I’m curled up taking my nap when Salem paws me awake. I narrow my eyes and pause for a second before I decide whether or not to kill him now or after I finish resting and have more energy.

“Hey,” he pokes me again, “why is our little human crying?”

I lift my head a little, “Oh that. He has a horrible disease.”

“No kidding?” His eyes get wide and he stares at the small human slumped over the kitchen table sobbing uncontrollably. He steps back a little, “I hope it’s not contagious. What does he have?”

“It’s called Algebra.”


#FelineAA #RidingTheNip

My brother Salem has been riding the catnip wave all day. His eyes are glazed over and he can’t even stand up right now. It’s humiliating. What if the Tabby next door comes by? Shit, I can’t have my little brother embarrassing me like this.

I decide to talk to him. “Salem, you can’t keep doing the “nip”. That shit will mess you up, man. You’re flopping around like a lunatic. Your mews are incoherent. You look like you haven’t licked your fur in days. It’s getting bad.”

He just rolls around rubbing his face against anything that moves. #HighAsAKite #CatNipJunkie Damn, I hope Tabby doesn’t come by when he’s like this. She’ll tell everyone. It’ll be all over the neighborhood. That bleeping Siamese down the street is blabbermouth. Crap, I got a rep to protect. I have to go find his stash and hide it. Freaking little brothers…

The Pacifist In Me

My little brother Salem is what you might call hospitably challenged. You see, in the world of felines, there are bullies and there are those that are bullied. Salem is a born and bred bully. He kind of prides himself on it. I myself am an accomplished pacifist. Which means I can run fast. Very, very fast.

I’m more of a brains cat than a brawny one. My battles take planning. Scheming. I find that revenge, like tuna, is best served cold.

Today, I found the outer shell of one of Salem’s claws stuck in my fur. A souvenir from yesterday’s surprise attack. Well, I’m getting even. When he wakes from his nap, he’ll find his face staring at the business end of Teenager’s underwear. Underwear I found on the floor!


Ack! I gotta go.

Partners in Crime

Salem walks up to me with his fur sticking out in all directions. “Whoa! Have you been rolling around on the carpet? You know the static will make your hair stand out, right?”

He raises his chin, “Shorthair likes me like this. She says it makes me look ‘hot’.” He smirks. I grimmace.

“Sure, right,” I blink a few times, “hot.”

Salem struts off looking like a dandilion waiting for a wish and I send Shorthair three treats and a note:

Nice job. Next, I’m thinking hats.

The Kitty Cabana

Now that the weather is colder, I’ve decided that maybe it’s time I start sleeping in my human’s bed at night. You know, to grace her with my presence and coincidentally take in some of her heat. The only problem is that my brother and sister have the same idea.

Now on to the important news, Christmas is coming. And that means presents for good little kitties. Lucky for my human, I know just what I want. I want the Catit Vesper Cabana seen on page 49 in the new issue of Catster magazine. Page 49 Santa. (just in case he’s reading this). It has a soft and fluffly hammock on top that is just right for naps and a space below for other cats and such, but that top bunk is for me. Oh, it looks amazing, wonderful, down right fantastic. Just what I need to relax in after a long hard day of chasing fake mice.

When opportunity arrives, I take full advantage of it. My human walks in and I just happen to be here, sitting right on top of our copy of Catster. She approaches and starts to pet my head. I move my butt to reveal page 49 in all its glory. She doesn’t look down. Uh, oh. I nudge her hand with my head and lean down so that her hand is now on the page.

Biscuits! She moves her hand back to my head and continues petting me. A new tactic is necessary. I reach out my front paws and stretch with all my might. What’s this? My paws just happen to land on the Cabana on page 49. Huh. I glance up at my human to see if she notices. I send out my brain waves…look, look at the cabana…

She’s looking! She’s pulling the magazine out from under my paws. She’s picking it up!! I can’t contain my excitement. I’m a genius. A sheer genius. My plotting and planning is working like a charm. She is putty in my paws.

What? What is she doing? What’s happeneing? She closes the magazine and sets it aside. Ack! Foiled again by her incessant tidiness. She sets my magazine in a neat pile of mail on the counter. This is going to be harder than I thought. I will have to give it some more thought.

Ode To Turkey Scraps

Thanksgiving is near. Thanksgiving is one of the grandest holidays of them all. We felines are finally able to bond with our humans over a common love: the eating of a bird.

Oh sure, they scoff and scold and sh00 me away when I dare to chase a bird, real or imitation, but on this glorious day of all days, they can not. Why they would be hypocrites if they tried. Also, on this fine day, we felines are allowed to partake in the festivities. Why small bits of turkey are elegantly arranged in our dishes to eat and enjoy alongside our humans.

And enjoy it we do. The taste is savored as it glides down my throat. There, taking its sweet time digesting in my gastrointestinal tract, a warmness comes over me and its delicious memory lingers until I slowly loose consciousness and fall into the most gratifying nap of the year.

