Great Minds And All That

An aside in Stephen Green’s column You Don’t Need a Study to Know That Pets Are Good for Your Kids’ Health:

“Besides,” I added, “my cat Dingo thinks he’s a dog. He drools and fetches. Seriously.”

Apparently that was a good enough answer, because we’ve been together ever since that night.

ASIDE: Dingo was short for Francisco Domingo Carlos Andres Sebastián d’Anconia Green, named after the Atlas Shrugged character because they both had black hair and an attitude problem. I had to shorten his name to Dingo instead of Frisco because I didn’t want to correct countless assumptions that I’d given him the same horrible nickname as the city I used to live in.

I never did announce the names of the kittens we rustled in October. We did name one Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli, shortened to Nico.

The other?

Francisco Domingo Carlos Andres Sebastián d’Anconia. Although we have shortened it to Cisco instead of Frisco. And, yes, I have memorized the whole name, although I am pretty sure his official records and microchip all say Cisco (I joked that it would have taken a second chip to get the whole name between his shoulder blades).

Currently, Cisco is wearing the collar as he was neutered but last week. He had an undescended testicle, and the vet hoped waiting would let it descend on its own (it did not). So he has had his share of other nicknames, including Solo, Paint Can (if you shake him, you can hear a marble inside), and other things. Now that he’s in a cone, though, the only nickname we’ve given him is Starlink (unlike Roark back in the day.

And, yes, that does bring us to four cats named for Rand characters (the other two were Galt and Dominique). Far and away the best represented mythos among many and many opportunities to name cats over the years.

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And Then, Again, There Were Five

On Monday, two weeks after I buried Athena, I heard a meow from my open office window. I stood up and looked out to see if it was Peirce, the black cat that hung around and helped himself to some of Athena’s food. And I looked down, and it was a black kitten. Who hopped up onto the sill of my window and meowed at me.

I went out the back door to look to see the kitten, and I heard her meowing from the wind break, which would have meant a pretty quick flight for a small kitten while I walked thirty feet out the back door.
Continue reading “And Then, Again, There Were Five”

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They Saw Me Coming

Facebook has barraged me with ads for companies that can take a photo of your pet (or other loved one, as some of the ads indicate) and put it on a shirt.

Needless to say, they saw me coming.

That’s my black cat Isis and what she thinks she looks like.

Actually, I clicked through on another ad and bought t-shirts for the family as Christmas gifts, and I was so enamored with the designs, I bought one for myself (July is not too early for the “One-for-you, One-for-me” Christmas gift buying protocol). Also, I am comfortable announcing the Christmas gifts because the designs, which are not black cats, will delight them, and nobody in my family reads my blog anyway.

When I got shipment notification, I was a little concerned that the items originated in China; however, I used PayPal for real (I hope) this time, and I hopefully won’t need to cancel my credit card and get a new one, unlike last year.

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Nogglestead Offers Its Own Experts

The story at the New York Post is Your cat does actually love you, it just doesn’t want to be petted. Comma splice aside, our experts on being cats at Nogglestead do want to be petted.

Roark jumped up and demanded attention while I was reading the story, and Chimera got pushy for attention as I wrote this blog post. No photo of Chimera in front of the story, though, as he is more of a roll-around-on-the-desk attention seeker, not a sit-between-you-and-the-keyboard-and-meow attention seeker.

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The Texting Cats of Nogglestead

So I got a text message from my mother-in-law yesterday. Apparently responding to a cryptic text that I sent her:

90,,,,,,,,,nmhj\op? I did not send it. I don’t know where it came from. It’s not a password, don’t try, script kiddies.

Then I remember that Isis, the black cat, climbed into the window about that time.

As you might know, I have a number of computers in my office as it’s a testing lab, sort of. One of the computers is a Macintosh, and its wireless keyboard is atop the letter file on my desk. The one that Isis used to step into the window since the desk that serves as the cats’ highway is currently stacked with Christmas presents.

The Macintosh had not put itself to sleep or gone to the login screen since the last time I used it. And I used it not for testing, but to use the messaging application to send longer texts to my mother-in-law that I could compose with a real keyboard instead of a phone.

So Isis managed to type and send a text message before getting to the window sill.

Maybe I should give the cat her own phone.

That way, she won’t keep borrowing mine.

Actually, she has not borrowed my new one, but the old ones in that black Otterbox case, she liked. She would pick it up when she found it and carry it somewhere else. I discovered this during one of my beautiful wife’s business trips a few years ago. We had used my wife’s phone for the alarm up until that time, but since she was gone, I set mine because I could put it on the nightstand next to me and turn it off before it awakened the boys–unlike the klaxon of the alarm clock on the bureau, which might have done so. But in the middle of the night, I awakened, and the phone was gone. The cat had taken it into one of the boys’ rooms; I found it in the darkness, and my phone has gone into the nightstand drawer at night ever since.

