The Dippy Cat

The Dippy Cat

Monday, October 28, 2013

It's the Tail, not She Who Tells It

We are not good with guests.

At the house in Ohio, our "guest bedroom" consisted of a futon in the library, with a mattress clearly designed by medieval torturers, on an off day, while drinking absinthe. Visitors didn't so much "go to bed" as "beat it into submission" and pray.

Knowing that we would be moving 7-8 hours away from the bulk of those foolish enough to visit (and being tired of hearing "The futon tried to kill me- I swear it was breathing) we took the sensible route. We bought a new wrought-iron type frame, in Queen size, and planned to put our current sleigh bed in the guest room we would create in Wisconsin. The futon would go into the basement office. We cleverly waited until we arrived in the land of cheese before switching.

Did it go well? I dunno- does the Pope enjoy speed dating?

You see, we forgot one important thing.

The Dippy Cat.

A week or so ago Brian manfully set up the new frame. Setup for Brian went something like this:

Empty all pipes onto the floor, in the kitchen- one story down from our bedroom.
Realize that this was not wise- attempt to put 11 billion pipes, 556 screws, and a thing shaped like an Escher triangle back in the box.
Watch as box shrieks, begins to growl, and tries to inch away under its own power.
Call exorcist.
Cancel exorcist.
Retrieve Dippy from frame box.
Stitch wounds caused by retrieval.

Carry 11 billion pipes manually to bedroom.
Realize pipes just got heavier.
Realize Dippy is riding on pipes.
Retrieve Dippy from pipes- lock in spare room.

Lay pipes in rough "bed" formation.
Hear yowling from spare room, and the inexplicable sound of velcro.
Ignore yowling and velco and begin first frame piece assembly.
Realize there is no velcro in spare room.
Run.
Retrieve Dippy from prisoner tunnel she has chewed through carpeting at door.
Lock her in bathroom.

Pin left side of bed frame to headboard.
The chorus of "Go Down Moses" erupts from bathroom.
Drop bedframe on toe as Dippy yodels out "Let my people GOOOOOOO."
Swear.
Open bathroom door.
Note that Dippy has climbed the expensive designer "bath sheets" and become tangled in the weave.
Watch screaming cat caught in oversized towel swing back and forth from towel rack.
Contemplate life without bed.
Realize that cat claws have gone through both sides of oversized towel.
Attempt removal- succeed in creating cat based roller-towel assembly.
Roller-towel assembly very bitey.
Contemplate sales potential of snarling, hissing, linens.
Contemplate divorce.
Use plunger to stop cat and towel from spinning.
Throw away splinters.
Cut towel off of rack.
Watch as cat hops away- towel still attached.
Watch as towel catches on bedframe.
Pull Dippy off of towel.
Realize that she has her fangs caught in the screw holes on the bed.
Using ninja skills, remove fangs from bed frame.
Stitch wounds caused by removal.

On hands and knees, begin putting in crossbars.
Realize something is snoring.
Realize that Dippy is asleep.
Finish bed frame in 48 seconds- using all four limbs and teeth to increase speed.
Realize shirt is now bolted to bed leg.
Shrug- never liked shirt that much anyway.
Nude from waist up, throw bed skirt over frame.
Retrieve Dippy from under bed skirt.
Place mattress on frame and begin adding sheets.
Retrieve Dippy from under fitted sheet.
Add blankets and comforters.
Where is Dippy?
Note suspicious lump under covers.
Add decorative pillows until it is no longer visible.

Go down to the basement, and take a nap on the futon.



Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Dippy Does Wisconsin

A few weeks ago the Hip-Hop Hebe and I moved to Wisconsin. After some adult discussion (a coin toss, two screaming arguments and, when all else failed, a vigorous round of slap-fighting) we decided (I lost the fire-walking challenge) that I would be the one to drive the small truck, and Dippy, to our new home.

Eight hours.

In a rental truck.

With a companion who has been known to attack air, her own buttocks, and imaginary blue mice.

What could possibly go wrong?

After the exorcist finished up, I loaded Dip into her travel case.

"Ah" she said. "A new toy. The color is nice.... Oh HOLY MOTHER OF GOD IT'S A TRAP!"

My tiny Admiral Akbar immediately proved the Schroedinger was an ass. The potential states of a cat in a box are not "alive or dead," but "bloody furious," "plotting," and "violating all known natural law."

