A few years ago some wrong-footed friend kept sending me “hilarious” emails, forwarded on from her friend, who received it in turn from her mother, who got it from a friend from work, who was sent it by her daughter who got it from her crazy bunch of friends from uni. Or some such trail. I could tell that was the trail because you had to scroll through all the emails that had come before it, noting the full trail and all the email addresses it had been sent to.
Ah, the halcyon days of the internet.

Anyway. I remember it particularly because there was a particularly gruesomely misogynistic little number called “Dogs are better than women because…” that I combed through here on this blog some time ago, eventually writing it off as a piece of isolated moronitude from a woman-hating doglover.

I should have known that if I looked a little closer I would find his perfect match out there somewhere. Yes. It’s the man-hating catlover.

So it is only fair to repeat the experiment with something I found just hanging out on the internet, being badly thought through and a bit offensive, all in the name of “humor”.

Cats are Better than Men Because…

1. A cat always comes in SOBER after being out all night.
Mainly because cats don’t drink alcohol. They find it hard to get served and very difficult to pick up glasses with their lack of opposable thumbs. Cats are always sober. They also walk in after a night out dragging half-dead vermin. Better? No.

2. When a cat goes to the toilet she tries not to leave a trace.
This is easily solved by requiring the man in your life to do his ginormous poos in a small box of gravel somewhere inside your house and barely cover it with a thin layer before walking off, leaving you to deal with the mess. OR to do it in your prize flowerbed. That would be preferable to a couple of wet spots on a toilet seat, would it? No.

3. You can put a bell around a cat’s neck so you know exactly where she is.
You can do a lot of things with GPS mobile phone tracking these days. But if having an audible signal for the precise location and proximity is a requirement in your relationship I would have to ask if you’re a) really happy or b) possibly Stevie Wonder on a drug-fuelled flight of paranoia.

4. If you stroke a cat she won’t leap on you for sex.
Unless they’re on heat, and then they might. And that can be a thoroughly unpleasant experience. Also: yes, isn’t it dreadful when a man wants to have sex? Because no woman should want to have sex ever, should they?

5. You don’t mind that much if a cat brings a bird home every night.
I actually do. I really do.

6. When a cat comes in at midnight it doesn’t wake you up by smashing into the furniture.
You don’t know my cat.

7. Cats never pretend they know how to fix the video.
You probably shouldn’t be asking the cat to try. Why not give it a go yourself, first?

8. Cats don’t care what size your boobs are.
I cannot begin to disagree with this one. It is indubitably true.
But then, I cannot begin to understand why it would matter to someone whether their cat cared about the size of their boobs or not either.

9. Cats still love you even when your perm goes wrong.
As long as you still feed them, they frankly couldn’t give a shit if you had a mullet.
And you probably do.

10. Cats love rubbing up to your legs however much cellulite you have.
You do know they’re just hoping you give them food, right?

11. Cats can be neutered if they stray.
I do hope this is actually a transcript of someone’s wedding vows. That would just be a classic monument of maniacal mentalism.

12. If a cat jumps into your lap, a little light petting will satisfy her.
You’re repeating jokes now.

13. It’s okay if a cat rubs up against your best friend.
Although probably not if your best friend has sex with your cat, right? What kind of double standard is THAT?

14. If you ask enough times, a cat may actually listen to you.
If you ask enough times, anyone will listen to you. The difference is that your husband knows how dull you are, but your cat will eventually get hungry.

15. You never have to spend time with your cat’s mother.
Unless your cat’s mother is also one of your cats. But no, otherwise you will have removed your cat from their mother at around 9 weeks. If you did the same for your husband, you could say the same for him. Although it would be weird.

16. Better chance of training a cat.
Good luck.

17. Cats are cute.
So are men. Or at least mine is. Sucks to be you.

18. A cat is never late for dinner.
A man never sticks his face in some raw meat and gravy, walks off after a couple of mouthfuls and then licks his arse on the dining room floor. At least most I know don’t.

19. Cats love to see you come home from shopping with lots of bags!
Cats couldn’t give a shit about you, or the shopping, as long as you have bags.
Also: you probably don’t have a joint bank account with your cat. Although by this point in your list, who knows?

