Yourish.com

Via Glenn Reynolds, a few seconds of amusing adorability to get your mind off the world’s problems.

(It’s a little less treacly with the mute button on.)

Several people have been asking, so here they are.

First, Miss Gracie, doing what she loves most: Relaxing in the sun in my office (which I think is now her office).

Since I work from home most days, Gracie spends the bulk of her time with me in the office, or out on the landing within view. I keep my camera in the office now, for just such occasions.

Next, it’s Tig, posing on my newly-made bed.

Making the bed with Tig in the room is a challenge. Quite often, I have to kick him out completely, as he tries to get under the fitted sheet, then the flat sheet, then any blankets. He loves getting under things and has since he was a kitten. Then there’s the biting-my-feet-through-the-blanket thing that he has. Every so often, I wake up with Tigger’s jaws clamped around my toes, which evidently I was wiggling in my sleep.

First, Mr. Tig in my new computer chair today. Gracie sleeps next to it, but I’ve never seen her on it. This is the first time I saw him on it as well. I wonder if it’s because it’s usually facing the desk.

That’s my new, good-for-your-back computer chair that I bought immediately following my unfortunate rear-ending experience up in NorVA. Moron was watching traffic, when she should have been watching me, and it was enough of a bump to aggravate my back, setting me back from months of anti-inflammatories and exercise for my arthritis. Oh, wait. I don’t think I told you all about that. Another time.

I think I need one for downstairs, too. That’s my work chair.

Next, fuzzy Gracie belly!

It has been literally years since I’ve seen Gracie’s fur all grown back on her belly. She may look a bit undignified here, but I just love seeing her pure white belly fur again.

You can thank Lair Simon for the kitty pictures. Visiting his blog made me realize I miss them.

Still not doing much blogging this weekend.

So we have cat pictures.

Tigger on deck.

Gracie napping.

Believe me when I tell you that Tig is not nearly as fat as he looks. He has about twice as much fur as Tig the Second had.

Although, he is a chubbo.

The Pet Club in my area went out of business, and as I drove by today I saw a liquidation sign. I just bought about 60 lbs. of Felidae for about $60. I won’t have to be heading over to the West End for cat foood for a while. Even Tig will take a while to go through that much cat food. Not for lack of trying, of course.

From the men who brought us cat yodeling: The next step.

Because we need a laugh.

Miss Gracie went to the vet this morning and got X-Rays. The bad news is: She has bronchitis. The good news is: She has bronchitis. Now both she and I are on antibiotics (and I got the vet tech to give her a pill before I left, so I don’t have to). Her mews will return, probably when I’m recording my segment for Shire Network News.

My cat scratch fever is possibly beginning to show signs of abating, but it still freaking hurts. And I cannot for the life of me get that damned Nugent song out of my head. Damn you, Ted! Damn you to hell!

Anyway. Here’s a recent shot of Miss Gracie, recovering from the weary task of napping in the office while I work.

As promised, the perfect Gracie picture. She’s extremely photogenic when she wants to be.

That was my desktop on my work computer for a while. Now it’s this:

That’s my condo a couple of weeks ago, the morning after a dusting of snow. Gracie doesn’t go out anymore, and she doesn’t miss it in the least. She’s extremely content to follow me from room to room and sleep wherever I happen to be at the time. It’s a very happy home.

There’s no way my cats would stand for this. It’s too noisy. But this is a very funny video, stolen shamelessly from Sarah.

Nope. I can’t see Tig or Gracie doing anything but running in shock and horror from a Roomba.

I am heading up to NJ tomorrow morning to spend the holiday with my family for the first time in three years. I must say, I did not miss the drive. And while my sister-in-law is a great cook, I’m going to miss being at Sarah’s house. It’s not just the food. It’s the atmosphere, even if it is rather loud and doggy. Then again, my brother has a dog, and his niece has a creature that pretends to be a dog (it’s a Yorkie, and not the good kind).

