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:


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


I’m looking for a cat named “Bob Barker”.

So Hailey wanted a dog for Christmas but we’re not responsible enough for one so instead we started looking at hedgehogs because THEY’RE ADORABLE but I went on twitter and people were like “hedgehogs will eat your eyelids while you sleep and if you squeeze them their intestines will fall out” so instead we decided to get a kitten.  So we mapped out the shelters and pet shops and on the way we had this conversation:

Victor:  We should get a boy cat and name him ‘Bob Barker’.  That’s a great cat name.

me:  Let’s just find a cat already named Bob Barker.  And when we go to the pet shops we’ll just be like “Bob Barker?  BOB BARKER!”  And if Bob Barker doesn’t show up we’ll walk out.

Victor:  We should do that at the pound.  “Excuse me, ma’am.  We’re looking for a cat named Bob Barker”.

me:  And they’ll be like “Oh, you lost your cat named Bob Barker?” and we’ll be all “No.  We’re looking to adopt a cat named Bob Barker.”


me:  “We’re not picky.  It could be a variation of Bob.  Bobbie.  Robert.  Bobben. Even Roberto would be fine.  We can teach him English.”

Victor:  “Exactly.  We’re being flexible.”

me:  “Right? MEET. US. HALFWAY.  Except that we’re not actually flexible on the “Barker” part.  His last name has to be ‘Barker’.  No variations.”

Victor: Yeah, that’s a deal-breaker.

Then we looked at lots of cats but on each one I was like “Well, he’s no Bob Barker” and finally we got to the last place and when we walked past the glass this kitten jumped out like “OH MY GOD I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU GUYS ALL DAY” and I was all “Bob Barker!”

Introducing Bob Barker:

This kitten has a flat.

And I was all “THIS IS BOB BARKER” and Victor looked at me grumpily because he really wanted a fancier cat and the clerk was all “He’s the last one left because he’s polydactyl” and I was like “He’s half pterodactyl?” and she explained that polydactyl means that he has a genetic mutation that gave him four extra toes. And Victor was like “You want the mutant cat.  Of course you do.” and I was like “This cat has four bonus toes THAT WE DON’T EVEN HAVE TO PAY FOR.  THIS CAT IS PRACTICALLY PAYING US TO TAKE HIM.” And then Victor was like “He has four extra claws.  That’s like the worst mutation ever.  The only way this cat could be worse is if it had two buttholes” and then I held Bob Barker up I was all “THIS CAT GREW OPPOSABLE THUMBS.  HE COULD DRIVE US HOME RIGHT NOW.”   And then Victor  just sighed and started filling out the adoption paperwork.

PS.  Bob Barker doesn’t really look like a “Bob Barker” so we’re changing his name.  I suggested “Paulie Six-Toes” because I like to imagine our cat could be in the mafia but right now he’s answering to Anderson Cooper, which was just a joke but whenever you say “Anderson Cooper” he runs over like “Jesus, What? Why do you keep calling me?”  Or maybe he just wants to watch Anderson Cooper.  Hard to tell with cats.

UPDATED:  Ferris Mewler.  Our cat’s name is now Ferris Mewler.  Best cat name ever.

Men don’t understand science.

This was supposed to be a post about how awesome towels are but then my cat Rolly fucked it all up.  I was going to share my discovery about how if you wrap your hair up in a tight towel-turban when you’re upside down after a shower it pulls your face-skin back so it’s all taut and you look like you just had a mini-face-lift which is cool because you can combat the I-feel-vulnerable-because don’t-have-any-make-up-on problem with the but-I-do-have-a-youthful-fake-face-lift thing, but then when I was setting up my camera my cat jumped on my head.  And technically she does that almost every morning but this particular morning I was trying to document my towel discovery and it was fucking up the whole look, but then I noticed that the weight of the cat body actually pulled the towel further back and made the face-lift thing even more dramatic.  Which was kind of great except that she’s so fat that she sqwooshed my neck so I looked even less swan-like than usual but then I thought maybe it was an okay trade-off because her height gave me the illusion of being taller (which is slimming) so then I was totally conflicted and so I went and asked Victor, “Be honest…does does this cat make me look fatter…or younger?” and he just kind of stared at me and I’m all “Seriously, this is not a trick question.  This is for science.”  And then he was all “You know, you’re the reason why that damn cat jumps on everyone’s head.  If you’d stop letting her ride around like that we’d have a lot less people complaining that our cat attacked their head” and then I was all “I’m not even going to talk to you while you’re being ridiculous” and I walked away because Victor’s mother doesn’t count as “everyone” and besides, the cat was probably just trying to make her look younger.  Or fatter.  Hard to tell with cats.

