An important message from your cat

[This week, Tim Jones turns the keys to his blog over to Tuxedo, a 23-pound spokescat representing the views of household cats everywhere.]

Cat - Tuxedo the catHey, owner. This is your cat. There appears to be a little confusion as to just exactly who’s in charge here. I know, I know. You pay the electric bill, pay the insurance (whatever that is), and you buy all the food. That does not make you king of my castle. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go over the ground rules one more time if I’m going to allow you to stay here.

I think we can both agree that I am pretty low maintenance. Heck, I sleep 20 hours a day, so the least you can do during the other four hours is drop what you’re doing and pay full attention to me – starting with my meals. I have to say a monotonous diet of Meow Mix day after day is not exactly my idea of haute cuisine. And what’s with the dry food pellets? Do I look like a rabbit? Please have your chef start preparing more interesting entrées for me. Might I suggest steak tartare or perhaps Lobster Newburg?

While we’re on the subject of dining preferences, need I remind you that the toilet is mine? Its primary function, we both know, is as the receptacle for my drinking water. I’m willing to let you share, but for God’s sake please make sure little Princess Sarah remembers to flush after she tinkles. It’s gross. You don’t see me taking a pee in her sippy cup, do you?

There also appears to be some confusion about sleeping quarters. The following locations belong to me: the living room couch, the family room recliner, every square inch of the master bed, any carpeted surface, and the dining room window ledge. In the spirit of compromise, I’m willing to let you share the window ledge – if you ask nicely and come bearing catnip.

Now a word about petting me. I am willing to let you pet me if you feel compelled to do so. I can put up with your scratching me under the chin and behind my ears, or even stroking my belly on occasion. But for the umpteenth time, please leave my paws alone. I’m still pissed at you for de-clawing me back in 2007.

Cat - cat in costumeAnother thing that bugs me: What’s with the baby goo-goo voice whenever you want to pet me? Do you think it somehow makes your commentary more adorable? Here’s a 411. I’m a cat. I have no fricking clue what you’re saying. And frankly, even if I did, I wouldn’t care. I have more important things to do than to listen to you yammer on – like coughing up another fur ball.

By the way, not that I’m complaining, but would it kill you to give me a few cat treats now and then? After all, who do you think is responsible for killing all the spiders and bugs that sneak into the house? Well, it sure as hell ain’t Fido over there. He’s way too busy licking his genitals to worry about patrolling this place for insect infestation.

Speaking of Fido, thanks a lot for deciding that what this house really needed was a dog. Ever since you brought home that tail-wagging kiss-ass, I can barely get 16 hours of sleep anymore. What were you thinking? Was there not enough slobber on every surface? He’s driving me nuts, always trying to play with me or sniff my butt. And if he sees a bird, he goes apoplectic, barking at the top of his lungs like we’re all under attack. And don’t get me started about his bad breath. What are you feeding him anyway, decayed skunk intestines?

Why did you feel a need to buy a dog anyway? Were you desperately longing to go outside at 2:45 a.m. in 34 degrees just so your new best friend can pee? At least I have the decency to use a litter box. But I guess that’s not nearly as pleasant as picking up dog poop with a plastic bag. Yes, I can see now why you wanted a dog.

I admit that, as your cat, sometimes I tend to shed all over your clothes when I jump on your lap. But what do you expect? In the winter, I have a layer of fur as thick as a yak. It has to go somewhere when spring comes. Besides, I’ve looked at the shower drain. It appears I’m not the only member of this household who is shedding.

Cat - cat on keyboardBut back to my original point. I’m just asking you to be more considerate of my needs as the master of this house. I don’t appreciate having to wait to be fed until you feel like rolling out of bed each morning. And when you start reading a book, I consider that an open invitation for me to lie down on top of it. By now I would have hoped we’ve established that my comfort is more important than your finding out what happens next in your latest Dan Brown novel.

And one other pet peeve: Enough with turning off the laser pointer right as I try to swipe at it. It was not funny the first time. It’s not funny the 247th time.

