Cat Project Archives for September
7, 2015 - "For me, one of the pleasures of cats' company
is their devotion to bodily comfort." - Sir Compton
Gratuitous Kute Kittiness: "No thanks. I'm stuffed."
Mewvie: Sisters at the pet shelter. (Yes, they've been
you live with a cat, you live with a real weirdo
As anyone with a cat knows, they can be extremely weird animals. How
weird? The Guardian asked readers and other writers to share examples.
Is your cat weirder than this?
Josh Fruhlinger, writer, editor and Comics Curmudgeon
I had a cat once who would wake me up every morning just a minute or
two before my alarm went off by tapping me on the mouth with his paw.
Not that hard, but not that gentle either, with his claws extended just
a tiny bit. “Hey, time for breakfast, bud.” My next cat,
I started feeding at night.
Lauren Kelley, online politics editor at Rolling Stone
Our cat starts howling super early each morning, in pursuit of breakfast.
One morning we woke up at 5:30am not to the sound of him meowing, but
to someone telling a story. Extremely loudly. In our living room. Turns
out he had walked across my laptop, turned on a Moth podcast, and cranked
the volume all the way up. We were annoyed, but also kind of amused – until
the next morning, when he did the exact same thing. Now I close my laptop
before going to bed.
Michelle Dean, author and editor
My cat, Liberty, licks the shower after I get out in the morning – like,
hops into the tub and cleans it. She does it nearly every morning. I
cannot dissuade her.
David Plotz, CEO of Atlas Obscura
One of my cats eats earwax. She will capture an earbud and lick it clean.
She will even try to lick it out of my ears. It’s a truly bizarre
My cat Velcro (named that because he used to stick his claws on me as
a kitten) has a funny habit of sticking his paws in people’s water
if they leave the table. This past Christmas, I walked away to take a
call and my mom caught him in the act. So sneaky! But we wouldn’t
always know if our water was … cat-aminated, if you will. Eventually
we had to resort to putting coasters atop our glasses if we ventured
away from our beverages.
Rachel Perrone, communications director at RH Reality Check
My cat was in the garage while my step-father was winterizing the cars,
so we were concerned that she’d gotten God only knows what automotive
fluids on her. I gave her a bit of a bath and, not surprisingly, she
was so mad. Hours later, still damp, she came and sat in my lap, and
I thought she’d forgiven me. Nope – she peed on me.
Two years ago I was in the basement when I saw our cat, Luna, going into
the only room in the basement that isn’t fully furnished and doesn’t
have a litter box. She only goes in the basement for one purpose, and
so, anxious not to have my house smell like cat pee, I followed her in
case she did something very naughty. Instead, I watched as she squatted,
arranged herself carefullyover the drain in the floor and peed. No smell,
no mess – and no litter.
My cat, Hannah, does not like being picked up. I still do it occasionally,
but I usually only get a few seconds of snuggles before she squirms away.
The reason I don’t press my luck is because a couple of years ago,
when a bunch of friends came over for my first NYC birthday party, a
friend of mine either forgot or disregarded my warning and Hannah expressed
her displeasure (via her anal glands) all over my friend’s shirt.
Fast forward to a few months ago, right after daylight saving time started.
Hannah can’t tell time, so suddenly her 6am breakfast call became
5am. Clamoring around on the bed, pawing my face, meowing to wake the
dead, I couldn’t handle it. Without thinking about which end of
the cat was pointed at me, I pushed her away, and immediately regretted
it. Hannah had expressed her displeasure directly in my face.
Hannah got an automatic feeder the next day.
Hunter Walker, senior political correspondent at Business Insider
Tomo doesn’t quite get the “being aloof” part of being
Our cat, Nash, has a thing for ladders: we were remodeling the living
room and he would climb up and down the rungs of the ladder whenever
we weren’t on it.
