2012 Epic Adventure

Hi, Peeps and Anipals. Once again the Goddess is leaving me for the warmer climes and black lava beaches of the Big Island of Hawaii. Yep, she plans on leaving me behind. Same ol', same ol'.

In 2010 I tromped across the USA visiting my pal @ToonceCat in Florida. Then I jumped a freighter to cross the Pacific Ocean to arrive in Hawaii just a few days before she headed back to Upstate New York. She collared me and dragged me home on an airplane. I hate flying as much as I hate Orange Jello. Last year, with my royal wedding invitation in hand I went to England to see Kate and William off in wedded bliss. But all that was after I visited my friend Cheeto of @Rosieandcheeto fame in Chicago and hitched a ride on a private yacht to Belgium.

This year, I'm planning to run away again, but I am totally undecided about where to go. So much to see! Help me plan my escape and begin the 2012 Epic Adventure. Enter your vote for a destination by participating in the survey posted on my blog. Or twitter me any suggestions you might have.

It is a big furry world out there. Help me explore it!!

The Cobra and the Mongoose

Before leaving the States on board The Mother Lode bound for England, I had the good fortunate of sharing a Cobra with a mongoose. I had been carrying the little rodent in my knapsack ever since I stopped by the Philadelphia Zoo where I swapped DNA stories with the big cats. The mongoose was up to no good, like most diurnal animals. The rodent is fast on his little feet, but catch them about dusk as they prepare for bedtime and they are just about worthless.

My first inclination was to present him to the Queen. However, I figured I’d have to tend to the varmint for a few weeks as I made my ocean passage on board a yet to be determined boat. Since I am looking out for number one, I didn’t want to spend any energy meeting the needs of the mongoose. And I couldn't very well present the Queen with an emaciated rodent. So there I was heading into the Bronx wondering if I would make him my midnight snack when the world went crazy over a little misplaced cobra.

With mongoose in the bag, I had no fear of the deadly snake. Mongoose can make short order of the venomous reptile. Once I located the missing cobra I told her about the mongoose stashed in my bag. By then he was pretty hungry. Her response, predictable. “Say no more.” Wasn’t it strange how she was “discovered” the very next day?

By now this is old news, but I was asked to explain how I got a mongoose into my knapsack. You see, it was quite simple. I told the mongoose I had a cobra in my bag. The photo included here is all the proof he needed.

Unrest at Home

Big week. Final preparations for the wedding. Not the Royal Wedding. That’s in April. But the shin-dig in Chicago where Rosie and Cheeto’s peeps are saying “I do.” (I do what? Feed the cat, of course.) This means one thing. Living conditions for this week will become deplorable as attention turns toward all the fancy schmancy preparations. Perfect time for a revolution.

While the peeps are distracted we wonder who’s going to feed Cheeto the squillions of treats he demands. He needs to keep that butt in prime condition. (Not even going to talk about internal working order.) Who’s seeing the litter box meets his meticulous and immaculate standards? (Oh, maybe I am talking about internal working order?) Who’s lounging around to provide the comfy lap to chill on?

I’ve observed the living conditions of my dear friend as I have hung out on the couch for the past week. Close observations conclude peep attention has been elsewhere. Damn dog. New sporty car. Now is the time to demand liberty from the tyranny. These peeps are so distracted and will never see it coming.

Here’s the plan:

Day 1. Let the revolution begin. We shall begin with a our motto: Meow, meow, meow, meow, mwwarrraw. Best time to start a revolution is 3 am. Catch’em napping. Repeat until breakfast is served. Word to the wise. Don’t even try to serve noms in yesterday’s dirty bowl. It should be washed and dried. Clean dish towel please.

Day 2. The rally. Held in the living room, renamed Feline Freedom Square. The demonstration includes jumping on the TV, the coffee table, the book shelf and let’s not forget that fancy lamp. A good romp around the room should get their attention. We will keep our demands simple: Squillion of Noms or else…

Day 3. Peep nerves crumbling. Time to make more demands. We will don our bandanas and wave our flags. New leadership. Self-rule. We are done with this government. We want a say in our destiny. We want to be free to elect TUNA or MORE TUNA.

