Category Archives: my cat’s toes

And that’s why cats shouldn’t be allowed phones

Truthfully though, the same sort of progression happens to just about anyone when they begin taking selfies…

cat selfie

I don’t need your sarcasm, cats.

My cats, Rolly and Hunter S. Thomcat, pretty much every-damn-day-of-their-lives:

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And in entirely unrelated news, it’s time for the weekly wrap up:

What you missed in my shop (tentatively called “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up is sponsored by Bad Radio, a novel from Michael Langlois.  In a nutshell, it’s about a guy who screwed up saving the world a long time ago and now he has a second chance.  He not only tries to save the world, but he also learns to find joy in life again after sixty years of moping.  It’s like one of those Moxie cola commercials from the forties, only with monsters.  Because everything’s better with monsters.

My cat has terrible handwriting

Victor:  I’m afraid to even ask this, but why do you have a reminder on the calendar to “set up an apartment for the cat“?

me:  What?  That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.

Victor:  Actually, it sounds exactly like something you’d do.

me:  Why would I set the cat up with an apartment?  That’s ridiculous.  Frankly, it sounds more like something the cat would do.

Victor:  The cat is amazingly good at faking your handwriting.

me:  That’s what you get for buying a cat with opposable thumbs.  Honestly, I have no memory of writing that.  Why would I even write that?

Victor:  Why do you do any of the things you do?

me:  That’s so weird.  I feel like I’m letting the cat down, and I don’t even know why.

**Ten minutes later**

me: OH MY GOD, I REMEMBER.  Cat APPOINTMENT.  It was a reminder to set up an appointment for the cat because he needs his shots.

Victor:  Ah.

me:  Holy crap, I’m so glad I figured that out.  That was going to bother me all day.

Victor:  Me too.

me:  Really?

Victor:  No, not at all.

me:  Is it just me or does the cat look disappointed?

Victor:  I’m going to need you to stop talking now.

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In non-related news, it’s time for the weekly wrap-up.  Let’s get started, shall we?

Disclaimer: That's not my body. You can tell because you can see ribs.

What you missed on my advice column (which some people still keep taking seriously in spite of the fact that it’s called Ill-Advised for a reason):

What you missed on the Houston Chronicle:

What you missed on my sex column (mildly safe for work if your boss isn’t a total douche-canoe):

What you missed in my shop (tentatively called “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up sponsored by DrinkNeuro. I usually don’t do giveaways here, but I’m randomly giving out a few cases today because you seem particularly stressed out. Personally, I’m a fan of NeuroSleep. It’s like sunshine mixed with roofies. But healthier. (Product does not contain roofies. Unless “melatonin” is latin for “roofies”. Then it has a shitload of roofies in it.)

I think I need some vampire blood for my cat.

Conversation I had with Victor about our ancient cat, who I’ve had for almost my entire adult life, and who I suspect might be immortal:

me:  There’s something on Posey’s leg.

Victor:  Hmm.  Is it Posey’s foot?

me:  It’s not a trick question.  It sort of looks like he’s trying to grow an extra toe.

Victor:  Why would the cat try to grow an extra toe?

me:  Well, probably because he just now noticed that the kitten was born with all those extra toes, and now he thinks he needs to keep up.

Victor:  That’s not a toe.

me:  I’m pretty sure it is.  And now he’s wasting all of his old man energy trying to grow extra toes BECAUSE FERRIS MEWLER IS A DAMN OVERACHIEVER.

Victor:  You know it’s a tumor.  The vet said we should start expecting this.  Posey’s 16.  He’s like the Keith Richards of cats.

me:  In that he’s a bad-ass.

Victor: In that he’s almost entirely sinew, and no one knows how he’s still alive.  In fact, I think he may already be dead.

me:  Keith Richards died?

Victor:  No.  Posey.  He’s not moving and his eyes are rolled back in his head.

me:  Yeah, he sleeps with his eyes open now.  It’s kind of creepy, but I think he does it to conserve the energy it takes to blink.

Victor:  I love you, but you and I both know he’s sleeping with his eyes open because he’s looking for the grim reaper.

me:  Posey will outlive us all.

Posey:  MMMMRREOWWWWCHHSNURF.

me:  See.  EXACTLY.

Victor:  What, “exactly”?  He can’t even meow properly anymore.

me:  He says he’s sick and tired of your doubt.

Victor:  No, he says he’s just about ready to take a one-way ride to the vets office.

me:  You don’t know what cats say.

Victor:  NEITHER DO YOU.

Then Posey jumped into Victor’s lap and purred so loudly that bits of cat juice flew out of his nose, and Victor rolled his eyes and sighed, grudgingly petting Posey.

Victor:  Alright, old man.  Prove me wrong.

Posey:  MERRRRRCH.

Victor:  What did he say that time?

me:  I think he wants to sell merchandise.  I don’t know.  It’s hard to tell with cats.

PS.  Posey is fine.  He’s not in any pain, and his tumor is adorable.  In fact, I’m tempted to draw a smiley face on it and give it a name and a tv show.  I suspect he’s probably sprouting a younger clone from his leg.  I might be in denial.

PPS.  I can’t tell if this post is funny or just really, really depressing.  Let’s change the subject.

It’s Sunday!  Which means it’s time for the weekly wrap-up.  Let’s get started, shall we?