Thirty-seven clawed cat toes appeared from every "cat-friendly ventilated opening" of the case, and, as I watched, an eyeball and an ear try to climb independently through the "EZ View Wire Loading Door." I realized that I had apparently caged some relative of John Carpenter's "The Thing".

Fortunately, as she began to gnaw her way through the plastic (alternately humming "Don't Fear the Reaper" and doing her celebrated "Rabid Hyena" impersonation), I turned on the truck.

Before I took my hand off the key, the travel crate was empty. Where there had been a shrieking ball of fuzz there was now nothing more than two huge eyes, and some slightly thick air.

"Nope, no cats here," came a disembodied voice from inside the battered plastic. "Just a small defenseless dust bunny, or maybe a scrap of paper." There was a slight scuffling noise as the eyes tried to hide behind a dust mote.

I pulled out of the driveway.

My heart stopped when I got to the top of the street, glanced over, and saw what appeared to be a dead cat, laying flat on her back. I took a closer look.

The evil little drama queen went to sleep.

And snored for eight hours.



Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Dippy and the Monster Under the Bed

There are in this country some basic, inalienable, rights.
Life.
Liberty.
Freedom from being eaten by the monster under the bed.

You've survived this far, so obviously you understand how this works.

Any cover, even a sheet so thin that dust mites can lift it, serves as a perfectly good monster shield. Your average monster or undead serial killer lacks basic skills such as "pattern recognition" or "the intelligence of fleece", and will often sit forlornly on the giggling, sheet draped form of a potential victim, dismayed at the loss of a hearty human lunch or spiffy trophy head to show at the next undead meeting.

However.

Even one toe hanging out in the open air and you might as well hang an all-you-can-eat sign on the front door and sleep on a warm, toasted bun.

I go to bed last night. Brian is already asleep. Dippy is sprawled luxuriantly across his feet. Both are snoring softly.

As I lay there, sheet firmly in place, it occurs to me.

I am hot.

I can't kick the sheet off.

The air conditioning control is downstairs.

I become indignant.

Wait a minute. During the day I nap wonderfully on the couch- one leg firmly under the covers, one out, a personal cooling rod waving free in the breeze.

I am a grown woman. A talented minister over 40. There are no monsters under this bed (I checked before I laid down) and BY GOD I WILL PUT MY LEG OUT TO COOL DOWN IF I WANT!

The stars and stripes wave in my minds eye, and with my chin out-thrust with bravery I slide my right leg out from under the sheet.

Ahhhhh.

Mad with courage, I let my foot dangle off the side of the bed.

It is perfect.

My eyes close and I feel myself drifting into blissful slumber.

There is a large wooden thump- as would be made by a monster using my cedar chest at the end of the bed to pull itself up...  and a hairy clawed hand wraps around my ankle.

My eyes fly open.

I rise from a sprawling to an upright position without passing through any stages in between and, gaining traction on air molecules, run shrieking around the room twice at approximately head height.

I was gathering speed for a third round when Brian used his robe to net me as I passed.

In only twenty or thirty minutes I was able to stop gibbering and forming anything I could grab into random religious symbols, and once Brian got me to stop singing "Spirit of Life" and trying to push a chalice under the bed, we were able to reconstruct "the event" (as we now call it).

The forensic reconstruction expert ("Brian") determined that Dippy ("the accused") was awakened when Brian ("the snickering weasel") moved his feet after I disturbed him by moving the sheet over my leg.

Being the graceless lump of furred evil that she is, she rolls off of his feet in surprise- and continues right off the bottom of the bed.

Hitting the wood cedar chest and sliding on the slick wood.

And grabbing my ankle on the way down.

I am never sleeping again.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Emo Dip


You know that feeling you get, when the sky has turned green, air raid sirens are blowing, the theme to the "Wizard of Oz" wafts softly through the air, your neighbor has just blown by backwards on her bicycle, and an ominous funnel cloud is hovering on the horizon?

Yeah, that feeling. the one that says that says "A picnic! That's what I need to do right about now! What could possible go wrong?"

That was the feeling I had when I watched a baby Dippy cat hop her way across my living room.

And then fall over.

It's the same feeling I have now, as I gleefully prepare to drive from Ohio to Wisconsin, with a teenaged 21 month old Dippy in a small cage, on the front seat of the truck, with me.

