Those are the types of questions answered in the rest of this article. The cat described by these questions is the Maine Coon Cat. This is one of the oldest cat breeds. If you want a unique and lovable cat, then you need to consider the Maine Coon cat.

Maine Coon cat characteristics

As with any pet breed, it is important to begin by understanding the unique characteristics of the Maine Coon cat. This information can help you decide at a glance if this cat breed is right for you.

Below are the most pertinent characteristics of the Maine Coon cat. The numbers presented are averages. Your Maine Coon cat may potentially fall outside the ranges described here.

• Height: male=10-16 in., female=8-14 in.
• Length: 40 in.
• Weight: male=15-25 lbs., female=10-15 lbs.
• Life Expectancy: 10-15 years
• Origin: Maine, USA
• Color: Most colors and patterns, but brown tabby is the most traditional.
• Coat: Long on the ruff, uneven double coat on rest of the body, bushy tail with colored rings

Maine Coon cat history

The Maine Coon cat’s exact history is not definitively known. Many folk tales and speculation point to different origins for the breed. One thing that is known for certain is that the breed originally hails from the state of Maine.

Maine coon cats were used as a mouser and ship’s cat as far back as the early 19th century. The Maine Coon cat was first mentioned in a published work in 1861. Yet, they were likely used as working cats much earlier than that published reference.

The Maine Coon cat is distinguished by its brown tabby coat and striped tail. Their resemblance to the raccoon is where this cat breed gets its name. However, unlike the folklore understanding, a cat was not mated with a raccoon to produce the Maine Coon. The name only comes from its resemblance to a raccoon, not a genetic similarity.

Today, Maine Coon cats are a popular breed. They are one of the winningest show cats. In fact, they are the only show cat to have their origins in the USA. Despite this, luckily, they don’t fall under the most expensive cat breeds as you can view here. They would probably set back their owners between $162 – $800 annually.

Maine Coon cat personality

With such a large cat, you may think the Maine Coon cat would be aggressive. That is pretty far from the truth. Maine Coon cats are known for their friendly demeanor. They do tend, however, to be a little more aloof than other cat breeds. For example, they are typically not considered a lap cat. They much prefer to be near, but not on their owners.

Maine Coon cats are very playful. They may even be found playing patty cake. Maine Coon cats get along well with children, other cats, and dogs. They are curious by nature, and so should be kept inside. Their curious natures can lead them into trouble if they are left unsupervised outdoors.

Maine Coon cat grooming

The long double coat of the Maine Coon cat may provide some grooming issues. The easiest thing would be to take your cat to a professional groomer. However, that option can be too expensive for some people.

In order to keep their coat from matting, you will need to brush your Maine Coon cat regularly. Begin brushing them when they are young, as it will make it easier to groom your Maine Coon cat when they are an adult. You will need to use a soft bristle brush to keep from harming your cat’s skin. Make sure the bristles are long enough to reach through both of their coats.

If the Maine Coon cat’s fur becomes matted, it may need to be clipped. The lion cut, which leaves their long ruff and shaves the rest of their body, is popular for this breed.

Maine Coon cat health issues

The Maine Coon is mostly a healthy breed. They are not susceptible to many health problems. Feline hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM) is the largest threat to the Maine Coon’s health. This is a heart disease found in cats. Spinal muscular atrophy, hip dysplasia, arthritis, and polycystic kidney disease have also been observed in this breed.

Feeding your Maine Coon cat a proper diet and adopting them from a reputable source are two ways of ensuring your pet stays healthy. You should also stay up-to-date on their vaccinations, spay or neuter, and visit your vet regularly.

Conclusion

It doesn’t matter if you are a crazy cat lady or not, you will love the Maine Coon cat. This “gentle giant” is truly unique in the cat world. Not only is it one of the oldest cat breeds, but they are also some of the largest.

Their history as mousers means that the Maine Coon Cat can help keep the mouse population down in your home. You will love their laid-back and yet playful natures. Just make sure you are up for their grooming requirements before you bring a Maine Coon cat into your home!