I’m trying to figure out how to leave extra food for Tig without his eating it all the first day. In spite of being mostly Maine Coon, Mr. Tig does not have the Maine Coon cat habit of eating many small meals per day. Tig will eat and eat and eat and then eat some more if I let him. I have taken to putting the food up at night, because last week, Mr. Tig ate and ate and ate and ate, and then, while I was sleeping, threw up the food in my office. On the carpet. That was fun to clean. I’m afraid I might be coming home to a few messes, but, oh, well. Them’s the breaks when you have animals.

In any case, I’ve decided to leave food in the kitchen as well as in their regular eating place. I set them up in my bathroom, since it’s large enough to fit a whole herd of cats, and by keeping the food dishes upstairs, I no longer trip over the cats while they’re eating. Come to think of it, I think my bathroom is larger than the kitchen, if you don’t count the part with the table. (The kitchen, not the bathroom. There is no table in the bathroom. Just a double vanity with only one sink.)

Mr. Tig is tipping the scales at over twelve pounds now. He’s a week past nine months. And he’s about 36 inches long, tip to tail, when you stretch him out. It’s actually kind of tough measuring him, because he likes to play with the yardstick while I try to see how long he is. The tail alone is fourteen inches. He’s going to be much larger than Tig 2, I think. Fifteen pounds before plumping up is my guess, though I’m really going to try to keep him thin, or at least, as thin as a Maine Coon can be. They’re stocky critters.

Miss Gracie, meantime, is continuing to show nothing but happiness in her new home. She’s currently very happy that it’s cold out, because I put a blanket on my leather living room chair, and when I get up, she gets in the chair and then gives me The Look when I want to get back in it. So of course, I put a blanket on the sofa. And of course, she refuses to use it until I toss her out of my chair. She gave the cleaning crew quite a bit of entertainment last week when she tried to find a hiding place where they wouldn’t bother her. She did, ultimately. I couldn’t find her. When she finally came into the kitchen, hours after they left, she came from the direction of the guest room. I think she was hiding in the bathroom, behind the toilet. Or maybe even in the shower stall. But I didn’t think to look there. Tig stayed under the bureau the whole time. I wonder where he’ll go when he gets too big to fit under there?

Above is Miss Gracie in the bathroom doorway on a sunny morning. Soon after that, she wound her way up on the bed to sleep in the sun. All’s right with her world.

An early Happy Thanskgiving to you all. Posting will be light tomorrow, as eating will be heavy.

My mother had a sneaking suspicion that Tig might be hiding under her bed yesterday.

We lifted up the cover (just to be sure that there wasn’t some other orange, fluffy-tailed critter in my guest room). And found the culprit.

And then I chased him out of the guest room, where he’s not supposed to be. I’m trying to keep it mostly cat-hair free as I would like to have some guests who are allergic to cats. He seems to think the new bed is his. It is not. I paid for it. If he wants it, he’s going to have to go out and get a job and pay me back.

First, Gracie, in her best “Worship me” pose:

Next, Tig, doing his best to pose for a portrait:

If this blog was wider, they could be bookends.

Tig’s pumpkin orange, on orange paper, on the black background of my leather sofa—and yowling. He couldn’t get much more Halloween kitty without being frightened, and, well, I wouldn’t do that just to get a picture.

As I’ve been nursing a sore throat all day, I haven’t accomplished much. Well, except for, since I really couldn’t do anything else, backing up every single photo I’ve taken since 2002, except for the ones I lost in the HD crash (and those may yet be recovered). I already had most of them on CD, but I figure you can’t have too many backups. Then I decided to finally put on all the Windows updates I’ve been putting off. SP3 is now on, and it didn’t crash my computer. Pays to wait. (Yes, I backed up before I updated, Nervous Nellies.)

