Mark is one of the local familiy of farmcats who hangs around my house hoping to mooch off of me. He’s a beautiful animal, with definite Siamese coloration; and with me he’s a tolerant, friendly critter who likes to be picked up and petted. With his maybe/sorta sister Fingers, he’s kinda mean. With other cats, he’s downright violent. He will either live a very long time, or a relatively short time… he’s covered in scars and wounds because he seems to like nothing better than to start fights with other cats. He has chased off several other cats, something I’m not overly thrilled with. He would, I think, make someone a good housecat… but only if he’s the *only* cat. Anybody nearby wants him, you can have him…
Anyway, this is him pestering Fingers. Fingers doesn’t take any crap from him, however. While the other cats run from him, Fingers puts up a fight.
11 Responses to “Mark’s A Dick”
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That is one honking big cat.
You sure Fingers could take that thing on in a Cato-A-Cato fight to the death?
Of course, we can all see where this is going, can’t we?
Fingers is a female cat that thinks she can run it all, like Dominique Francon in Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead”.
But instinctively, she really wants to dominated by that wild male cat from nowhere that is Mark.
Like Howard Roark, Mark will first attack her, then screw her brains out, because she is not only ready to accept him, but secretly desires that she wants a cat that masculine to come along and show her the full measure of what it is to be a female cat.
If Finger’s litter box explodes one day with no obvious explanation, let’s just say you’ve been warned. š
Pat? Almost right. The fem does run things, the male just thinks he does! If any of you see me commenting at any of several other blogs you would know my gravatar, Jelical, Little Princess; Killing Machine, that sweet, dainty little tuxedo marked cat. She routinely brings in rabbits and squirrels and all manner of birds, and she often sits watching the deer at the mineral block and you can tell EXACTLY what she is contemplating.
Scott, it is safe to say that Fingers has decided to take up permanent residence with you, no way around it. And yes, Mark is a dick, he can’t help hisself.
A married couple I am friends with recently acquired a new housecat. She was about to deliver kittens when they found her; they gave away the kittens but kept the momma. They already had 2 other cats however, and one of them DOES NOT LIKE the new cat. So the cats take turns getting the run of the house; during the day the older cat runs around while the new kitty stays in the laundry room. Later in the evening they put the older cat in the computer room and let Mia run around for a while. They’re trying to come up with a way to let Sosuke get used to Mia without causing them to find blood on the floor, but so far no luck.
I’m very concerned about what Scott said he did…he stated he added a deck to the house on his own.
This defeats the entire artistic integrity that the architect who designed the house had in mind.
It was designed to have no deck on it, anymore than those loopy upside-down wedges that were Howard Roark’s concept of Cortlandt were intended to have balconies on them so that the people evicted from Hell’s Kitchen to make room for the mile-high giant skyscraper could get a breath of fresh air for once in their lives, or actually rev up the barbecue grill.
There shall be none of that for the wasters that make up the filthy collective.
Somewhere out there is a dead architect who _hates_ Scott for what he did, and I suspect he has returned from beyond the grave in the form of a cursed and undead male cat, just like in Disney’s “The Three Lives Of Thomasina”, to extract an unholy vengeance on him from the fires of Cat Hell.
But time shall tell, shan’t it? š
>Scott … stated he added a deck to the house on his own.
No, I didn’t.
Didn’t you mention something about building a deck on it in a drunken haze a week or so back, or was that someone else?
I mentioned something about the deck being built while drunk. I never said that *I* was the drunk who built it.
You assume too much. That is why you fail. There is no “try.” There’s “do,” and there’s “fuckin’ up royal,” and you’re fuckin’ up royal.
Yeah…and one night…completely sober…you managed to walk into the telescope/camera tripod and tip it over. š
Yeah…right.
Been there, done that.
The advantage I had was our next-door neighbor’s wonderful Husky dog, Zelda, who was always waiting outside and looking for meal leftovers when I got home at around 1 AM, three sheets to the wind, and would lay down in the back yard, she letting me use her side as a living pillow while scanning the skies with my 80×11 binoculars, as she added significant commentary to what I reported that I saw above me to her.
Me: “That’s probably some sort of polar-orbiting recon sat, don’t you think?”
Zelda: “Rrrr”.
Me: “Do you think the Russians will launch their Shuttle soon?”
Zelda: “Rrrr”.
Me: “Could that be it Zelda?! Could that be the Russian Shuttle?!
Zelda: “RRRR! RRRR-RRRR!”. š
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