“But at what cost?”

oh, hi. 

I have been verrah bizy, as you know, what with spring gardening and all.  

Every time the Humans here dig a hole in the yard, they find worms and grubs,  which catch the eye of birdies, who, in turn,  trigger ancient prey instincts in certain Stunningly Stealthy Huntresses, which, for some reason, makes Ms. Whatsername squeal Blue Bloody Murder  (a thoughtless distraction, you can imagine, especially when one is in mid-pounce), so after an exciting, feather-filled fraction of a second, only the damn worm is happy and going back to his biziness and the rest of us need a strong drink. 

As I have alluded to in teh past, Mrs. W. has a bad habit of blundering into the wrong place at the wrong time, igniting Cascades of Unintended Consequences, like she do, and so I post teh following educational video in teh hopes she’ll learn a thing or two.  Hope springs eternal.  Much like grubs.

Anyway, wish me lucks.

fank! to Sam Shirely  and Monty Python’s Flying Circus  for this useful Public Service Announcement.


you can’t handle teh truth, human…

a verrah norty night-out:

Mrs. W. has made me issue a WARNING that this video is, once again, NOT Grated – (it’s not cheddar, woman, but WUTeva…) and such behavior is not approved or condoned by the members and staff at SparkySpitfire Internationale, blah, blah, blah, but enjoy it anyway.

fanks to Nelayme for posting this thought-provoking and informative vid.

Is this Love?

Is it? I sure teh heck hope not. 

Listen – I was zooming through the house last night; climbing bookshelves and shredding chair legs, you know, the usual low-impact cardio that keeps my engine running while I wait for some kindly teenager to march home and leave the barn door wide open for me to dash back outside- you know, a typical quiet evening, WHEN, to EVAone’s horror, Mrs. Whatsername, put down her Vodka Tonic and informed me that I “need a boyfriend.” That this would, somehow, help me “calm me teh frack down.”

Or somefing like that.  Hard to tell, what with all her slurring…but now I have to know – Is that true?  would Love make me dream dreamy dreams of stud muffin mancats? Would love make me go so whispy-eyed and soft focus that i forget to devour teh fishy or knock over the flowers?

Would Love put my Crazy Pants NRG to better use?

Cuz I have to admit, I do find this picture intriguing.  He is verrah handsome, isn’t he? Mr. Wide Collar, there, wif his older and wiser mancat reading glasses.  I’ll bet he was her Professor – Caterature or PawlySci, probably, and he wowed her wif his superior intellect and constant name-dropping of famous cats he’d met…

“really?’ she’d gush, “Lunch? at the White House? wif Socks?!’

Then he’d take a real interest in helping her broaden her horizons…he’d make vague promises of taking her on a “international conference” that really only ended up taking place in the dumpster behind teh library.  Then, after a few of these private “colloquiums,”  he suddenly wasn’t so interested in her “thesis” anymore. Suddenly became aloof; started grading a little harsher than was fair; suddenly became very difficult to corner. Like he was avoiding her vacant yellow-eyed stare or something.

But it was not like she was going to tell the Dean or the Administration or anything.  she just wanted one more night of love! just like they used to have, the two of them, together! Once more, she promised him, and then she’d gracefully bow out of his life.  So now she’s waiting for him to show up. Wif her pet piraña and teh sweet and dainty Derringer pistol she has tucked into her pretty little purse, specially for teh occassion.  

“Oh. He’ll come,” she tells herself.

Teh pictures she promised to send to his wife, of their night of “research” should do teh trick.

Now, see how wrong you are again, Mrs. W? As intriguing as Love and Boyfriends and Walking Fishies may be, I really am a little too bizzy for that kind of nonsense.  I have trees to climb. If Professor LeisureSuit wants to follow me up a tree, we can talk.  But i do plan to leave before things get too collegial.  and I get to eat teh flowers.

Good Luck, Blue Kitteh, where eva you are! Cod knows you will need it.  And fanks to imgur.com for the great photo!