Looking at the old pictures of Tig the Second brought back memories. I may have to bring some of those pics out of storage. Wow, what a belly he had. Meantime, we have the latest pictures of Tig and Gracie.

Gracie is a creature of habit. She has her routines, and she likes them. They are written in stone. She will not come into the bed on the right-hand side, only the left. In fact, for two years in Montclair, she stopped sleeping in my bed completely because I switched the nighttable to the other side, and moved myself to the right side of the bed instead of the left. The left was her side. I found that out when I moved to Richmond, and switched back to the other side of the bed. I was suddenly a two bedcat household again.

This is Gracie’s newest spot.

I see her upstairs all the time. She likes to poke her head through the rail and look down at me. Cats like being up high. The better to jump down and eat you with (they really do think they’re as big as tigers).

Tig couldn’t be any more different than Gracie. His spot is near me. And he likes shelves. Every day as I work in my office, he finds a spot and sacks out (when he isn’t driving me crazy by, say, biting my feet, like he’s doing now). This was his favorite spot. He can’t have it any more. I put books in it.

His new spot is behind the books on the bottom shelf of a different bookshelf. He knocks over a bunch of books on the way in or out. It’s where he hid from the cleaning crew. I see no hope in breaking him of this habit. Perhaps I should leave a space for him to go in and out instead of constantly having to pick up the books he’s knocked down.

Cats.

I meant to do this yesterday, but I was rather busy.

First, we have Miss Gracie, in a very revealing pose, proving that cats know everything, and they just pretend they don’t understand what we want them to do.

Really, you want to know what she’s laughing at.

Next, Mr. Tig has a chew toy. That’s because he’s teething. In fact, all of my male cats have liked to chew hard substances. My first Tig liked to chew on wire hangers. My second Tig chewed on those as well, or on any hard plastic he could find. This Tig will chew on everything. And I discovered that pet stores now acknowledge that cats need chew toys, too: This is marketed as an actual cat chew toy, though it’s just a smaller version of a dog chew toy that I may get him if he gets through this. (He destroyed his beanie bunny, leaving thousands of plastic beads all over my office, which is why he now has a proper chew toy.)

Tig turned eight months old yesterday. He’s over ten pounds now, and stands more than two feet high on his hind legs when he stretches out. He’s going to be a very big boy.

And remember, children: Dignity, always dignity.

Two pictures of Tig. First: Dignity.

Second: Not so much.

Pamela requested kitty pictures. Gee, twist my arm. I can’t put the p-word into the title. But check out some of these poses by Mr. Tig. First, the view from my office chair earlier this week. Or was it last week? I can’t remember.

Next, Miss Gracie, on the bathroom vanity, which is where she goes to be petted. Often. She’s talking to me again. She meows a lot, usually, but she stopped for a while after we moved here. She’s getting more comfortable.

Now, for something different: Janet and Chris’s cat Kes (at least, I hope it’s Kes) in one of the only pictures where she did not have weird, glowing eyes.

And last, Mr. Tig’s tail in all its glory. He’s over nine pounds now, and I’m starting to think a whole pound of him is his tail. Oh, and he likes my tub. And the shower stall downstairs. He nearly slipped into it the other day, which would have been funny for me, but I think not for him. I was taking a shower in it at the time. He reared up on his hind legs and the door started sliding open. I stopped it that time. Next time, we’ll just have to see. He doesn’t seem to mind water much. But he sure likes sitting in a dry tub.

There you go. Early Caturday pictures.

It’s been busy, but I do have some cat pictures taken here in Beit Yourish.

First, a study in Tig, taken this afternoon:

Then we have Gracie, looking like a Kliban cat with slightly glowing eyes.

Gracie is finally starting to feel more comfortable here and is spending more time downstairs. She was sitting nearby, grooming herself, earlier tonight.

And finally, a scene that promises to become a regular part of my day: Tig sprawling along the marble in front of the fireplace. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter—this is probably going to be his favorite spot. And he looks absolutely gorgeous on the black marble. I really love this place.

