Cat, AM Gauntlet

The Snark

Dumpster Fire of the Gods
Old Timer
Joined
Aug 8, 2005
Messages
8,666
What we have here are two cats with two personalities. Jack Nicholson in The Shining and Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.
I let them out on the upstairs porch, an act of self preservation, a required ritual undertaken up to 90 or so times each day. One will be tripped over, as stoic and implacable as an 18 inch high speed bump in a Wallmart parking lot that low-rider is high centered on, and the other, siren wailing, sustained meeeeeeerrrrwooooow combined purr warbles drawing complex geometric designs on the floor where you wish to place your feet.

Out on the porch. Psychotic takes inventory, 4203 leaves that need bashing around, a growing assortment of used gecko parts to be used as hockey pucks and a hole on the front porch roof she needs to plant her head in for around a half hour. Meanwhile, semi Catatonic peers out through the porch railing, staring intently, calculating the atoms between herself and that bird on the lawn next door. I retire to the office in the hopes of catching up on some reading that doesn't involve the latest trumP stupidity. A cat appears on the sill of each window, singing in chorus meeeeRRRRRRRRoooow meew meew, meeeeerrrreeeerrrreeeerrrrrrroooooooow meew meew...... which translates into WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?? We only went out because we thought you were going out!!

Let them back in. The next stage in the ritual is fraught with peril: getting down the stairs alive. The speed bump positions herself two steps down while psychosicat does figure 8s and 16s around my legs. No, I don't normally walk like I'm 106 years old, both hands in gripping the bannister and this stairs descent gig has to be done with reasonable alacrity. Psycho is slobbering and drooling in anticipation, leaving dribbles on the stairs. Pause and hesitate she parks on my feet and cat slobbered socks suck. Half way down on the landing I prepare and aim, a little foot flavored cat flinging is in order but they have played at this buffet before. They avoid getting directly in front of my feet until I'm on the next flight of stairs.

Made it down alive, hurry over and grab the cup and go into the in-law storage facility that once was the spare bedroom. Both cats zoom in there in a search for geckos. I get a scoop of cat food and in malice try to shut the door, leaving them in there. No dice, they both squeeze through the diminishing crack. Dump the cat food in the dish. Lala land quickly picks individual crunchies out and drops them on the floor before the psychosis can drool on them. Two rules apply here. Crunchies dropped on the floor may only be eaten to about 90%, the remaining little bits will be scattered all over the place making walking barefoot quite painful. What is left in the dish will be eaten, 70%, with the remainder cemented together with slobber into a rock hard glop in about an hour.

I feed the cats first, a premeditated mistake, in order to make coffee without tripping all over them. This means they will have finished brekky and undertake the speed bump - circular foot rodeo as I head back up the stairs. The only respite I have worked out to avoid this AM exercise is to first go into the bathroom then after they follow me in thinking it may be a new way to get out on the porch, I slip out and leave them locked in there. They will then use the bathtub as their toilet and track pee footprints down the stairs when the boss lets them out, along with giving me a major ration about how bad it smells in there.

So I manage to get back up the stairs and both cats head for the porch door. I give them the slip, ignoring them and slipping into the office. Ritual A complete. Ritual B commences right after the boss gets ready to go out the door to go to work. For some reason she is incapable of going out the door without both cats slipping past her. Why is it this woman, capable of delicately snatching a speeding sparassid out of the air can't slip out a door cat free is fodder for brain lock-up. Of course, both cats out all day = ~1.4 lbs of fleas and mites added to the household inventory when they discover they are starving to death come the middle of the afternoon.

I sit down at the computer and am treated to some pics and info on Serena Williams. There I doth dally. Holy moly. I once faced off against a tennis pro when she was warming up. Ever tried that? Average human = target. The chances of returning any ball fired your way are nil. Below divide by zero. Average person facing off against Serena automatically qualifies said person with the civilian equivalent of the Purple Heart. Staring at her picture in a swim suit the portion of my brain still functioning whispers, 'You are looking at a woman who could break you in half like a toothpick." scratch scratch scratch. WHAM. W H A M !!. The cats are just checking to see if I firmly closed and latched the door. Since when was head butting doors written into the cat manual?

The assault on the office door coupled to years and years of rote training distracts me from appreciating Serena's lady parts. I first look at her eyes and the rubber grips the neuron highway in a screech. Predator. The big cats could take lessons here. Paramed slips in. What in heck would her BMI be? WHAM!! It's securely shut you idiot. Leave me alone for a few moments. Machine. She's turned her body into the apex of performance at a sport. WHAM!!! The runt of the litter who came out last, late and backwards seems to resent my revery. Put catnip on the shopping list and idly wonder where I could buy feline grade Phenobarbital.
 

