Everyone reblog with a picture of your cat and a little poem about them!

Quality and quantity are irrelevant! Freeform/no rhyme is fine! No rules! This is for celebrating your kitties and being silly!

Fancy’s gift for crime and grift

Is really quite precocious,

What suits her best? To be a pest!

Her manners are atrocious!

There once was a stray cat named Tim

Who thought chickens were just for him

He attacked a small hen

But got caught and then

My apartment became his own gym

My nayme is Polk

And wen I sleep

Upon the sofa

Long and deep

I do not cayre

For normel bed

Upon the quelt

I place my hed.

My nam is Vice

and wen its nite

i crave the lazer

burning brite

i do not care

that flors are slick

my claws are sharpe

i must go quik

the litle dotte

like shiny bug

i run real fast

i turf the rug

Haserot angel, my beloved.

First layers. This canvas is saturated right now, gotta let this dry. I'm debating incorporating done sort of verdigris teal too.

Expression is too sad also! Later problems for later layers, I guess.

Another layer! Very sheer layers on this painting, which is not how I normally work

In a fit of stupidity, I decided to commission a portrait of myself (why??) from an artist I follow, which sounded cool until I realized this means I now have to take a selfie I don't despise (hellish). This is terrible.

Meanwhile, I've taken a couple effortlessly gorgeous pictures of Vice.

And some deeply relatable terrible pictures of Malice, proud member of the Tragically Unphotogenic Club.

How about we just put the fancy cat over my face and call it a day

I grew up under the reign of the indomitable Kitten Little, First and Fiercest, who was a massive grey and white thundercloud of a cat. She was unquestionably gorgeous, smart as a whip, and meaner than satan with a hangover. She was also very incorrectly named–she was huge and old well before I was born, and only got huger and older as the years went on. During her years as Head Cat of our household, she conducted the complete domination of no less than three dogs (one of whom was a stray doberman), was implicated in the suspicious deaths of two of her predecessors, and supervised the raising of me and my siblings.  Because her domain was overrun with tiny humans and inferior pets, she was frequently found lurking on the fireplace mantel, or on the ledge of the second-story balcony that overlooked the living room. From this position of power she could glare down at all of us and be safe from any grabby hands. Not that our hands remained grabby for long–Kitten Little was very clear in her communication that she would be touched on her terms only.

Kitten Little was a capital-C Cat. In her household, you respected animals. Or else. 

Even as a small child, I loved all animals, but I adored Kitten Little. She was the iron-fisted ruler that I wanted to grow up to be, and I spent countless hours carefully observing her and trying to win her respect. This adoration was, in part, because of the fact that the neighbor’s German Shepherd refused to go anywhere near her. That dog had gotten loose one summer and bit me in the face, so I was very appreciative of Kitten Little’s dogless bubble. That incident had also instilled in me a fear of large dogs that would last for a good two years. 

Being afraid of dogs meant that I absolutely refused to go over to my best friend Alicia’s house, because Alicia’s family were dog breeders. Huskies, mostly, but at that age all I cared about was bitey and bigger than me. She often invited me over, but I always told her no. Finally, around her birthday, she convinced me to come around for a sleepover: we would go to the movies first, and by the time we got to her house, her dad would have put all the dogs in kennels outside, so I could sleep peacefully in a dogless house. Based on these terms, I agreed. 

Things went well. The movie was good, the dogs were all outside, and eventually we crashed in Alicia’s room. It was fine until I woke up around midnight and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. 

My night vision is very good, and I didn’t want to wake anyone up by turning on the lights, so the kitchen was dark when I slipped in. That’s why it took me a few seconds to realize there was something on top of the fridge. 

Something…pretty large. Something with gleaming eyes, huge ears, and a tail. At first I thought it was a dog—it was too big to be a cat–but the movement of it was wrong. It was too still. 

And the tail, draped over the edge of the fridge, was twitching gently at the very tip. 