Photo Credits

Photo by Bee Felten-Leidel on Unsplash

Guest Author Bio
Lauretta Williams

Lauretta Williams is a web-addicted blogger. She loves spending her time listening to music, playing with her dog and writing blogs from her computer. We all want our pets not to run away from home. But sometimes, they might get lost. Don’t worry, we have your back. Report your lost pets with PawMaw. We can help you find your missing pet.

Two months ago I had to make the decision to put my two Maine Coon cats down, Rocky and Tye. I did what I always do when my heart hurts – I wrote. I wrote a poem; I wrote about love and loss, regardless if there are 2 legs or 4; I wrote about the intensity of the grief. I just wrote. I have never written so much in my life, and I knew it would never be shared. This was not writing that was well-structured. It was all over the map, and was exactly how I felt in the hours and days that followed. It was the first time I struggled with clear thought and could not answer the question I always ask myself when I write: what am I trying to say? It took me awhile to realize that I didn’t know. It took me even longer to understand that it was perfectly okay. It was clear I needed an outlet, and well-crafted sentences and continuity were far from the goal.

Over the past two months, I’ve had no choice but to get used to a life without Rocky and Tye in it. I feel their absence every minute of every day but am starting to come to terms with the fact that there will be no more shared routines and daily rituals. There’s also a sense that I’ve reached the end of an era. They were a connection to my past and were a big part of the journey to a new life. The four of us moved on (they had a sister CoCo that I had to put down two years ago) and we settled into a simple life, one of love and much quality time together.

So here I am. What now? There’s just me, and a new year is about to begin. I suspect it will take some time to move through the feelings of loss and change. But I will attempt to do as I always do at the end of every year – celebrate all that I’ve done and create a plan for the new year. And although I will forever miss the little beings whose hearts got so entangled with mine, I also feel a certain anticipation. I look forward to all that’s to come; the promise of new adventure, the freedom to say yes to life. I can’t help but feel that Tye, Rocky and CoCo’s love and companionship has, in many ways, prepared me for this moment. They truly were gifts.

As always, the love of family and friends will carry me through the holiday season. I will notice the quiet; the strangeness. I will notice the ache in my heart. But I will also notice the abundance. As I learn to let go, I will reach for the comfort that exists around me.

Merry Christmas everyone…may we fondly remember the Christmases of yesterday, embrace this Christmas with love in our hearts and cherish the moments we spend with those around us.  

Photo Credits

Photos by Carol Good – all rights reserved

• Modern cities are built around infrastructure for cars.
• Roads are considered mostly, if not solely, for cars.
• Automobile drivers have the right to demand of non-drivers both a deference to their convenience as well as a conformity to rules that were designed with them in mind.

The rising concerns about climate change and alternative transit systems is weakening the strength of this position in many places. However, it’s also true that those of us who regularly walk or bike in many urban areas in North America are still confronted with many difficulties stemming from car-centrism. This includes our four-legged friends.

A few summers ago, I helped another person try to save a cat in the middle of a busy downtown Minneapolis, Minnesota intersection. That mid-July day I had stepped off my bike onto the sidewalk and was waiting for a light to cross Washington Avenue at 3rd Street. Given how busy the intersection was, I decided it was better to just walk my bike across the crosswalk and then start back-biking on the less-trafficked side street. All of a sudden a cat ran into the street and was hit in its back end by a car. I watched for a moment as, with collapsed hind legs, it tried to run out of traffic to safety. Before the light turned red, I started towards the middle of the intersection, putting my hands in the air. A woman stopped her car, got out and ran towards the cat. I told her I was trying to get the cars to stop and then made my way towards the cat as well. I kept scanning the scene for danger, but mostly saw that the cars were swerving around us or stopping. Finally, we got to the cat. It was bleeding a lot, and still trying to drag itself out of the intersection. The woman had brought a towel so we unfolded it, swooped down, wrapped it around the cat and took it to her car. We thanked each other, commented about the ‘craziness’ of some of the drivers and then she drove off. She planned on taking it to an animal hospital. When she left, the cat was still alive. The whole thing was over in about two minutes.