What you missed on Ill-Advised:

What you missed on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a complete douche-canoe):

What you missed on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

What you missed in my shop (tentatively called “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on Shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

This week’s wrap-up sponsored by Oh Crap Potty Training, a business devoted to getting your kid potty trained in a single week. I’m not sure how that’s possible, but my guess is that witch doctors are involved.   I couldn’t even potty train my cats in one week.  You should probably check it out.

 

 

I swear, I don’t usually post about my cat this much

Ferris Mewler is back from the animal hospital today, after losing both his claws (it was medically necessary.  Stop judging me) and his testicles (for cosmetic reasons.  Kidding.).  He’ll be in a hard collar for the rest of the week, much to the amusement of the other cats, whom he has mercilessly terrorized and bullied since day one.  I’m usually not one for sharing 200 pictures of my cat, but today it’s hard not to make an exception.  He looks like he’s dressed like a martini for Halloween.

Homecoming:

It's easy for cats to be sarcastic, because they can't accidentally laugh in the middle of their insults.

There was *nothing* accidental about this.

"What? Take a nap. I won't pee on you. WHY WOULD I?"

A lesser person probably would have considered making a game of seeing how many ping-ping balls she could throw in there, but *I* would never do that. BECAUSE I LOVE THAT DAMN CAT. And also because I don't own any ping-pong balls.

I do, however, own dry-erase markers.

UPDATED: The trials and tribulations of Ferris Mewler (self-proclaimed “Fabio of Cats”)

Obligatory pictures of my cat:

Ferris Mewler: "Rowr."

Ferris  Mewler:  “I am trying to seduce you. Is it working?”

me:  “No. It’s not working. Because I’m married.  And you’re a *cat*.”

Ferris Mewler: “You’ll come around eventually.  I’m like a damn Adonis.”

me: “Please stop this.  You’re making us all uncomfortable.”

Ferris Mewler: “I am the Eric Northman of Cats.  Worship me.”

me: “You’re not allowed to watch True Blood anymore.”

"What the FUCK, lady?"

 

UPDATED:  Several of you are not big vampire fans and are confusing True Blood’s Eric Northman with South Park’s Eric Cartman.  Which is ridiculous, because why would my cat pretend to be a cartoon character?  That’s fucking ludicrous, y’all.

It's sort of uncanny. Plus, Ferris' fangs are real. AND he has six nipples. And one time he got into my rainy-day crafts drawer and was covered in glitter for *weeks*. My cat is totally the next sexy vampire.

Someone get my cat an agent.

Psychiatrists are not to be trusted

Conversation with Victor after I came home from my appointment with my shrink.

Victor:  So what’d your doctor say?

me:  The usual.  Still crazy.

Victor:  Well, at least you’re stable.

me:  She gave me something to kill the insomnia.  Ro-something?  I can’t remember what it’s called but it’s supposed to just knock you out completely.

Victor:  Rohypnol? Your doctor gave you roofies?

me:  I’m pretty sure my doctor didn’t give me the date rape drug.  It just sounds like rohypnol.  Wait, hang on.   There’s an actual warning on this pamphlet that you have to be careful to not accidentally have sex in your sleep.

Victor:  Your doctor gave you roofies.  Generic roofies.

me:  Wow.  I probably should have tipped her.

PS.  I took the drug and it was not roofies.  Or I’m immune to roofies.  One of those.  But, in brighter news I’m getting a lot accomplished due to not sleeping.  Like, I’m really good at drawing dinosaurs now.  And at making water-beds for cats.  And at involuntary hallucinations and forgetting where I live.

PPS.  It occurrs to me that if you don’t have insomnia you probably missed the day when I live-tweeted my hour-long attempt at making water beds for cats, so I’m going to reprint it all here.  Because the cats and I shouldn’t be the only ones to suffer.

  • I’ve decided to use all this extra insomnia time to make a waterbed, using only ziploc bags & a cardboard box.

 

  • It’s going to be awesome. Also, Victor really should stop leaving me at home unsupervised.

 

  • The waterbed isn’t for me. It’s for the cats. These cats have never even SEEN a waterbed. They’re gonna be ecstatic.

 

  • I’m going to need some duct tape. And a mop. And some…cat mittens.

 

  • Hang on. I can totally *make* cat mittens out of duct tape. THESE PROBLEMS ARE SOLVING THEMSELVES.

 

  • I’m not going to wrap duct tape around the cat’s paws, y’all. That’s inhumane. I’m going to put condoms on them first. Calm down, PETA.

 

  • I meant that I’m putting condoms on the cats’ feet before I duct-tape them. Not that I’m making them wear condoms for birth control.

 

  • My cats never use birth control. I think they’re Catholic.

 

  • No, no, no. Cat mittens are mittens made FOR cats. Kitten mittens are mittens made OF cats. Cats who died of natural causes, probably.

 

 

  • My kid just wandered in to see me forcibly balancing a deeply unappreciative Ferris Mewler on a quart-sized ziploc bag.

 

  • I don’t even know how to explain this. I just told her to go back to bed. She may never sleep again.

 

  • This is exactly why we need to find a cure for insomnia. Because it hurts EVERYONE.

 

  • Also, I’m bleeding and the cat is pissed. Duct tape makes terrible shoes for cats.