PS.   This is exactly why I keep a tripod set up in my bathroom.  And also, it makes people take faster showers because they never know if the camera is going to go off.  So I’m saving water and inventing beauty tips.  And also I’m making cats more useful.  You’re welcome, America.

I showed this picture to Victor and he was all "Is that my toothbrush?!" like *that's* the pertinent issue. Victor needs to get his priorities straightened out. And also have no idea if that's his toothbrush. I'm way to busy doing science to pay attention to trivial shit like that.

Comment of the day: Clearly, to activate the scientific part of your brain you need a cat to sit on it. That’s why Einstein’s hair was so fucked up.  He didn’t want people to see the cat.  He wanted all the credit. ~ a

The ASPCA doesn’t care if your dog is awesome or not.

So lately my rheumatoid arthritis has spread into my feet, making it almost impossible to walk and Victor felt so sorry for me that he decided to get me a puppy, which is a lot like giving a piano to someone who is only a torso but WHO CARES BECAUSE I HAVE A FUCKING PUPPY!

His name is _____________.

This is where I’ve been sitting for the last 6 hours because none of us can agree on a name so now we’re just calling him different names all the time, waiting for one to stick. The top contenders so far:

Mr. Pickles
Snugglepants the Death Bringer
Knuckles McGee

I have to get a name quick though because I need to know what to call him when I take him to the vet because last time we took the cat to the vet they accidentally declawed her and I was all “The fuck?” and they were all “Oh.  We thought that’s what you wanted” but it wasn’t and I had to pay anyway but they said I could have a credit so I’m going to use the credit to have the dog declawed because now neither of the cats have claws so it only seems right to level the playing field.  But then when I called the vet they were all “Uh.  We don’t de-claw dogs” and I was like “Well that seems kind of racist” and then there was this big pause probably because she was thinking “Yeah.  That totally is kinda racist”.  Then we got disconnected.  So I’m just going to take him up there and ask them in person.  And if they refuse to declaw him I’ll just have his ears pierced instead.

UPDATE:  Our ASPCA doesn’t even have ear piercing equipment, y’all.  What, do we live in the ghetto? So then I asked how old dogs have to be before they can start getting tattoos and the receptionist was all “WE DON’T GIVE DOGS TATTOOS“. And I was all “LIKE I’D EVEN LET YOU GIVE MY DOG A TATTOO, LADY”. And then we had to leave because Mr. Pickles was getting nervous from all the shouting. I mean, honestly, these are the same people who accidentally declawed my cat. You think I’m going to trust them to tattoo my dog? We’ll go to a professional for that, thankyouverymuch. The last thing I want is Truman ending up with some prison tattoo from the ASPCA.

PS.  I called the tattoo parlor and they were all “Huh?”  Honestly, I’m getting the worst customer service ever.  So I made a mock-up of how I want Alfie to look and I’m emailing it to them because maybe they just can’t appreciate how kick-ass this dog is going to look when he’s done.

And the answer to your question is “Yes. Yes, he is the luckiest dog ever.”

Comment of the day: You need to name him “My Vagina” that way you can call the vet and say things like “there’s something wrong with My Vagina” or “My Vagina just swallowed a shoe, is that dangerous?” ~ Anissa@hope4peyton