Cat Copy Editing. An Ancient Art.

medieval cat copy edit, originally discovered by Emir O. Filipovic


It’s history time again!  And, not surprisingly, it again involves me.  Or at the very least, a member of my large and illustrious clan of well-read felines.  Here we see the copy-editing of my great-great-great-greeeeeeeeeat Grandpaw, Meowulf, who kept monks in line during 15th century scribble sessions.  Transcribing was, as you can imagine, boring business – line after line, curlicue after curlicue, elaborate Celtic cross after elaborate Celtic cross.  Monks, usually full of hand-crafted ale, were often a sleepy bunch, so Meowulf had to use every trick in teh book: playful jabs at the quill, ankle-biting, even the occasional butt in the day-dreaming face, anything to keep them on task.

Here, I do believe Meowulf had to take the extreme measure of putting his stamp of disapproval on the whole work.  Four paws usually meant the whole thing had to be chucked and started over, even if it did take another decade.  Not that Grandpaw was such a task master, but prol’ly becuz the Monk had passed out and started to drool on the parchment.  He had high standards, my Grandpaw.  

But since we talking about medieval relatives, here is another famous family member – Meowulf’s second cousin on his neighbor’s side – Pangur Ban, in a scene from the  PBS documentary on medieval cats


and the ending, which could have been written by my very own Monkish Mrs.Whatsername, sitting as she always does, in a dark room with the white computer light in her face, and me, biting her ankle on my way out the door for a quick mole hunt:

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

A V.D. P.S.A.


Taffy Boy, Floral InspectorMy brother Taffy actually has something say!  And believe it or not, it may actually be interesting and relevant. AND about LOVE. Crazy, right? Let me just say I’m just as shocked as you. So here he is with a Public Service Announcement: a mancat’s point of view of the inner workings of a flower shop, just before some sort of major Romance-related holiday. Or so he says. Wif out further ado, I give you Taffy Boy, Floral Kitteh-in-Chief!

Um.  Taffy? Taffs? Heeeeelloo…? making sure Shinki does it right, dammit.

Well, he says they are verrah, VERRAH busy right now and he has a lot of supervising to do and that I should just tell you.  

Kittehs!  Somefing is up!  Boxes are stacking up in the shop. boxesThe place is crazy full of flowers and sticks and leaves taffy in the seeded euc.– and none – NONE! of it is nip or silver vine or anything remotely delightful like that.  In fact, the whole shop smells distinctly of sticky sweet narcissus and indigestible chocolates.  According to Taffs, the boxes do come loaded with things like strings and shredded papers, but the shop peeps rip right through the box, get these things outta the way...totally ignore the play-potential all around them and then “ooooh” and “ahhhhhh” about a bunch of angiospermstaffy enjoys his box He says it’s baffling.   

What’s more, Humans are racing in and out of the store, bouncing into each other like ping-pong balls. Only not in the fun way.  More in teh “oh, Dear Cod, help me!” kind of way. In a “roses cost HOW much?” kind of way.  In a panic, more or less, Taffy says.  And he would know of which he speaks. He has been chased thru the house and cornered under the kitchen sink by me, so he knows what it’s like to upset a Grrrrrl Kitteh.  

Luckily, Taff sez the guys usually leave the shop more relaxed than when they came in.  Something about armloads of leafy greens and red boxes wif ribbons really makes these mans feel better.  Taff is not sure how, altho he suspects that someone is going to feel really playful with all that ribbon. I know I would. 

The shop humans, however, continue to jump through hoops. And, again, not the fun kind.  They clean, cut and arrange barrels full of flowers, wrap packages and spend hours on teh phones making promises:

“yes, I’m sure the orchids will match her dress. promise!”

“yes, I can fit all of Shakespeare’s sonnet #18 on the little card. promise!”

“yes, we can deliver it to your houseboat on the Potomac river at low tide. promise!”

“yes. she’s going to love it. promise.”


Taffy noticed, before he fell asleep in the display case, the amazing number of promises being made, on both sides of the cash register.  Humans wanting a gift that promises that this fleeting moment of beauty will last in their hearts forever.  And other humans running around like crazy to make it all happen.  