20. You’ll never get a call from you cat’s ex-wife.
This is true. But there are good reasons for this. And you never know, perhaps you cat’s ex-wife just considers you beneath her notice because she has a basic grasp of grammar.

21. A cat would never leave you for a younger women.
Ditto the last point. Though, they would leave you for any house in the neighbourhood with an available, open catflap and better tasting meat, though. Which could basically be the same thing, euphemistically speaking.

22. Cats treat your mom with respect.
Cats think your mum smells like tuna.

23. Cats don’t worry about hair loss.
And your husband isn’t covered all over with a thick layer of thick, patterned fur.
I. Pray. to. GOD.

24. I feels nice to stroke a cats soft, fluffy fur.
Orrrrrrr, maybe he is.
Or if he isn’t perhaps he should look into it in the interests of saving his marriage.
Yeeeeachhh…

25. A cat’s friend is less likely to be annoying.
What?

26. Cats can’t show love without meaning it.
You’re delusional.

27. To buy a fancy dinner for a cat only costs 40p
And cheap.

28. Cats actually think with their heads.
And with their brain within, which is the size of a walnut. If that.

29. Unlike a man, a cat can fend for itself.
That’s just offensive.

30. It is legal in all states to neuter a cat.
And that, my friend, is just terrifying.

31. Cats comfort you when you are sick.
You ARE sick.

32. When a cat sleeps all day it’s natural, not annoying.
I love how you’ve tried to come back with a reasonably normal, non-psychotic, rational kicker at the end here, but it’s too late.

You lose.

Look.
I don’t want to piss on anyone’s Menorah (it’s still Hanukah, right?) but there really isn’t a cogent argument to be had here. When it comes to life partners, people you would want to marry - of any sex, and in any combination - people are still beating animals 2/0 at this point.

Don’t get me wrong. When I say “people are still beating animals” in a happy tone, I’m not endorsing THAT kind of beating.
I love cats.
And I know dogs are ok.
But the whole X-animals Are Better Than Y-partners schtick is always going to be a tough sell. It’s partly the inherent sexism. But is mainly the implied bestiality, which is just a bit nauseating. But perhaps we should agree to disagree.

Anyway. Cats, eh? They’re better pets than spoons are. But not as good life partner material as people! Now THERE’S a comedy routine.

Yes, alright, I fell off the catvent train in a very marked fashion, I admit it. won’t go into why in detail. Sick all weekend: let’s say little else about it, I’m so bored of my stomach by this point I’m thinking of giving up on real human food and eating nothing but little pictures of food I have drawn on paper. Sterilised paper.

ANYWAY

12: is an indepth examination of the 12 cats of the bible. Um. The two in Genesis that went into Noah’s ark. The one that got the thorn in his paw in the book of Daniel. And the other nine. I don’t know where the other nine were. Probably in revelations, bringing about the end of the world.

13: is for Graham, the unluckiest cat in the world, who I will tell you about later.

14: Is for the 14 things my cats play with:
1) The squeaker-on-a-stick 2) Other-thing-on-a-stick 3) The foil wrappers that yummy meat sticks come in, tied up into a little knot (yellow) 4) yummy meat stick foil wrapper tied into knot (pink) 5) leopard print ball with weird brown feathers attached. 6) old collars we could never get them to wear 7) bottle tops 8) paper bags 9) The pony ball 10) kitchen roll 11) christmas tree decorations 12) paper chains 13) tinsel 14) anything inconvenient to me. Like toilet roll

and 15: is a picture. Just to prove my point.

And that’s us caught up.
Hurray!

A GUEST POST FROM MY BELOVED ABOUT CATS:

Today, because we are very fortunate, and because my brain is mush, My Very Best Beloved has offered to do a guest post about cats for the Catvent Calendar.
Well, I say he’s offered to. What I mean is I’ve just told him that that is what he has to do, because I can’t think of anything to say about cats today for a post, and I need one.
Oh, and that I’m therefore just going to sit here and type everything he says until I have one.
So this is My Beloved’s Special Guest Post On The Subject of Cats (Transcribed)

What? No I don’t see why I should have to contribute something to your catvent calendar. You made your catty bed, you have to lie in it.

