...Er, um, Hello!

My name is Augustus. I have parents. Sometimes life can be difficult. I possess the great skill of being able to charm the socks off of anyone who chances to spot me, a rare occurrence indeed. [The spotting, that is; not the charming!]
However, for you, Dear Reader, I am prepared to divulge my deepest thoughts and perspective of the world, mostly because if I don't tell somebody what is going on around here, I am going to pop!
But be warned, proceed with caution: Living with Mummy and Dad can be rather harrowing at times...

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Bargain Cat

I am so embarrassed – during a recent grooming session, Mummy discovered a whacking great piece of sticky paper wadded up in my tummy curls. I have no explanation for how it got there (or how long it had been there since it has been a couple of weeks since I had a decent brushing. *ahem*) but I am convinced it is unrelated to the Tape Incident
This was paper of a different nature: it appeared to be some sort of label or price tag. It was difficult to make out the wording; the only things legible were “reduced” and “.00.”
Mummy, of course, read that aloud to everyone, causing quite a stir of snickers about me being for sale on the cheap.

Such comedians.

I s’pose we should go over to the nursing home next and wax the steps…

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

I Lost My Noodle!

Mummy, who loves to cook, has not been much of one since our dear Dad passed away. She says she has no inspiration. I say, what do we look like – chopped liver?
At least she does feed us (thank God for prepackaged food) but there are times when we kits like to add variety to our diet. When Dad was here, he always gave of his plenty, ensuring we were never without a sideline meal. These days we are fortunate to find a crumb so one can imagine my surprise when Mummy got out the old skillet last evening and prepared a real meal!

It was a good one, too – little pieces of chicken, finely breaded and fried ‘til golden then mixed with a light sauce of diced tomato and olive oil, seasoned with fragrant Italian herbs. All of this was layered onto a steaming bed of pasta then dredged with mozzarella and popped in the oven until that blessed mountain of cheese melted into an ooey-gooey puddle on top. Mmmmmmm…

Where was I?

Oh, yes…
Mummy made herself a serving of this scrumptious-looking dish, all the while I, being Man of the House, supervising from a [discreet] corner of the counter. Mummy made for the table, dinner plate and fork in hand, and I deftly moved in to investigate the remains. What I discovered was a beautiful pasta tube that had rolled off of Mummy’s plate and landed on the marble tile, still intact and coated with that delectable sauce with just the right amount of cheese attached here and there.

I was ecstatic - a whole noodle all to myself!

Glancing quickly around to be sure I was alone (no problem there – everyone had followed Mummy to the table in hopes of a handout. Silly children), I eased closer to get a view of this delightful culinary surprise.
Sniffing around its edge, I detected the delicate aroma of oregano, and *sniff, sniff* was that basil?

I nudged the edge and gave it a tiny nibble. Delicious!
I sat back and stared at my prize in wonder.
I was proud of my noodle.

Craning my neck forward to take another bite, it disappointed me to find that I could not get my teeth around it. The poor thing had simply gotten cold and stuck to the counter. I pushed with my nose again but it would not budge. Sitting back and shifting to get a better view, I determined that it might work if I came at it from a different angle. Circling around, I seated myself on the other side and attempted another bite. No good – the thing seem positively glued down! I dismissed a flickering thought that it might be Mummy’s idea of a practical joke (since she isn’t much good at that sort of thing) and figured I better take serious action if I was to ever enjoy my treat.
Sitting back once more and taking aim, I gave the tiny tube a whack with my great furry paw and sent it tumbling across the counter…
to the edge…
over the edge…

My noodle had left me!

I raced to the other side of the island and peered over, scanning from left to right and back again but there was no pasta in sight. I spotted young Mosby The Roving Stomach busily chewing on something (and rather enjoying it, from all appearance) but no pasta was to be seen. I glance at Mummy who had apparently watched the whole gruesome spectacle with sheer enjoyment – her face bore a smirk a mile wide yet I could hardly see the humor in the situation myself.

My rigatoni was gone.

