Pussy Galore!

September 1, 2008 at 5:55 am (The Easy Chair)

After reading the previous post, then seeing the title of this one, one could surmise that I had a wild and crazy weekend.

Uh, not so much.

It would have been a great time to dive into a bottle, or read more than snippets of the huge library book I’ve been working on. I tapped into my feminine side (instead of tapping into someone else’s feminine side) and read pieces of Barbara Walters’ Auditions. I’m planning a post about my complete and utter pussification, and will discuss Babs and The View in depth at that time.

But first, back to the pussy!

My cat died a few months back. She was my cat only in the fact that she slept outside my bedroom doorstep, and preferred my leg to everyone else’s. Jenny from the Block was the Anna Nicole Smith of cats; blond, ditzy and fun to cuddle with. Too bad I am allergic.

Jenny was our third cat, she showed up about seven years ago. Neptune became number four, an orange striped tomcat who quickly lost two major reasons to want to take over the world. He’s still obnoxious, but doesn’t know why. He’s in his early twenties (in cat years) and behaves like a fratboy with a Coors Light habit. When you add in the two oldest cats, we have a moving carpet with tails. The cats have learned to stay away from me when I have shoes on. Without toes for curb-feelers, the house gets awakened by kittie-yelps from misplaced tails when the critters get too close.

Apparently, Jenny’s death created a vaccuum in the feline world. Three cats can’t possibly create enough mayhem in our house, so let’s get some more!

Enter Jenga. He wandered onto the property and into the house a couple of weeks ago. He looks like a black-and-white tiger, albeit not as intimidating. He’s about thirteen (in cat years) and a royal pain in the ass. Translation: the kids love him.

Since cats (and Supersoakers, the ultimate in cat behavior modification tools) are outlawed in my room, it took about half an hour to pull Jenga out from under my bed. (“If it poops under there, you’re cleaning it up!”) My nephew and a ball of string eventually coaxed the little bugger out of hiding. Hiding isn’t the proper term; it was more of a Tre Arrow ‘I’m-gonna bug-the-shit-out-of-you’ -type action. Don’t mind me- I’m just going to stay under here, inflaming nasal tissue until your head explodes!

So now whenever I step into the hallway, I have to use my left leg as a barrier while I check for incoming invaders.

But wait, it gets better. Just like a Popeil product, there’s more!

As I went to the kitchen a couple of days ago, I saw yet another cat staring me down. A black ball of fluff about the size of a properly-fed gerbil. I look back with fondness to the terrarium/aquarium where my pet gerbils, Doc and Nasty, used to reside. They were properly contained, much less maintenance, and I didn’t require an endless supply of nasal tissue.

WTF? I see my sister holding another cat. Jeezus tapdancing Christ, this one looks like Hitler! I realize it’s time to surrender.

The two newest cats don’t have names yet. Having a cat named Hitler in my neighborhood would send the wrong message. (Besides, she’s a girl…) Groucho was suggested, but again, not a feminine name. (Grouch-ee might work, but then I risk pissing off the feminists in the house.) I thought of Chaplin, after the cat’s mustache. Geraldine! As in Geraldine Chaplin! Sigh, nobody would get the reference. I liked the idea of naming it after a Hollywood actress. My niece suggested Jennifer 2, after my dead cat. A nice thought. Maybe Jenna, after Dharma and Greg’s Jenna Elfman? I was watching the first Rocky movie, and have liked Rocky’s wife since the Godfather movies. Talia Shire. That’s it!

Jenna-Talia.

Explain that on Show and Tell day, kids…

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