How do I know she's become a teenager, you ask?

Some of you may have teenagers in your home who are kind and gentle, self-aware, and sweet-smelling. Teenagers who would make the angels weep with their sensitivity, dress-sense, and melodious voices.

I hate each and every one of you.

Currently, my days look something like this:

6 AM- Realize I am awake. Wonder why. Sniff. Blame Brian for odor. Realize Brian is laying on his side facing the other way. Eye Brian suspiciously and wrinkle nose. Reconsider as I feel something odd in my left nostril. Cross eyes attempting to see source of peculiar popcorn and tuna funk. Realize that one of Dippy's toes, with claw, is in my left nostril. Realize that Tuna stink breath is curled around my head, and breathing in my face. She meeps at me, annoyed that I have disturbed her so early, and stretches, putting her right foot in my mouth.

7 AM- Showering. Dippy hears water running. "Alas," she says, "I shall convey my disdain for such foolishness by reenacting a moving moment in avant guarde cinema." Blissfully humming folk tunes, I lather my hair- and shriek as the shower scene from Psycho begins.
Add tail and claws...












8 AM- Have developed phobia of showers. Prepare bowl of cereal for breakfast. Dippy "eats" two spilled pieces- chewing them slowly and letting the bits fall out of her mouth while watching me intently. She horks the rest up in my shoe.

8:15 AM- I clean up hork, wash hands, and finally sit down with breakfast. I push bowl to my left on the desk, and begin setting up my medications for the day.

8:16- Dippy climbs up on the printer and cranes to see what I am doing. "My vile captor is engaged in oppressor activity," she muses. "I must Occupy Desk."

8:17- I glance up to see that Dippy has assumed the little known ju-jitsu position "Stance of the Defective Sloth" and is prepared to leap, or at least fall off of something dynamically. "No, Dippy! Bad Dippy!" I say, in my stern parenting voice.

8:17:30- Without taking her eyes off of me, she flattens herself into the fearsome "Way of the Squashed Possum". Visions of Tiananmen Square in her head, she meows something that sounds suspiciously like "We Shall Overcome." She slithers forward six inches, draping herself over the phone and 3-hole punch. Her chin rests on my cereal bowl. She swats in my general direction, ears flattened.

8:18- "NO Dippy! Baaaad Dippy!" I swat her on the nose with one finger.

8:19- Worlds have ended. But she will not die weak. She will stand strong. Eyes locked on mine she sits upright, and squares her shoulders.

8:19:30- "Dippy- nooooooooo." (insert slo-mo scene).

8:19:32- She steps into my cereal bowl with both front feet, and stares me down as she steps in with her back feet.

8:19:34- She sits.

And starts to purr...

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Scratch That...

You would think that after 23 years of formal education, 4 degrees, and over 40 years life experience I would have some common sense.

You would be wrong.

As a proud cat parent I did not wish for Dippy to be a feline "have not"- specifically a "have not got a real scratching post." For some strange reason she and I cannot see eye to eye about her current post, the scratching post formerly known as my $850-bazzillion dollar leather recliner.

What was I thinking?

You see, Dippy has lots and lots of toys. She has Mr. Stuffed Mousie (and several members of his extended family including Catnip Mousie, Deformed Rubber Mousie, and We Think Its Supposed to Be a Freaking Mousie But it Has Five Legs), Plushie the Tiger, Miss Bouncie-Ball (and her backup band, the Jingle-Balls) and Mr. Weird Unidentifiable Plastic Cat Toy Thing.

Does she play with any of them?
Who are you kidding?

She plays with Mr. Shred of Contact Lens Wrapper Plastic, Miss "Jesus, Is That An Old Cookie?" and her very favorite, Mr. "Piece of Old Rope Abandoned By Hobos."

Knowing her fondness for Mr. Rope, I bought her a brand new, state of the art, guaranteed Green, hand-wrapped by well-paid hand-wrappers, 100% new, rope-wrapped scratching post.

In doing this I forgot one important thing.

Dippy has the brain of a walnut. Somewhere her village is calling softly for her return.

I put the new post, with its nice firm round rope base and attached "fun for hours kitty rope and ball toy!", beside my desk.

I called her.