I can’t imagine what became of it but at least Mummy did the square thing and gave me some of her plenty. She even said she felt sorry for me though I question the sincerity of a mother who allows pastas to make great escapes from kits who found them outright.

Still, there it is.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Drink Impediment

It is decided.
As Man Of The House, I must speak to the management about Mummy.
Just this morning I was sitting on the bathroom counter, waiting (patiently, I might add) with Nutmeg for Mummy to finish her morning chores so we could get our drink from the faucet.
In comes Mummy after much brisk action, wedging her paws between us to turn on the faucet. Naturally, we assume this means we can have a drink so in we dive, tongues hanging out, but no, Mummy must first wash her hands. And that requires soap, which Mummy keeps in a bottle near the sink.
The bottle was getting a bit low, though it obviously had sufficient of the bubbly stuff to manage a wash or two, yet Mummy, being of the Paranoid-About-Running-Out-Of-Something variety, decided to retreat to the linen closet and fetch a new bottle of soap. So we sat back and waited. Again.
That is okay, I s’pose, except when she returned, she set the new bottle right next to me, continuing her wash up and preparing to dish out drinks.

Only I could not drink.

You see, there was this bottle, and it was on my side of the sink. And it was in my way.

I gave it a look.

I gave Mummy a look.

She gave me a look, then asked if I wasn’t going to drink.
I said, How can I drink with this bottle standing here?
I am trying to sit here next to the sink, and this bottle is right where I need to be.
And it has a dastardly look about it, if you ask me.

Only she didn’t ask me.

She gave Nutmeg a drink while I fidgeted and turned around and glowered at the soap. Then she shut off the life-saving tap and absolutely walked away.

And I did not get my drink.
If Dad was here, he would never allow soap bottles to loiter about the place like so many cats. And he most certainly would have given me my drink.

I think I am going to faint.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Scorpion Queen

Last night was one for the books!
It was bedtime, and Mummy gave us our midnight snacks (midnight comes early ‘round here), and while we grazed she stood under the waterfall (AKA Shower) and got drenched, as parents will do.
After she pronounced herself squeaky clean, she brushed her teeth (silly Mummy – everyone knows brushes are for fluffy tails!) and hopped into bed, fully expecting to wriggle her way in amongst a sea of fuzzy creatures.
Only we weren’t in the bed!

She called to us but no one came so naturally she grew suspicious. She slid out from under the comforter and padded her way toward the bedroom door.
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen…

Young Mosby and Morgan, AKA The Brothers Grim, had been scuffling and tussling along the kitchen floor, stopping every few inches to remove a dust bunny or two from below the cabinet base. [Side note: Mummy is truly appreciative of our continued efforts to help clean up. She often remarks on our ability to produce dust bunnies from nowhere.] Naturally we all sat around and watched to see who would win this round of sparring, inching ever closer to get the best view.

Well, somewhere along the fighting path there was this one dust bunny, whom we will call Sherman, that, on finding himself awakened at such an unfashionable hour and bunged out of his warm bed, began walking in a rather menacing manner. Now I have seen dust bunnies jump and roll, flinging themselves carelessly onto the nearest passerby without batting an eye but never have I seen one stand up erect and march on eight legs.
Not only did Sherman begin a brisk gait immediately on finding himself removed from his comfy hiding place but he also pulled out a sword and began waving it wildly about! He held it at a funny angle, sort of from behind, but I was convinced nonetheless that he meant business, and I was not about to question his method or fighting stance. I figured Sherman knew what worked best for him.

Young Mosby, on the other paw, decided he wasn’t scared to tackle this armored brute; abandoning his opponent Morgan for the time being, he marched right up to Sherman and bopped him on the noggin. Sherman retaliated with a quick jab of his sword, barely missing Mosby’s foot. I backed off so as to, er, get a better view of the proceedings and found myself sitting on Mummy’s toes. This startled me not a little; I must have set a new record for the sitting high jump, raising myself fully 12 inches from the floor before coming back to terra firma. Or is that terra cotta?