Oh for goodness sake. Stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to say anything. Stop kicking me. Ok, ok. We took the cats to the vet today. No, don’t put that, put that I took the cats to the vet today. Now they have little shaved bits here [he indicates under his neck]. Under their chins.

That’s it. What more do you want?

[Then he starts talking about car rental for our upcoming trip for four and a bit minutes, until prompted to give a little more value for money to my lovely readers]

GAH! Ok. This is interesting BECAUSE I have often thought that cats are the kind of animals that would grow a beard if they could.

(”Really?”)

[He nods, earnestly. Then starts talking about the relative price of 4 x 4 vehicles for another three minutes, until prompted to continue]

The reason I think cats would grow beards is …erm … because they’re a bit like the old men that you see sitting in the corner of the pub. Cats. They keep themselves to themselves. But then, when they want to butt in to your conversation, or tell you something they think you don’t know, they’re quite happy to interrupt with their MEH-NE-MEH-NE-MEH-NE-MEHHHHHH…[He makes a mockintellectual noise while making a beard-stroking action. Then tells me about another, cheaper car rental he's found... Until prompted to continue]

What? Have I not explained enough? Surely anyone with a little… Guhhhhh. I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING! I gave you everything you needed! Just find a picture on the internet of a cat with a beard!

[Wanders off to the toilet. When he comes back, he resumes looking at the internet, this time looking into various outdoor shops having sales. Until he is reminded that he is in the middle of something else]

Are you kidding? What else have I got to say? Ok, So: You’re saying I didn’t explain the cat part of my metaphor very well. Sorry. Geez. I just would have thought it would be obvious.

[He takes a very deep breath and puts on his explaining voice]

CATS, right. Well … they pretend most of the time they’re not INTERESTED in YOU. Or what you’re DOING. But actually they’re WATCHING and LISTENING the whole time! And then, when they DECIDE that they want to involve themselves in your life, you’re supposed to drop everything and jump to attention.

(”As if they had beards?”)

Yes.

[He goes back to comparing waterproof pant (trouser) sale prices, and refuses to say any more on the subject of cats]

Thank you, My Beloved! Great Post!

I was sitting on the underground train from the airport the other day and was suddenly alarmed by this:

Yes. MAN THE BOATS, PEOPLE!
We’re RUNNING OUT of FROZEN WAFFLES! OMG! MAN THE WAFFLE BOATS!

NO! WAIT! DON’T DO THAT! GET OUT OF THE WAFFLE BOATS AND LET US EAT THEM! For who knows when we may eat waffle again. Make boats out of something else, that we may float away to a new land with perhaps more waffles.

What shall we make the boats out of? Oh, I don’t know, perhaps some kind of flour/milk/egg/sugar mix, for I know we have plenty of those ingredients in the cupboard.
You have found those? Well, blend them together, then set them, in some kind of heated forge!
Yes! Like that one, on the counter! You might want to use those extra “waffle”-plates you got in the box, for extra gridded boat-like stability.
Is that done? Are the boats made?
Brilliant! Let us set sail for a new continent! There, we shall find the frozen waffles! There … we shall find home.

TEN FAMOUS CATS - FROM MEMORY

As I have managed to make it to day ten of talking about cats (for the love of god, I have to do TWENTY FOUR?!) I have decided to mark this momentous occasion by making a list of the top ten most famous cats I can think of right now, off the top of my head, without referring to the internet to check facts or spellings. So if any of those are wrong?… Well, I don’t care, I’m not asking for help, I’m just testing my memory of emergency trivia here, so, you know… ANYWAY.

First Cat: Puss In Boots Puss was a cat, who wore boots, and, I believe may have gone on to become mayor of London. Whether this was due to the novelty value of a cat in human clothing, or due to some outstanding local transport policy he was running on, I have no idea. But what I do know is that he was famous.

Second Cat: Socks the Cat was the Clintons cat. Unless he was called Boots. No, wait, that’s just me thinking about Cat Number One. Socks was the Clintons cat while they were in the White House. But now he isn’t any more. Because he died. Yes, that’s the way it works. What’s the new White House dog called? Hope? Well, you get two terms, Hope, at the most. And then you’re dead. No more Hope.