She hid under my desk, explaining in her best meow that the rope monster was going to eat her.

I flicked the "fun for hours kitty rope and ball toy!," making the rattler inside rattle...

Note to the Petco team-  your definition of both "fun" and "hours" might need some re-examination. By my clock it took slightly over 0.008 seconds for a shrieking wad of hissing cat to climb my leg, slalom down the arm of my chair and cake-walk across my desk on two legs to hide behind my computer monitor. A good time was not had by all and I'm quite sure that kitty claws are not meant to reach the femoral artery under normal circumstances.

I laid the deadly rope wrapped murder pole on its side and waited.

Two hours later Gunga Dim wandered over.

And flopped on top of it.

I scratched vigorously at the post- hoping the sound might trigger some previously untapped sense of normalcy.

She started to lick the rope, looking puzzled.

Brian, who had been watching quietly from his desk, sat the pole upright, and grabbed Plushie the Tiger.

My 67 year old, normally quite sane husband (who does not like cats) put the stuffed tiger in scratching position on the pole and began to move it up and down. Dippy watched wide eyed.

When I ask why he appears to be stimulating a stuffed tiger with a scratching post, he tells me he is "demonstrating," and says that "maybe she just needs an example."

Dippy and I sit in respectful silence until he wanders off to watch TV.

I lay the pole back down.

She falls over on it, and begins to lick the rope.

I give up.

I bought my cat a rope-cicle, and she likes it.

Close enough.


Monday, May 13, 2013

A Dippy Scorned

The last time I left home for a few days, Dippy wee'd in my new suitcase.

This should have given me a hint that she is slightly averse to being left behind (well, that, and the fact that every time I try to leave the house she grabs me by the leg shrieking the feline equivalent to "No! Don't go you fool! The apocalypse is upon us! Oh woe for I am undone!"

I don't do hints well.

I just went away for 11 days.

I got home last night.

Showing what I thought was great restraint, Dippy actually let me get inside the door before merely catapulting herself from the chair across my suitcase, climbing the front of my jacket, clawing her way up my arm, biting me on the ear and then fleeing.

Into my office.

If Dippy were human, this would have been the point where she stood sobbing on a balcony, preferably in the rain, while throwing my possessions over the rail. The theme from the Exorcist would have drifted softly through the air...

Not owning opposable thumbs (or a balcony, or rain) she did the next best thing.

In 7.3 seconds (the time it took me to drop my bags and don protective armor) she managed to:

  • pull the hat from the human skull model on my desk (why yes, I do have a skull on my desk, doesn't everyone?) and toss it to the floor
  • knock the same skull's sunglasses and 2 teeth into the waste can
  • shred the back of my office chair
  • pull her rug off her perch
I don't think she broke the sound barrier until the second time she ran across the desktop- I saw a fang-y hissing blur and then what was either a unicorn exploding or a very angry cat landing claws out in a huge bowl of colored markers and pens.

As I stood in the carnage, serenaded by the gentle sounds of my professional tools and chair crumbling into fragments, and the faint odor of shattered perfume samples, Dippy staggered over to where the skull's hat lay on the floor like a deflated Rastafarian hedgehog.

She dragged it  to my foot- and then turned around and did the "kicking sand over the unspeakable thing I have left in the litter box" maneuver.  

And marched away. Triumphant to the last.





Monday, April 29, 2013

In Which Dippy Does Not Make New Friends...


Yesterday was both my Ordination to the ministry and my birthday, and in honor of the occasion, my friend Jerrod arrived from far off places, carrying his suitcase.

I should have known better.

We arrived at the house without a problem, and Dippy met us.

"My people! My people have arrived! Oh glorious day...."

She froze as a third person came in the door..

"What evil is this? Why was I not told???"

Skittering like a hairy crab, she disappeared under the couch. Baleful meows drifted out, clearly indicating that he was a Pod Person who would murder us all in our sleep.

Unable to recognize the looming threat a visiting minister meant to my life, I took him into my office without even snatching up a chainsaw or pitchfork to keep him at bay.

Dip followed us in, determined to protect my life. My hero arrived just in time to watch as Jerrod dared to sit in my chair.

The buttocks of doom descended. He had sat upon the sacred spot, where even she was not allowed to tread. She quickly realized that I too had been taken by the Pod people, to allow such sacrilege.

