Monday, November 25, 2013

I'd Much Rather Be Terrible Than Pretty

Today has been a difficult day for me. Difficult, but ultimately satisfying.

Anne Elisabeth, my human, was wretched as usual and called me "an embarrassment." To my face. In front of total strangers.

I bit her finger for that. Not hard. Just enough to let her know that she was Very Bad.

You see, today was the day of the Annual Horror, aka my Visit to the Vet. Now I have explained things to Anne Elisabeth many times over. I have explained that I am Supreme Ruler and Dictator of All I Survey. Supreme Rulers and Dictators of All They Survey do not visit the vet. Supreme Rules and Dictators of All They Survey do not permit lights to be shined into their eyes, nor strange cold apparatuses to be pressed to their breasts, and they certainly do not allow things to be placed in certain places.

It's not cool.

Anne Elisabeth ignored me of course. She also ignored my ongoing insistence that if, indeed, this annual sojourn must be made, I will not submit to the indignity of carrier cage. Carrier cages are for cats, dogs, ferrets, hamsters, hedgepigs, and whatever other domesticated creatures are willing to suffer such an undignified mode of transportation. Carrier cages are not an acceptable mode of transportation for Supreme Rulers and Dictators of All They Survey.

Anne Elisabeth: "I don't have time for your fussiness, Minerva. In you go!"

And she popped me into the carrier. With THIS ONE.

I do not believe I have properly introduced This One to you, my dear readers. Wretched Ann Elisabeth has not given me sufficient time for blogging this last year, and so many important events have come and gone un-chronicled (Do you see how little she cares for all of you and the importance of keeping you abreast of my doings?).

Anyway, This One appeared in my domain unannounced one day last spring. Unannounced, unwelcome, and completely uncool. Look at him? He lies about with his belly exposed! Anything could happen to a belly exposed! One doesn't expose one's belly unless one is performing a sacred Feline Dance or flirting with Rohan-muffin (my sweet angel-face-pookums may pet my belly if he likes. Everyone else will die).

But This One--this Makoose as he calls himself--will let anyone pet his belly. He begs them to do it. He even begs the dog to do it.

So Uncool.
So Anne Elisabeth sticks me into a carrier with Mister Uncool and carts to the vet like some animal.

There was nothing I could do but sing my saddest songs all the way there. But even these were not enough to touch Anne Elisabeth's stony heart.


Anne Elisabeth: "Minerva, you sound like you're dying! For pity's sake, have done."

Me: "Makoose is sitting on my taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaail!"

Anne Elisabaeth: "Well, scoot over and give him some room."

Makoose: "I don't mind! It's cozy in here! Are we going to the vet? Please? Please, pulleeese?"

That was possibly the worst aspect of the whole trip. The way Mister Uncool seemed to enjoy the whole affair. Seriously, he sprang out of the carrier onto the examining table and immediately began making eyes at all the nurses, strutting and flicking his tail and purring as though he were somehow blessing them all with his very presence. And them all cooing and calling him cute.


I hissed at the first one who looked at me.

It was all downhill from there. They took Makoose in the back first to weigh him and do all his checkup. But when they came for me, Anne Elisabeth had to stick her oar in.

Anne Elisabeth: "You probably don't want to take her back there alone. She . . . gets a little fractious."

The new young vet checked her charts. Her eyes widened behind her glasses.

New Young Vet: "Oh. Is this . . . Minerva?"

Anne Elisabeth: "I'm afraid so."

And thus Anne Elisabeth withdrew me from beneath the bench where I had ensconced myself, intending to fend off all assailants. I wapped at her hand, but Anne Elisabeth was too dense to pay any heed to this gentle warning and hauled me out onto examining table (which Makoose had just vacated. He was now rolling on the floor, exposing his belly to vet assistants so they'd rub him. The show-off.)

Purgatory On Earth began.

First they tried to draw my blood.


Then they tried to check my eyes.

Double fail.

Young Vet: "I don't want her to bite you!"

Anne Elisabeth: "Oh, she won't bite me."

I bit her. Not enough to break the skin. Just enough to show her what's what.

Anne Elisabeth: "MINERVA Louise! You're embarrassing me!"

Then they tried to check my ears.

No one tries to check my ears a second time.

Last of all was . . . the thing that goes in the place. And that, my dear readers, was not about to happen.

At the end of an ordeal that was much more dreadful for any of them that it was for yours truly, the vet handed Anne Elisabeth a tube of dewormer, threw up her hands and said, "I'm so sorry! You'll have to give her this at home. When you bring her in for a teeth cleaning we'll put her under, and we can try all of this again then."

Foiled again, Vet of Darkness. You will never master me!

So, triumphant, I returned to the carrier and curled up in a fluffy ball of satisfaction. This satisfaction was somewhat ruffled when Makoose--after being pried from the arms of an adoring nurse--was shoved in on top of me.