Another Cat: Cat Stevens was a famous singer. But he isn’t called Cat Stevens any more. So I’m not talking about him any more. And that’s the end of it.

And Then: Catcher In The Rye. I read this when I was in secondary school and, the battered pages attest, it was quite an influence on me. Can’t remember the plot now, of course. There was a teenage boy. And he was awfully complicated and no one understood him and it was all very unfair and so hard to be him wah wah wah. Is that about right? No? Oh.

Cat Five: Top Cat! He was American, and a cartoon. Though very high in his own esteem, and in position of both aspirations and a hat, he still lived in an alley, which says very little about the attainability of the American Cat Dream. Do Cats dream? Mine do. Dreams that make her legs jitter and jaw twitch. And they’re British, and know their station, so must dream small. The American Dream is much less bounded - and thus the American Cat Dream must be very fast, and very tasty. It must be like a supermeteor made of a mixture of freshly roasted meats.

Sixth Cat: Cat Deeley - is a British presenter who currently presents So You Think You Can Dance In The USA. She is famed for wearing very edgy choices in her fashionable attire. I can usually tell how fashionable by remarking upon them to my Extremely-Fashionably-Knowledgeable friend Amy. If I say “That’s horrible” and she says “Yes it is”, then I feel knowledgeable. If I say “That’s Horrible” and she says “Oh, no, that’s VERY fashion-forward”, then I sigh and realise how fashion-backward I am. but then, the next week, she’ll wear something gorgeous that I will tentatively call ‘reasonable’ and Amy will say it, yes, is briliant, and I will feel a little bit fashionable after all.

Cat: Charlie The Cat from the Public Service Announcements of the 1970s. Or 80s. “Charlie says” (“something indistinguishable”) “Don’t play with strangers”.
Really? Because I don’t believe he said that. I don’t believe he said anything at all.

Yet More Cat: There is a black and white cat in an advert for a cat food I don’t buy. I would write more, but honestly, I started this five hours ago and I know I have to get it online - but you have no idea of the emergency-website-updating and writing-commission-neogtiating stuff that has gone on in the meantime. This is what happens when you stay up too late. Suddenly, everyone in the country you officially work in wakes up. And then you start talking to them like it’s morning. Felix? Oh, whatever.

Other Cat:Snuffleupagus Perhaps the largest and least conventionally feline cat of the list, Snuffleupagus was one of the greatest famous cats of all because, well, mainly because I just said so. And I’m having a bit of a month, and about three whiskers from a breakdown, and so you have to be nice to me. And also: why isn’t he a cat? If he isn’t a cat, what is he? Well there you are then. Snuffleupagus: awesome cat!

Finally. The last Cat for Today, Cat Ten: Bagpuss Who was a big pink television cat. And when Bagpuss goes to sleep, all his friends go to sleep.
And so it is with me.
(Except, you know, seeing as I live in San Francisco and a lot of my friends are in Western Europe, the direct opposite way around. When I go to sleep, all of my friends wake up. Doesn’t have quite the same ring about it, really. Sorry)

*snore*

Little known fact from the Secret Council of Cats: No.1

I bet most of you didn’t even know there WAS a secret council of cats, did you? Well, that is because it is secret. I, meanwhile, have, very recently been trusted with privileged information: the full set of notes from the last Secret Cat Council meeting.

Which is not only an honour, of course, but also a really fortunate coincidence, coming, as it does, at the same time as me suddenly realising that I have to fill the rest of the Catvent Calendar without boring myself to death.

It’s difficult to pick my way through the notes: they’re not typed very well, often with a whole clump of keys appearing to be depressed at the same time, and also they appear to be covered in flecks of over-excited-old-cat-dribble, though there is at least an apology for that at the bottom. Well, it says “sdoirrtrty!”, so I’m assuming that’s what it is. It’s either that or someone called someone else ‘dirty’ just as the meeting was ending, and if that’s it, I just don’t want to know.

