Breakfast in Bed

Smelling food, I instinctively walk into the kitchen. One of the little humans is cooking. Umm, smells good.

I stop dead in my tracks. Glancing around I spot my sister Sasha and my little brother Salem nearby, “Hide!” I shout.

Once we are safely hidden, Salem turns to me, “Why are we hiding?”

In between pants, I reply, “One of the little humans is flipping pancakes with our litter box scoop.”

A grin spreads across Salem’s face, “But that isn’t our fault.”

“I know, but our human is almost done eating. Do you want to be around when she finds out?”

#She’sTheWorst #WeHateThatKid

I blink hard as a tennis ball sails past my head. I quickly glance around. I see Sasha’s ears sticking up from the back of the box she is cowering behind, then I hear the whoosh of another ball as it whizzes by me and I dart behind the sofa.

I peer around. Jodie. Crap. I hate that kid. Jody is the neighbor kid who comes over from time to time to visit one of our little humans. We hate her.

She often finds sick amusement in pelting us with various objects and watching us scatter.

I scan the room. I see Salem’s tail sticking out from the curtains. He sucks at Hide ‘n Seek. “Psst, Salem.”

“How do you know I’m Salem? I could be some other cat.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay. Hey, cat, behind the curtains.”


“Can you cover me for a minute?” I point a paw at the pink shoes by the front door.

Salem looks at the shoes and grins. “Yeah!” He slowly walks out from behind the curtains and instantly endures a barrage of balls to the head and body. I race to the door and do my deed and run back for cover behind the couch. Salem slinks back as well, his fur sticking up here and there.

Our little human calls Jody to her bedroom and we all flee to our human’s room and hide under her bed. It is there that we feel safe and begin to revel in our deed.

Later we high paw each other and guffaw at the sound of her cursing as she slams the front door. Salem looks at me, “Number 1 or number 2?”

I grin from ear to ear, “Number 3.”



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.”

#Caturday #They’reTryingToKillUs #ThatFoodIsCrap

Yesterday, I observed one of the small humans refusing to eat something called a “leftover”. It seemed frighteningly inedible. First, he poked it with his finger. Then he leaned down and gave it one good sniff. His body shivered and he slowly backed away. I glanced at the food and back to the human, but he had already escaped. I didn’t take any chances and fled as well.

Later, when I spied the same food in Salem’s dish, I knew what I had to do:

I promptly put stickers with my name on it, on his cat bed, toy snake, and scratching post. #NotWarningYourAss #TakingYourStuff #RIP

#BitchSlap Aka, Showing My Brother Who’s Boss

Among us felines, my brother Salem boasts the most sneak attacks in our house. He actually prides himself on his ability to lunge at unsuspecting passers-by with the speed of a Cheetah.

I remember one day in particular, when he was strutting through the living room after an exceptionally excessive bout of bragging, and I pounced out from behind the sofa, bitch-slapped him across the face, and ran like hell into the other room in one swift drive-by, before anyone could blink.

I believe one of the smaller humans witnessed this feat as it was talked about among them for years afterward. Who’s bragging now? #ME #BitchSlappedThatBitch #FelineDriveBy


My human has a toy sitting in the kitchen that’s been taunting me quite a bit lately. It’s been sitting there, on the counter top, in the corner since we moved here in 2011. Every time I get close enough to it to investigate, my human shoos me away.

But she’s not here today…

She’s out of the house doing something called, “suffering through another damn pool party where I’m just going to wrinkle.” This is my chance. So, I jump onto the counter. I sniff it. Nothing. I touch it. It’s a little heavier than it looks. Must be something super cool though if they don’t want anyone else to play with it. It’s thinner on top than on bottom. I don’t have a toy this big. Yet. It’s label says it’s a “Gallo”.

I wonder what it does. I bet it bounces and rolls like a bitch! I push it a little.

Okay, my bad. It doesn’t bounce. Shit. There’s red stuff everywhere now. I have to go.



The small human known as “Don’t Touch That” recently had a birthday. I would say I remember him fondly as a child, but I can’t. He and I haven’t been on speaking terms for years. Oh, I remember that human well. We briefly engaged in what is now known as the War of 2016.

How it started, I am uncertain. Who really remembers how these things go, but as I recall, he sat on me once when I was a kitten. I retaliated with a hair ball in his bed. It was a bold move, I admit, but I didn’t start this war, he did.

He pulled my whiskers, hid my treats, and called me “Bowser”. I scratched his shoes, hid his socks, and barfed on his coat. I’m not going to lie, those were some hard days. I spent my afternoons hiding behind chairs and curtains and under the bed. I even skipped a meal once when I spied him suspiciously lurking around the food dish.

The last straw was when he put little pieces of tape on the bottoms of my paws. He laughed and I vowed revenge. The next day, he awoke to a nice urine soaked pillow. Screams were heard and normally unspeakable things were spoken. I, of course, had to lay low after that, but yes, the war was over and I had won. No one calls me “Bowser” now.