We are all very happy in our new home. Tig has developed a new, revolting habit. He’s trying to eat all the dead bugs he can find. Gracie, thankfully, hasn’t developed any new habits, except she continues to sleep under the bureau, and Tig is nearly too big to fit underneath. But she’s talking to me again. She’s been very quiet until today. It’s good to hear her mew, and better to see her down here with Tig and me.

They’re still playing Kitty Tag, and it’s still starting at the ungodly hour of six a.m. Two days ago, I woke up to hear Tig mewing at the foot of my bed, where he was lying with his head over the edge, discussing whether he was coming down or Gracie was coming up. I won the argument and threw them both out.

I have the two of them with me now. Gracie’s on the carpet in front of the ottoman, waiting for me to come to her. Tig is asleep on the back of the sofa. All’s right with their world.

Because the previous post has the world’s ugliest man, here are some of the world’s cutest kitties:

Hey you broke it!

Moore’s picture broke my computer. Tig doesn’t care.

My chair. I say, MY chair.

Gracie isn’t allowing me to sit in my chair much these days, and as she is still losing weight (she’s back to Miss Bony Butt), I am spoiling her and allowing her to sleep in the chair when I’d really rather be in it. Sometimes. She grumbles when I kick her out of it.

You can’t see me.

Mr. Tig, looking even cuture than usual, deciding that he’d go under the tissue papers instead of on them.

There. Phew. Had to get that ugly mug off my screen. Mission accomplished.

Mr. Tig is a sloppy drunk.

When I got him home from the vet after being snipped, for the next 24 hours, Tig simply would not leave me alone. He napped, and woke, and napped, but every time he woke, he had to climb in my lap, sit on my shoulder sleep in my lap, or cuddle with me in some way. It got extremely annoying, as I do have to work during the day, and I really don’t have time for a slightly woozy cat to tell me how much he adores me and then pass out. (He reminded me of some guys I used to know back in the day. But he’s much cuter.)

And for all the gentlemen out there cringing at the thought of Tig being snipped, I found out that you should be cringing. They remove ‘em completely. One little slit in the skin and pop, pop, Tig’s singing soprano in the choir. (Aren’t you glad that castratos went out of fashion centuries ago?) ((I think I’m getting that Hulk-M-S. I’m enjoying tormenting you far too much.)

Well, anyway. Tig is a sweet little boy, and I think he’s going to maintain that sweetness now that I’ve had the vet cut off the well of testosterone, or at least, most of it. And Tig is absolutely none the worse for wear. He barely noticed they were gone.

And now, for the palate cleanser: I couldn’t decide between these two photos. So you get them both. (They were taken Thursday, after Le Snip.)

Tig with a splash of color

Tig the Smug

See? Nothing’s changed.

It’s that time in every young, male cat’s life that they would dread, if only they knew it was time to dread it.

Yes, that’s right. Tig got snipped today. He is currently sleeping on the blanket that hangs off my chair. He’s still pretty loopy from the anesthesia. Gracie is hissing at him, because he smells funny. Hey, he does smell funny. I can smell the antiseptic they put on him, and if I can smell it, it must be overpowering her more sensitive nose.

Today was a twofer at the vet. Gracie went in for her annual shots and physical. We got some bad news. Her heart murmur became more pronounced this year. The vet says he has a scale of 1 to 6, and that she’s been a 2 until now, when he’s moving her up to a 3. We’re going to discuss treatment at a later date. I think that if the treatment is very expensive, and won’t really make a difference, I may let Gracie live out her natural life without trying to shove medications in her on a regular basis. Tig’s illness was very expensive, and I’m not sure the treatment did much for him. I don’t think it prolonged anything but my own hopes, although for a while, the fluids did make him feel better. And I won’t have as much disposable income after next month. I’m closing on my new condo the first week in September. My housing costs will be more than doubling.

