat; I mean, really, is it any of her business where I nap?
Anyway, by the time I heard the water splashing as Cat rose from the tub it was too late. I was in mid-stretch, rather irritated by being awakened, when a big, wet foot came down on me. Naturally, I reacted as one must in such situations -- I bit Cat's big, wet foot.
She yelled as if I'd really hurt her. Her yelling scared me, so I went running for the sink. Cat, unfortunately, moved in the same direction. But she grabbed that towel cupboard and all the towels came falling out, all over her and me.
Well, that just made her yell more, which brought Big Stupid off the bed and into the hall. My ears could hardly stand the combination of Cat's yowling and Big Stupid's barking, so I did what I could to settle things down. I yelled back at Cat and swiped at her foot again.
Alas, she misinterpreted my attempt at peace and the next thing I knew, she had me in both hands and tossed me out to where Big Stupid waited.
We'll not go into the unpleasantness that ensued. What I will tell you is this: The dog may be bigger and louder, but mean and sneaky wins every time. As in dogs with bushy tails really should keep them out of the grip of determined felines.
Now you'll have to excuse me. I'm off to remind people to buy Cat's books, "Kentucky Blues" and "No Safe Place," both from Turquoise Morning Press. I do have a standard of living to maintain, you know.
Tabby
Tabby
That, of course, is not easy. Despite her name, Cat is not fleet-footed nor a good jumper. She is rather clumsy, actually.
Which is why I rush up to see the action when she goes Upstairs. Downstairs is her province, hers and Big Stupid, the dumb dog that occupies space for no good reason. Upstairs is mine. It has a high wardrobe for me to sit on (and attack Big Stupid from), the kitchen sink that occasionally drips lovely fresh water for me, and a tall towel cupboard with no door, the perfect place to hide.
Big Stupid has enough brain cells to stay on Cat's big bed when we're all Upstairs. Oh, she tries to come into MY places, like the bathtub and under the bed. But we all know what one good whoosh of an un-declawed cat can do, don't we?
As she is prone to do, Cat announced to Big Stupid and me last night that she was going to take a bath. I like it when she takes a bath. Big Stupid stays on the bed and I go into the bathroom before the door closes. I walk the edge of the bathtub, play in the foamy bubbles Cat puts into the tub and yell at Big Stupid if she ventures off the bed and to the other side of the door.
The room was cozy and full of nice scented steam as I jumped off the tub and onto the floor. Instead of sitting inside the sink, one of my favorite places, I decided to curl up on the bath mat. I didn't think to tell Cat; I mean, really, is it any of her business where I nap?
Anyway, by the time I heard the water splashing as Cat rose from the tub it was too late. I was in mid-stretch, rather irritated by being awakened, when a big, wet foot came down on me. Naturally, I reacted as one must in such situations -- I bit Cat's big, wet foot.
She yelled as if I'd really hurt her. Her yelling scared me, so I went running for the sink. Cat, unfortunately, moved in the same direction. But she grabbed that towel cupboard and all the towels came falling out, all over her and me.
Well, that just made her yell more, which brought Big Stupid off the bed and into the hall. My ears could hardly stand the combination of Cat's yowling and Big Stupid's barking, so I did what I could to settle things down. I yelled back at Cat and swiped at her foot again.
Alas, she misinterpreted my attempt at peace and the next thing I knew, she had me in both hands and tossed me out to where Big Stupid waited.
We'll not go into the unpleasantness that ensued. What I will tell you is this: The dog may be bigger and louder, but mean and sneaky wins every time. As in dogs with bushy tails really should keep them out of the grip of determined felines.
Now you'll have to excuse me. I'm off to remind people to buy Cat's books, "Kentucky Blues" and "No Safe Place," both from Turquoise Morning Press. I do have a standard of living to maintain, you know.
Tabby
Tabby
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