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.

Me: "WOE! WOE! WOOOOOOOE!"

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.

Disgusting.

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.

Fail.

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.

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.

Pedestals, Grooming Stations, and Suchlike

They say it is dangerous to live up on a pedestal. When exalted to lofty heights, there is nothing left but to fall.

To this I say, "Phooey!"

Some of us were born for the pedestal.

There have been doings in Rooglewood of late. Doings of great interest which I shall herewith report. First of all, the recent arrival of the New Napping Spot of Choice.

Anne Elisabeth is under the feeble delusion that Rohan bought this comfy new cat-bed for her. She claims she's going to put it in her new Author's Study and will sit upon it while she writes her little stories.

Ha!

As clearly shown above, this couch of repose is meant for feline repose and none other.

It also serves admirably for a grooming station, as seen above. Plenty of room for you and a friend (or a gremlin, in this case) to enjoy all the luxuries of a good evening groom!

And Marmaduke seems to think it a perfect new spot to display his so-called "beauty."

Because he has to make it all about him.

 

 

It's all too easy to upstage him with fluffiness!

 

Anyway, as you can see in the images above, one of Anne Elisabeth's "charity cases" has been hanging around much longer than usual. The little black Gremlin is nearly full grown, and still hasn't managed to find a permanent home! I'm starting to get used to seeing it around, though. We even groom together upon occasion.

 

"Hey, Gremlin? You missed a spot!"

"Oh, thank you, Exalted One!"

 

Because that's what it calls me. Seriously.

 

Anne Elisabeth, being wretched, thinks this particular creature is a funny-looking and calls it her "vampire kitty." I think this is a bit harsh!

 

 But it's definitely a Gremlin. No two ways about it.

 

My Minion can't stand it. He thinks it's a dreadful beast sent to Rooglewood for the sole purpose of annoying him. The Gremlin, however, thinks my Minion is AWESOME and constantly tries to cuddle.

 

Gremlin: "I love Uncle Monster!"

Minion: "Ugh. What is this horror to which I wake?"

 

But my Minion isn't very consistent. While most of the time he insists that he hates the Gremlin, sometimes I catch them in this attitude!

 

"Kissy! Kissy! Love! Love!"

 

"But Minerva," says my Minion, "Midnight is a different kitty! There are two black kitties in the house, you know? I love Midnight, and I hate the Gremlin. It's simple!"

 

Huh?

 

What on earth is he talking about? There can't possibly be two gremlins in Rooglewood. It doesn't make sense!

 

That's got to be the same cat? Right?

 

Yeah, the Minion's lost it. That's all there is to it. He's seeing double. Or something.

 

However it is, we have had a steady stream of Anne Elisabeth's wretched charity cases coming through Rooglewood. For a month or so there, we had Gray Kitten:

 

As seen here with the Gremlin.

 

And no sooner were we rid of him then Anne Elisabeth took in his sibling, Gray Kitten 2.

Cute. Sure. But is it fluffy?

 

There's just no end of them! Seriously, folks, do you know anyone who can take some of these fur-beasts off my paws? They distract from my majesty!

 

Heh. As if that were possible!



 





Of Bribes and Beasties

How can one measure majesty upon a scale?

 

One cannot. One simply cannot.

 

 

Oh, dear, gentle, if somewhat insignificant, readers of mine! I have returned once more to bless you all with the sage wisdom of my being and the great majesty of my me-ness. I don't know how you have managed to survive this long with out me!

 

But I am here to update you on the epic doings of my life. They have been epic. These doings.

 

First of all, I have been accepting bribes.

 

 

 Everyone knows that a true dictator must indeed enjoy the perks of Supreme Dictatorship. These include bribes of all shapes, sizes, and smells. This particular bribe is exceptionally aromatic!

 

"What is it?" you well may ask with envious curiosity. I will tell you! It is fresh catnip! FRESH, I say! And O! So delightful!

 

 

Being of a benevolent nature, I shared a little with the household peons, my Minion and the mama-kitty-fat-cat.

 

 

And now, you are probably wondering as to the purpose behind this bribe.

 

Anne Elisabeth, being wretched, has instigated some household changes of which I have not given official stamp of approval. These changes include the decision to keep the above-mentioned Mama-kitty-as-was, giving her the permanent name of "Magrat."

 

Magrat!

 

Haha!

 

Along with opening the doors of Rooglewood to this Mama-kitty of questionable morals and background, Anne Elisabeth has continued to bring orphan kittens into MY dominion. Orphan after orphan after orphan! Is there no end to the plague of them?

 

 

Pictured above are the two newest of the wretched beasts: Minko and his sister, Midnight. Magrat-Fat-Cat insists that they are her kittens. She has long since joined the ranks of us Liberated Women (she's been spayed), and her own brood of mewling beasties have been sent on to their permanent homes . . . and yet, nothing in this world will convince her that those kittens are not hers!

 

Magrat: "SO MANY BABIES!!! I don't even remember

HAVING all of them! Weeeeeee!!!!"

 

She's a disgrace to Liberated Women everywhere. Sigh.

 

But, there's no stopping it. The kittens will be fostered, the Magrat will be kept. I've seen so many changes happen in my sweet Rooglewood since I set up my dictatorship here! First the Minion, then that Thing, now this . . .

 

Speaking of that Thing:

 

Lost a bit of its menace now, hasn't it? Teehee!