Anyway. one of the main points on the agenda was the call for ALL uses of the word ‘Cat’ to be standardised universally across a number of industries and wide range of other situations. It is a bold branding move, rivaled only by the likes of the one made by The Champagne region in in France, making sure only fizzy wine made in their appellation could be labelled as Champagne [passed, internationally, with much contention]; or the one made by the association of Texan Brothels to ensure that only their perfume, Eau de Ho can ever be described as “reeking like a redneck whorehouse” [passed, internationally, with curiously little argument]

The main driving force behind this, it seems, is that one of the cats (Mr Snuggles: rep. Greater Stockport) had happened upon the wikipedia page for Cat (disambiguation) (while, apparently, editing his owner’s page to include claims of animal cruelty by way of meagre portion distribution and gross withholding of yummy meat flavoured treats).

Finding a page with a listing of many cats who were not actually cats at all, he was incensed. He didn’t call it incensed, of course, as he didn’t know the word incensed. He apparently didn’t know the word “disambiguation”, either, or he could have saved everyone a lot of time.

He put forth the motion that any party, organisation or business that wanted to use the word “cat” would from now on, be required by law to employ cats as part or all of their service, which, as any rational member of the council would surely have realised was idealistic, but almost certainly unenforcable.

Anyway, the following - gosh - 56 minutes of the meeting were spent going through a print out of the offending wikipedia page and annotating in red scribbles (and exclamation marks) how each party in question could be expected to comply with this new legislation.

So, for example, the Canadian Army would still be allowed to award a Canadian Army Trophy (or “CAT“), but it would have to be made in the form of a cat. And a particularly fine-looking one at that.

Any region that wished to use the letters C-A-T to stand for Somewhere Area Transit (or transport) would be allowed to do so, but only on the basis that the transit system was comprised of people riding cats. And since that was unanimously and immediately ruled down in an emergency motion as soon as it was proposed, they would therefore not be allowed to have a municipal transport system at all.

Certified Accounting Technicians (otherwise known as CATs) would still be allowed, and still certified, although only if they also happened to be feline.

A “CAT Scan” would now comprise of being taken into a sterilised room where a cat would look you up and down, disdainfully.

Central Africa Time (or CAT) was simply banned as a time zone entirely because no one could think of anything funny to say about it, and the sexual position known as coital alignment technique (or “cat“) had both its meaning changed and letters reassigned to different words that ARE comprehensively detailed, but which I cannot go into in any greater detail, as I’ve just been a little bit sick in my mouth just remembering reading through the notes the first time.

And so the notations went on. By the time the Secret Council of Cats had finished, there was no area of life, entertainment, medicine or industry that was going to be left untouched by the motion. And with that, an action point was given to the secretary, charged with checking out this ‘Disambiguation” business, and why no one had informed them of their rightful stake in it. And then apparently, a brief recess for bum-licking was taken, before they reconvened to plough through the rest of the agenda.

Still, I think that’s quite enough for today.

Sorry, I just had to find time to write something on this blog that wasn’t part of the Catvent Calendar, because I got busy and only had time for those, and now I feel so much like a terrifying cat lady I don’t even want to hang out with me.

I’m sitting here curled up in a tight ball on my desk chair, knees tucked up to my chin and wrapped in my jumper. The heater, which comes on at random intervals, makes impressive whoooooomphing noises for about four minutes, and then, considering its job done, turns itself off again with a self-satisfied click.

I wondered, for a while, why the heater didn’t seem to be doing what I would generally consider to be its job (”Heating”), but then, one day, standing on the sofa to pull the curtains, I discovered the fine job our heater really does. The top foot and a half of our flat is, I can guarantee you, one of the loveliest, toastiest places on the face of the earth.

Holding your hand in various positions above the floor, you can feel a palpable difference in each 12 inches of space. It’s ice at the bottom, fire at the top. So the flat, from the floor upward, in increments of feet, therefore goes:

Floor; Arctic; Arctic; Nordic; Hebridean; Yorkshire Moors; Inside the Heart Of Margaret Thatcher; Fridge; Hour-old-tea; “Holy Crap, Welcome to the Caribbean, Have a mango!”; Ceiling.

