Friday, February 27, 2009

Franklin: Travel

I hear there’s a human expression: Travel broadens one. Allow me to wave a dismissive paw at the notion, for that entire concept is ridiculous. Kitties are much too sensible to take to the road, the air, or *shudder* the water for some sort of “fun.” We’re much too intelligent to load up our bowls, boxes, kibbles, cans, toys, cat trees, and all the other necessary accoutrements of our lives just to… to move somewhere.

If I want to move, I’ve shift from Mom’s chair to the wedge of sunshine beneath the dining room window. If I need a bloomin’ change of scenery, I’ll make the trek from the kitchen into the family room.

So all this time, I believed that I had adopted sensible people. Apparently not. I first detected signs of the travel bug when I heard Mom talking excitedly on the phone about “the Magic Kingdom” and some sort of rodent. (Rodent? On pul-lease! This “Mr. Disney” to whom she reverently refers obviously made a real poor choice in mascot!) Anyway, last week, the bed was covered with rectangular carrying devices, spare shoes, and neatly folded clothes. Brother and I couldn’t do too much about the “suitcases,” as she called them, save for planting a lot of spare fur bits in the interior crevices—all the better to adorn Mom’s dark sweaters. However, we did take the time to service a few more shoe laces and leave the formerly-folded clothes in a not-so-folded state. A cat has to show a certain protest for any change in his routine, after all!

Independent creatures that Winston and I have become, we both agree the house was rather quiet for those four days. Sure, we had good care: family members stopped by twice a day to put out food, change up water dishes, and pay us a bit of petting homage. Still… late at night, I found myself wandering the hallway, wondering just where I were supposed to put my furry self when bedtime came.

A few days ago, I *cough* just happened to be sitting in the window, minding my own business, when a car pulled up outside and my people returned, burdened with boxes, bags, and bulging suitcases. In order to enforce my dignity, I eschewed a formal greeting and headed back up the stairs to pay careful attention to grooming my back paw. Winston busied himself with eating a few crunchies, and gave them a "What, you were gone?" expression that I high-fived him for later.

But I have to admit, we're both secretly glad they brought us those plush Goofies and Stitches!

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Winston: On Facial Fur

Mom’s computer is broken. I swear that Franklin and I had nothing to do with it. (Probably.)

Yes, we were walking across the keyboard a few nights ago, before being rudely told to go about our normal business. However, the blow-up happened when she was playing that game—the one with the flashing spells and the cool music and all—and suddenly the machine made a “pop” sound, and died. Her tech friend said she probably has a faulty hard drive.

This is not a good thing.

But in a way it is a bit of a good thing because the computer is out for repair. In the meantime, she won’t be able to embarrass me by putting up pictures of me in my current, somewhat dilapidated state.

I don’t know what happened. I can’t for the life of me figure it out. Franklin first called attention to the situation by pointing at me and laughing one afternoon, as Mom was petting me. (I think he was jealous that she was cooing over me, and wanted to divert attention in his direction.) Anyway, Mom suddenly exclaimed, “Winston, what happened to your whiskers? They’re a mess!”

Now, I can’t see them very well--it makes me even more cross-eyed when I try--but she says about a third of my whiskers are broken off, a couple are bent at odd angles, and I have fewer above one eye than the other. I heard her tell a friend, “Winston looks pretty funny right now.” Franklin has taken to stroking his luxuriant whiskers in front of everyone, softly chuckling behind his paw. I have tried to tell folks that this whole thing is an intentional fashion choice, that I was going for this season’s “rakish look,” but so far no one seems to be buying it.

The race is on: I must regrow a snootful of whiskers and pop a few more on my forehead before the computer gets back and I’m forever captured in an embarrassing photograph! I hope to win this contest, if only by… yes… a whisker. ;)