Ah, Thanksgiving. ‘Tis the actual day I’m thankful for, and I hope that’s okay.

Secret Society of Idiots

I walk into the kitchen, ready for a little snack, and peer down into my empty food dish. Why does my human hate me? I shake my head and make my way into the living room.

“Wha?” I stop and stare, stunned. There, chatting and laughing it up through the living room window, is my little brother Salem and some scraggly looking alley cat from down the block.

All of a sudden, the AC (alley cat) spots me out of the corner of his eye. His eyes narrow to slits and he stops talking and smiling and points a steady paw in my direction. Salem turns and glances at me. He smirks and looks back at the AC. And there, through the glass, they exchange some curious movements that involve a turn, a butt wiggle, a high five paw move that ends with a tapping together of their right paws in unison through the glass window.

Why, was that a secret paw shake? Does my goofy, stupid, smelly little brother belong to some secret society that I am unaware of? And worse yet, not privy to membership in? My stomach churned. They probably just sit and watch each other drool. Or chase their own tails like dogs, what idiots, what imbeciles. I want in. Every fiber of my being wants in. Oh, he will rue the day!

Salem raises his tail and starts to strut off without even acknowledging me.

“Uh, hmm,” I snort.

With all the fake innocence he can muster, he asks, “What?”

“What was that?”


My anger rises inside me, incensed by the humilation of being excluded and now ignored. “Who was that? Are you in a secret club?” I bore my eyes into him, willing him to spill the beans with my brain waves.

He lays his paw on his chest, “Me? No. Why ever do you ask?”

“Arghh!!!” I shake with fury. Salem saunters off and I vow I will find out what he is up to. I will have him begging me to join and just when he’s on his knees crying, I will reject him in a fit of laughter and then walk away forever the superior feline.

Now, where do I begin? I think I need some tuna and maybe a nap first.

A New Toy From Meow Mix

About a month ago, there, shining like a beacon on the side of my trusty Meow Mix box of kitty chow, was an advertisement for the latest and greatest in feline entertainment novelties. And all you had to do to obtain this miraculous objet was collect a dozen upc codes from the sides of the boxes and mail them in to Meow Mix headquarters in Decatur, Alabama.

I did my part and ate all of the Meow Mix I could, so that my human could gather the required upc’s. Two days later, my human mailed them in. It’s been a torturous wait since then. At least two of my lives have been spent in the interim, but I believe my day has arrived. I can hear the dogs barking now.

Dogs following our mailman always alert me to his arrival in our neighborhood. For next door, there lives a dog named Little Man, who can yelp with the best of them. It is rumored that his bark alone sends birds flying off two counties over. Today, Little Man wailed like his tail was on fire signaling the mail has arrived.

I run to the window and my eyes behold the glorious package clutched in his mittened hands espousing the Meow Mix yellow and red logo all over it. The time has come. I follow my human to the kitchen and sit at her feet staring and waiting. Three years later she opens the box, rubs my head, and hands me my very own leopard print mouse with the long string tail and insides that squeak when you bite it.

I run to the bedroom to score some alone time with my new prized possession. I bat it around the room with careless abandon. I pounce on it no less than six times, two in sneak attacks from under the bed. I sniff and I chew. Wanting to mark it as my very own, I end my most magnificent afternoon by sitting on it. Yes, I rub my bottom all over it and then promptly collapse into a deep sleep.

I later awake to my brother Salem standing over me, shaking my new toy asking, “Is this new? And why does it reek of your butt?”

All I could do was give the most, down to my bone, gratifying smile a happy cat can give. Then I wink just to piss him off.

Seasonal Saint Suki

We had our first huge snowfall this week. This means 3 things:

  1. I can’t sit in the window sil anymore (too cold for my tushy)
  2. Christmas is coming and
  3. It marks the day I start to be uncharacteristically well behaved, per the prerequisite of #2

Christmas is a magical and glorious time when a large and hairy human called Santa Claws breaks into our home and bestows upon us a deluge of new ribbons and boxes to play with. It means a veritable treasure trove of new things to smell, lick and scratch. It also means, that if I’m good, I might get a stocking filled with feather laden toys and scrumptious tuna treats.

So, in essence, I did not eat that cornbread muffin my human left out on the counter last night. I also did not accidentally pee over the side of the litter box and onto the floor yesterday. And I most certainly did not eat my brother’s tuna treats while he was napping.

For every cat and kitten knows that when it comes to this Santa Claws business, reputation is everything. Woe is the kitten who misbehaves this time of year and risks the big guy not bringing him goodies and toys. Why a stocking filled with tuna treats and fake mice is nothing short of the big guy’s affirmation that I’m practically near sainthood. And Saint Suki does have a nice ring to it.