All I’m asking is for you to adhere to the implied contract we agreed to when I first gave you permission to adopt me: Attend to my every need and whim and I will let you stay. Is that so complicated? And just to show you I have no hard feelings, I went out and brought you a special gift. I’m pretty sure it’s a dead mouse. But it might be a mole. Kind of hard to tell since I bit off its head. I found the perfect place for it: your pillow. No need to thank me.

Well, I must be going. Typing this message without the benefit of opposable thumbs has really tired me out. And I see just the comfy spot to lie down – on top of the sports section you’re about to read. Meow!

–       Tuxedo the cat 

P.S.: About all the tropical fish missing from the tank. Sorry about that. I thought you were finally stocking up to prepare more interesting meals for me, and I do love sushi. As my apology, I will now allow you to pet me. No, not there. Not there either. Yes, there. Fine, that’s enough. Thank you. Now go and clean my litter box.

Tim Jones - Profile at Safeco - TinyPS:  If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me and Tuxedo know by posting a comment, giving it a paws up  thumbs upor sharing this post on Facebook. Or you could just send Tuxedo some cat treats. He’d probably appreciate that more, now that I think of it. 

© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2013

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  • Published On Jun. 19, 2013 by TEJ
  • 6 Comments


    1. Drew Fisher
      6/21/13

      Thumbs up (if she had thumbs) from Peaches, the cat in the Fisher household. My wife Annie remarked one night that watching Peaches slink about the house set the theme from “Mission: Impossible” running through her head. For some reason, it occurs to us that if she had the capacity to speak human words, they would come out with a German accent, and she would inform us that her name is really Fraeulein Katz. Peaches has ruled the roost since the unfortunate passing of Scamper last winter, demanding ever more expensive varieties of food, and taking possession of a brand-new chair that was originally intended as a place for the male human to relax in the evening with a pleasant drink. Should he have the effrontery to actually do this, Peaches will jump onto the chair and walk over the arms and back until the drink is no longer pleasant and the male human has surrendered. You’ve pegged the feline personality perfectly, Tim.


    2. 6/21/13

      You certainly did “peg the feline personality perfectly,” to reply to the previous comment. Thanks for making me giggle again.


    3. Lee
      6/21/13

      As I’m fighting Harley for the use of my keyboard, NOW I understand!!! Thank you Tuxedo. I’ll try to do better.


    4. Eleanor Rushworth
      6/23/13

      That is a great list of “do and donts” Tim. We wouldn’t like to cow-tow to a cat with all those demands. That’s why we don’t have a cat. Now, a dog, aka Mollydog? Well, we won’t get into that one.
      Yer MIL


    5. Shirley Freitas
      11/10/17

      Have you ever read the terrific mystery series by Hazel Holt? Here’s an excerpt Tuxedo might appreciate. (The main character, Mrs. Malory, is being visited by a snobby, materialistic woman, who has sat on a chair where one of Mrs. Malory’s dogs had slobbered, leaving a stain on her expensive skirt.)

      A sudden tapping at the window made her turn sharply.
      “Oh, don’t be alarmed. It’s Foss, my cat, he wants to come in.” I got up and unlatched the window and Foss leapt down with a loud cry. With that particular instinct cats have for annoying people who dislike them, he made straight for Thelma and jumped up on her lap, where he kneaded her skirt with his claws, thereby finishing its destruction. Thelma, in her turn, uttered a cry that was almost Siamese in its intensity, and I rushed over to remove my errant animal. With some difficulty I managed to unhook his claws and, lifting him off in spite of his very vocal protests, pushed him outside the door, where he continued to make his feelings known.
      [Later, after Thelma left:]
      Foss was in the kitchen when i went in, sitting hopefully on the draining board, waiting for someone to turn on the tap so he could bat at the water. I snatched him up and hugged him which surprised but did not displease him. “Oh Foss,” I said, “what a good boy you are! Destroying Thelma’s beastly skirt like that!”
      He opened his large blue eyes and regarded me benevolently.


    6. TEJ
      11/10/17

      Shirley F, thank you for sharing that delightful passage. Clearly written by a fellow cat lover.

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