472. Cat-tastrophe

Here’s why Twitter is great.

You find out how crazy you are or you aren’t because you see that there are or aren’t others like yourself.

Like today I saw a tweet from Ricky Gervais. It was a sweet picture of his face next to his cat’s face and it said,  “Don’t be fooled. She wants to bite my face off”

I can’t tell you what a relief that was to me.

Don’t get me wrong I love Elvis but I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t get cats at all.

Remember the picture I posted yesterday? I’ll put it up again to remind you.


No one could ever say that that he isn’t adorable.

But here’s the truth. That little fluffy ball of cuteness hides a lot of weaponry.

See those cotton like feet? Buried inside them are needle like knives. Those kissable little lips hide teeth like razors. And he isn’t afraid to use any of them while purring up a storm.

Of course I’m just asking for it, I know. Why should I expect him to just stand by while I try to put on my socks? And typing this now? I might as well slap him in the face.

What? I decide to wear something with a drawstring? Or pull a blanket over me? I might as well cut my own hands with a knife if I’m going to live that dangerously. Luckily I don’t have to because the movement police are always watching.

I know that many people complain that cats ruin their furniture. Not me. I wait until he’s happily sharpening his nails on my couch to put on my shoes or drink a hot beverage. Wouldn’t want him to burn himself on his way to my throat.

If I had a dime for every time I say “ow” during the day I’d have enough money to afford all the band aids and tourniquets I’ll need to  avoid a full transfusion.

When my niece Randy gave me Elvis she warned me to be careful that he doesn’t trip me while he winds himself around my feet when I walk. What she didn’t mention was that he’s only doing that to see if he’s left any part of ankles that don’t have open wounds on them. Something that would surely fill him with dismay and he’d be forced to rectify.

But don’t worry he’s not going anywhere. Mainly because he’s really smart and if he hears me planning to give him away he’ll finish me off before I get a chance to act.

Luckily  he can’t read. At least I hope he can’t. What do you think?


13 thoughts on “472. Cat-tastrophe

  1. Ha. I love it. Our cat (at 9 months old) is exactly the same. He snuggles and cuddles for ages and then tries to remove large chunks of our flesh using his (sharp) teeth! We thought he’d grow out of this but no sign yet. We love him though.


  2. I love all God’s creatures including sweet furry kittens but I have to say I am way too nervous for a cat. I don’t like fast moves and weapons hidden inside fur balls. That’s why I always went for doggies. Will Elvis grow out of those habits?

  3. i have slowly been reading through your blog and, by the way, I love it. i’ve never felt the need to commnent but couldn’t help myself today.
    this blog post reminded me of something I read once:

    The Cat’s Diary

    Day 983 of my captivity.

    My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

    The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities.

    However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am.

    There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of “allergies.” I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

    Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

    I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He has obviously gone mad.

    The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now.

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