Pre-cellphones and even pre-cordless phones, Seymour, our tuxedo cat,
loved phones so much that he’d answer them. More than once, a friend
told us that they heard a chirpy meow instead of the standard ‘hello’ when
Peter Sterne, reporter at Politico Media
My cat, Hunter, loves to play with crumpled paper, and I guess he thinks
my wastebasket is a box of toys for him. Whenever I crumple up a paper
and throw it out, he’ll dive into the basket to get it, usually
knocking over the basket and spilling out all the trash in the process.
Jennifer Kho, Guardian US managing editor
When we first brought home our pit bull, Daily, a few years ago, we were
wondering how our cats would react. One of our cats, Stringer, went right
up to Daily and stuck his head in her big mouth. She backed away, looking
shocked. But for weeks, whenever she would yawn nearby, Stringer would
put his head in her mouth. Over the next year, he met other dogs, but
didn’t do it; but then, a year later, a friend brought her pit
bull to visit for a play date. Before we even noticed Stringer was in
the room, he’d run over and stuck his head in the surprised dog’s
Jacob Tschetter, mixologist
Every night when I’m deep asleep, my kitten Gollum will come up
and sit on my chest and, as per my partner, she will stare at me for
at least 30 minutes. If I don’t wake up she will begin to burrow
into my beard. If that doesn’t wake me she will begin to nibble
on my nose. I’m fairly certain that she is trying to see if it’s
okay to eat me.
8, 2015 - "The cat has been described as the most
perfect animal, the acme of muscular perfection and the
supreme example in the animal kingdom of the coordination
of mind and muscle."- Roseanne Ambrose Brown
Gratuitous Kittiness: The prisoner of Zenda.
Mewvie: The cat that almost pets itself.
9, 2015 - "There is, incidently, no way of talking
about cats that enables one to come off as a sane person." -
Gratuitous Kittiness: When the antihistamines kick in.
Mewvie: No translation needed.
cat vying for oldest moggy record dies
by JODY O'CALLAGHAN
A Christchurch cat vying to be recognised as the world's oldest moggy
has died aged 33.
The cat died recently just three days after Guinness World Records form
arrived that, once completed, would have bumped the record holding oldest
cat - 25-year-old Corduroy, from America - off the leader board.
Sarah's last few years were spent deaf, easily disoriented and with up
to three toilet visits during the night, but Ford said she was "pretty
wonderful really" with "all her faculties".
"There was no incontinence. She knew when she needed the toilet."
The cat went into heart failure and her paws became swollen with fluid.
Her long-time vet Heather Remnant, from At the Vets, put her down with
Ford and her husband, Danny, by her side.
"It was so lovely for her because she was very dignified. It was so beautiful,
I cry when think of it," Ford said.
She would wait before getting another cat.
The Fords had Sarah for about 13 years after getting her from neighbours
when the cat was 20 years old.
Remnant said she applied on behalf of the Fords to have Sarah mentioned
in the Guinness World Records and was going through the process when
the cat died.
"We were going for it, but it takes such a long time to get it through.
She was a pretty special cat."
10, 2015 - "If a dog jumps in your lap, it is because
he is fond of you; but if a cat does the same thing, it
is because your lap is warmer." - Alfred North Whitehead
Gratuitous Kittiness: Fangs. Fangs a lot.
Mewvie: Stop hitting yourself.
11, 2015 - "People who love cats have some of the
biggest hearts around." - Susan Easterly
Gratuitous Kittiness: "Greetings, hooman!"
Mewvie: "Gimme-gimme that thing, gimme-gimme that!"
Komic: Pavlov's Cat
Art: Valeria Styajkina
by Mary Valle
I had my mean 15-year-old cat Nigel euthanized last month. He was a spitfire
from the get-go, a feral black kitten, the runt of the litter, whose
tiny wrath was remarkable to witness. I force-cuddled him, much to his
dismay. His littermates adjusted quickly well to life on the inside but
little Nigel, at nine weeks old, fought as if he were actually going
to defeat me.