One thing I later realized was that everything in these kinds of situations feels ramped up. The actions of all players involved, from the cat to the impatient drivers, were heightened and, in memory, probably somewhat exaggerated. No doubt, the cat’s life was in serious danger. In fact, it’s more likely that it died than lived, given the severity of its injuries. In addition, the actions of some of the drivers weren’t terribly helpful. At the same time, they weren’t all that much different from those of drivers under regular conditions, such as when a bicyclist or pedestrian or even another car is ‘in their way’. It’s easier to brush off the same petty, self-absorbed honking when it’s just one person and nothing else traumatic or even dramatic is happening around you. The same action multiplied and added to an already challenging situation, however, can push everything (internally) over the top. It took me hours to come down from the mixture of anger, sadness and adrenaline I felt after helping to rescue the cat. Whereas when I experience the same kind of behavior (honking, impatient swerving etc.) on a smaller scale during my normal bicycle commute, I either brush it off altogether or experience a much less heightened and lengthy reaction.

I’ve come to realize that none of this stuff is ‘personal’ and a lot of it is simply collective dysfunction that is socially sanctioned. It’s just accepted that people have the ‘right’ to the fastest, clearest path – or, that if anyone gets in their way, they can honk, yell at or speed past the offending person, people or animals. This attitude needs to change, and thankfully it’s starting to in many places, but it’s far too slow in my book. I can imagine many of our four-legged friends would agree.

Photo Credits

 Catwheels from morgueFile

In the moment …

What does it mean to be fully in the moment? To not think about what will happen an hour from now, or an hour ago? To not be burdened by thoughts of what could have been, or what lies ahead?

What does it mean to love and to forgive unconditionally? To love purely, simply … without conditions? To not discriminate between the young and the old, the healthy and the sick, the beautiful or the disfigured?

“Dogs live in the now. They don’t plan ahead or think back. Unlike most of us, they don’t live their lives wishing they had this or that. The disappointments of the past do not factor into their thinking. They are present in the moment. I believe this at least partially explains how they can love, accept and forgive with such apparent ease. My daughter thinks they are angels. She may be right! I think it also explains why they are full of joy and always ready for adventure.” ~ There is Much to Learn from Dogs

Though they show it in very different ways, the same can be said of cats.

Watch this beautiful video produced by C.J Gardella which debuted during the prestigious 2013 Tribeca Film Festival in New York City.

“The film invites us into the world of our pets to help us rediscover and appreciate the simple joys of life.”

This post is sponsored by Petcurean

Photo Credits

Thubnail is a screen capture from the video

Chocolate Lab – Jazz Dog – By Gil Namur – All Rights Reserved

It’s been a a week now since Jack, my cat, died. This grief feels thicker than the last time. Thicker in the sense that I knew him for over 17 years; longer than my marriage, longer than most of my friendships, and now he’s up and gone. There’s no one here but me, rattling about and stepping over shadows of invisible cats, rewriting the script of my life.

The day he died I threw out his litter boxes and washed the blood-stained towels and sheepskin. I felt an urgency to clear away the burdens, the messy death, the reminders of my attachments to him. Yet when I saw the thin coating of his orange fur coiled in a circle of sleep on my comforter cover I froze with clinging grief. I wasn’t quite ready to let go of all that was him, not just yet.

It was the same with the chair by my desk. Last year I found a perfect desk chair and set it up in front of my computer only to find it immediately in use by a cat. I acquiesced and moved it over, pulling a dining room chair up to the keyboard for me. All the time I have written in the past year in a half, either Jack or Clause has been by my side in that chair, sleeping, purring, comforting me in their peaceful presence. The empty chair still sits beside me, covered in fur, and there it will stay, at least for now.

I’m unraveling all the habits one is obliged to remember when owned by pets. I can close the storage room door since there are no cat litter boxes in there to clean. I can shut the other doors as well without the worry of a trapped cat or that I may deny them a fine nap in the laundry basket tucked into the back of my bedroom closet. The blinds can be dropped all the way; no need to leave them up a bit for a cat or two to jump to the window sill for a nap or to watch the show of trees and crows and dogs with their owners passing by. When warm weather comes again I can throw open the windows to their full expression without worrying about a cat escaping to the busy street and beyond.

