some chucklehead's always trying to take over the world

[freckles_and_doubt]

I have déjà vu. There's a half-grown fluffy ginger tom with a white shirt front who's been wandering into our kitchen of a night and spraying, very slightly, somewhere I can't actually find. In the last couple of days he's become bolder, or possibly desperate, and wanders in while I'm cooking to dive head first into our cats' food bowls with every evidence of starvation, or to stand at the doorway making plaintive meeping noises. He's actually a very sweet and affectionate creature, and will headbutt my ankles and purr if I give him half a chance. This is pretty much the same extremely successful tactical plan followed by Ounce, although I don't think Ginger is a stray, he's very emphatically glossy, fluffy and beautiful. Nonetheless I am losing the will to chase him from the kitchen, which I suspect is a Bad Sign. We really don't need another cat.

In other news: pitch-perfect fairy tale by Catherynn M. Valente, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland In A Ship Of Her Own Making. Shades of Thackeray, Baum, Nesbit, all the good stuff. Matter-of-fact, off-beat, delectable. Look out for the soap golem and the flying leopard.

And, finally, annoying admin this week has driven me back into the arms of The Middleman's hyper-linguistic frivolity. Goofy Middleman Exclamations Du Jour: "Dagnabbit!" "Well, gosh!" "Scout's Honour!" "Swell!" "Shoot!" "Well, dagdiggity!" "Jeepers!" "Regoshdarneddiculous!" "Not a gosh-darned chance in heck!" and, memorably, "that was some darn fine cow-squirt!" Bonus points for the Jolly Fats Wehawkin Temp Agency. I feel much better now.

Comments

[grumpyolddog.livejournal.com]

We don't have that issue.

Small Cat (who is no longer small at all), even though neutered, will happily slaughter any fur-bearing mammal within 200 yards of the house. He particularly enjoys torturing other cats to death.

He seems to have acquired my loathing of cats.

For the record, we still despise each other.

[extemporanea.livejournal.com]

Huh. My damned cats are all dilettante fainting-couch types who don't progress much beyond growling. Particularly the male, who tends considerably more towards the gay hairdresser stereotype than the Chuck Norris. (Although, if it comes to that my gay hairdresser is an ex-dancer and can probably kick like a mule).

I find it curiously inevitable that a cat-hater of your legendary ilk should have ended up living with a sort of furry feline Fist of Death. Cosmic appropriateness ftw.