At any rate, regardless of where I eventually landed, Mosby continued his noggin-bopping and Sherman faithfully rebounded with the sword, a sort of give and take, if you understand my meaning. Like a fine dance routine, if a bit clumsy. Sherman wasn’t the greatest dancer but I thought it not the best time to point that out; he seemed in too poor a temper for constructive criticism. Perhaps being oft crowned by an overgrown kitten had him riled beyond his usual pleasant demeanor.
While all this is going on, I noticed that Mummy, so far from being interested in the bop-and-jab routine, began fumbling about in the cabinet below the kitchen sink. It must be something about the midnight air that makes one desire to explore kitchen cabinets. However, I get in trouble for that sort of thing. Life is unfair.

Where was I?

Oh, yes, Bop and Jab…
Mosby bounded forward, bopped, bounded backward, repeated. We continued to watch, from a safe distance, of course. Only it seemed Sherman was gaining ground and moving perilously closer to my location. Mummy was still clinking away in the cabinet, and I grew anxious, sliding closer to her. Sherman was out for vengeance, and it seemed he was willing to attack anything remotely resembling a cat. It is times like this when I wish I could hide my tail!

By now, Mosby began to see that Sherman was serious so that even he decided to back off a bit.
It was this point that Mummy, The Avenger, stepped in (or up, as she had been squatting), armed with her anti-spider/ant/scorpion/and anything-that-crawls gun [cleverly disguised as an aerosol spray can and fondly named Raid]. She deftly swept the battlefield clean of cats and loomed over Sherman, looking far more menacing than he ever thought to. If he had additional plans for the evening, they were shot. I could not bear to watch his demise, he fought so bravely.

It was after the remains of battle had been swept away and all traces of Mummy’s liquid ammunition cleaned from the floor that we learned Sherman was a different kind of dust bunny, known as a Scorpion. We further learned that their swords, though wielded wildly, give a nasty blow to any who find themselves in their path so it is best to avoid them. I gave Mosby a knowing look.

I could have told him there was something not quite right about Dust Bunny Sherman. But kittens will be kittens, taking risks because they haven’t the good sense to run to Mummy instead, unlike me.
And Mummy saved the day.

Three cheers for our Scorpion Queen!

Thursday, July 5, 2012

It Wasn’t Me This Time!

Oo-hoo, Tippy got in big trouble today! 
Remember the time when I got a touch carried away while straightening up the litter boxes
Today Tippy got busted removing new litter from the bucket when Mummy’s back was turned. 
She went in another room just for a minute and heard a dastardly scraping noise. Her immediate assumption, perhaps not unreasonable if a bit rash, was that I was at it again in the freshly cleaned boxes, so naturally MY name was shouted, followed by such a tirade I could barely catch. Snippets of: “prison”,  “gruel for the rest of my natural lives”, and “no more noggin rubs” are the phrases that stood out most. 
I was taken aback in no small measure! 
My eyes widened at the thought of the gruel and unusual punishment I might endure for Tippy’s crime, and all the while Mummy could easily have seen it was Tippy, only for some strange reason, she did not immediately return to the litter box room. So I shot into the room where she was (the brightest idea I have had to date) and stood there so Mummy had to see it wasn’t me – one could still hear the scratch-scritching and the sound of litter flinging across the room.
Seeing me, and convinced (finally) that I was not the culprit, Mummy did her duty and peered ‘round the corner to find Tippy digging in deeply and pulling pawsful of the litter from the bucket, flipping it behind her – she already had a pile of the stuff and was apparently intent on recreating the Rocky Mountains with it. That is, until she saw Mummy staring at her. 
Tippy glanced to the side, litter drizzling from her upturned paw. A tense and silent moment if ever I heard one! Tippy gulped, I am sure of it, then legged it for the bedroom, Mummy hot on her heels. All I can say is that I sure am glad it wasn’t me this time. 
I did NOT like the thought of eating gruel (whatever that is) for the rest of my life.
Some days it pays to just stay in bed.