For the Neuroscientists Out There

I walk up to my little brother Salem and hold out my left paw containing tuna treats and bitch slap him with my right paw.

“What’d you do that for?” he asks, rubbing his cheek.

“My right brain said ‘give him a treat’ but my left brain said ‘slap him’ and the left brain won.” I shrug my shoulders as I walk away, “Sorry. You can’t argue with neuroscience.”

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.

My Little Brother Brags Too Much, So……

Lately, my little brother Salem has been bragging like a dog about his two dates with Shorthair. It fluffs my tail if you know what I mean.

So, needless to say, I was not in the most gracious mood today.

Salem saunters over to take a sip of water out of our new water dish.

I hold up my paw, “Halt! You can’t drink out of that.”

Salem’s mouth drops open and he stares at me, “Why not?”

“That dish is sacred. Do you see that chip on the edge? It is said that it came from the human who is a cousin to the human who once pet Grumpy Cat’s real live mother.” My paw flourishes over the dish to show the magnitude of the situation.

He steps back in awe, “Ahh, I had no idea.”

I puff up my chest with pride and lower my voice in respect of “the dish”. I point a paw toward our human’s bathroom toilet, “You may drink from there.”

Salem trots off and I snicker as I drink the sweet water of revenge.

Nightly Games

Salem and I are playing our nightly game of Truth or Dare. I look at him and say, “I dare you to go from the living room to the kitchen without touching the floor.”

“Easy peasy,” he waves a paw at me. He turns and bounds from the top of the sofa to the back of the chair in one glorious leap that rivals that of any leopard. Then he soars from the back of the chair to the breakfast bar. As he slides across it, he knocks off two cups before careening to a stop.


He smiles and looks at me, “My turn. Truth or Dare?”

My physical prowess tends to rival that of the fat cat Garfield than anyone else, so why embarrass myself? “Truth.”

Salem narrows his eyes at me, “Did you tell Shorthair that I have fleas?”

“Ummm…” (What I said was that I saw a flea on you. Really, I don’t know how these things get so exaggerated.)


Suki: Role Model Extraordinaire

Unlike Salem, my little sister appreciates the genius that I am. She wants to be just like me.

Yesterday, I found her sitting in the bedroom on our human’s laptop looking very proud of herself.

“What’cha doing?”

She looks at me and smiles, “I’m writing, just like you.” Her face is literally beaming with pride. “It’s my magnum opus,” and she points to the screen.


I just smile and nod, smile and nod…….

Suki: M.D. To The Overdramatic

Salem, my little brother, staggers into the living room, swaying to and fro.

“Are you on the “nip” again?”

“Oh,” he swoons and places his paw to his forehead dramatically, “I’m wounded. You have to help me,” and he lays out on the floor in front of me moaning softly.

I look him over seeing no obvious signs of injury. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my paw. It hurts real bad.” He raises a feeble paw up for me to inspect.

I look it over. “Ah, I see.” Stuck in the pad of his front right paw is a tiny Lego. I shake my head solemnly, “Well, we might be able to save the leg.”

Salem lets out another moan and looks as though he might faint. He closes his eyes. I smile.

“Any last words? You know, just in case?”

He comes to for a second and moans louder. I peel off the Lego and toss it aside.

“Okay. It was touch and go for a moment but I’ve done it. I’ve saved your leg,” I lower my voice, “and your life.”

Salem opens his eyes and smiles at me. “Oh man, you’re the best brother in the world. I’ll never mess with you again.” And he trots off happy to be alive.

Yeah, I did that. I gave him the gift of a near death experience because he’s my brother and I love him.

I later bill him five tuna treats for my services.

What Brothers Are Really For

I look at our food dishes and see somthing new and peculiar in them. This may be exciting for other felines, but around here, we know better. The things called “leftovers” are to be avoided at all cost. We’ve discovered that they are usually covered in a thick layer of black or can chip your teeth. Neither of which is appealing.

I take my paw and slowly lift the mysterious food item up and inspect it from every angle. I turn it over, gently handling it with the care of explosives about to go off. You never know.

Then I sniff it from all sides. Huh. It seems okay. I think it is something called “takeout”. But still, I do the responsible thing.


Salem bounds in, “What?”

I point to his dish, “Look, new food.”

He Hoovers it up in two bites. Licking his lips, he smiles and trots off. I wait ten seconds to see if he falls over dead.

Nope. Now, that’s what brothers are for.