 

Yikes! Maybe not . . .

 

Anyway, you see why bribes have become necessary. Otherwise, I really might just have to start advertising for a new Slave Human to serve my every whim and finally see the last of that Anne Elisabeth of mine.

 

For now, I shall have to content myself with napping in circles.

 

 

There's nothing like a good circular nap for the tortured soul.



 

The Brilliance of My Adored Object

So we are all agreed that my Rohan-sweetness is brilliant, right?

Of course we are.

He really is brilliant, though. Anne Elisabeth fancies herself to be something of a writer, but I tell, dear readers, she's got nothing on my dearest darlingest love.  He, the adored object of my heart, is a rare and beautiful talent.

Take, for instance, this poem he wrote.

If you have difficulty reading the font, it goes:

I wish I were a hippo
'Cause then I would be fat.
But if I can't be a hippo
I'd like to be a cat.

It takes a unique sort of mind to come up with comparisons of this majestic magnitude! My mind fairly boggles at the idea. Hippos! Fat! Indeed! And who doesn't, ultimately, find themselves desiring a life feline?

It is brilliant. My Rohan is brilliant.

Anne Elisabeth claims to have started it, however. She, being bossy like she is, told Rohan one evening that she needed him to "bring more poetry into our marriage." He, being wonderful like he is, obliged by spontaneously composing this epic rhyme.

"Hey," says Anne Elisabeth, "You could mention that I'm the one who illustrated it! That's my drawing of your Minion there!"

Um, Anne Elisabeth, Copernicus called. You're not the center of the universe.

Really, sometimes, that human . . .

Anyway, Rohan's brilliance combined with the pedestrian efforts of Anne Elisabeth have served well to give our Petting Station corner a decorative upgrade. See here:

"Wait a minute . . . She sayin' I'm fat????"



Sorry, Minion. Next to Marmaduke, everyone is fat.

I know your eye went right to me in the background.

I mean, who wants to watch Marmaduke and

Mama-kitty kissing when they could watch me?

Me: "I approve this change, household lackeys."

Marmaduke: "I wonder if anyone needs a hug . . ."

The Spirit of the Dance and Plastic Baggies

You may think that, with Anne Elisabeth hogging the computer and preventing yours truly from sharing the deepness of my deeps with the lot of you, that I would, thus thwarted, succumb and spend my days doing nothing but nap the nap of the frustrated!

Oh, no.

I have been exploring my creative side. Just the other day, I invented, choreographed, and performed a whole new dance for the benefit of my beloved and appreciative Rohan-muffin. He, being the soulful type, understood the poetry of my performance. Anne Elisabeth, being the wretched type, didn't get it at all and snickered the while.

I know that you are all readers of far superior taste than that of Anne Elisabeth, so I thought I would take the time to share with you some still shots of my elegance as caught on film. Prepare yourselves for beauty unparalleled!

First we have: The breathless hush before I make my entrance . . .

Then, the moment: The pure, shining moment when I enter, my costume donned.

"Excuse me! Clear the stage! I'm about to perform!"

"Uh, sorry, Minerva . . ."

Now, I strike a pose, ready for the music of the soul to play, for the living poetry of movement to take over my being!

I roll! I swoop! I spin! I twirl!

 



Was there ever a being of such grace, such majesty as I?

"What???"

"I don't get it, Minerva. Wha's wif da plastic baggy and the writhin' 'round onna floor?"

"It's art, Minion."

"What?"

"You couldn't possibly understand. Kindly remove yourself from my stage and watch from a respectful distance."

"I jus' fink she looks kinda weird . . ."

A soul as scorched with the Flames of Dance as mine cannot be understood by mere mortals!







Bondage

I have been in bondage, my friends, my readers, my loyal followers.

Bondage, I say.

Yes, and know, that only the most severe of bonds could have kept me from my duties, posting my thoughts and wisdoms on this blog, sharing my unique perspective with a world living unendarkened.

But Anne Elisabeth, you see, has been in the throes of drafting her newest novel on deadline and, being wretched, has decided that this deadline of hers is more important than MY blog.

Well, say you, why don't you complain? Complain and demand your rights as supreme dictator of Rooglewood?

Oh, believe me, believe me when I say that I have. I have put all four of my dainty paws down, titled my head frighteningly to one side, lashed my exquisite plume of a tail and said, "ANNE ELISABETH! GIVE ME ATTENTION NOW!" Meaning, of course, that I want a chance to blog.

This is what I get:

That's right! The binding chains of human affection as personified by Anne Elisabeth's skinny arms wrapped in tight and restrictive embrace about my fluffy yet formidable person!



Must. Escape. Cuddles.

When she gets in moods like this, there is simply no reasoning with Anne Elisabeth. She will cling and cling and cling like something that clings, and it's either succumb to the affection . . . or flee!

But I, supreme dictator that I am, have never been one to flee.

Fine. We'll cuddle. But don't think I'll enjoy it!



Thus my long absence, my own besotted swains. Even now, I have scarcely a moment before that human of mine is bound to return from her errands and pushes me off the keyboard so she can return to her . . .

Wait! There she is! Stop! No, no! Bad human! Baaaaaaaaaaaaaasd;lkjf a;lkrj a;lg ja; lj ;lj ;;rel   - --------------------------------------------------------------_________________________________                 

(Until next time . . . )