A picture of the boys in their favorite birder-feeder-spying-zone spot.
Not much to report at the moment; travelling a lot, scrounging hours at the day job. Son’s school play is finally over, so the battle to protect my writing hours should get a whole lot easier this week.
(Am now thinking WHY OH WHY did I say that out loud…)
We have, at last, come to the end of the cats whose name starts with B.
He, like his littermate Bear, will turn two in November. Another camera-shy turkey. He got his name because that white bit on his nose and lip were the very first thing I saw when he was born which—if you look really closely—matches the Meg Silver triangle-and-circle-intertwined icon.
The birthdate is the only thing he shares with Bear. This guy is a cupcake. A high-maintenance one, due to being a walking UTI. He enjoys every second of his special treatment, and likes being fed his UT-care kibs BY HAND. Yes, I am completely, 100% guilty of indulging his behavior cuz I just swoon when he comes to me for his noms. Everyone behold this monster I have created.
Otherwise, he is Booger’s shadow. Also a budding lap cat who likes hard petting and claw-hands down his back.
He’ll turn two years old in November. He’s all black with a brownish undercoat. The only thing bigger than his scruff is his attitude.
If we were a married couple, we’d be in counselling right now. Remember Jayne from Firefly? This is how I would define Bear’s archetype in our cat crew. I should have taken a picture of him in the wreckage of the twenty-year-old spiderplant he sent down the stairs and killed this morning.
That’s life with Bear. He will flip any light switch he can reach. He can turn doorknobs, and don’t even fantasize about going to the bathroom by yourself. If he doesn’t dart in next to you, he’ll reach under the door to let you know you’re not getting away with anything.
The only time he tolerates me is:
1) In the bathroom when he turns uber-affectionate, or
2) When I have a can of food in my hand.
Naturally, Mr. Silver dotes on this heinous beast. Okay, basically everyone else in this house adores his stupid little black face, except me, the one who has to clean up after him.
Here’s a little window into how the final two episodes are progressing.
I had to decide between two options on a story point. It’s not a make-or-break decision or anything, and I’m kind of brain fried from day-job, so I said hey, I’ll just flip a coin and let the universe decide.
So there’s a dime sitting on an end table. I flip it into the air.
It lands in my hair.
Slides off my head into a blanket on the couch.
Dime… is… gone. Can’t find it.
Daughter is laughing so hard she takes pity on me and makes Google flip a coin.
Continuing on with the Silver cats theme, here’s another one.
Yes, you read that correctly. The cat’s name is actually Booger. He and his sister (who will be coming up soon) are both eight years old. They’re littermates rescued from my mother- & father-in-law’s woodpile. Both cats had distemper when Mr. Silver brought them home. Believe me when I say the name “Booger” was well earned by the time I’d nursed these wooly mammoths through their illness.
These two cats are ENORMOUS. They both ballooned after they were spayed/neutered. Booger, though, is just plain loooooong. Here I’m trying to show the scale of this guy:
Right now he’s 24 lbs. When he sits on you—which he will insist upon whether you’re willing or ready or not—you know you’ve been sat on.
He’s actually slimmed down a lot with some dietary changes and exercise. When I say exercise, I mean “forcing him to go outside, which he despises, and will only roll in the dirt and race immediately back into the house the moment some traitorous human opens the door”. I had to bring one of said traitorous humans outside with us to get these photos. This cat will NOT look at the camera if he’s inside. So imagine us chasing after this turkey as he waddled from one door to the next trying to find a way back inside. Thank God for Mr. Silver’s tragically neglected wild-patch—AKA Booger’s salad bar—or I would never have scored a pic of the little turd’s face.
With all that said, anyone who has ever visited our house agrees: this is the sweetest animal ever born. He loves everyone. He purrs like a misfiring 350 small-block engine. When he’s in your lap, he’ll reach up to boop your face if you’re not looking at him. Beware, though, of his mouth-kissing and eyebrow-biting habits. He’s a tom cat, you know? Lazy, adorable and a total Dom when it comes to giving affection.
In every other way he is an absolute dunderhead. Whom I love just a little.
The last post sparked two email conversations about cats. Y’all know the Silver clan has just-shy of too many cats. So I said hey, let’s do a “Meet The Cats” segment.
Here’s the first feline stationary long enough this morning to photograph: This is Beezer. She’s five. She came to us as a stray, and life has never been the same since. Many of you will be familiar with the type—will look you dead in the eye while knocking shit off your desk, but will also come hide in your lap because reasons. Also known as the informer child of the cat crew. If Wilson (the dog) has gone out but wants back in, this cat will yell her head off until one of the human staff opens the door.
She is also the family murder machine. Pretty sure other of our cats would allow mice and bugs to march straight across their eyeballs. Not this one. She is the killer queen. Or just the queen, period.