Of course, Nigel became my cat. He followed me into the bathroom. He
sat on my lap all day. Sometimes if we were apart and I looked at him,
he would purr audibly.
But Nigel still raged. Still squawked. He left me bloody when I took
him to the vet, and peed all over his brother. Nigel is the only pet
I’ve had who has left me with a facial scar.
When my daughter, Margaret, was born, Nigel staged a four-year-siege
from a dining room chair, where he brooded under the table, hissing and
occasionally reaching out a paw and swiping all passers-by. About two
years in, I took him to the vet (more slices). Hundreds of dollars later,
it was proclaimed that there was nothing wrong with him. When he emerged
from his cave two years after that, he proceeded to scare Margaret by
planting himself in her path. “Mom, Nigel’s in my way!” she
would yell. “Just walk around him,” I would say. Then there
would be a racket of hissing and crying.
I got my love of drawing, and of drawing cats, from my dad. He used to
draw pictures of my childhood hissy, mean, bony and formerly feral cat,
Freddy, on my paper lunch bags. I have drawn hundreds of pictures of
Nigel on Margaret’s daily lunch notes, and, in the summertime,
I draw a cartoon of Nigel daily when we are vacationing with my family.
In the summer cartoons, Nigel has called in a chopper in the middle of
a hike; thrown his golf clubs up in a tree, and sat placidly on the beach
while a drowning swimmer yells for help in the background. This summer,
on drought-stricken Catalina Island, California, he was “water-wise” and
pierced great plastic cubes of the precious stuff with his claw, fuming
all the while.
In real life, Nigel ruined a snazzy new laptop by throwing up on it.
On purpose. And he never failed to wake me up by braying and stepping
on my windpipe.
In the last few years of his life, though, he softened somewhat. He let
Margaret pet him. He sometimes slept on my pillow or my head. He let
me brush him again. He laid on the floor, smiling, in the kitchen.
Then it was time to let Nigel go. While we waited in the cold exam room
for the vet, I held Nigel. He was featherlight, quiet. He tucked his
head under my arm.
I told him again about how an angry little street kitten with crusty
eyes came inside, and how I held that little kitten, who spat and hissed
and scratched me with his wee ineffectual claws. How I fed him solid
food from a spoon, and I showed him how to use the litterbox by taking
his little paw and scratching some clay in a little fruit crate.
“You’ve been a great kitty, Nigel,” I said. “I will see
you again and please watch over me from heaven.” I don’t believe
in a literal heaven. This is a metaphor. Maybe.
When I told Margaret, now 12, that Nigel had died, one of her first responses
was “What are we going to do? We talk about Nigel all the time.” She
proposed a solution: we can talk about what Nigel would do or say in
any given situation. My dad still talks about Freddy, 30 years later,
and sometimes offers her opinions. Freddy, like Nigel, doesn’t
like much. He counseled me that Nigel would grow even greater in death.
“I actually feel his scorn now,” I said. “He denies ever knowing
me.” Margaret also proposed a “Nigel in Heaven” storyline,
which has already begun in this year’s lunch notes.
If you live with a cat, you live with a weirdo: your tales of feline
Nigel and I understood each other. Sometimes I hide, issuing no communications
save for hisses and swipes. Nigel was a great shunner of cat food; I
often opened can after can trying to find something he would eat, while
he yelled at me. Once I found a kind he liked, he would shun that, too,
after I laid in a small supply. Love, love, love, hate. That’s
me as well.
It’s hard living without Nigel’s daily judgements and demands.
I feel lost, a mere hairless ape who, lacking feline direction, doesn’t
know what to do next.
What would Nigel say?
“Life will be meaningless without me. Accept it. Shut up and tend to your
next insignificant human task. Do that until you die, you cretinous cat-murdering
Got it. I shall now carry on with my hollow, Nigel-free existence.