So we will take a look at things after the first of the year, and see what the vet recommends, and what I think is worth pursuing. She’s eleven years old. She’s had a heart murmur all her life, and I knew it would affect her eventually. I’m all for treatment if it accomplishes something, but when all is said and done, she’s a cat, not a person. She’s already lived far beyond what her life would have been had she been a feral cat, or if her owner had destroyed her instead of dropping her and her littermates off at the Clifton Animal Shelter.

Of course, I may say the exact opposite come January. But we shall see. Right now, she seems perfectly fine and happy. Well, except for the vet smell, Tig, and being annoyed by him regularly. She liked being an only cat again today. That probably will never happen again.

Been recovering from latest iteration of Stomach Bug (yes, yes, I know, I’m prone to them, and I wish I weren’t). No posts, just kitty pictures.

Pull my tail

This one was taken today. I am in awe of Tig’s tail already, and he’s not quite six months old. And his ruff is coming in quite nicely—I saw a Tig-to-be pose today while he was sitting, and he reminded me very much of his predecessor.

Orange on orange

It turns out Tig likes tissue paper, too, so he joined Gracie on hers, annoying her mightily. I’ve spread the paper on two cushions, but one of the things Tig likes to do is play on the paper, which shreds it. That may be part of what’s annoying Gracie. The funniest thing Tig does is after he’s shredded a piece. I roll it into a giant paper ball and throw it, and he chases it, then picks it up in his mouth and leaps onto the sofa to play with it. I’ll try to get some pics of that. He’s not quite as close to her size as these pictures make you think, but he’s getting there. I think he’s seven pounds now.

I’ve got a secret

Tig3 is trying very hard to be pals with Gracie, so he licks her ears, too. And Miss Gracie deigns to accept the worship. I’m sure it’s some kind of social behavior among cats, and it must be male-to-female, because Gracie never so much as spits in their general direction. Well, actually, she does when they’re annoying her, but it’s a different kind of spit. They’re still playing, but it’s difficult to predict and funny to watch. Tig is hesitant because Gracie has batted him more than once. A few nights ago, I was trying to sleep and they were playing. Gracie leaped at Tig, who then thought she was attacking him, and who ran onto the bed and hid against my side while Gracie stood on her hind legs, paws on the bed, trying to get him to play. Sometimes they get it right, though, and while I’m downstairs watching TV or blogging, I hear them running around upstairs. And no yowling or hissing. Their favorite time to play, of course, is my bedtime. Sigh. New Tig, same old routine.

I love the way they look together. Can’t wait to see them against the background of my new condo’s carpet. Or the railing upstairs. Or on the marble by the fireplace, which I expect to see a lot of during the winter. Oh, forgot to tell you. The condo passed inspection with flying colors. I should be out of the Craphole Apartments by the end of the first week in September. Tig and Gracie are going to love the new place. Bigger, with more stairs, and a fireplace and a deck. I’m going to get the deck screened in as soon as I can afford it. Cats in the sun in the morning is a wonderful, wonderful sight.

I wrote a lot about Tig while he was dying (as well as tons while he was alive and healthy), but I couldn’t bring myself to write much about his last day. Not when it happened, not shortly afterward, not even after I got Tig3.0 and the pain pushed back to something that only comes out once in a long while, and causes a pang of grief and loss that only lasts until the new Tig makes me smile.

But I was looking for a recent picture to send to a friend that I hadn’t heard from in over twenty years, and I decided this one would do.

And then I read the post, and the comments, and remembered back to that day. When I woke up that Saturday morning, Tig was in my room, in a corner near some boxes. He hadn’t slept in my room in weeks, maybe months. Something had frightened him again—I assumed it was the bed monster, or the blanket monster, or whatever it was that stopped him from sleeping in the bed for months at a time. But the sicker he got, the less he came into my room. He’d taken to sleeping in a box in my office, which I made more comfortable for him by adding some towels. The box is the first place I checked every morning, always greatly relieved to see him awake and alive. So when I woke up that Saturday and saw Tig in my room, I knew immediately something was really wrong. He wasn’t crying or panting, but he was in my room, as if to say, “Something hurts. Make the pain go away.”