No more food or water to set out. No more food to throw away that goes uneaten. No more coaxing with bribes of tuna and still no eating for days, weeks on end until only water passes through their lips and you’re thankful for every drop they swallow for you. No more drinks from the toilet, perched precariously on once strong, but now wobbly legs. I can put the seat down now, but sometimes I don’t.

Years ago I bought two paintings by Elizabeth Ryder Sutton. The larger painting is called “Near Home” and it so reminded me of Jack with its a ginger cat walking through a field heading towards a chair (at right). The  subject of the smaller painting is that solitary chair (above). One time when we lived on a small island, Jack escaped our cabin and bounded with such unbridled pleasure through the dry grasses around the house. At one point he turned and looked back at me. It was exactly the same pose of the cat in the painting. I felt such happiness for him; that he could feel safe close to home, yet still be wild in the play of the wind and the field that laid before him.

The grief is subsiding like the waters of a flood. When I sit in meditation I recall the joy I summoned up the night before he died. Joy in feeling again the sense of non suffering and knowing that both Jack and Clause are in that space now. I can see impermanence and cravings in everything, from the memory of trying to block out the annoying feline symphony of “feed me” to leaning into the silence of this moment and trying to catch the whisper of a meow on the wind.  Last week I thought I saw him sunning himself in the window of our apartment and at night I catch myself when I think I hear him walking down the hall to settle onto my chest in bed and dream. Leaving to go to work I realize there’s no more need to say goodbye to the lodgers still residing in my heart. And the empty chair sits next to me. I’ll clean it, some day soon.

The Promise

by Jane Hirshfield

Stay, I said
to the cut flowers.
They bowed
their heads lower.

Stay, I said to the spider,
who fled.

Stay, leaf.
It reddened,
embarrassed for me and itself.

Stay, I said to my body.
It sat as a dog does,
obedient for a moment,
soon starting to tremble.

Stay, to the earth
of riverine valley meadows,
of fossiled escarpments,
of limestone and sandstone.
It looked back
with a changing expression, in silence.

Stay, I said to my loves.
Each answered,
Always.

From Come, Thief  by Jane Hirshfield (Alfred A. Knopf, 2011). © by Jane Hirshfield.

Previously published at the author’s website, dhammascribe.com

Photo credits: 

© by Tess Wixted all rights reserved

Clause was a sable black cat with an attitude built on entitlement. He graciously allowed me and my other cat, Jack, to share his home, his food and his sleeping quarters for nearly three and a half years. I’ve heard stories from his previous slave, Dhar, about how he fought off eagles on a beach when he was just six months old. Of how he trained said slave to open the door at his whim, and although being at his beckon call might lean towards indentured servitude, being of service to Clause never failed to elicit a warm appreciation for this most human of feline landlords.

I wasn’t home when he died and that was okay; we said our goodbyes before I left for a long weekend away to see a dear friend on a neighbouring island. I spent the hours following his death doing the things that need to be done with bodies that no longer breathe, offering up chants and prayers, sharing time with Dhar over tea and coming home to a half empty house to write about him and his exit from my life.

Over the past days I’ve watched my emotions, what arose and what passed away. I haven’t had a good track record with grief. I tend to feel it in one giant tsunami wave of sobbing tears that crashes through my body in a convulsion of sadness, and then it’s gone, leaving an empty vacuum I feel compelled to fill with things to be done and feelings to avoid. I know we all grieve in as many ways are there are people, yet I also see my propensity to drift on, to think I’m finished with the grief as if it were a checklist or a neat bundle that can be tied up with a satin ribbon and tucked away in a box of abandoned memories and deluding dust.

