Because I am cat-sitting for le bf this weekend and make lots of allusions to these kitties anyway—especially mi panterita (“my little panther”) Rosie—I wanted to supply some points of visual reference. The top two are Nixon, who has done more to make le bf become a crazy cat man than maybe any other cat ever could; he’s got a fairly dog-like personality in terms of being friendly and goofy, though he reminds me of my baby girl Sophie as well because of how sweet and snuggly he is. He also has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on a cat—le bf finally captured them in the second photo, which I’ve only altered by upping the vibrance and saturation. The rest of it is all him, baby. (Last week I was thinking about him being Ol’ Blue Eyes and started singing Sister Sledge’s “Frankie” to him, so that’s become my song for him.)

The bottom two are of Rosie, my little panther, or as I addressed her from the very first, mi diosita preciosa (“my precious little goddess”). She’s a lot like my sadly-deceased kitteh Beezer in terms of being somewhat standoffish and cranky, but she’s got beautiful green eyes (though they look amber here, I didn’t want to mess with them in Photoshop) and can be sweet ‘n snuggly when she feels like it. As well, she’s a total goofball when it comes to chasing any kind of light or reflection, which I found out the first time sunlight caught my shiny silver bracelet and she promptly went apeshit trying to catch the reflections on the wall.

I do love my babies at home, but I also love these ones at the other home where my heart lives.

Finally—the first decent photo I’ve gotten of Lucky. When I told my niece about him this afternoon, I couldn’t help gushing, “It’s like I’ve got Thibault back again!” But really, I think of him as his own person—well, his own cat, anyway—and just appreciate the countless ways he is sooo like the feline love of my life that I lost 12 yrs ago. Every time he tucks his purring little head beneath my chin and goes to sleep on my chest just reminds me which one of us is truly the lucky one.


I still haven’t gotten a decent photo of Lucky’s big gorgeous amber eyes yet, but this was him sleeping earlier—in an example of what my friend Bill calls “the purr face”—and below, his skinny lil’ butt while he’s getting noms. I can’t honestly tell how much his thinness is from starvation versus how much is from being only about a year old (and still very kittenish in a host of ways) & thus he may be still growing/filling out, though there’s no reason both couldn’t be relevant factors.


With reference to Moe’s "before" photos, here he is in the “after” segment. Yes, indeed, it’s a case of Honey, I Shrunk the Moe! He was not terribly well-behaved, as the groomer confessed when showing me the long scratch he gave her (I’m afraid the word “vicious.” was used), but he’s been good as gold ever since we got home yesterday; that may be in part a vote in favor of Feliway, since I sprayed a little on him just because he had been bathed in addition to looking different. A day later, he still smells lovely, though I’m not sure how he feels about it.

I had a nice conversation with the groomer—who was terribly nice, given how my kitty had injured her—as often happens when people who love animals find one another. She mentioned that Animal Control had recently contacted her about a cat whose whiskers someone had trimmed, and I exclaimed in horror; most of my fellow crazy cat people already know this, but you should NEVER trim a cat’s whiskers, as they not only help the cat keep its balance, but also allow it to judge whether it can get through & into spaces. There are just way too damned heartless idiots out there harming poor critters… *smh* From the fuckwad who did that to Moe’s original person who moved out & abandoned him to starve, we folk who love our babies have a helluva lot to make up for.


I’ve just been talking to my esteemed associate Phlege about the horrendous extent of matted fur that Moe has accumulated on his back in the past month or so, which is the reason why I’m taking him to get shorn tomorrow at 8 AM. *yawn* I’m already angsting over how well he will behave—or more likely will not behave. The fee for doing so at the vet’s with anesthesia was over $200, which my dad was completely unwilling to pay, so we’re taking him to a regular groomer & hoping that a double dose of his regular Clonicalm should keep him halfway mellow during the process. I’m wearing long sleeves & bringing gloves in case the groomer needs any help keeping him in line, though. ;)

These are “before” pics—“after” shots to be posted tomorrow!

Rosie—the black cat le bf inherited, along with her brown-and-white brother Nixon—has the most amazing green eyes, and is a such a lovey sweetheart. Occasionally she even drools when we’re having pets ‘n loves, the little goofball. Apart from her original owner, I’m the only person she has ever let pick her up—an honor that still knocks me out. As a consequence, any kind of black cat discrimination distresses me even more now that I have esta panterita preciosa in my life.

My poor baby girl in the Cone Of Shame. Sophie evidently got into a dustup with one of the boys and the bites/scratches became infected, resulting in abscesses. She was already scheduled for the vet this afternoon, but when grooming herself a little while ago, this caused one of her abscesses to burst (and let me tell you, blood-filled pus is one of the single worst smells imaginable, if perhaps maybe a cool band name). Worse yet, she kept trying to lick up said substance, so I had to initiate some Cone Time. She’s miserable in it, and I’m not much better, as I HATE seeing my BabyG in any pain or distress.

I’m cleaning out an old piece of carry-on luggage that I still somewhat inexplicably use to store all my meds. The curious may ask, how old is old? Well, I just found a packet of contact lens disinfecting tablets. I haven’t worn contacts since 1999.

Though poor Sophie heard the crinkling of plastic packaging and instantly concluded that I had cat treats. I showed her the item in question and explained that condoms aren’t actually edible—at least the effective ones aren’t—but now she seems to think that I’m holding out on her. Hopefully playing with an old pair of earbuds will sufficiently distract tha babyG from my supposed heartless parsimony.


Just for readers of my LJ who know of the horrific cat fight on Fri. night, there is my hand and the battlefield’s aftermath, contrasted with a photo I just took out on the little deck, hangin’ with mah lil’ ginger homies (as well as evidence of how little attention Lucky and Fergus pay to one another—thank heavens).