Makoose: "I love the vet! All of them say I am sooooo pretty! And I am. I am sooooo pretty!"

Anne Elisabeth: "You may be pretty, Makoose. But Minerva is terrible."

I am. I am great, and I am terrible

I'd much rather be terrible than pretty.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Princess Pants

I will no longer be responding to the name "Minerva Louise." No, if you want to get my attention, you will have to call me "Princess Pants" from now on.

My angelic ray of moonlit glow (some people call him Rohan) declared me his "Princess Pants" tonight when he was feeding me. Wasn't that just too beguiling of him?

Anne Elisabeth, being wretched, tries to tell me that he said it in an exasperated tone. "You were being a stubborn princess, and he was frustrated, Minerva. That's all that was."

She reeks with jealousy. Rohan never calls her Princess Pants.

Besides, I'm not stubborn. I'm firm. I am in the process of training my humans into a new eating routine, and humans, as everyone knows, are one of the hardest animals in the world to train to do anything.

But my humans (Well, I say "my humans," but I really mean "Anne Elisabeth." My snoogle-bug of winsomeness is so sweet-tempered he just does what she tells him to. Someday, I will get her back for how she brow-beats that man!) have been insisting for the last two and a half months on feeding somewhere I Do Not Wish To Eat. They have been feeding me with the foster cats.

Anne Elisabeth (being wretched) insists that this is due to the Kitty Politics currently rampant at Rooglewood. Some kitties, she claims, are more dominant and greedy than other kitties, and she has to separate them out into different feeding stations so that she knows everyone is getting his or her fair share. Thus my Minion eats on the piano, Magrat underneath it, Marmaduke on top of the entertainment center, and yours truly gets shut in the guestroom with the three foster kittens!

Can you see a problem here?

Let me break it down for you. Where "Kitty Politics" are concerned, there is only one hierarchy here at Rooglewood. I rule:

(Cue Powerful Angel Music: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH)

And they . . . do their thing.

(Cue blurping trombone music: Whaap, whaap, whaaaaap . . .)

So you see how this sort of segregation couldn't be stood for. If there was going to be any separating of the eating stations, I was bound and determined that mine should be the eating station of choice. NOT the one shared with the lowly fosters.

Thus I began an intense training routine. It takes a kitty of rare grit and a willingness to get tough with the humans in question, particularly if you have one as bullheaded as Anne Elisabeth.

I began Project: Train By Starvation.

It's a simple enough procedure, but don't let its simplicity fool you. You have to be in it for the long haul if you expect it to work. You have to be willing, after maybe two bites of both breakfast and dinner, to completely turn up your nose to your food bowl and go sit in a fluffy huff off in a corner somewhere, watching through half-closed lids as those scavenging foster kittens finish off your meals. Every day. For weeks.

Anne Elisabeth, being dense, insisted that when I got hungry enough I would cave and start eating my share.

My angel face of love, however, said, "O! Most wretched Anne Elisabeth! How can you say such a thing? Clearly, my beloved and adored sweetness pie kitty pumpkin is far too delicate a creature to eat a full meal all in one fell swoop! She wishes to take her time, to savor her meal, to enjoy it over hours of sweet culinary pleasure."

Anne Elisabeth: "She eats the same blasted thing every single day. What is there to enjoy?"

But, when my already trim little hips grew ever-trimmer, my beloved insisted that Anne Elisabeth rearrange the eating stations yet again.

And I got The Spot Of Choice! I get to eat in the the Author Study now! Right up on Anne Elisabeth's desk, next to her computer! Every morning, Anne Elisabeth feeds all the other kitties, saving me for last of all (because I'm special like that). Then she carries me into the Author Study (because you can't expect this great beauty to walk there on her own, can you?), places me before my bowl and feeds me. She then prepares her morning hot drink and shut us in the Study, just the two of us! And we spend all morning, just being Us Girls together, and I take my sweet time over my food, and the other animals paw at the door, and they aren't allowed in because they aren't the Special Kitty like I am!

And they weren't willing to go the distance of starvation to get The Spot Of Choice. So lick my whiskers, losers!

Of course, you have to continue a routine of firmness in order to maintain your position in a dictatorship such as mine. This week, for instance, Anne Elisabeth has been particularly slovenly about her duties. She keeps claiming she "doesn't feel well," that she "has the flu" or some such nonsense, and somehow thinks this is an excuse to sleep in and not feed the kitties on the regular schedule.

I've put a stop to that! Yesterday, when she "wasn't feeling well," and tried to sleep in, I knocked her crystal cookie jar off the counter and shattered it. That brought her running quick enough! And when she'd finished sweeping up the shards, who do you think got fed in The Spot Of Choice as per usual?

That's right.

Princess Pants rules this household.