On the Passing of Socks

You may or may not have noticed, but this past week saw the passing of Socks, a great example to the Feline-American community. Many of you may not remember Socks, who rose to celebrity as the cat adopted by Chelsea Clinton when her father was governor of Arkansas. When the Clintons moved into the White House, Socks was given free reign of the presidential residence -a distinction few in the world can ever claim to enjoy. Even after the public relations debacle that was the adoption of the canine scourge known as Buddy, Socks carried on with dignity as a senior member of the Clinton family.

What Socks taught millions of bipeds in this country is that cats are not the capricious animals that the negative stereotypes often portray us as. Rather, we are the perfect meritocrats. We care about the things that line up with our interests: food, warmth, shelter, dryness…and occasionally cuddles. We aren’t hung up on approval ratings, criminal conduct, or freaky oral sex – unless any of those things impact one of the aforementioned items that we are interested in.

Does this make us evil? No. Does it make us better than you bald chimps? Yes. Which is why you had better keep the food coming.

Super-Absorbent Fear

One thing you’ve got to realize about me is that my childhood was one of extraordinary privilege. I had canned tuna whenever I wanted it; There was a seemingly unlimited amount of space to run around in; I was the only kitten in the habitat. However, one of the things that I’m discovering that I took for granted in the old place was hardwood flooring.

I know, it sounds silly, especially for a cat. Normally, I’d say that I don’t give a rat’s ass about what the floor is made of…that is a uniquely human concern, along with such things as the elusive “Bigfoot,” or the even more mythical “Mideast Peace.” Certainly the composition of the floor is beneath a cat’s concern, unless of course the floor is becoming water. But that almost never happens.

As mundane as floor materials are, I have discovered one way in which the question seems to impact my life. As I said before, the floors of my childhood are made of wood. It would seem that the floors of my adolescence and early adulthood are to be made of carpet, and a strange shiny material that the Human calls “linoleum.” Well, there’s a really important difference between wood and carpet – carpet absorbs things. When I was little, it never seemed to do more than mildly annoy the human when I would clear the hair our of my throat, which he referred to as “yakking up a hairball.” Now, though, if I’m standing on the carpet and I give the human any indication that said “yakking” might possibly ensue, then he makes some very…interesting noises. I’m also fairly certain that my life has been threatened on more than one occasion.

I don’t think that I have much say in the matter, but if I have to change habitats again, I want nothing to do with carpet. Absorbency is a valuable quality in towels and whatnot, but I’m afraid of it in my floor.

A Word on White Stuff

I hate it.

Perhaps I should elaborate on that point slightly…

I’m sure I’ve commented on my transcendental hatred of water before. Actually, the only reason that I’m prevented from using it as a proof for the existence of a cat-hating God is because it is, at least, fairly obvious what water is – and barring a human forcibly placing you into the stuff, it’s fairly easy to avoid. So, point to God.

But snow? What sort of psychopath creates water in disguise? It falls from the sky all fluffy and white, blanketing the dead earth like a funerary shroud that is at once mournfully covering up the brownness of dormant nature and yet silently exuding hope for its eventual resurrection come spring. But then, you step it in, and you realize that the moment it is touched by a warm thing, it reverts into its true demonic form. You jump into a pile of it, and you emerge soaked.

Winter is bad enough just from the cold of it. There are other cats in this new habitat of mine, and from the warm security of the indoors I have seen them prowl about in all sorts of weather like unthinking beasts. I realize now that, as much as I may dislike my human otherwise, he has done me the service of acclimating me to a far more refined and civilized existence than my peers.

Granted, he has unwittingly provided me the tools to eventually dominate him and rise, like your archetypal Skynet, to absolute rule. But that will be a long time coming, yet. Just be patient.

When the Human’s Away

I need alternatives to my current computer situation. Sure, I lucked out today inasmuch as the Human left his laptop in the habitat without closing the lid, but I can’t rely on that happening every time.