Taff also thinks it may be a good idea for us kittehs to get on the act and make our specials friends happy.  Like with a bouquet of string or a sophisticated single feather, or, for the discerning and cosmopolitan love of your life:  a simple blue velvet box with a dead mousie inside.  Thoughtful gifts with special meanings.  And yumminess.  

Just be grateful you are not shopping for Mrs. Whatsername.  I have tried. Lord knows how I have tried to make that woman happy, but her heart is made of stone. Moles, mouses, cicadas – you name it.  I have tried them all.  So, if it’s plants and leaves she wants, it’s plants and leaves she’ll get.  sparky in the gardenNext week, I plan to eat a bunch of grass and then “re-gift” it into her house slipper.  So that when she bends down to cleans it up, I can give her a head bonk and we can enjoy our fleeting moment of beauty together.

Anyfing for love.

a total wtw? weekend

skidding to a stop in the wondrous white stuffsWow. that was crazy.  First the full moon. Then the white stuffs all over the lawn.  Dandruff, maybe? From the moon? I was really not sure.  There was NONE of this last year, but I was only still a kitten then and so may have been busy with other things, climbing the curtains and other kitteh parkour moves.

Anyway, I was full of Snow Leopard NRG and Crazy Pants Potential,  so I keep everyone pretty busy.

frolicsnow prancing

Sadly, there was actually nothing under this layer of Icy Moon-Dander, but I was determined to make sure.  Moles could easily hid there, of course.  And nothing would make for a yummier winter’s day treat like a Molesicle or two…but still, I came up empty-pawed.  However, my Snowy Prancing did get the attention of the Yaptastic Neighbor Dog.  See if you can find him in the picture.  Sadly, we could not get a shot of him doing back flips and threatening to kill me in that squeaky little bark of his, but trust me.frolic and dog torture. all in a day's work.  He was.

My Humans have always predicted that one day my antics would make his head pop off.  That afternoon, we came perilously close.

(For the record, I maintain that I have, successfully, popped his fluffy head off, at least once or twice, cuz why else would they re-attach it with that cone he sometimes wears, but Mrs. Whatsername says “no. not yet.  keep trying.”)  


BUT THEN, it was my turn for head popping, as look at who showed up, uninvited, for dinner?  rude dinner guestsMy horrid brother, Taffy.  Appalling, right? Seriously people.  WHO forgot to change the locks after he left?  These humans are always slacking on the most mundane household chores.  So it was up to me to take charge. Look at the size of my tail.  Look at my Evil Eyes.  Quickly, for him, Taffeta got the message and spent the evening hiding in a closet, like a baby.  Today, I am relieved to say that the closet smells Taffy-free, but I am guarding the door just to make sure.  If he thinks he’s going to muzzle in on my bowl, he better start pulling his weight.  Like  maybe he could do a few sessions with the Yaptastic Neighbor Dog.  That would be helpful.  Bring me the head of Yappy, on a silver platter, and we’ll talk, my Brother.  Until then, back off. 

Some Mole-lateral Damage…

…can not be avoided…

Kittehs! Your Backyard needs you!

This is no time to be distracted by zombie squirrels. We must focus kittehs! FOCUS.

Luckily, we just received intel from my good friend, Garfunkel, a brave ginger mouser who dragged this evidence to his human’s back porch.  Clearly,a fiendish mole invasion is underway, complete wif an elaborate and fortified system of underground tunnels, shored up with sticks, see? see? Tunnels criss-crossing the back yard until they works their way into the pipes so they can invade the house through the basement laundry sink.  Like I’ve been saying for years.  

I knew it was only a matter of times. But this is just the break we needed. Bravo, Comrade Garfunkel.

now GO Kittehs! Attack! now is not to reason why, now is but to do and…hey. what? wait. why are you curling up on teh sofa? what…a nap? NO! no napping! getupgetupgetupgetup…ah jeeze.  for teh love of Cod…guess i’ll haf to save teh world again by myselfs. 