My friend Heidi speaks of a contract we have with our pets. That unwritten contract states that it is our duty to feed them, love them, take care of them, and make sure that they do not die in pain if we can help it. In return, we get the unconditional love that dogs and cats give their owners. The contract ultimately dictated my behavior that day.

I took him downstairs and tried to get him to eat. He couldn’t eat. The ulcers in his mouth probably hurt too much. But it was a beautiful day outside, and he could lie in the sun. So I let him out and thought about what to do. I called the vet and told them that it might be time, and asked how late I could bring him in. They told me 11:30. I had to decide whether to bring him in then, or hope against hope that he’d make it through the weekend. But I was worried that he was in pain, and he’d get worse, and I’d feel awful if I decided to wait until my vet was back in the office, instead of paying an emergency vet three or four times what it would cost to put him down. And above all, I did not want Tig to suffer. If I decided to wait another couple of days, and then saw that Tig was hurting, I would never forgive myself if I thought he was in pain because of my indecision or selfishness.

I called Sarah, and told her what was happening, and I can’t remember if I asked, or she offered, but she came over to go with me to the vet. She took the final picture of us, at my request. The picture was taken just minutes before we left. It’s the very last picture of Tig. And he was purring while Sarah took it. To the very last, Tig purred—not his loud, deep, throaty purr, but a purr nonetheless. We were outside in the back, sitting in the sun, until Sarah got there. And even in his weakened state, Tig had to be crated to go to the vet. He didn’t exactly go gently into that good night. But I kept my end of the contract. He went with a minimal amount of suffering, and he spent his final hours in the sun, with me by his side, petting him and listening for those faint purrs.

Losing this Tig was even more painful than losing my first Tig, for some reason. And it still hurts to think about the loss of my orange boy. But his successor is sitting calmly in the window with Gracie right now, having failed in his attempt to get her to play with him. And he makes me smile and laugh, every single day.

He shadows me constantly, just like his namesakes did. When I go upstairs, he goes upstairs. He supervised the cleaning of my closet this weekend (pictures to come). When I go to the bathroom, he follows me inside. When I take a shower, he sits on the side of the tub, or he does Tig things until the water goes off, then he comes inside the bathroom, knocks my razor off the side of the tub onto the floor, licks the water off the bottom of the tub or off my legs (ew), and generally gets in my way completely. And that’s pretty much what his namesake used to do. I never close the bathroom doors when I’m home alone. The cats will just stand outside and yowl until they’re opened, anyway.

And now, Tig3 is sitting next to me (he moves around a lot while I write), showing me that no, the medication hasn’t yet fully gotten rid of his flatulence problem, and when I reach down to pet him, he licks my hand. And then he bites me, because je suis un cat toy, as I’ve been saying since I got him.

I suppose that must be the circle of life that everyone talks about. One cat goes, another arrives. I miss the first Tig, and the second Tig. But I have Tig the Third, and Gracie, and we’re all doing quite well, thank you.

Lots of pictures from which to choose (I am feeling very Strunk & White this morning, if not positively Funk & Wagnalls.) But I chose, and here they are:

Urban Sprawl

It’s a common sight, and one that never ceases to amuse me.

Going green

The Tigster is urging us all to go green. Well, actually, he’s sleeping on his chair at the table, which happens to have a bag of stuff on it. Gracie long ago staked ownership to the one right next to me.

Two levels of sleepiness

They’re getting along much better, but Tig isn’t sharing Gracie’s bathrobe. (Which is actually my robe, but when I put it on the sofa, it kept her from sleeping on my chair. Easier than picking her up and moving her every time I want to sit down.)