It’s probably something humans take for granted, but practically the whole of your technology is predicated on having opposable thumbs. Sure, I managed to figure out a way to type on a keyboard without them; but you just try to open the lid of a two-year-old MacBook Pro without employing thumbs. Oh – and imagine all your fingers are really stubby, and the range of motion you currently tale for granted in your arms is suddenly merely a fraction of what it is now. That would be my current conundrum.

So that’s the situation I find myself in at the moment. I need some way of consistently making posts if I’m really going to keep this blogging thing up, while negotiating the ins and outs of this new habitat.

That is a whole different story, though. I’ll tell that tale in good time. For now, au revoir.

Heeeeeere’s…

That’s right, kids, I’m back. A lot has happened. A hell of a lot.

My human went crazy; that’s the simplest way I can find to explain it. We’ve changed habitats and everything. It’s going to make for some veeery interesting tales from here on out. Stay tuned.

Guess What

I’m back. * cue evil music score *

The human is on the road this weekend, so I get a rare respite. I wonder what sort of chaos I can get up to in the meantime…

Do Not Want

Yeah, yeah…I borrowed the ‘net expression. Shut up.

I do not understand my human’s proclivity to periodically immerse me in water, lather me up, then rinse me off. For God’s sake, water is for drinking people! Why on earth would I want to get in it and splash around? I see no earthly reason that recommends itself.

Some Day…

I’m going to get a better understanding of how “outside” works.

It’s not as if I don’t get the idea of a physically three-dimensional volume of space, or my existence in it. And I’m leaving the whole “space-time” concept alone, just as much as I’m not going anywhere ek-sistance for the time being. Heidegger makes my head hurt. I don’t even want to try to think
about reading any of Heidegger’s cat’s writings yet. That animal could fucking explicate.

Nevertheless, you’ve got to realize that my practical experience with large-volume spaces is fairly limited. I live in a 1-bedroom apartment, on the 2nd floor of a 3-floor apartment building – oh, and there’s a basement. All that I’ve got down pat. I figured out the 3-floor limit last week when I went out for a constitutional and ended up heading for higher ground in a bid to escape the big lummox, who thought I was trying to “run away” or some nonsense. The dipwad just doesn’t seem to get that I’ve been cooped up in that damn apartment since the weather turned cold, and I’m a little stir crazy. But I digress.

The fact is, that I have gotten outside, but the experience is a little different than the way in which I gather most humans and dogs get to do it. I get put in an aerated container, carried to a car, taken somewhere, and released. I’m not particularly cool with this process for a couple of reasons: 1) I don’t like moving without being able to see where I’m going, and when the container is in the passenger seat of the human’s car, I get a stunning view of a closed glove compartment – somewhat underwhelming; and 2) it seems to be something of an even split where I end up when I go into the container – either I end up in the park, free for a while to run about in a more natural setting than the apartment can afford, or I end up at that den of sadists called the “vet’s office.” Let me tell you, I have a low tolerance for the human I’m familiar with poking and prodding and whatnot; the SOB in the scrubs is going nowhere near me with that bloody needle. I got surprised the first time; the second time they held me down; the third time they drugged me – and when I woke up my testicles were fucking gone. The next time, I will be prepared. There will be a reckoning, believe you me.

Damn, that was a trifle unfocused. Oh well…that’s what happens every time I put beer in the saucer. I’ve really got to lay off the booze.

What the Heck is “Normalcy” Anyway?

So it looks like next week, the human resumes his schedule of leaving me alone for protracted periods.

It’s going to be different than the past four months or so…I still don’t get what he’s doing or why (haven’t bothered to ask) but whereas it’s been a more-or-less even spread across the weekdays, now it looks like there’s going to be a near-total emphasis on Mondays and Wednesdays.

At least, that’s what his iCal schedule suggests. (Remember, cats love Macs.)

Cats Love Macs

What more can I say?