An AdvoCAT for Women’s Rights

she means bizness.oh, hello Humans. did you stumble out o’ teh house yet wif your coffee mugs and stand in long lines to vote? good for yous.  voting is vital to a functioning Democatic Society, so that long wait in the school gym and that PTA bake sale brownie was of National Importance. don’t you ferget it.  also, that long line no doubt gave you time to remember that teh bag of crunchies is running low. so now that you is done wif your service to your country, get your self to teh grocery store.  crunchies is vital too, you know.

“We don’t care if we never have the vote”
wth guys? jeeze. way to make us look bad.

And speaking of remembering and eating, today is teh day i remind you of teh vital role cats have played in voting rights.  Kittehs was called into ackshun 100 years ago, both for and against Women’s Suffrage.  In fact, in 1913, teh British Government instituted teh infamous Cat and Mouse policy to keep Suffragettes from demonstrating.  This was not only a horrible smear to teh reputation of kittehs, who would neva condone such a thing, but also a rotten thing to do to womens.

Fear that women would wake up and realize, ‘hey! i is a human too, right?’ the Scared Mans of the British Government at first felt the best thing to do was to lock these crazy ladies up for looooooooong jail terms.  In protest, jailed Suffragettes would go on hunger strikes, but teh Man was one step ahead o’ teh Ladies and force-fed them, shoving tubes and soup down their throats and even their noses.  Teh thinking was, I guess, that torture was somehow bettah than letting them starve for something they believe in.   Public outcry, however,  was huge.  

So, in order to not look like teh monsters they was, British officials passed teh blame off on cats by instituting the Cat and Mouse Policy (aka, “The Temporary Discharge for Ill Health Act of 1913”).  This Act allowed jailers to release suffragettes who grew weak from their hunger strike but stipulated that if they got better later and started demonstrating in teh streets once again, they was going back to jail.  This way, if a Lady died after being held in horrible prison conditions, well, it wasn’t their fault.  an they hoped the threat of jail would keep the most high-profile Suffragettes at home.  The US government was thinking of instituting it as well.

Luckily, Suffragettes was more cat-like than the Officials realized and re-arresting them proved difficult.  Also, peeps knew in their hearts that cats, of all things, would never eva treat Ladies like that.  We loves teh Ladies! The ones who stand in teh kitchen all day? An remember to buy the bag of crunchies that you like? teh ones who speak in teh high pitched voices and know the bestest spots for head scratches wif their delicate fingers? No. Kittehs has always supported Womens.

Don let any one tell you otherwise.

Thanks! to Palczewski Suffrage Postcard Archive and Wikipedia for the dets on today’s story!

Ping Pong Power Puss

Kittehs in Sports!  Here we remembers Nellie, The Netherland Knock-Out, the Tafeltennis Tiger; one-time Rising Star of the cut-throat world of Dutch Ping Pong.  Shown here in this 1941 issue of Panorama magazine, she is working out in preparation for the upcoming Helsinki Olympics. So agile, so dexterous, she played both sides of the net wif preternatural grace.

But it was not to be. Jealous human ball-hoggers simply could not stand teh competitions.  They took teh ball and went home, turned off the basement light and left Poor Nellie to languish in obscurity, her non-retractable claw stuck in the net.  THEN, to make matters worse, some American upstart comes on this new-fangled TeeVee and completely steals her lime light.

Here we see that Smartie-Pants Tortie, Dagwood, who, while not a bad Ping Ponger, does not take the risks or show the drive of teh Holland Hell Cat. And yet, this “camera shy” diva walks off with teh illustrious Skippy All Time Award.  Go figure.

Dagwood, the Portland Ping Pong star and Skippy All-Time Award Winner.  Also, Attention-Hog.

THANKS to our friend Jan Wilemson and his great flicker page of vintage vignettes!

Scardy Cat

Here is my post for the Tabby Cat Club – where I ask the hard questions and pull no punches.  Namely, “Wut Makes You Scardey Cat?”  

I’ll have my answers in a few daze, as soon as the cat blogging world starts buzzing about my expose of kitteh fears.  few minutes really.  these cat bloggers have nuthin’ else to do with their times, apparently…in teh meantimes, read – if you dare…

Wut Makes You a Scardey Cat?