Yesterday I faced off against a tiny Latino lady in a war to buy the last oil-filled radiator in the shop (and lost). I’ve tried to create a nose warmer made of a small square of fleece and some elastic, but I looked like a dyspraxic surgeon with an inability to locate my mouthhole. I have more to say on the matter, and would, but need to go and change activity for a while until the tips of my fingers stop being blue and feeling a bit numb and threatening to fall off, only to be found by the people who come to find us, wondering why we died frozen to our office chairs, surrounded by finger shaped blueberries. I’m thinking of simply giving in, spilling some water on the floor, getting out the disco ball and offering the place to friends as an ice rink. I think the yeti’s hiding under our bed, but won’t come out because he thinks it’s too cold out here. We have to remember to put the milk back in the fridge so it stays warm enough to keep from freezing. I just sneezed and the sneezemist froze into flakes on the way down and created a small snow-shower in the Northestern corner of my bedroom, in which tiny spiders wearing bobble hats and eight mittens each are building a tiny snowman.

Of course, I don’t want to complain. I’m fine. Nothing to report, don’t worry about me, etc.

But, you know - think of me fondly. I’m going to go and spend some time indoors, in my flat … and I may be some time.

We’ve been having to take the cats for injections and blood tests, which means requesting that they get into a comfortable little carry case with a nice fleecy blanket on the bottom, and go on an exciting journey by way of a short car ride to an exciting new place.

Weirdly, they do not see it this way. Ever since the point that getting in a box led to their being hauled off and placed in a plane hold for ten hours (albeit on the way to a perfectly happy life), they’re just not that keen on boxes.

They react in different ways. Squirrel is, I cannot deny it, a cat who will hiss at a three-year-old and threaten to take your face off for the crime of opening the curtains when she wasn’t expecting it, let alone asked to move off your study chair (though she is very very soft as well, honest). However, she’ll be led into an open carry-case, and, if it’s left on the floor, will walk in and sleep in it all night. When put in to go to the vet, she’ll do nothing more angry than curl up at the back with her arms crossed and stare disdainfully, giving you the unmistakable impression that, if, at any point in the future, you are left in a position of having to apply for a job as Acceptable Cat Owner, she will not be available for references.

Widget, meanwhile is a very soft cat. Mainly, it must be said, in the head (runt of the litter, bad dose of cat flu, and besides, some of us just aren’t the sharpest tools in the box - heaven knows I should appreciate that). But when it comes to being cuddly, soft and amenable, Widget is normally your cat. She’s recently taken to spending most of her time on my lap, when possible, and when I need to move, or go and get something, I know I can pick her up in my arms and cradle her like a medium-sized sleepy cat baby-replacement until I sit down again.

However, the carry case is another - um - case. Entirely. Even if you pick Widget up at the other end of the flat with no indication of carry cases being involved, she somehow senses the intention, and can scramble straight up one arm, fly off the top of your shoulder and be hanging from the lampshade by the time you’ve had a chance to think “Brilliant, perhaps we won’t have too much of a problem going to the Vee - Eee- oh SHIT, where’s she GONE!? Wait! She can SPELL? And she’s PSYCHIC?!?”

One you pry her off the lampshade, the curtains, all the best clothes in your wardrobe (she has radar, but only in this situation), walking her to the carry box is like carrying a unstable explosive with a trigger wire as sensitive as a sex-writer’s chuff. No flinching, no weakness, just one clear aim: get the kitty in the box. That sounds like it should be a euphemism after the whole sex-writer reference. It really isn’t. Real cats: real boxes. That’s just how we roll around here.

In real life, meanwhile, Widget will suddenly will notice the box.
At this point, she will adopt the cartoon position of all cats resisting boxes, feet splayed as far as possible apart, by the time you get there, she will have calculated it exactly to place a foot exactly at each corner and bend, like a trampoline bouncing in and outside the carry case, without ever going far enough in to be in. A world of strength will suddenly well up from nowhere and make the struggle to get Widget in the box exhausting, annoying and upsetting all round. And all the while, Squirrel will sit at the other end of the carry case, watching the open door and her tantrumming sister with a cynical, scornful eye.

