While Brian took pictures of Stanley yelling yesterday, Oscar teleported in to assist. He does this often, and always lands with tail on feet.
Stanley yells at us a lot. He yells when he wants affection, when he wants food, when he wants us to stop sneezing, and when he feels like it.
Nutterbutter expects his dinner at 4:20 pm sharp. The problem with this plan is that I am not home until almost 6:00 pm most nights. How dare.
Mr. Bear hates having his feet touched in any way. I suspect his previous family pulled on his toe floof, but he might just a drama king.
While Heather watched her Judas Priest, she got chilled and needed a blankie. Oscar has 36 senses, and 35 of them involve blanket detection.
Stanley LOVES my beard, and he lives to Catbeard me, inception style (since I already have a big bushy fuck off beard.)
15 years ago, Heather came home with a flea-infested feral kitten. Soon we realized a mound of new bullshit had been introduced to our lives.
Mom watches TV, Dad watches the dog, and the dog watches HIS baby, crashed out on the top of the cat tower.
Idle hands are the devil’s workshop? As a dork with too many synapses looking for trouble, my idle hands must be juggling Satan’s balls.
Long ago, we were computer nerds. We also played World of Warcraft and every once in a while, one of the cats would get up and “help.”