I knew that twitch. 

I had seen that twitch a thousand times when Kitten Little had had enough and decided she was about to conduct a little surprise murder. 

I realized that whatever was on top of the fridge was a cat. A huge cat. I don’t mean a big housecat–Kitten Little was a good metric for how big house cats could get, and this thing was easily twice her size. And I was small for my age, which meant this thing was at least half my size. 

I had studied Kitten Little well. I knew what that tail twitch meant, what that fixed stare and hunched shoulders translated to. There was a fucking wildcat on top of Alicia’s fridge, and it was about to pounce on me. 

I knew that there was no way I could outrun this thing, no way I could dodge it. I carefully, carefully, backed out of the kitchen. I did not break eye contact. As soon as I broke line of sight with the thing on top of the fridge, I booked it back to Alicia’s room and shook her awake.  “Alicia,” I said calmly, “there is a leopard on your fridge. I think we have to do something about it.”

“No there’s not,” Alicia said. 

“Yes, there is, I’m really very very sure there is.”

“No, he’s not a leopard,” Alicia said. And then proceeded to explain that they had a goddam pet serval. 

Things that you should know about servals: 

  • They are a type of african wild cat
  • They are primarily nocturnal
  • They hunt prey by jumping on it, landing on its back, and biting the back of the neck to kill it

Things that you should also know about servals: 

  • They make fucking terrible pets, because they are wild cats. It’s very difficult to meet their needs in a home setting, and they will want to do the things they do in the wild, such as jumping on top of small, unsuspecting prey animals. Like myself.

“Alicia,” I said, less calmly, “Why did you not tell me about him?”

“You’re scared of big dogs. He’s not a big dog.”

This was, admittedly, true. 

In the morning, I got a proper introduction to the serval, which was actually sort of great; I held no hard feelings about the near miss, and was pretty excited to meet him. It went well overall. Nonetheless, I was relieved to go home, to my dog-less, serval-less house. 

Kitten Little sat up on the mantel. Her eyes were huge and gleaming, her ears sharp, her tail poofy and twitching. 

“Will you murder me if I try to pet you today?” I asked. 

Kitten Little stood, lifted her tail upright, and flopped the very tip over. 

I knew what that meant. I clambered up on top of a chair to offer my hand, and Kitten Little permitted me to pet her very soft and fluffy self for about five whole minutes before pulling out the claws to tell me I was done.

The serval might be bigger and scarier, but I knew the truth: no cat was allowed to murder me.

Kitten Little had already called dibs. 

I dug through the old photo albums to find some Kitten Little pictures. She was our Boss Cat for more than twenty years.

The anons in my inbox have NOT heard this story yet. Don't keep servals as pets, kids.

I just read the acronym "D&C" in a context that my brain wanted to interpret as "cease and desist" but obviously the letters are backwards for that. So what my brain actually did was "D&C: Decease and Consist."

Which is, I guess, an order you would give to a necromancer that you want to die and stay that way.

cuteness--overload

“possessed by a race car” 😭😭😭

Pretty sure yes, hopefully you get a good laugh.

Avatar
is-the-cat-video-cute

yes this is so cute! this is a good safe way to interact with wild cats and still get an entertaining video.

wildcat ridge is a sanctuary with great accreditation which does not allow public viewing of their rescued wild cats. most of the servals in this video were previously pets before it became clear that they couldn’t be in a home and have honestly really sad stories. really drives home how unsuitable they are as pets. it’s really nice that these guys can now live in a more natural environment with lots of space, the right diet, and a lot of love and care.

So cute, and yes! You should not have these as pets!

In a fit of stupidity, I decided to commission a portrait of myself (why??) from an artist I follow, which sounded cool until I realized this means I now have to take a selfie I don't despise (hellish). This is terrible.

Meanwhile, I've taken a couple effortlessly gorgeous pictures of Vice.

And some deeply relatable terrible pictures of Malice, proud member of the Tragically Unphotogenic Club.