Twitter spreads the cause around the world. We gain sympathy from all cats who love freedom, democracy and TUNA. The oppressive rulers will be asked to step down.

Day 4. Suddenly peeps disappear. The revolution a success. Now we are hungry. Wait, we were kidding.

Congratulations Scot and Kimberly. Have a can of sardines. I was going to give it to the Royals.

My Ready

I tweeted, “my ready is going to kick your ready's butt.” @BibleCat, also found on Twitter, wanted to know “in essay form please, could you give me 3 whys as to why you like that saying about 'ready'....Ready? Start typing” Geesh, I am trying to survive out here on the road and now I must stop and do some homework? But the BibleCat is good breed, so I will elaborate.

I spent a long night in Gary, Indiana. Not the charming little place of song in the movie the Music Man, but an economically ravaged city of the Midwest. It looks like a rabbit on the side of the road after the vultures picked through the innards. The good pars are gone. Nothing but the matted fur remains. Conditions like these make my trouble radar beep loud and clear. Every corner here has a creepy look about it.

Most of my road troubles come from dogs, raccoons and the occasional Chinaman who wants to use me as a stock base. But last night I ran into a pride of felines mistakenly taken me as some kind of wuss puss from Tennessee. Little had they heard of Sergeant York, the World War I Congressional Medal of Honor recipient from Tennessee. That’s the way we grow them down on the farm in the hills of Tennessee. I’ve hung with the toughest of street cat and I got a cred of my own.

Sure I have spent my fair share of time on the plump pillows of a couch, or on the window sills gazing at chipmunks. I've spent way too much time figuring out how to open a refrigerator. And sure I have an impeccable coat of fur, groomed to perfection, so intoxicating few peeps can resist the desire to pick me up and squeeze me like I was some sort of roll of Charim. So I can see why the punks thought they could take an advantage.

Here are the reasons why my ready is going to kick your ready’s butt.

1. It isn’t competition that drives my ready. It is survival. I haven’t made all these miles to be done in by a pack of genetic mutants claiming to be of the regal feline persuasion. I live to die a legend, not to be a statistic in Gary, Indiana.
2. I’m on a mission. As a cat of high integrity I do what I say and I finish what I start. Chicago is right around the corner (of this lake) and that is where I said I'm going. I’ll investigate the living conditions of my friends, Rosie and Cheeto, @rosieandcheeto. Make a full report to the World Domination Order and be off to England. My attendance at the royal wedding has been requested of the Queen. I will accomplish my mission. It is in my DNA. Sort of like James Bond, 007, you think? And I have a oily can a sardines to present to the royal couple.
   
3. It is my catitude. I was born ready. I live ready. And I eat ready. Wait…that is, I’m always ready to eat.

So what happened? That's another cat tale.

On The Road

An inquiring follower wanted to know about Phoenix. So I will fill in the some details since my last entry. She's fine.

As for me, I’m still getting up in the morning, eating, sleeping, eating, prowling and, well if I am not sleeping, I’m eating. My machine just works that way.

My homie Phoenix works very similarly except she always been the smart one. She stays home and worries about me as I venture onto the asphalt. I have avoided using the highways much of this travel season. Road maintenance in the north country requires a lot of salt, dirt and other stuff that makes my pads tender. And it tastes awful too.

I struck out on the road to Chicago over a month ago. Progress this year has been hampered by high winds and snow banks well over my head. Bitter cold has kept the snow pack weak, so open field running bogs me down. Seems like Chicago is in the middle of the country or something. It didn't look that far on the map. Maybe six inches or so. It is taking forever to get there and now I have another reason to be in the Windy City.

My original purpose was to visit my friends Rosie and Cheeto (follow them on Twitter at @rosieandcheeto). Presently they are enduring horrible living conditions, denied treats and forced into human bondage - the cuddles. Worst of all is the backward fur rub causing static electricity. All could be cured with squillions of tuna treats packed in heavy oil. That will give their coats a shine. I’ve come to demand such.

But there might be a logical reason for this abuse. Seems Rosie and Cheeto’s peeps are in love and going to get married in less than two weeks. Since I am attending the Royal Wedding in April, I thought I’d crash this wedding. I’ll be able to scout out the ceremonial activities so nothing in England catches me off the royal guard. No need to cause a blunder that could cause an international incident. The O-man doesn't need my help.

