Never Name A Cat P.P.

The infamous P.P. napping
with his bro, Pepsi.

  Good morning! Welcome to “Tales of the Chronically Goofed-Up!” Yes, today for your reading pleasure (and to make you feel MUCH better about your own slice of reality) I present to you a tale of fun-and-games, which we all know life is. (At least until someone loses an eye!)

Never Name a Cat P.P.



  We have kittens. Yes, it’s true. As it so happens, my daughter is fanatical about naming the little balls of fur in some hope that if named, they’ll not be given away and will instead stay and love her forever! (Who am I to crush her dreams?)



Cheese and Pepsi hanging out
with thier Moms.

  This litter presented us with four new opportunities to come up with totally awesome names to scar the poor things for life and make them the laughing stocks of the entire cat community. Names like Cheese, Pepsi, M.J., and Peter Parker. (Because you simply cannot have an M.J. without a Peter Parker!) Of course, in the end Peter was shortened to P.P., which made absolutely PERFECT sense with him being a yellow tabby.



The uber-fluffy, fox-faced
Ms. M.J.



  Now we jump to two months down the line when the kittens are big enough they can run and play, jumping back-and-forth through the dreaded cat door like miniature pros! They spend their days playing on the front porch, basking in the Sun, and being all roly-poly with one another until they discover the steps!

  Down the steps they bounce like tiny Tiggrs, hopping and cavorting, following our older kitten Coralline. Yes, following her to the BIG steps that lead down the hill to the *insert sinister music here* ROAD!

  This morning we find our unsuspecting human (that’s me, but it was so traumatic it must be told in third person. Sorry!) wandering around the front yard with her “bird-wrangling-stick.”

Side Note: The way the bird-wrangling-stick works is by twirling it baton-style over your head while screaming, “WHAT-CHA” all Zena Warrior Princess like. (Now THERE’S a visual for ya!)

Vogue-worth, homeless, crazy
deep-sea fisherman...
and the bird-wrngling-stick.

  She’s looking all hot decked out in her morning finery, which happens to be an Oscar the Grouch, lime green hoodie that hangs down to her mid-thighs. Peeking out from under the hoodie, you’ll see her hot pink Tinkerbell sweat shorts, stopping right above the knee and accented by the black mud boots that begin right UNDER the knee. Her unnaturally red mop is crowned by a “One Tough Chick” ball cap, giving her the look of a homeless, crazed deep-sea fisherman.

  Oh my! Look! P.P. has followed the naughty Coralline down the big steps, dangerously close to the road. Oh my! Look! The stylish, crazy lady is attempting to chase him back up! See her run down the steps and alongside the road, waving her bird-wrangling-stick in the air while screaming, “Bad P.P.! Bad P.P.!”

  Now see the car with its window rolled down slow so it can get a better view of the show! The driver seems to be torn between amusement and abject fear. He’s not sure who’s “pee-pee” she’s angry with, but he protectively cups his own since she looks both pissed and like she’s well-versed in how to use that stick she’s swinging over her head. *gulp*

Stupid steps!!!

  Now see the Vogue-worthy lady become painfully aware of the audience she’s suddenly attracted with her kitten chasing antics. (The kitten has by now hidden in foliage, making it appear she’s chasing air and screaming at random trees.)

  Now watch…this is the REALLY painful part folks…as the human attempts to climb the front steps all nonchalant, but fast as f@$k! Oh my! Look! There goes her bum leg (as in “lazy, no good…”) missing the step by a fraction of an inch, causing her momentum to catch-up with her and hurtle her, face first, into the very steps she’s attempting in vain to mount.

  Yep. Instead of managing to quickly skitter up those stupid, concrete steps and hide her embarrassment from the paused motorist, she manages (in a TOTALLY “Only me!” moment) to increase her embarrassment tenfold!

  This is sadly how our tale ends. Our human finished with a “dignified” climb of the remaining steps on all fours, dragging her bird-wrangling-stick behind her. (The poor thing looked like an even more deranged Quasimodo skittering up the bell tower steps!)

  Just another beautiful morning on the hill the locals still refer to as “Eggers’ Acres.” Another chance for me to prove I can manage my life and my critters with quiet dignity…and fail in in a manner that can only be described as “Epic!”