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The Maury Poviched Feline Patrimony At Nogglestead

Way back when we first moved to Nogglestead, a couple of our cats got into some inappropriate urination. Although one of the tabbies had, from time to time, used the bathroom in a dark closet, he started doing things like urinating on my desk. Instead of getting rid of the cats, we put them into our back yard which is sheltered enough from predators that they would be safe, if not comfortable. We had food and water out for them all day and night, which brought all manner of fauna by for a snack.

Including two neighboring cats. One, we nicknamed Valjean because he was stealing the other cats’ food.

Another cat, more skittish and standoffish came by. We named him Jigsaw because of the coloring on his face resembling a Jigsaw puzzle. Also, because Jigsaw sounds mean.

Our cats and Valjean did not like Jigsaw; I once saw Jigsaw and Valjean tussle where Jigsaw ran the length of our deck and launch himself over our fence to get away, and Valjean went running after him, flying several yards out and ten or twelve feet down, to get that cat.

So, in the mythos of Nogglestead, Valjean was a good cat, and Jigsaw was not.

From time to time, we saw (and continue to see) similar-looking cats in the fields around us, and we say they’re Valjean’s line.

Over the years, we let in a couple cats that showed up around Nogglestead.

The first was about six years ago. It was spring time, and the windows and doors were open. For a couple of evenings, this cat showed up and whined at the open windows and doors of whatever room I was in. I put out some food for him, so he hung around. After a couple of weeks, my beautiful wife decided he should be neutered; she used to volunteer and support a trap/spay/release organization in St. Louis. Since the beast was going to have to stay in the house for a couple of weeks from the neutering, we decided just to have him declawed and a housecat. We were down to four cats at the time, and we have six bowls for moist cat food, so we were hiring.

A couple of years later, a similar-looking cat appeared, and he came when my wife called it. A skinny little thing, he was already front declawed and neutered. Because he seemed nice, my family wanted to, and did, take him in pretty quickly. He’s a bit of a biter, though–nipping at your feet and ankles when you’re walking. One constantly finds him at your feet as well, so we postulate that another family threw him out for it.

So we have these two cats we brought in, which undoubtedly has given us the neighborhood reputation of being cat rustlers. The cats look the same, and they look like the other cats we’ve seen around the neighborhood. So we’ve posited that they’re progeny of Valjean.

However, I’ve recently been using our cat pictures as test data, and I’ve got photos rotating on another monitor again, which led me to a shocking discovery that has proven that everything I believed to be true was a lie.

Continue reading “The Maury Poviched Feline Patrimony At Nogglestead”

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You Have Been Warned!

If you ever see a kitty looking all cute and friendly, stretched out like it wants a belly rub:

Do not pet the kitty belly! It is a hand trap!

You will be bitten and back-raked!

House cats, being predators who unfortunately are very small, must use their very cuteness to lure their prey to its doom!

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The Book Accumulation Points of Brian J., Explained

I explained book accumulation points last year (almost two years ago, actually).

But I failed to explain one of the reasons why the stack of books has gotten so tall by my reading chair.

It’s because my current black cat Isis defends them.

I try to reach for the books, and she bites me.

Actually, she bites me for so many reasons. Such as doing the laundry (she is no longer satisfied with The Arena of Isis; now, she insists upon jumping on the bed whilst I’m folding laundry and batting and trying to bite me).

I don’t know what it is. The black cats are all so sweet and friendly until they come to me, and then they become mean.

Actually, she does not defend the side table that much. I was just trying to use it as an excuse to justify my own habit of laying aside books to finish later, when later might be years.

Isis actually prefers to jump on my lap when I am reading and inspect books by rubbing her cheek against them. Clearly, she favors heavy hardback books which scratch her better than Executioner paperbacks or saddle-stitched self-published works. But she prefers those to nothing at all.

And then she hops off and runs away, only to return minutes later to hop up and inspect the book again.

Sometimes, though, she will settle into my lap for a long-Isis-time of a couple minutes. But I am not to pet her. Otherwise, she will bite me. Ibit.

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I’m Not That Gone Already

So I work a lot on the phone, sometimes leading calls where my microphone is open most of the call.

And this chonker makes himself comfortable on a chair beside my desk and proceeds to nap and snore.

I mean, I might be a short timer, but I am not sleeping through these calls.

This affectionate fellow likes to nestle up with me when I nap or sleep at night, and he snores as loud as a human might. I mean, maybe louder than I do. I can’t tell, because I’m generally sleeping when I snore, but I certainly hope I don’t snore any louder than that.

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Internet Cattin’

I don’t know why I thought of this joke whilst sitting on the pool deck watching my youngest jumping off the diving board.