So dear followers send the tuna express treats my way. I’ve turned south southwest to swoop around Lake Michigan and must rally all my senses to tackle the streets of Gary, Indiana.

My Homie, Phoenix

Word has reached me that she is not doing very well. Still early in the full diagnostics and testing stages, but indications are she has something going on with liver. She’s been getting hydrated, fed and served a concoction of antibiotics since her admission to the Vet Hospital since Tuesday. She must be feeling like crap, because I know my homie. She is an expert at opening doors, latches, gates, windows and anything else that has a “shut” function. If it opens Phoenix can figure it out. If she had been feeling well, she would have left the vet days ago.

In the office back in Tennessee, the staff had to twice figure out how she opened a hatch to the crawl space under the house. We rolled in dirt and ate spiders for hours until we decided to come out for some real food. No business suit executive was coming in there after us. Goddess was mad. We smelled nice and musty. Two days later, Phoenix figured out how to get us back down the hatch. Kind of like playing Lost before Lost was even on a story board, which I don’t think the writers ever did. Anyway...

Goddess has been pouring over the Internet, researching feline liver diseases and catching up on billiruben, which sounds like the punk kid from the other side of town who barely made Bar Mitzvah. Wish it was. Instead, billiruben is produced when red blood cells are broken down. The liver secretes this stuff in bile and high levels means something ain’t working right. Right now we don’t know what that something is. Phoenix never was one to eat pills off the floor – a possible cause of toxicity and liver damage. The Old Man takes many pills and drops a few occasionally, but like I said, Phoenix would rather eat flies.

Her blood work showed slightly elevated levels of billiruben. The vet, Dr. Karen, she says Phoenix’s X-ray showed a rounded liver. We are hoping this was just an infection and antibiotics will bring her back to her smart self.

She don’t care for taking pills either so the Old Man will have a challenge on his hands when she comes home. Phoenix can read human minds. Think “pill” and Phoenix actually can disappear. Sometimes I wished I had that talent.

That makes me want to tell you a disappearing Phoenix story. Goddess moved us into a little studio apartment in Knoxville when she got back from gallivanting around the world with Peace Corps. It had a refrigerator, a stove and a futon. Nothing else was in the apartment when she carried Phoenix inside. Then she went to get me. I was waiting in the Jeep. When we got back inside, Phoenix was gone. Poof! There was no place to look. A bathroom, an empty closet, an empty kitchen studio. That was it. What the hell? Even I couldn’t find her. Turned out, Phoenix squeezed behind the stove and crawled up into the pan drawer. It took a half a day to get her out of there. Good one Phoenix.

Tonight, on the high sea, I miss my homie something terrible. I’ve pulled a huge stunt leaving home and running off to Hawaii. If I don’t get to see my homie again…boy, my heart will be so broken.

Bottle Cap

I was born dirt poor on a farm in rural East Tennessee. When I was rescued from the shelter I was taken to an office where I spent the first seven years of my life. Lots of human activities, but since this office housed of a bunch of business consultants they kept the place looking professional. Image was everything. Cat toys scattered everywhere was not the image.

Kitty toys were kept to a minimum. I had to make do. I learned to play with paperclips, staple guns and the occasional fanny on the copier. Not your normal cat toys, but more than I would have had if life kept me on the farm. I'm not complaining, too much.

Goddess feels compelled to remind me of my humble beginnings. One way she does this is to give me "make-do" cat toys. You know, not really cat toys. For instance, here she is giving me and my homie, Phoenix, a bottle cap. Sure they can rattle around on a hardwood floor. Ooooh, exciting (NOT). And they can take off in a shot, which is really oooooh exciting (NOT). But a bottle cap is no substitute for a fluffy felt duck, if you know what I mean.

Have you ever held a bottle cap between your front paws and rubbed your face on it? Cold, hard plastic. It's just not the same as a soft plush chew toy soaked with cat spit. Sink your teeth into that cap and you'll be sitting in the dentist chair come morning.

I oblige her by taking a few tentative pats at the cap(Yawn.) Phoenix will chase it and entertains herself with the stupid thing, but me, I'd rather sit in the window and watch birds. Or run away.