Gotcha Kitty

Two cats + one mouse = one super annoyed human

This year I decided to experience the third annual Walker Art Center’s International Cat Video Festival from the comfort of my own couch with my own refrigerator and snacks within easy reach. No need to worry about parking or finding a spot to sit on a lumpy lawn. Nope, this year I was going to stream it and my cats could even attend since they don’t get out of the house much if at all (vet visits when absolutely necessary). Of course being cats they were not around when I wanted them to share the past year in cat videos with me. (Funny how the minute I try to write one of the few checks a month I write, girl kitty Z always manages to show up to make sure anyone who gets a check from me thinks I have recently suffered a stroke thanks to the constant bombardment of her head to my pen.) The dog and I figured screw them, and were super excited to be able to stream via Animal Planet’s live channel on the Roku so we could see all the action on a big TV and not on a tiny iPad.  (A quick shout out to anyone not familiar with a Roku. They are the bomb. The new starter model is slightly larger than a USB drive and I can’t say enough how much I LOVE this device.)

Of course no streaming event would  be complete without some technical difficulties, the first being the giant inflatable screen going down, and then when that came back up again the live stream went down. As Roseanne Rosannadanna (RIP Gilda) would say, it’s always something. My wireless has also been going down a lot and just when I was beginning to think this cunning little plan of watching from home was not so cunning after all, Animal Planet Live was actually ALIVE again. Yeah!! All was right with the world, until two things happened. First of all, Gotcha Kitty was robbed and only got third place, third place for a face this cute and so very sorry? For shame WAC Golden Kitty Award voters, for shame.

 

 

And then boy kitty A came flying up the stairs, with something dangling from his mouth. At first I thought it was a tuft of fur. Anyone with cats knows about these random balls of fur that suddenly appear and float across floors and you think jeez, why did I spend $400 on that Dyson and vacuum everyday when I should have just gotten a hairless cat? It seems so obvious now. But the smart-assy swagger in his step pretty much confirmed my worst fear in that it was no mere tuft of cat fur in his mouth, but the fur of a tiny rodent. A dead one I hoped, incorrectly. I grabbed the dog and we jumped on the countertop as boy kitty paraded around the kitchen and dining room enough to interest the tiredest girl kitty in the universe, Z,  from one of her epic naps. I was so distracted and grossed out by his behavior that I barely saw who won the Golden Kitty Award this year which was The 8 Signs of Addiction.

 

 

Like most cat owners I don’t expect A LOT from my cats but I think a bare minimum should include that in the unlikely event that there is a rodent in our home, not only should they catch said rodent (minimal props to A for that), but they should take care of it like Michael did to Fredo in The Godfather. And if you can’t do it yourself call a hit cat, just get rid of it. This did not happen. Both cats chased it and batted it about so much that I actually started to feel sorry for the mouse as obviously these two cats had not such a good time in FOREVER. Finally I got sick of sitting on the hard granite watching somebody else have that much fun so the dog and I went to bed. I closed the door and stuck a bath towel under the space between it and the floor and hoped to find, as much as it would pain me, a dead mouse body in the morning. Preferably somewhere obvious. No such luck. At first they acted super interested under a computer armoire and then the living room couch and by the time I was ready to leave for work they weren’t interested in anything except going to sleep because they had been up all night partying with a mouse and were very tired because of it. Seven hours later, this is what boy kitty possibly looked like:

Does this look like the face of a stone cold killer? (disclaimer: this may or may not be one of my cats since the NYT cat trackers could be watching )

Does this look like the face of a stone cold killer? (disclaimer: this may or may not be one of my cats since the NYT cat trackers could be watching )

 