Haserot angel, my beloved.

First layers. This canvas is saturated right now, gotta let this dry. I'm debating incorporating done sort of verdigris teal too.

Expression is too sad also! Later problems for later layers, I guess.

In a fit of stupidity, I decided to commission a portrait of myself (why??) from an artist I follow, which sounded cool until I realized this means I now have to take a selfie I don't despise (hellish). This is terrible.

Meanwhile, I've taken a couple effortlessly gorgeous pictures of Vice.

And some deeply relatable terrible pictures of Malice, proud member of the Tragically Unphotogenic Club.

Pros and Cons of making things

Pro: Thing

Con: Make

you summed up the struggle of all creators ever so nicely

There's a delightful philosophy to embrace in learning that you like making things and the end product matters less than your enjoyment in the process. Of course, that then means that it turns into

Pro: Make

Con: Thing.

Bear had her first real introduction to a cat today ( a confident old black shorthair named Kitty, who rules a household of German Shepherds and had no problem putting Bear in her place) which primed her for an attempted interaction with Malice, who has never really met a dog before. Malice refused to back down from her fortified post behind the sewing table blocking the top of stairs.

Bear accepted this.

Nevermind that Bear has a couple years and a hundred and thirty pounds on Malice.

Smart girl.

Actually, when it comes to dogs, the truest heir to Kitten Little's throne was the late great Yamamoto, She Who Was Measured With Seismographs. See, Malice is standing her ground here, but she's still scared. Nimitz, the Terror of the Underbrush, was far too canny to ever be cornered by a dog, which is much the path that Vice (Working title: Anxiety Incarnate) tends to go: he simply does not exist when there might be a bigger predator around.

But Kitten Little, First and Fiercest, was just too curmudgeonly to experience fear. She would square up with dogs without even the pretense of hesitation, because fear never occurred to her. She was Cat, poofy and terrible, and in her fluffy grey hands was the absolute knowledge that nothing that walked the earth, dog or no, could dare stand in her flouncy grumpy path.

Yamamoto, on the other hand, was one of the least Cat cats I've ever known. Biologically, Yamamoto had more in common with the Hindenburg than a housecat, and her primary activities were flopping belly-up in the middle of groups of conversing humans, lounging atop a heap of cat beds like the Princess and the Pea, and being carried about like a toddler. In the totem pole of household cats with Nim at the top, Yama was underground.

But. But. Yamamoto had within her a single shining instinct of primordial Cat.

See, to say this was Bear's first interaction with a cat is not strictly accurate. Bear has seen cats before. When Bear was a little over a year old, only about a hundred and twenty pounds, she came to visit. She wandered about the living room, sniffing things, while the humans chatted.

And at some point, Yamamoto, who had been sleeping behind the couch, woke up and strolled out. She didn't realize Bear was there until she'd already fully emerged into the open, and then all at once she realized that the Great Behemoth, Dog, had her in her sights. Bear, excited to come make new friends, began to bound forwards, slavering jaws wide.

And Yamamoto, who had occasionally been known to waddle at speed away from particularly frightening plastic bags, looked down at a hundred and twenty pounds of excited dog, with a mouth bigger than her head, and Squared The Fuck Up.

Yamamoto did not back down. Yamamoto, sixteen years old, twenty-odd pounds of blubber, did not even turn sideways to present her intimidating broadside to the charging beast. Yamamoto, without hesitation or an instant of fear, stanced up and began to charge at Bear.

Death is coming--death is coming. Yamamoto knew this and decided, in that moment, in the middle of the living room, to die with honor.

She let loose a wailing yowl and barreled towards the gleeful maw of Death.

That was the point where I tackled Bear.

It takes some doing, stopping a hundred and twenty pounds of charging dog, but it's safer than trying to pick up an angry cat.

