Kitty Kat Time

A post-holiday nap is always better with a trusty sidekick.

'Nuff said. And happy napping.

Now That I'm Not Blogging About My Cat, I FInd I Have Very Little To Say.

Not blogging about the cat. Nope. Not gonna do it.

Right now he is staring blankly into space, just one of the many tasks he has difficulty completing because of his crippling Attention Deficit Disorder.

Obviously, I am sick. Thank you.

Another Exciting Day In The Life Of My Cat, Gerard Butler

My cat, Gerard Butler, recuperates after his stressful bathing experience

If you thought the Oscars last night were all about drama, you obviously did not see my cat, Gerard Butler's prima donna performance in the bathtub between the hours of 4 and 4:30, Pacific Standard Time. You are probably wondering why my cat, Gerard Butler, needed a bath in the first place since he is constantly licking his own body with his tongue, so I will tell you. My cat, Gerard Butler, has fleas. Seriously. He cannot be comfortable with his constant scratching, so you would think he would be grateful that I took the initiative and shelled out some cash for a bottle of flea shampoo. But he was not. His constant meows took on the tenor of guttural moans as I lathered up his flea-infested regions within the delightful confines of our bathroom. You would think I was trying to kill him when really I was just trying to save him. Not only that, but today I walked all the way from Walgreen's lugging a heavy container of expensive Tidy Cats kitty litter for his cat toilet instead of just buying a bag of Johnny Cat at the corner store. My cat, Gerard Butler, is spoiled. Several hours later, my elbows are still sore. Next thing I know, my cat, Gerard Butler, is going to be demanding Fancy Feast. If that day comes, it might be time for my cat, Gerard Butler, to go live with his father again.

'Fritz' Enjoyed Scampering, Avoiding Humans.

Poor little scamp.

Despite his feral state, or perhaps, one might suggest, because of it, the decomposing dead cat I have come to know as 'Fritz' lived, in life, an existence of carefree meandering across the lawns of a certain North Oakland neighborhood until that very existence was cut brutally short by the Mad Cat Stabber of 54th Street (according to the neighborhood children) or a careless automobile driver (according to everyone else unless you think it got in a fight with a raccoon which is also a definite possibility). But despite his untimely and cruel death, Fritz remains with us in his white plastic shroud. So with us, in fact, that my roommates and I can still smell him every time we exit our front door. Obviously, had Fritz had any inkling about the nature of his death and lack of body disposal options, he might have worked out some sort of contract with a neighborhood vet to take care of his remains, but tragically (for my nose) this was not the case. Thinking back to my days as a feral child living with wolves in the forest preserves outside of Chicago, I can't help but identify with poor Fritz and thank my lucky stars I did not share his grisly fate. To be honest, this whole escapade is really causing me to think of the lifestyle led by my cat, Gerard Butler, (MC,GB) as somewhat pampered. For goodness sake, MC,GB gets ice cubes in his water bowl to alleviate the fact that he is wearing a fur coat during this heat wave whereas Fritz probably had to drink from puddles of his own urine what with the ongoing water shortage. As for me, if I were so inclined, I might don protective clothing, grab the shovel that some neighborhood child left in my front yard, and just bury the thing. But I am not so inclined. I would rather just use the back door and pretend none of this is happening. Thank you.

My Cat, Gerard Butler, Watches P.S. I Love You on DVD. Declares It "Cheesy" But Cries Anyways.

the real human Gerard Butler

My cat, Gerard Butler, was so saddened to see his namesake die of a brain tumor that he just couldn't hold back his big plopping feline tears. Then he felt so lonely he kept me up all night with his extreme cuddling technique in which he sits on my head and comforts himself by digging his sharp feline claws into my scalp. I, for my part, was left wondering how this Holly character could go from grieving and unemployed widow to high fashionista shoe designer with her own store in about a week. I would sure like some of that mojo. When I mentioned this to my cat, Gerard Butler, he told me not to be bitter. Someday, my husband will die and then all my dreams will come true. Eerie cat.