What I’ve felt more than anything in the time since Clause died is an unrelenting sense of exhaustion. My sleep patterns have been haywire for years with fits and starts of getting to sleep, not staying asleep, waking and dozing interspersed with hourly taps on the shoulder by my alarm clock. Yet these past days have felt like molasses poured into my veins when I try to get out of bed. Even this weekend I couldn’t seem to relinquish the fatigue that yanks me down into the vat of abated rest.

Sitting with the tiredness as I meditated this morning I followed the tracks of fatigue to see where it was hold up in my body. With each breath exhaustion dragged me along until I found it had woven itself with grief into a grey cloak of sadness wrapped around my weary heart. I sat with the insatiable heaviness, feeling it sink into my cells and I watched as it began to widen and take the form of depression’s black bottomless hole. I know depression. I’ve lived with its vacant craving digging into my body and my thoughts for decades. I know also how to release myself from its dark abyss.

Out I went into the day for a walk along the ocean, inhaling the coolness of the late summer morning, conversing with the grief that had joined me in my strides. I sat for awhile on a bench looking across the waters to the snow-dolloped mountains in the distance. In the silence of grief’s open door I stepped into a room of compassionate knowing. All that was asked of me was to feel what I felt without pushing it into a cupboard or outside into the tempest storm of depression and guilt. If I was tired, be tired. If rest called to me all I needed to do was lie down by its side. If sadness drenched me in heated tears I would cry an ocean of them to dive deeper into the resignation of this illusory self to what exists only and entirely in this instant.

Grief, like any emotion, can move through us with grace and compassion if we are mindful of its gifts along the way. Its time is its own yet we alone can mark its comings and goings through gentle awareness and patient presence. For me I know that I will recognize it now in its many forms and myriad of guises so I can welcome it into my heart and my home for however long it chooses to stay.

Clause continues to instruct me, as any good master will, even beyond his foothold from this life into the next. I hope we’ll meet again. I’d love to sit with him on that bench by the ocean and look across at the pure whiteness of the mountains that still whisper his name.

Image Credit:

Clause at Home by Dhar Booth. Clause on deck by Tess Wixted. All rights reserved.

Hi Gil,
All I can say is: Can the beautiful pea-green boat be far behind??
A bientot!
Karen

Well, I totally missed the reference to the Owl And The Pussycat. My bad! However, this video is really something. If they can learn to get along, why can’t we? I hope you enjoy it.

Azrael (named after the smurfiest nemesis ever) lived a long life, and he honestly didn’t seem to be ready to stop doing so up until this week. Over the last couple of days, he had stopped eating, was lying down in places that were incredibly unusual for him and had become increasingly sluggish and lethargic. His illness came out of nowhere, really.

He’d been on a special diet for nine months, and all seemed well up until this week. And now he’s gone.

When he was here, especially in his early years, he was very skittish. He’d always hide when unfamiliar people would pop by to visit, something that happened up until about a couple of years ago. He was a slender cat, and most people remarked that he definitely didn’t look his age. In fact, many thought that he was not a he. Even today when I took him to the veterinarian, she remarked that “she” would be better off and out of pain if we were to let “her” go.

I could’ve sworn he was a he.

There were times when Azrael would leave and come back. It was rare that he’d venture off too far, but when I first moved out west he went missing for two weeks while I was living in a small little cabin/shack that was surrounded by forest. But the cat came back. I thought he was a goner, but he came back.

Then there were the times when he wouldn’t leave but would go missing — within the places I’d lived in. When my wife and I were moving into our house, I ended up sleeping in our old apartment (in a sleeping bag in a deserted loft) while I tried to lure Azrael out from within the walls of the place with tuna fish and the sound of my voice. Good times.

Azrael was never as social as my other cat, Soot. Soot died two years ago, and he was always more canine than feline in demeanor. Azrael started to adopt some of those qualities after Soot left us, most notably an amazing tolerance for children. I’m certain that my son’s first clearly spoken word was “kitty” because Azrael would put up with being “toddler-handled” by the boy.

My cats brought me a ton of joy over the years that they were a part of my life, and starting tomorrow I will start to experience not having a pet for the first time in 18 years. It’s going to be an odd feeling, that’s for sure.