If kitty Oscars were given out for "Best Imitation of Rabies" she would have been a shoe-in.

She stood up. She put her front paws on his leg.

She hissed. She spat. She waited for the fear and terror to begin.

Obviously not in touch with his emotions, he hissed back.

What happened next is rather a blur, but from my perspective she appeared to rise vertically, levitate and hover briefly, then, possibly propelled by jets, disappeared into the hall.

I followed to see what had just happened.

In a final attempt to bring me to my senses, she bit me on the leg- hard.

Now, I admit to being a complete failure as a cat parent at that point. Someone got a spanking.

Oh, but have no fear. The rabid rescuer got the last word.

A few hours later she came and cuddled up, looking smug.

Why did she look smug, you ask?

She had made her point about rotten humans who bring in Pod people and attempt cat discipline.

She had gone upstairs and widdled in my suitcase...

FOR SALE: 1 $90 SUITCASE. SLIGHTLY USED. $5 OR BEST OFFER.

Friday, April 26, 2013

Dippy Meets the Printer

A Gratitude Post from My FaceBook Month of Gratitude in November 2012

I am greatful for the incredibly stupid Dippy Cat- who just tried to jump onto the printer to attack the paper, realized in mid-jump my full plate was already on the printer, attempted to autocorrect and landed on the paper getting pulled into the printer, bounced off (breaking off the back of the paper support and momentarily getting her tail into the roller, rebounded and landed with one foot in my cranberry sauce and the other in my coffee, attempted to flee- tracking sauce and coffee onto my paperwork, and, finally, in a flat panic, escaped by turning around and dashing BACK ACROSS MY PLATE on the printer, to freedom.

The little monster is now sitting on the space heater sulking and casting evil slant-eyed glances at me and the printer that tried to kill her, while licking the cranberry sauce and coffee off of her foot and leg. She's going to be bouncing off walls in 10 minutes!

Why Is the Cat Moist?


I told a few friends today, but it's too funny not to share...

So last evening I'm in the bathroom messing with my hair. Brian is standing there talking to me. Lid is up on the toilet.

Dippy Cat stands up like a meerkat on the far side of the ring, leaning against the lid, and sticks her head in the hand towel folded on the rack on the toilet tank.

Confused at the assault of the evil towel, Dip takes a step backward- and falls into the bowl, still stretched out.

In a desperate attempt to save herself as she falls, she claws frantically at the lid, and succeeds in slamming herself on the head and pulling it closed over top of her as she vanishes into the bowl.

For about 0.5 seconds we were suddenly in the joke about how to Power wash a cat- and then the room exploded and all we saw was water, fur, nails, and psychosis.

We were still laughing so hard we were crying when a friend's small voice came from the other room- "Hey guys, why is the cat moist?"

I was no good for an hour.

A Spinning Tail


1. The Dippy Cat climbs into the bottom of my bar stool

2. She spots her own tail and begins to chase it- inside the ring at the bottom of the bar stool- spinning like a Tasmanian Devil.

3. Have you ever seen a cat make itself so dizzy that it falls over the ring of a bar stool- onto it's head?

4. I have...

5. Once dangling from the ring with her head on the carpet she spots, you guessed it, her own tail- which is now within reach.

6. She grabs it- and bites.

7. Little known fact- a cat which has just bitten itself in the ass can achieve impressive speed at it dashes madly straight up a curtain.

8. Well known fact- a curtain with the full weight of a butt-bitten cat on it will fall, on top of the cat.

9. The Dippy Cat is now hiding under my feet, where there are neither killer curtains nor deadly bar stools. 

10. There is a sermon in this somewhere.

A Moment of Healing


So I get up in the middle of the night last night, feeling a little nauseated. Nothing serious.

I sit in the bathroom, leaning forward over a can.

The Dippy Cat ambles in, takes a look at me, and leaps up onto the toilet tank behind me. I feel her little nose at me ear, and just for a trembling second think "Ah, she has come to comfort me."

Rigggghhhht.

She then proceeds to stand with her back feet on my shoulder and her front paws on my head- and lean over to take bites out of the roll of toilet paper hanging on the wall.

Sigh.

Dippy Saves the Day


At times my life is a slightly strange comedy routine.

