Over the past week, Acidman endured the Mother of all Catbombings.
Battle Damage Assessment reports showed multiple on-target hits, with a devestating 98% rate of accuracy.
Sadly though, collateral damage did occur. In a regrettable, "friendly fire" incident, Rob, the Acidman himself was splattered with
shrapnel random hairballs and kitty litter.
But as your Unfair and Imbalanced Reporter, I find it my duty to investigate all damages claimed. So, here's my report from the No
spliff Spin Twilight Zone:
Indented paragraphs from Rob's post, and all replies are mine. Send all compaints to People Eating Tasty Animals. I've also taken the liberty of catching a few of my blogpappy's *gasp!* spelling errors.
1) They have the loyalty of sewer rats They don't want you. They want what they can TAKE from you.
You get out of any animal, just about the reciprocal of what you put into it. If all you put into a cat is your boot, you deserve nothing less than it's claws in return. I have two cats. Littermates, a brother and sister. (Harley and Ariel, respectively). They'll be nine years old this May.
They're both loyal, but Harley defies the definition of "cat" in this respect. Think in terms of a three year old child with seperation anxiety. One of his nicknames is "velcro cat". If that mushball had his way, he'd live eighteen hours a day on my lap, or riding on my shoulders.
When I come home from work, he's always at the companionway to greet me, and when I come below into the cabin, I really can't function until he's had his ten or fifteen minutes of licking my face, wagging his tail, making odd "bmruffmrrrow: noises and just generally letting me know he's happy that I'm home. I describe him to people as a mix of Garfield, Marmaduke, Dennis the Menace and Ferdinand the Bull. When he's happy (which is 95% of the time) he "thuds" his tail on the cushion, just like a happy dog.
Ariel is loyal, too. She's pretty much a one-person-cat, and I'm that person. Don't be fooled by how cute she is, though. I've seen her take down an eighty pound labrador and send it running with a shredded face.
Stupid dog made the mistake of burrowing under the backyard fence at the former marriage domicile, and when I opened the backdoor to go out and take it home by the collar, it made the mistake of lunging at Ariel, who was at the door by my ankles. She didn't back up one inch. (She's always played above her very considerable weight.) Rather, she launched like a rocket and hit that dog so damned hard, it went ass over teakettle with her attatched to it's face like a four-legged paper shredder.
Only two or three seconds of contact, and that dog took nineteen stiches to sew up. He never came under that fence again, either.
2) Buy a cat a really nice scratching post
3). The cat will take one look at the post and go claw your sofa to shreds.
Aboard the New Dawn, I have two cardboard scratching boxes. They're about 12" wide by 20" long and 2" deep. Inside, is tightly packed corrugated cardboard, laid on edge so that you can see the corrugations. Sprinke a bit of catnip thereon, rub it in a bit, and voila! your cat is instantly trained in the fine art of scratching where desired. You can buy those at your local Wally World.
4) Give a cat a litter box. The males will spray some of the most raw, foul, gut-bustinkimg vat funk you can imagnine.all over the house. The females climb up and shit in the potted plants.
With a new cat, all you have to do is dribble a few drops of your own into that new box. The cat will know right away what that box is for. I've been around countless, tiny kittens who took to the box at the very first introduction because of that trick. They're hard-wired that way.
Getting a former outdoor cat to convert to the box isn't as easy, but it can be done. Just find a cat-bomb of it's very own from outside, grab it with a paper towel, and drop it into that new box. Again, the cat gets the clue, 90+% of the time.
And if you spay or neuter your cats, escpecially to neuter the male before they sexually mature, you won't have a spraying problem. Ever. For the plants? Sprinkle some Red Cayenne Pepper onto the soil. Believe me, that'll end that!
Just by leaving out sufficeint food and water, I can leave my cats aboard ship, completely unattended for up to three days. And still, I'll come home to only a full litterbox and nearly empty food and water bowls.
And to two cats who show overwhelming joy at my return. Really, you can't tell 'em apart from a "happy dog's" welcome for all their enthusiasim and "all over me" attention.
5) Cats kill birds for no good reason. Just to be killing.
They're predators by nature. Oddly enough, many studies of cats show that the mother cats have to teach the kittens not only how to kill, but that the prey is actually food!
Cats which have been raised on kitty food might still have the killing instinct, but they're just not quite sure what it's for. Same as an egg-suckin' dog that gets into the henhouse and runs amok. I've noticed this though; the feral cats around the marina never kill for play. For them, it's all about dinner. They're damned efficeint, too.
I've sat in the cockpit here several times, and watched as one of those grey tabbies stalks it's prey over a space of fifty or more yards, before pouncing. Crocodile hunter my ass, I've got a real, live nature show just off of my bowsprit.
6) Cats crawl up on your chest at Night and try to suck the soul right out out of your bodywhile you sleep. Goddam vampires.
First, let's unmix the metaphors. Vampies suck blood. Ex wives and their lawyers suck the soul right out of your body. That ain't the cats fault.
Cats are by nature, snugglers. My two tend to sleep at the foot of the master berth until morning, when my accursed alarm intrudes upon my blissful sleep. Harley then moves up, snuggles up against my chest inside the crook of my arm, and enjoys my persistent horizontal state as I struggle with the snooze alarm and the wiles of the nefarious blanket monster. Ariel curls up against one leg or another, and patiently waits for me to arise and run their fresh water for the day.
But here's a newsflash which none of you have known until now. Eighty percent of the time I'm at home aboard ship and at the keyboard, I have a fifteen pound yellow cat on my lap. He's my editor, I think.
And women do appreciate a skilled snuggler. And I don't mean just the cats, either.
For a bonus, I've got two of the most obedient cats anyone's ever seen. They're trained to never jump from the boat onto the dock, and they never do. That is, I can actually leave, drive to the store and come back an hour later, without worrying about them leaving the deck. They also come when I call or whistle. They get "down" when I say so, and they know what the word "no" means.
Contrast that with the former Tomcat in Cheif, who didn't even know what the word "is", is. Asshole, giving tomcats a bad name.
But I digress.
I like dogs, too. Quite a bit, actually. I've seen dogs live aboard boats, most, very successfully. But the worst I've ever seen a boat trashed was from an unattended dog with a real case of seperation anxiety.
That thirty pound pooch chewed and shredded absolutely every settee, berth, cushion and scrap of bedding he could find. Moreover, he also chewed to splinters thousands of dollars worth of (formerly) beautiful teak joinery in that boat's cabin. Not to mention his wanton pissing and shitting on every square inch he could get into.
In my opinion, the arguments of "cats vs. dogs" isn't even a valid concern.
Not to anyone with a heart and who loves their pets.