Just the other day, I posted that The Bat's Basement Cat had decided to bury my gassy ass at bedtime, heaping the blanket over the offending orifice and all that surrounds it. It may not have made you laugh, but it faintly amused me that a cat who didn't even make the effort to bury his own stink felt the need to deal so with mine.
He's done that every night since then. Last night, though, he gave his ritual a twist.
I was lying on my side, with the Kittygirl under the covers for her
ritual conversation and my ceremonial massage of that one spot on my
shoulder, The Boy was stretched along my spine, relaxed as he could be.
Abruptly, he stood up and started pulling the blanket into a heap by my
posterior. I turned my head and got a whiff of something powerful that
was not mine, and I knew for a fact had not come from Kittygirl.
In fact, I was afraid The Boy might have had an accident on the bed.
But NOOOOOoooo. Aside from some cat fur, the bed was clean.
Boykitty had just ripped a big one, and blamed me.
The little brat just pulled a Dad-and-the-dog-fart on me.
I hope to God this isn't the start of a trend.
Thursday, January 23, 2020
Saturday, January 18, 2020
If ever you get to the point where you think you're all that and a bag of chips, let a cat move into your living quarters. In short order, you will be disabused of that notion.
For all of January, I get a double-dose of cat judgment, as The Bat goes off with Pop for the month, leaving behind her Boykitty along with the Midwestern deep freeze.
As you might guess by his picture, above, Boykitty is a Basement Cat in color and in nature. He bullies other animals in his territory, and, to him, every inch of the universe is his. He claims chairs for the sake of inconveniencing whichever person had occupied it before vacating it for a trip to the necessary. He sits in hallways in the wee hours, singing at the top of his lungs. And, when he's done singing, he walks across the bodies of any who might have slept through his performance, making sure the house is all awake. He has an extra-high backsplash on the litter box because his aim is…well, you can figure that out for yourself. Also, he doesn't bury what he leaves inside said box.
I thought that, after roughly a decade of Januaries, I knew what to expect from him. Then came bedtime last night.
Let me preface this part of the tale by first admitting I am no longer young, and have less than stellar dietary and exercise habits. Like an aging Labrador retriever, my fetch is slow and my food is even more likely to talk back than I am. A little beer, a few beans, or an egg fried in butter, or certain high-fiber dishes can create music in my lower digestive tract, the likes of which can bring tears to your eyes.
So there I was, bedded down with the cats – one each on the pillows flanking my own – last night, having had a rich dinner several hours earlier, and my back trumpet began to play loudly and proudly. The Allergen, near my face, ignored it. Boykitty, on the other hand, had been pressed against my back, and was startled enough to leap to his feet, at which time he began to pace the perimeter of the bed in search of whatever had startled him awake. When he finally decided he wasn't being attacked, he returned to his pillow, only to hear the sound again – this time, while he was awake enough to track down its source.
He clawed at the lightweight blanket, pulled it from by my thighs and from around my waist, until he had built a pillow behind me, and then he sat across the room, staring in my direction. For the first time since I've known him, he did his best to bury the source of that smell.
Now that he's confirmed what I already knew – that my farts don't smell like roses, even to pets – next time he starts dishing out cattitude, I may have to "Dutch oven" the little boogerhead.
For training purposes.
Friday, January 17, 2020
I know you know this little ditty. It's probably been used in some cartoon or manic comedy scene you've watched, you've heard it in commercials, ad infinitum. Certainly I heard it enough to have it come burbling between my ears countless times. Never, though, did the legend of its origins make its way to me, until now.
Whether the tale is true or not, I must admit to being greatly amused.
Also, the composer's life story, such as it is, made me smile. It's so greatly filled with holes as to be made of nothing but fairy dust, but those fairies must have had some fun, since the tales came from an apparent rival in the music industry. Also, since the composer was a Texan.
That Texas origin, in a way, makes hearing 12th Street Rag being played on an electric guitar, by a real master picker of said instrument (and a few other instruments, as well), seem somehow apt.
Enjoy trying to get this out of your head, if you're anywhere near people, today.
Wednesday, January 08, 2020
I'm city born, but I love the country life.
I suppose this might have come, in a round-about manner, from somebody having made me watch several Doctor Who episodes in recent days (that somebody being myself). After all, this scene has staying power, in all its manipulative majesty, and it, quite naturally, would lead one to hear this song. And, for me, there's a natural progression from one of his songs to the next.
Or, maybe it's still just a residual effect from having gotten stuck, off and on, for several decades, on a song about a mummy.
Saturday, December 21, 2019
Thursday, December 19, 2019
O Tannenbaum this is not. But it is very… something.
The Nutty Squirrels were a bebop knockoff of Alvin & the Chipmunks, and a welcome reprieve, for me, from the Chipmunks Christmas Song (which always gets so much air time during the sprawling holiday season).
It's a pity the squirrels didn't withstand the ravages of time in show biz. They were pretty hep cats, as tree rats go.
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
The season is upon me, in truth and in full. I usually hear the Monkees' version of this, in my head, but sometimes it's the full chorus, as in the title link. Large parts of my day are spent in the kitchen, preparing my favorite Christmas gifts (cookies and candy), and there is no Grinch stopping me from tuning to the Christmas music stations and actually singing along.
In fact, there has been nothing stopping me from making a nice, long list of Christmas music at YouTube, just because.
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Sunday, December 15, 2019
I can't imagine why this keeps cycling through my internal playlist. It's not as though there were some seasonal prompt, or something.
On the positive side of things, I have yet to be subjected to the Christmas songs so many people I know are doing their best to avoid (oh, those non-reindeer games!).
Thursday, December 12, 2019
It usually takes two to tango, but only one to get an earworm.
This is probably the single most overplayed tune for tango in show biz today (on those dance shows, in the background on TV series, and in quite a few film), which is why it can worm its way into a person's subconscious. Sometimes the show is worth seeing, sometimes not so much (although Colin Firth almost rescued this one).
In the contest for a person's sanity, though, the song always wins anyway, at minimum by a head.