Wake up to hear the Dippy Cat wandering around the bedroom, meowing and yowling with all of her might. She sees me stirring, leaps onto the bed, runs up the covers, and stares into my face- whereupon she lets out a hideous howl.

Without missing a beat, Brian rolls over, sits up, and says quite earnestly, "What? Little Timmy's down the well?!?! I told that kid not to go anywhere!" He flops back down.

Dippy stares at him for a minute, then quietly flops over, picks up a corner of the blanket and starts sucking on it and kneading.

Mission accomplished, I guess.

Miss Sexipants Makes a Friend


Last evening I was at my computer trying to get ready to head to Boston today. Brian had been asked to be very quiet as I worked. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as Dippy saunters in, walks over to Brian's chair, stands up on her hind legs and lays her front paws on his leg.

He pats her little apple of a head, wincing.

She begins to make noises like a demented droid: "Mmmmph. Mrrrrmmmm. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Mrmrmrmrmrmr"

I hear a muffled, "Bugger off, cat."

Excited by this encouragement, she begins to dance from paw to paw, then reaches out and grabs the arm of his chair. "He DOES love me!" Overcome with joy, she sinks her claws into the leather arm support and climbs the side rest.

"I said bugger off," Brian hisses. He stares in dismay at the cat, now stretched out along his armrest and meowing "Paint me like one of your French girls."

Brian risks a quick glance in my direction to make sure I haven't been disturbed. He stands up and snags the Dippy at neck and waist. He lifts....

...And she wraps her front legs around the armrest and refuses to let go.

He lifts higher. He tugs gently. The chair comes up a bit, the cat is stretched out full length, and she refuses to let go. The Demented Droid raises her volume control to 10- "MMMMRRRRRROW. MRMRMROW!"

Brian begins to use naughty words, among which I can hear "pervert", "cat," and "not even the same species." These are all hissed, because, somehow, he hopes I am not noticing...

...A 5'10" man, standing 18 inches from my right arm, connected to a howling cat who has her back legs wrapped around his wrist and her front around the chair and who is quite possibly having the most meaningful sexual encounter of her life, while the chair bangs against the floor.

I begin to laugh hysterically.

Spirit of Life and Love- in the name of all the is holy PLEASE do not let anyone ever ask me how I prepared for my ministerial fellowshipping interview!

Don't Drink the Water!


I am working on a new watercolor piece. Funnily enough, this involves blue plastic solo cups of, you guessed it, water.

...and the Dippy Cat.

So I have the glass of clean water on my desk. She sticks her head in and attempts to take a drink.
The water level is too low.
She stands up, and tries it again.
She meows pitifully, hoping that I will take pity on her desperate, and waterless, state.
I gesture meaningfully to the huge honking bowl of water 10 feet away on the floor.
Her eyes narrow- clearly I am heartless.
She stands up again, and wraps her front paws around the glass. Slowly she lifts it an inch or two.
Vicious monster that I am, I seize the glass- and set it off to the side of the desk, balanced on a binder. I get up and get coffee.
I return to find her hanging head down over the side of the desk like a Dippy Bat- HOLDING the FREAKING CUP in her front paws and slurping away.
I take the cup away and put it in the same place. I toss her off the desk and get out my phone so I can get pictures if she tries it again.
She backs up, jumps onto the desk, and leans over the side grabbing for the cup- and overbalances, head first.

She is now sitting behind me making odd chirping noises and pretending she meant to do that.

Dippy Sings the Songs of Her People- in the Key of Aiiiiiiigggggggggggggg


Not a great morning.

At 4:30 am $%^& Dippy decided, for reasons known only to herself, that Brian's (sleeping) head on his pillow looked like it was up for some burning hot Dippy love.

She crawls up behind him on the pillow, positions herself seductively in an arch over his head (assuming you ignore most of Leviticus, which frowns on that kind of thing) and begins in a loud, LOUD, voice to sing him the songs of her people.

He wakes up in a panic, to find his vision blocked by her front half and her back feet on his ears. He begins to curse loudly and creatively.

I wake up in a panic, hearing the blasted cat howling and him swearing.

Believe it or not, hearing a grown man screaming "Get off my pillow- I'm not interested in your furry ass!" is not funny as you might think on 4 hours of sleep.

He swatted her, and she decided to sit on the window ledge, loudly explaining why it would work out, if he just gave her a chance...