This was mostly for Bear's own safety. I had no idea what Yama planned to do when she impacted, but Bear at that age had NO idea how big she was, and had never met an animal that didn't like her (or was, at least, afraid of her.) Yamamoto was swooped up before she could get any further, and death was staved off for another day.

But for a brief, shining moment, Yamamoto was the most Cat cat in the house, and the true heir to Kitten Little.

Long may she roll.

Just found some primo Yama footage.

(Edited to include a picture of one of her bed piles)

What's that there in your hand, human??

Could it be...

A laser pointer??

Needs to touch it

I have decided to teach this gremlin to touch the laser pointer with his fluffy bean hands when he wants laser pointer time, and to then teach him to touch other things when he wants those things.

There is no possible way this training will backfire into him bitchslapping his partially-empty food dish into the open stairwell because he wants it filled enough that the bottom of the bowl is no longer visible.

hi op! important advice here. the reason cats only eat the food in the middle of the bowl is because they dont like their whiskers touching things when they eat. this can be easily solved by giving them food on a plate instead of in a bowl.

This is true! However, what Vice actually wants when he stands by his food dish yelling is not really food. He wants the dish shaken. Then he wants me to pet him while he eats, but he gets so excited about being petted while he eats that he inevitably starts rolling on the ground so I can rub his belly and never manages to actually eat anything. He's a social eater but his rapturous enjoyment of attention is so strong that he'd starve if I caved to his meowing every time.

What's that there in your hand, human??

Could it be...

A laser pointer??

Needs to touch it

I have decided to teach this gremlin to touch the laser pointer with his fluffy bean hands when he wants laser pointer time, and to then teach him to touch other things when he wants those things.

There is no possible way this training will backfire into him bitchslapping his partially-empty food dish into the open stairwell because he wants it filled enough that the bottom of the bowl is no longer visible.

Usually my right shoulder is the one that gives me problems (thank you, old drag show injury) but the cats have been taking turns sleeping overnight on my left shoulder and now it is so stiff.

And I can't do anything about it because Malice is already wrapped around my bicep and purring like a truck.

Her arm now

Somebody remind me later this week to tell y'all the story of why my arm makes (slightly concerning!) clicky noises.

The reason is penises.

… The story about why that is the reason is slightly more complicated.

Thanks for the reminders, everyone! Here we go.

I worked as a stage tech in a venue all the way through college, doing lighting and sound for whatever events happened to pass through. The hours were whack, the work was hard, my coworkers were crazy, and every shift was a roller coaster. I loved it. 

One of our big annual events was a drag show fundraiser for the local GSA. It was a fun event, but also a huge amount of work for us, because we had to build them a stage, hang truss for the lights over it, hang lights off the truss, put up speakers on stands and on the truss, and make the whole dang thing light up and pump bass hard enough that the christian youth group holding meetings downstairs would give up and just come watch the show instead. 

This was our sacred stage tech duty: to crank the bass as loud as they would let us at any given moment, just to feel it rattle our ribcages. Somehow I am still not deaf. 

Anyway. The problem with all of this was that there was only twelve of us techs, all working part-time, to cover every event in a building with well over a dozen potential venues. In a normal week, that was doable, if precarious. During GSA fundraiser week? Not so much. We were running shifts back to back, hauling gear around the between events, hot-potatoing equipment from location to location at a dead run, occasionally through maintenance hallways and access tunnels we were not supposed to even have access to.

And about three days in to fundraiser week, our elevator broke. 

Our equipment cage was on the second floor of the building, and the primary venues were on the first and third. No elevator meant that for every shift, we had to carry all our gear up and down the stairs. And if you’ve never worked tech, let me tell you: that stuff is NOT light. Even the crappy gear is built to feel like it will outlast the dinosaurs, and that means it’s heavy. I could deadlift 250 pounds all the way through undergrad, and this job is why.  

Was I occasionally tempted to go full she-hulk and start throwing steel truss from an upper balcony at passing maintenance staffers until they fixed the elevator? Absolutely. I just didn’t have the time or truss to spare.