And so that’s something else we can learn from the magical Catvent Calendar. I already knew that you never know whether you’re from the Fight or Flight school of emergency situation control, before you’re faced with one. I think we can now add to that and say that you can never be sure whether you’re from the Fight, Flight, Russian Gymnast or Bitter Deposed Dictator school of reaction. But if you need schooling in any of those - or all of them at once - my cats can help.

I have not been very well today. This has been uncomfortable and unpleasant for me, but has made two cats very happy indeed, as they prowled around the inert lump in the middle of the bed, prodding it with pointy little paws to see if they could make it do anything more entertaining than make the gentle coughs, splutters and groany whining noises it made. Eventually they would give up and lie, piled on top of the many duvets and bedspreads curled up on any area of the lump that didn’t induce a new chorus of groaning in a slightly different key.

In revenge for that, I hereby present Widget, proving that I am not the only one who lies around in an undignified manner.

6 THINGS CATS ARE GOOD AT
1) Sleeping
2) Purring
3) Manipulating
4) Guilt-inducing
5) Licking
6) Thinking.

6 THINGS CATS ARE BAD AT
1) jokes
2) wearing false moustaches, with grace.
3) tennis. they’re awful at tennis.
4) typing
5) accountancy
6) Shaving badgers.

On Friday, a couple of my friends threw a Christmas decorations party, where they got a huge stack of craft materials, put out some lovely food, and we brought booze - a lot, mind you - and the willingness to make stuff out of the aforementioned craft materials that we would then fling onto their enormous tree, getting drunker and drunker and less good at craft as the evening went on of course, and they then have to live with it until the twelfth day of Christmas, the lovely, lovely fools that they are.

This is my reindeer. Or snowdeer, more like.

Anyway, I was slightly more proud of the other decoration I made, which was also a heavy gluegun-related creation, in the shape of a weird alien snowman with seven googly-eyes, but I was still in shy mode at that point and didn’t take a picture. I also made many beautiful origami cubes, which make brilliant decorations, but threw many of them at the tree (and missed) before remembering to take a picture.

Still though, an awesome party idea, which was lovely.
And, though I might be blowing my own antler (it’s a niche porn genre, that) it’s an awesome ideer, right? Get it? Ideer? A ha ha ha ha…
Oh alright. Ingrates.

I’ve read somewhere that scientists don’t know how a cat makes the purring noise they make when they’re happy, because whenever you get them in a scientifically testable situation, like under the heavy machinery of a laboratory, or once they’re unconscious, or dead, for some reason they don’t purr as much any more.

So they purr, and you know that means they’re happy, because they’re clearly more relaxed and less defensive. But what, physiologically, causes that, no one knows. They’re just happy.

Now, I have no idea if that’s true. I know I have the whole of the internet at my fingertips and could easily look it up. But you know what? I don’t want to. Because a) I’m stubborn like that and b) that story really satisfies me. Also, don’t look it up and tell me whether it’s true or not in the comments, because that’s the one of the only things in the world that will get you blocked. Seriously, I’m THAT stubborn. I like not knowing things when I choose not to. And that’s the point of that idea - and it’s kind of become a thing to live by, for me.

There’s just something about the idea that happiness is something intangible - something that you should enjoy, and appreciate, without prodding it or poking it or taking it apart to see how it works. Happy is just happy. It’s something that is satisfying to induce and pleasurable to feel, and once you know what causes it, you should just do that as much as possible, and not cut it up and poke it with science because at that point, it might well disappear.

And I’ll write more about purring next week, there was another post I had in mind. But that was just a thought that pleases me, so that is my cat thought for the day.

ON DAYS WHEN I AM FEELING TOO POORLY FOR WRITINGNESS, I AM GLAD THE INTERNET LOVES CATS SO MUCH

Although there’s very little chance you haven’t seen the cutest video in the world, doing the rounds this week, here it is:

FOOD, URGH
I mean, “Food, YUM”, obviously - but, basically, I’m sitting here having just watched the documentary Food Inc. This isn’t an issues blog, and I don’t touch political issues on it, very much - but food is important to me. Really important.

But I’ll put the rest of this post under a jump just in case some of you were only here for the cats.
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