Who Needs a Rooster?

Thought for the day:  In ancient times, cats were worshiped as gods; they have not forgotten this. [Terry Patchett]

Dash

It's hard to believe, but next month, it'll be six years since we rescued our kitties from the shelter. Or to be more accurate, maybe they rescued us... because those little critters sure have added lots of grins and giggles to our lives.

Dash, our calico, was just a little bit of a thing when we brought her home, and she's still kinda petite. That little princess has us wrapped right around her bunny-soft little paw.

Dot

Dot, our gray tabby, is the younger of the two, but she quickly grew to become the larger. And the more vocal, too. (She's our pushy cat.) Now I wish I'd named them something like Tinkerbell and Tankerbell to reflect the differences in their sizes. Or since Dash is the zany explorer, and Dot the more staid and gabby queen, maybe, Lucy and Ethel, to reflect their personalities.

What can I say? No matter what we call them, they are a teensy bit... spoiled.

Ever since she was big enough to get onto our king-sized bed, that's where Dash has spent almost every night. Usually somewhere on top of me. On my stomach, on my chest, on my neck, on my face. Doesn't matter, because she doesn't usually stay in one place for very long. See, she likes to... hop around. Explore. Crawl under the covers, lie still for five minutes, and then ta-DA! pop back out. Knead me with her paws, and lick me with her tongue. Lots of head-butting, purring and nose-kisses, too. My favorite is when she climbs up on the headboard and jumps down on my face...

And I... let her. Which is why she still does it. Dot, on the other hand, may occasionally join us on the bed, but when she does, she's a bit more polite about it. Just lies close to my side, and stays there most of the night.

But as anyone who has a cat well knows, what a cat always does or always likes is always changing. Their favorite place to nap is never constant, and the food they gobble one day is the same food they turn their noses up at the next. They follow a strict routine for a while, only to change it for a whole new routine. I guess they're trying to keep us on our toes.

Mostly, the cats used to leave Smarticus alone during the night, but recently, Dash has been sharing some of the love with him, too. (He calls her The Stomper.) I'm used to her waking me up before the butt crack of dawn every day, but recently, after she woke me up, she pranced over to Smarticus to say hello to him, too. She only went over to him a couple times before concentrating her efforts on me, but nonetheless, what popped into my sleepy head as she bounced back and forth between the two of us was, Hello, muddah! Hello, faddah! (Which is totally ridiculous, because our cats have always called us Mama and Papa...with the accents on the second syllables.)

Anyhow, that old Allan Sherman song bugged me for the rest of the day, so natch, I did what any weird cat-owner writer would do... I wrote a parody of the song. Of course.

And here it is:


Hello Muddah, hello Faddah.
Here I am now, right beside ya.
Time to open up your eyes now;
Get your butt out of that bed and fix me chow now.

 I tried bouncing on your belly;
You're so fat, it feels like jelly.
You were so still, thought you were dead;
So I did CPR by jumping on your head. 

Come on, Muddah, time is ticking,
And your face I now am licking.
I must meow loudly in your ear,
Because if you don't get up soon, I'll starve, I fear.

With my claws, your cheek I'm gripping,
And my nose on you is dripping.
Come on, let's play and have some fun;
In only three more hours, we'll see the rising sun. 

Please get up, oh muddah, faddah, please get up, don't be a bother.
Starting your day's such an endeavor; sometimes it takes me forever.
Please get up, I promise I will be your friend and love you 'til the bitter end,
So why this cruel wait to get food upon my plate? 

Hurry, hurry, dearest muddah,
One foot down, and then the other.
I will lead you to the kitchen;
It is almost five o'clock, so quit yer bitchin'.

Wait a sec! What's that you're pouring?
Same as yesterday? How boring!
Pardon my French; it smells like crap...
It's time for me to join dear Faddah for a nap.

(Gotta love 'em!)

It occurred to me that the Allan Sherman song was out in the early sixties, so some of you may not remember it. Heck, some of you weren't even born yet! (sigh)



So here it is, in all its silly glory:

Okay, ready to hear the results of last week's giveaway for the nifty-neato package of Shakespearean Insult Bandages? (Insert drum roll here.) The winner is the lovely Pixel Peeper, who left this gem: The advantage of intelligence is that you can easily play dumb. The opposite is a bit more difficult. [Kurt Tucholsky] Dontcha love it? Clever... but not offensive. So, Ms. B, if you would be so kind, email me your mailing address, and I'll get your little care package off in the mail. (If you don't still have my address, you can use that handy-dandy email me badge in the sidebar.)

                                    Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Cats are the ultimate narcissists. You can tell this because of all the time they spend on personal grooming. A dog's idea of personal grooming is to roll on a dead fish. [James Gorman]