Which is why Dippy and I ended up spending the rest of the night sleeping on the couch downstairs.

Robins Shouldn't Laugh Like That!


My cat needs therapy.

I go out to my sun porch to enjoy a few moments of morning quiet, communing with nature and my coffee. Dippy joins me.

Overjoyed to see the local bird population outside the windows, the mighty hunter crouches down on the sill, and begins to attempt to converse with our feathered friends through high pitched chittering. Given that even a lightly concussed duckling would recognize her outrageous feline accent (not to mention fully extended claws and the fact that she is puffed up like a furry peacock), none of the birds come over to say hello.

Desperate, she thinks quickly...

They must not see me! she reasons. I must be more visible!

In an amazing feat of utter stupidity, she stands upright on the windowsill like a meercat on crack, fur bristling, tail straight out, chittering at full volume.

The nearest bird explodes upward in a wise attempt to flee this vision of abject idiocy- and, startled by the motion, Dippy steps backward.

Off the windowsill.

She lands with a thud on the floor, and leaps in a blind panic up onto the table where I am sitting.

Fortunately, I am holding my coffee mug.

Unfortunately, the table is covered by a slick, plastic, cloth.

I watch in horrified amusement as a howling cat wrapped in cheap blue plastic whips across the table...

And falls off the other side.

Coming back in, I swear I saw a robin snickering.

Dippy and the Death Cloud of Doom


I have seen it all.

This morning I went out to the sunroom to take down the glass windows over the screens. Dippy was sitting in the window sill, investigating the "friend" potential of a large dead spider. As I try not to get involved in her doomed relationships, I ignored her and merrily began to remove glass.

It was colder than I thought at first- and as I pulled the windows I could start to see my breath in the air.

Dippy, tiring of eating her new buddy's legs, let out a yowl of boredom- and her breath came out in a big white puff, just as a massive work truck parked next door roared to life.

What I saw next resembled nothing so much as a basketball made of terror and claws, attempting to grab the evil ghost cloud of death that had mysteriously appeared and roared in front of her nose, and was trying to murder-hug her... and the more she swatted the harder she breathed and yowled, and the more the cloud of death grew.

Fearing for her very soul, my patron saint of strange attempted to roll onto her back and seize the white thing in her hind paws- while balanced on a window sill.

You know that rumor about cats always landing on their feet? It's a lie.

But cats who fall off of small ledges while fighting their own breath, and land in the garbage can on their head? Well, that one is true.

I still haven't stopped giggling.

Dippy Versus the Ninja Bee: Death is No Laughing Matter


Wood-boring bees are large.

Like, have their own zip code and able to mug you for your shoes large.


This morning Dippy and I adjourned to the now screened in sunroom for coffee and stillness (why yes, I also think roller skating in expressway traffic is a good idea and meditate to the sounds of Norwegian Death Metal, why do you ask?).


I put my mug on the table and glanced out at the shivering birds as Dippy was startled by, in turn: the couch, the recliner, the waste can, and my shoe. Unnerved by all these new things, which is not surprising as they have all only been there every morning for the last three years, she was not in a mental place to make new friends.

And then he appeared.

The wood-boring bee.

Over two inches long, and possibly trained as a ninja, the bee crawled out from under the curtain with the speed of a glacier.

Dippy howled like an out-of-tune banshee, and stood up on her back legs, hissing and bristling. Determined to protect the scroungy carpet from this evil, she walked toward the bee, still wailing.

Fearless, the bee kept trundling- toward her.

What followed was an amazing series of dance moves, wherein Dippy would stand up, howling and hopping, and then, when the bee attempted such skilled ninja moves as "walking" and "falling over," she would shriek and flee- only to return again to the fray in 10 seconds.

After a few minutes she mustered all her courage, donned a sacred kamikaze scarf, and, after bowing to her ancestors, leapt into the battle.

The bee fought mightily- even going so far as to appear to notice she existed- but at last he was vanquished by the simple expedient of jumping up and down on him, taking a bite, and then falling over from the sheer exhilaration.

Proudly, oh so proudly, she picked up the twisted carcass of her fallen foe, and jumped up on my table to display the kill.

How wounded she must have been when my snickering became evident... how crushed at my lack of appreciation....

She hissed, and dropped the corpse in my coffee.


The victim after being pulled from the cup - with my foot for a rough size guide!