Later this week I’ll be receiving a terra cotta memento of Azrael, complete with his name inscribed on it along with his paw print. We’ll be placing it in the same garden with Soot’s memento. The mementos are a nice touch, but the memories are better and go with me wherever I go.

So long, Azrael. You were a good boy…or girl.

“MOVE, human! I’m watching TV!” I was reminded, once again, who exactly makes the rules in our house. It used to be a mutual task between me and my husband Al — until the dreaded return of the antichrist that happened to arrive on our doorstep last year.  I’d heard talk of it but it had never entered my mind that the Apocalypse would arrive in the form of a tiny, chocolate colored Siamese cat.

In the event our mutilated and decomposing corpses should be discovered in our home one day after missing for some time, let this story be a record of what probably happened to two innocent people…..two innocent people who worked hard, minded their own business and loved their barnyard animals.  And never turned away a stray….

Mocha (as we named her) aka the Siamese devil, was a gift from our daughter — who has since been removed from our wills. The cat had been dropped at her house and as she lived with two aggressive African bush cats, it wasn’t convenient for her to keep the stray. In hindsight, it may have saved the lives of the bush cats and maybe her life as well. We welcomed Mocha to our home as our old cat Felix had passed away a few months previous and our remaining 16 year old Persian female, Dusty, seemed lonely.

Our first sign of trouble from Mocha was the instant and incessant howling and dragging herself around the house as if she’d had her hind quarters run over.  We’d seen cats in heat before but this went on for over two weeks and we couldn’t sleep. It became evident why the previous owner had done the nasty deed of dropping her off at an unsuspecting household.

This cat had to go to the vet’s office — and fast. As soon as we were uncomfortably encased in our Hazmat suits, we prepared to load the afflicted Siamese into the pet carrier.  She called upon her demons from below and we lost track of time and space.  When we came to, she was miraculously in the cage and our memories had been wiped clean – although our Hazmat suits had to be thrown away. And I thought only the creature in the movie Aliens could puke up battery acid like that! Or was that partially digested, green cat chow sprayed everywhere as her head spun about in full circles? We weren’t sure because, like I said, we must have had our memories wiped.

We have an awesome vet with the patience of a saint and fortunately, a good sense of humour. Mocha did not seem to mind being examined, even when the “I’m being violated” part happened. She actually seemed to enjoy it which, in hindsight, was really quite creepy.

“Soooo,” the doctor said in a serious tone, “your cat has a full blown case of nymphomania.”

“What!?” I cried. “I thought nymphomania was a lifestyle choice, not a disease!”

“Not in cats, particularly Siamese. She will need to be spayed if you want her to settle down.” The doctor was not kidding. Holy cats in H. E. double hockey sticks, Mocha was going to need surgery. Lucky for her, she was an attractive cat plus we had hopes that once the doctor opened her up for spaying, the demon trapped inside would escape her body and beeline for another vessel. Yes! An exorcism! That was the ticket!

One week later — surgery done — cat comes home and must wear cone on head to stop licking of stitches. Yikes!  Fortunately for me, I was away on a trip to visit family (funny how those things work out) and poor Al had to do the deed. He proceeded to peel Mocha off the top of the curtain rod, taking note that the wailing was actually not quite as bad as it had been before (the cat’s wailing, not his – he was still in fear of his life).  He deposited her on his lap and slipped the cone on her head. The instant shrill screaming in his ears could only have been the howling of the gates of hell as they slid open to release the devil into our living room.

A brown and tan entity wearing a tiny, white Victrola phonograph-style cone appeared to be levitating sporadically then flinging back and forth from one wall to another and then from ceiling to floor and back again. Al was beginning to feel tiny rivulets of blood seeping through his jeans from the gouges on his legs caused by her launch. Suddenly a cream-colored piece of trim from a doorway sailed past his head, the protruding finishing nails narrowly missing an eye.

