Friday Cat Blogging - King of the Zebra Print Edition

My Little Predator has exciting taste in textiles.

This week, Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, has refused all medicine-laced bribes of shimp, sliced honey ham, milk, chicken in broth and beefy catfood in beefy catfood gravy. If I thought for a minute he'd hold still and just take the disgusting medicine, I could quit trying to outwit my cat, and I'd like to because I'm failing, you know, to outwit a cat.

Anyway, he looks pretty sharp and passes the sniff test, which is one of those expectations you might have for someone you share a one-bedroom apartment with, be it man, beast or man-beast.



When he is not busy stealing souls, Larry schemes. Siobhan gave up wearing socks years ago after her cats purloined them all.

Tata: What are you talking about? You said you quit wearing socks because they curtailed the freedom of your individual toes.
Siobhan: I'd be reading a book on the couch and a cat would run by with a sock.
Tata: Did you give chase? How far could they go?
Siobhan: Apparently to Mars, because I have no socks.
Tata: You're helpless in the face of sock-thieving pussycats? What, you couldn't shut your dresser drawer? Close your bedroom door?
Siobhan: Not since 1998, no.
Tata: At least one of your cats is no larger than your shoe. She cannot possibly wrangle objects of that size.
Siobhan: She's my prime suspect in the disappearance of the socks, though according to Law & Order, testimony of her co-conspirator is not enough to convict.

There is no stealing at our house - I think. Behind my zebra print futon sits a bag of wrapping paper and bows. Wadded up paper accumulates now behind the futon. At least once a day, Larry, the little black cat bent on jungle adventure, climbs down off my lap, shoots me a look that says, "You there! Watch me! Watch me!" and slinks under the TV desk. From the general direction of behind the futon emanate strange sounds. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch crunch. Crunch crunch crunch crunch. Crunch. I suspect there is prowling. Exhausted from his hair-raising romp, the King of Behind the Futon slinks out from under the desk, says, "Cool, huh? Huh?" and plunks down on something cushiony for a nap.