But I did.

I know, it requires knowledge of Roman history as well as understanding that large cats are called chonkers on the Internet for some reason. To be honest, I could explain the former to you better than the latter.

I know, I could have used Vittles instead of Victuals, but for some reason the slang variant did not come to mind immediately come to mind even though Tender Vittles was a cat food brand back in the day. But I am a snob.

At any rate, I hope you chuckled. Or, as the kids of the Internet say, LOLed.

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Homeschooling Update: A Ink-Licking Good Poem

Last night’s poem was Anniversary by Marjorie Maddox, a poem that my beautiful wife clipped from First Things magazine and deployed this week to remind me we have a wedding anniversary coming up.

Roark, a.k.a. the Big Bopper, a.k.a. Radar Love, kept interrupting my writing to lick the part of the poem I’d already written:

Not a bad poem; a villanelle, of which I might have written one or more once upon a time. Certainly better than the poem on the other side of the page, although the boys liked it better because it was shorter, mostly.

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The Game Where I Became A Lefty

I have previously mentioned that Isis liked to get into the laundry basket to play her game after I emptied it of laundry to fold.

Somewhere in the last couple of years, I’ve altered my habit; instead of putting the basket on its base on the bench after emptying the laundry to fold, I’ve started setting it on the floor on its side instead.

So now, to play, Isis jumps onto the bed amidst the laundry to fold and pretends like she wants to be petted. Or that she can be petted. But once the hand comes out, she rolls on her back and it’s on.

Well, I have a black belt in a martial art. I should have no problem with this game. I even established some ground rules.

The main point of the game is for me to try to touch her, and she tries to prevent it.

I am pretty good at this game, although I use the two-handed “Look at this hand–whilst the other pokes you!” method which does not earn me double points.

Not that I get too much of a high score going. That kitty is fast!

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A Four-Legged Book Snob

Isis, the current black cat, prefers hardbacked, 1000-page classical literature to cheap paperbacks like Deep and Swift:

Of course, she judges a book based on the amount of resistance it provides when she scratches her cheek on it, and she prefers the thicker books and hardbacks for her self-gratification.

She can’t actually read the books, gentle reader.

She’s a great cat, but not that great.

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I Wonder Why The North Side Mindflayers Trivia Team Keeps Me Around

So we have this cat, and I like to proclaim often, “You’re a menace!”

He doesn’t look like much of a menace in this action photo, but he really is. He has the nickname “Foot” which is short for “Underfoot.” He likes to walk ahead of me and stop suddenly to turn to look to see if I’m going. And when I say “Walk ahead of me,” I mean inches ahead of me. He’s also prone to appearing in the kitchen when I’m cooking, and if I start downstairs (and hence towards his food dishes) before him, he will come bowling down the stairs after me, often striking me in the back of the legs as I’m descending. When I say “Bowling,” I mean like a bowling ball. He is, after all, nineteen pounds of cat who thinks affection involves biting the hand that pets him and lying across the pillow in the middle of the night and grooming me while I’m sleeping. And then biting me.

Of course, I call all the cats menaces in the spirit of J. Jonah Jameson.

So recently I started to tell him, “Don’t Be A Menace.”

You know, like the movie.

But then I realized I couldn’t remember the name of the movie, a film that came out in 1996 and which I’ve never actually seen, but which has the words/shortened title on the movie poster.

I had to look it up.

Don’t Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood.

Which I now tell the cat all the time, and which means I’ll probably retain that bit of information in case it shows up on a trivia night.

Yes, I do talk an awful lot to my cats. But I have been a remote worker for over a decade. I have to talk to someone.

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More Nogglestead Cats Talking Back To Memes

Seen on Facebook:

Isis says:

The hard part is knowing exactly when her desire will change from preening with petting to biting. Which changes faster than a quantum computer can add single digit numbers, my friends.

As I was saying, we have enough cats that we can pretty much match any cat in any meme. And if we can’t? We have an extra Fancy Feast dish with no owner yet.

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I Have A New Life Coach

Modern American society has broken down to the point that people have to hire mentors called “life coaches” to tell them the things their parents, other family members, or peers should have or should be telling them.

As you might know, gentle reader, my own parents are dead, and my stand-offish manner and backwater blog have limited me from developing meaningful friendships with peers and mentors who could guide me to bettering myself instead of spending time maintaining a backwater blog.

But not to worry. I have a new life coach.

All will be better after bacon and a nap.

Actually, I oversell it. Roark does not steal the bacon from the table; he licks it. But now he has discovered the pan in which the bacon is cooked and which sits on the counter with lots of sweet, sweet bacon grease in it, and he has, over the last couple of days, waited for us to sit down at the breakfast table before ambling over there, minding his own business, when lick, lick, lick.

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