Crone Returns

Arachnoangel
Joined
Mar 22, 2016
Messages
990
What we have here are two cats with two personalities. Jack Nicholson in The Shining and Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.
I let them out on the upstairs porch, an act of self preservation, a required ritual undertaken up to 90 or so times each day. One will be tripped over, as stoic and implacable as an 18 inch high speed bump in a Wallmart parking lot that low-rider is high centered on, and the other, siren wailing, sustained meeeeeeerrrrwooooow combined purr warbles drawing complex geometric designs on the floor where you wish to place your feet.

Out on the porch. Psychotic takes inventory, 4203 leaves that need bashing around, a growing assortment of used gecko parts to be used as hockey pucks and a hole on the front porch roof she needs to plant her head in for around a half hour. Meanwhile, semi Catatonic peers out through the porch railing, staring intently, calculating the atoms between herself and that bird on the lawn next door. I retire to the office in the hopes of catching up on some reading that doesn't involve the latest trumP stupidity. A cat appears on the sill of each window, singing in chorus meeeeRRRRRRRRoooow meew meew, meeeeerrrreeeerrrreeeerrrrrrroooooooow meew meew...... which translates into WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?? We only went out because we thought you were going out!!

Let them back in. The next stage in the ritual is fraught with peril: getting down the stairs alive. The speed bump positions herself two steps down while psychosicat does figure 8s and 16s around my legs. No, I don't normally walk like I'm 106 years old, both hands in gripping the bannister and this stairs descent gig has to be done with reasonable alacrity. Psycho is slobbering and drooling in anticipation, leaving dribbles on the stairs. Pause and hesitate she parks on my feet and cat slobbered socks suck. Half way down on the landing I prepare and aim, a little foot flavored cat flinging is in order but they have played at this buffet before. They avoid getting directly in front of my feet until I'm on the next flight of stairs.

Made it down alive, hurry over and grab the cup and go into the in-law storage facility that once was the spare bedroom. Both cats zoom in there in a search for geckos. I get a scoop of cat food and in malice try to shut the door, leaving them in there. No dice, they both squeeze through the diminishing crack. Dump the cat food in the dish. Lala land quickly picks individual crunchies out and drops them on the floor before the psychosis can drool on them. Two rules apply here. Crunchies dropped on the floor may only be eaten to about 90%, the remaining little bits will be scattered all over the place making walking barefoot quite painful. What is left in the dish will be eaten, 70%, with the remainder cemented together with slobber into a rock hard glop in about an hour.

I feed the cats first, a premeditated mistake, in order to make coffee without tripping all over them. This means they will have finished brekky and undertake the speed bump - circular foot rodeo as I head back up the stairs. The only respite I have worked out to avoid this AM exercise is to first go into the bathroom then after they follow me in thinking it may be a new way to get out on the porch, I slip out and leave them locked in there. They will then use the bathtub as their toilet and track pee footprints down the stairs when the boss lets them out, along with giving me a major ration about how bad it smells in there.

So I manage to get back up the stairs and both cats head for the porch door. I give them the slip, ignoring them and slipping into the office. Ritual A complete. Ritual B commences right after the boss gets ready to go out the door to go to work. For some reason she is incapable of going out the door without both cats slipping past her. Why is it this woman, capable of delicately snatching a speeding sparassid out of the air can't slip out a door cat free is fodder for brain lock-up. Of course, both cats out all day = ~1.4 lbs of fleas and mites added to the household inventory when they discover they are starving to death come the middle of the afternoon.

I sit down at the computer and am treated to some pics and info on Serena Williams. There I doth dally. Holy moly. I once faced off against a tennis pro when she was warming up. Ever tried that? Average human = target. The chances of returning any ball fired your way are nil. Below divide by zero. Average person facing off against Serena automatically qualifies said person with the civilian equivalent of the Purple Heart. Staring at her picture in a swim suit the portion of my brain still functioning whispers, 'You are looking at a woman who could break you in half like a toothpick." scratch scratch scratch. WHAM. W H A M !!. The cats are just checking to see if I firmly closed and latched the door. Since when was head butting doors written into the cat manual?

The assault on the office door coupled to years and years of rote training distracts me from appreciating Serena's lady parts. I first look at her eyes and the rubber grips the neuron highway in a screech. Predator. The big cats could take lessons here. Paramed slips in. What in heck would her BMI be? WHAM!! It's securely shut you idiot. Leave me alone for a few moments. Machine. She's turned her body into the apex of performance at a sport. WHAM!!! The runt of the litter who came out last, late and backwards seems to resent my revery. Put catnip on the shopping list and idly wonder where I could buy feline grade Phenobarbital.
Hey man, what's your point?
:rofl::rofl::rofl::rofl::rofl::rofl::rofl::rofl::rofl::rofl:
Hint: keep a LARGE supply of catnip on hand, and use it liberally.
Keep a lot of kittie munchies around, too!
Get life insurance in case there's a death by cat. :dead:
 
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