He was torn between making a desperate, panicked exit from the house and throwing himself on the manic Mocha to stop the rampage. Wanting to save our home and being a forgiving and patient animal lover of all sorts, he chose the latter and lunged at the crazed cat, who at this time, was doing the crab walk on the ceiling.  It was indeed a horror movie. He wrestled her to the floor and pulled the cone off her head.

And sweet-as-pie Mocha appeared.  She seemed to have forgotten who actually put the cone on her head in the first place and adopted Al from that day as the one who saved her from being dragged back through the gates of hell.  He is not allowed to sit on the couch to watch TV unless she is crammed up underneath his chin, soaking his t-shirts with happy drool or tucked neatly on her butt under his arm while she picks the channels to watch – usually Animal Planet or reruns of The Twilight Zone.

Post-surgery, Mocha’s incessant wailing had stopped and she had become almost normal. But we learned to always be on guard that a demon, less violent but a demon nonetheless, still inhabited her tiny body. She will be lying quietly like a baby in Al’s aching arms (aching because he’s not allowed to move), supposedly sound asleep as she got bored with television, but then we will notice a tiny twitch in her tail.

Next, an eerie hum starts low in her throat and the tail begins twitching faster. Help Al’s soul if we happen to not notice. If he doesn’t remove her from his lap instantly, an eruption happens resulting in a ridiculous and horrifying combination of teeth and claws flashing and man hands desperately warding off the attack. An unexpected and unprovoked phenomenon for sure but strangely, the two of them still seem to have an understanding and a close cat/man relationship. Al can’t stay mad at her for long.  It’s her depth of affection she doles out in scant rations to us and her unique cuteness that seems to outweigh what we should fear from this crazy feline.

And where has Dusty, our old cat, been throughout this evil transition in our formerly peaceful household? She has learned to either: a) be very, very quiet and hide during the times the entity possesses the house or; b) bring out all her scrappy barnyard wisdom and smack Mocha back into civilization. Being 16 years of age and sporting brittle bones, she usually chose a) however we applauded and supported the occasional b) choice.  Mocha has learned, for the most part, to respect Dusty, the ancient matriarch of the cat kingdom on our farm.

And what about me? Where do I fit in now? Mocha is insanely jealous of Al showing me any affection and goes out of her way to destroy anything he gives me – such as a bouquet of flowers. I had begun to believe she was a reincarnated, revengeful old girlfriend of his and we were living in our own nightmare version of Fatal Attraction.

Mocha got busted last week. She was up on the kitchen counter, checking to make sure no one was behind her and then proceeding to shred the carnations he had brought home for me.  Al suspected she was up to no good and he hid around the corner with the camera.  She didn’t care. The really freaky thing about Mocha is, if you do catch her doing something naughty, she shows no remorse and will actually stand up on her back legs and box her front paws at you as if to say “Bring it on loser – let’s see what you’ve got!”

And we laugh. We know. We are encouraging bad behaviour but sometimes you just have to pick your battles. And don’t forget that she knows where we sleep.

Her one concession toward me is that I am allowed to sleep in the fetal position while she tucks herself behind my knees. But I can’t move – at least not until she decides she’s had enough shut-eye and wants to go outside at 2 a.m. Then I have to get up, stumble to the deck door and let her out or else there is H. E. Double Hockey Sticks to pay once again. We love Mocha, we have learned how to interpret her moods and behave accordingly but this is also why we are both always sleeping with one eye open. Forever on alert…….

Sigh. The things we do for our pets! Anyone want their cat back?

Photo Credits

Mocha controls remote © Wanda Lambeth. All Rights Reserved.

Okay, no one is looking © Al Lambeth. All Rights Reserved.

These must be destroyed. Darn, busted. © Al Lambeth. All rights Reserved.

I had something to say. Something exciting and worth reading, like that time I bought an owl or when a TSA worker pulled me aside not for a pat down, but rather to ask me about my Ugg boots (both true stories). But right now, having returned from a lovely trip up north to San Francisco, I’ve got a whole lotta nothing. Well, unless you count this video I discovered. You have no soul if you don’t find this entertaining. And I’m not even a cat person.

href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X3iFhLdWjqc