We were running on gaff tape and hope, and basically zero sleep. 

We all still had classes full-time, as well as other jobs and extra-curriculars. I personally had a double design major,  two internships ongoing, a spot on the belegarth field to defend, a position on my sorority executive board, an anime con to manage, and a psych prof who was deeply confused about how I was functioning long-term on three hours of sleep a night.

 By the time Friday morning rolled around and prep for the drag show was underway, I was very, very tired, and so were all my coworkers.

The only other person assigned to the drag show was my sole female coworker, because all the guys knew that if they signed up for the shift the queens would make them take their shirts off, and they had mixed feelings about that. (Most of them showed up in the audience and took their shirts off anyway, but whatever.) My coworker and I got things up and running, and were refocusing some of the rainbow spotlights hanging from the truss on the runway. We were dragging this huge A-frame ladder over the stage, running up and down it to tweak the focus. 

The problem was that the GSA had come through like a swarm of genital faeries, festooning the whole place in a dizzying glut of human reproductive organs. 

For some reason this was the drag night tradition: they decked out the whole venue in penises and vaginas, like a bachelor party and a hen’s night had been unexpectedly Raptured, leaving all their R-rated decorations behind. There were dildoes suction cupped to the walls. There were big handmade paper vaginas plastered up. I’m talking absolute racks of titties everywhere.  There were strings of penis decorations hanging from everything in sight. Including, somehow, our lighting truss. My Ace ass did not quite understand the appeal, but I couldn’t argue with the fact that it did get a lot of attention. 

So as we moved the ladder very carefully, watching the top to make sure it didn’t get caught in the penis booby-trap hanging from above. And we were both very tired, and a little dizzy from staring into the lights and the glittery dicks, and very busy watching the top of the ladder and not paying any attention to the bottom (which I’m sure the GSA would have objected to).

We completely failed to notice the ladder catching under the leg of one of the tripod speaker stands until it was already teetering at the edge of the stage. 

My coworker, who was holding that side of the ladder, was too focused on the dickorations, and I was too tired to do anything but react on instinct. I saw the stand, the thousand-odd dollars in audio equipment  mounted on it that we desperately needed in order to get through the week–and I just lunged. 

My coworker insisted later that there had been a moving light on the edge of the stage between me and the speaker, and that I’d jumped over it. I genuinely have no idea if she’s right about that; I only remember reaching desperately as I hurled myself off the stage after the toppling speaker stand. 

Somehow, probably blessed by the magic of the GSA genital faeries, I wrapped my right hand around the speaker stand mid-air. 

And then my steeltoe boots hit the floor, and the full weight of a hundred and fifty pounds of falling stand-mounted speakers introduced themselves quite abruptly to my right shoulder. I did not lose my grip.

The speakers did not hit the ground. The dicks remained airborne, untouched by the ladder. The drag show went off gloriously. 

I spent the remainder of the month forcing my coworkers to do all the heavy lifting for me, because my right arm was Just Not Having It. (And then one of my other coworkers shot himself in the foot and I went back to lifting stuff, because we didn’t have the manpower for two people to be injured at once.) We did all get to keep some glittery didoes, which we snuck into the maintenance staff’s offices until they fixed the elevator. 

My shoulder has made funny clicky ratchet sounds ever since. 

Oh, just the normal way, by trying to tie his shoes while also holding a pistol.

Usually my right shoulder is the one that gives me problems (thank you, old drag show injury) but the cats have been taking turns sleeping overnight on my left shoulder and now it is so stiff.

And I can't do anything about it because Malice is already wrapped around my bicep and purring like a truck.

Her arm now

Usually my right shoulder is the one that gives me problems (thank you, old drag show injury) but the cats have been taking turns sleeping overnight on my left shoulder and now it is so stiff.

And I can't do anything about it because Malice is already wrapped around my bicep and purring like a truck.