For the rest of the day and since then, neither one of them has acted like anything was askew in their world and I was beginning to think that a miracle had occurred and that the mouse found its way out of my house just exactly the same way it had found itself inside my house. ( I know this probably isn’t true but I can dream, can’t I?) And then on Saturday when I went to put something in my pantry after I’d been to the store I smelled that smell. That singularly gross smell that can only mean one thing: death. Because I don’t always like to face these facts right away, if at all, I waited one day before investigating any further. I got a plastic bag ready for the removal and put on my Playtex Living Gloves (well, one of us was alive poor Mr. Mouse Man) reserved for only the gravest of household chores like body disposal. I started to remove things from under the pull out shelves while trying not to think too badly of my cats, boy kitty A in particular who got me into this whole mess, when I noticed the smell was emanating from another area. I saw a russet potato in the wire racks (potatoes are known stink bombs when they go bad) but this one passed the smell test. Then I saw a plastic bag with some new potatoes from the farmer’s market in it and I knew I had discovered where my dead mouse smell was coming from, only it wasn’t a mouse at all but a potato. The mouse lives!

 

For those of us whose cats aren’t internet superstars but are just regular old cats who when called upon to do ONE thing in their entire lives and can’t even do that, take solace in this song and know that you are not alone.

 

 

 

 

Questions I really want the answers to

Where is that plane?  Seriously. It has been almost five months since Malaysian Airlines flight MH370 went missing with 239 passengers and crew. For the first few days after the disappearance you could understand the confusion but as the various theories were explored and disproved,  and the days turned to weeks,  which then turned to months,  the disappearance and lack of answers morphed into the absurd. And when The New York Times ran a story this past week that said we could all be geographically tracked by the cat photos we post on the internet, it becomes even harder to understand how the largest commercial jet in the world could completely disappear without a trace. My heart really breaks for all those families waiting to find out what happened to their loved ones. The next time I fly I am totally not turning off my phone. (true life confession:  I flew at least a couple of times after I got my first iPhone without turning it off because I was doing it wrong.)

not really my cat

Oh no!! Now The New York Times knows where I live.

Does Steve Nicks ever wear jeans? I mean she has been famous for like a eleventy billion years yet I don’t think she has ever been seen in public without her never-ending supply of fortune-teller lady skirts. In fact, I wonder if she even owns a pair of pants? What does she wear to Target when she has to go buy mundane things like paper towel, Advil and kitty litter?  Just imagine how hard it would be to ride a bike without all those scarf-y things getting stuck in the spokes, and how super dangerous it would be to go to a bonfire on the beach when one swift breeze could set your entire nether regions ablaze? And now that I think of it, I don’t think our hometown fashionista himself Mr. Prince has ever been seen in denim either. Probably not even at the Minnesota State Fair or while making pancakes.

 

 

Why are there pimentos in green olives? Back in the olde (intentional typo) days when I was a kid, I thought those slimy red things in the middle of olives were just the pits before they ripened and turned into black olives. No judging, it was a simpler time, well before we had a Whole Foods in practically every town and fancy olive bars in most grocery stores. It still is beyond my comprehension WHY anyone at the olive factory ever thought that pimentos in olives was a good idea because it is not. In fact, it is repulsive. On the other hand, blue cheese or manchego or even garlic in olives is an excellent idea and lovely.

Who is the father of January Jones’s son?  Of course this is really nobody’s business except the parties involved  but this is a stone-cold Hollywood gossip mystery of which there are few remaining in this age of show and tell everything. There are plenty of suspects: Bobby Flay (you would think the child would be a ginger, but you never know?), Jason Sudeikis (he has daddy abandonment issues, so it doesn’t seem like he would repeat that history), Matthew Vaughn (the director married to poor Claudia Schiffer with his own father Robert Vaughn, the man who U.N.C.L.E himself, denying his paternity ), and Michael Fassbender (Fassy, no! I refuse to believe it). Why there has not been this much speculation on who’s the daddy since Hester Prynne had a baby without a noticeable husband in the Scarlet Letter.

How come this cat looks so guilty? And why don’t my cats ever look or feel guilty doing much worse things than opening a drawer and finding perhaps just a little too much comfort in a piece of tulle?