Miss Gracie has nearly fully accepted Mister Tig. They were playing last night, after he mrowed and mrowed and mrowed her to play with him. At one point, they ran upstairs to play and I heard the thumpity-thump of little kitty feet (there is no pitter-patter, even when it’s just Tig, who is nearing the seven-pound mark). It makes me smile. A lot. I am still fairly stunned that Gracie changed from a nasty, hissing old witch to a cute, kitten-like playful cat. Tig’s one of the sweetest cats I’ve ever known, and apparently, he’s sweet enough to win over even Gracie. Although when I think about it, Tig 2 didn’t so much as play with Gracie as bully her. Now she has a playmate who doesn’t try to beat her up all the time, and she’s discovering it’s rather fun to chase each other around the place. When Tig and I have our regular bedtime play session, Gracie pops in to have her turn as well. At the age of eleven, she’s rediscovering her youth.

This is not to say that she doesn’t smack him down occasionally when he gets too annoying. But that’s good, too. I took him away from his mother, and he needs an adult cat to set boundaries. I’m really hoping the dynamic doesn’t change as he gets older and bigger. We shall see. In the meantime, we shall document the stages of Tig’s growth, and his changing relationship with Princess Gracie. And of course, I’ll share with you.

Herschel is one of my longtime regulars. Chico was his.

Chico

Jan. 8, 1988-July 30, 2008

When last we mentioned Tig’s particular, ah, ailment, it was under control. The antibiotic ear goop that the vet prescribed had cleared up his gastrointestinal upsets, and the kitty flatulence was conquered.

Or so we thought.

Tig started getting more fragrant towards the end of Mom’s visit. It became particularly noticeable when he was playing, and moreso when it was time to clean the litterboxes. So I called the vet, and the vet prescribed the pill form of the antibiotic this time. He thinks it’s a parasite. I think it’s extraordinarily annoying. Tig can’t be happy about it, either, as he is the one who had to deal with the aftermath. But oh. my. gosh, he stinks. He reeks. It’s horrible. And the worst part about it is, Tig simply loves to cuddle, thus reducing the nose-to-fart ratio.

He has been given many nicknames since this started, including: Fartster, Fartman, My Little Stinker, Stinkbomb, and tonight, Chris suggested His Imperial Fartness (or His Royal Fartness, as Tig is really not the imperial type). Then Chris suggested you all pitch in and help me out with more nicknames.

Go to town, folks.

He’s only been on the antibiotics since Thursday, so (sigh) it’s going to be a bit longer before they kick in effectively. And he’s on them for about three weeks. The vet is trying to knock those little parasites out completely. Oy. I really need this to happen. My sense of smell is most acute in the morning, and that’s when Tig climbs into bed to cuddle. And then farts.

Really. It’s just a bit much. I have never had a flatulent cat before, and I never want to have it again.

His Imperial Fartness, looking like he’s about to toot. (In reality, he’s about to leap on a string.)

Meryl’s new sheets, decorated with cats.

First, Mr. Tig, who found something to do while I was in the shower yesterday.

Then Miss Gracie, who wants you all to know that she looks even more beautiful on my new sheets than does Mr. Tig.

That’s the chiropractic foam pillow I got. Apparently, it works for cats as well as people. (Works really well, too, since I got my foam-topped mattress. I don’t wake up with a neckache any more.)

My new bed is really working out for all three of us. But I wish they’d paid their fair share.

Oh, okay. Tig plays on the bed and makes me laugh every day. Gracie jumps up for her evening or morning bellyrub (though she’s not quite there yet; she lies down and then gets up immediately). And I suppose I can’t count getting woken up by Tig playing with my feet this morning. After all, I apparently moved under the covers while sleeping. Silly me. Either that, or he found the ping-pong ball I took away from him at midnight last night and stowed under the blanket.

But it’s okay. I get even. I wake them up when they’re sleeping. It’s only fair.