Fidget's Death Wish

Fidget has a favorite toy.  It doesn't squeak or jingle, it doesn't look like a mouse or a tiny mermaid (yes, he has a mermaid).  This most intriguing item, this centerpiece of feline attention is black and brown, weighs in at about 100 lbs. and has more gas than anyone's Uncle Sal.  It's my Rottweiler, Tuxedo:

Tuxedo became a part of our family just a little over a year ago when we found him on the street.  My family fostered him at our home for a brief time while "looking for the owners," and quickly decided there was no way we could let him go.  We adopted him and began integrating him into the family with patience and consistent training.  We believe Tuxedo to have come from an abusive family judging from his initial wariness of men and his dramatic fear of children.  We also worked through some severe separation anxiety with him (after he bent his metal crate out of shape like The Hulk), and taught him that it was unacceptable to bust through screen doors on a regular basis.  He was completely antisocial with other dogs, but over several months of desensitization the crying, spinning, shaking and lunging fits ceased.  He is a giant marshmallow of a dog and loves the cats in the house.  He plays regularly with his best buddy, Buck:

Henry seems indifferent to Tuxedo's presence and while Moose would never call himself "friends" with Tux, he will tolerate him with evasive maneuvers.  Fidget, however, is almost obsessed with Tuxedo, particularly when he is sleeping.  While Tuxedo is a very loving dog, our family has learned this lesson:  Let. The. Sleeping. Dog. Lie.  For some reason, if Tuxedo is bothered or bumped while in deep sleep, he will wake up startled, barking, growling or even snapping.  We think this is a latent fear tactic from his past, as though his previous family may have shaken or scared him awake.  He doesn't aim to bite, only to seriously warn.  Fidget finds this behavioral pattern fascinating; he will routinely put himself on Death's doorstep just for the chance to push Tux's buttons.  We call it "Seek-and-Destroy Fidg."  On more than one occasion, I have seen FattyPants army crawl up to the sleeping Tuxedo and quickly prod his tender nose with claws extended.  This, of course, sends Tuxedo into a flailing fit of self-defense, to which Fidget's response is to run like hell.  FidgHead will also try to drink out of the water bowl simultaneously with a Tuxedo, resulting in quitely shining teeth and a low warning growl.  Fidget's response to this?  Play stupid.  He will sit down and stare at the giant dog with a look of confusion and hurt, as if to say, "What, you don't want to share with me?  Wow, that really hurts, Sir."  In short, Fidget is a manipulative little fuzzball and Tuxedo is not buying it.

I wonder if Fidget views the Rottie as a daunting challenge--like the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest for cats.  Maybe he thinks, "If I could only dominate *that,* the rest of the world would be a piece of cake!  Ooh, cake sounds good..."

Panic in Fatsville

Fidget has discovered a new source of adventure and intrigue:  the bedroom dresser.  Due to an unfortunate misalignment incident, one of the drawers does not close flush with the one below it, allowing it to jut out about an inch.  Fidget, ever the attentive optimist, has discovered this flaw and took complete advantage of it this afternoon.  He succeeded in opening the drawer and wedging himself in the back of it, invading the clothing that was in its rightful place.  Upon depositing a large amount of fluff onto the clean clothes, he noticed a cave.  This cave was created by the absence of the drawers in housing of the dresser.  Huckleberry Fat could not contain his excitement at such a hallowed place and immediately took up residence, making closing the drawers impossible, lest his pudge be compressed.  However, Huckleberry Fat soon became bored with his impenetrable fortress, realizing that it's maybe not so much fun having a castle in which one can have no visitors.  In seeking an exit, the thought that he could have left the same way he came apparently did not occur to him.  Panic quickly followed.  As Huckleberry Finn might have panicked when his candle blew out in the cave, so Huckleberry Fat had a fit trying to escape from his Cave of Doom.  Huck Fat tried to squeeze himself through the only opening he could find:  the 3-inch gap between the floor and the dresser frame.  Clawing the carpet frantically, he attempted to ease himself under the wood paneling like a cork out of a champagne bottle...with no success.  Despondent and alone, Huck Fat fell to his last resort: crying like a baby.  A crowd gathered around the trapped feline, consisting of a confused Buck, a concerned Moose and an indifferent Henry.  I, being the ever-caring mother, said something along the lines of, "Get out of there, stupid!"  I then stuck my hand through the giant opening above his oblivious stripey head, guiding him from his place in Limbo.  He was appreciative, and allowed me to hold him for a whole 1.6 seconds before bouncing off of my sternum and running to tackle a jingly ball.  It's the thought that counts.

Fidgetface the Conqueror

Fidget is not a nice cat.  Yes, he may be cuddly and soft and adorable, but he is not nice.  Since we've conglomerated all of the cats into one household of feline madness, Fidget's dominance level has gone through the roof.  Apparently, cats are very much like dogs in the sense that there is a definitive social heirarchy within a group (we call it our "little domestic pride").  Fidget has it set in stone that he will rule the world...well, his world.  That is, the apartment.  He has transformed from simply a pushy cat to a raving, merciless tyrant.

While he has always sort of bothered Henry, Fidgy-head has decided that it is now unacceptable for Henry to A) eat food, B) enter the litter box and C) have a comfy nap on the bed.  Or the couch.  Or the floor.  Or on this planet.  Poor little Henry, being the smallest of all the cats at a measly 7 lbs., is immediately chased from the food bowl if Fidget happens to be prowling the vicinity (which is pretty much all the time).  I have actually watched him *sit* on Henry, while tiny Henry-Muffins flails helplessly, growling his displeasure of having Fidget's fat ass pound him into the carpet.  Fidget weighs 6 lbs. more than Henry; Henry doesn't have a prayer.  Poor Henry can't even take a crap in peace.  He surveys the area nervously, and quickly tries to sneak into the covered litter box undetected.  If he fails in his stealth operation, he will be driven from the litter box and forced to crap another time.  After Fidget has his fill of hunting miniature panther for sport, he will lay down in a position exactly equidistant from the food bowl and the litter box in order to keep an eye on his domain.  He seems to think that he is some furry descendent of Alexander the Great and that he has conquered the Achaemenid Empire, a land plentiful with food and clumping poo sand.

In addition to his cruel and unusual punishment of his brother (not letting your sibling take a dump...really?), he has decided to overthrow the city of Countertop.  His first military tactic:  destroy the casserole left on the stove.  I had made dinner for Chris and placed a towel over it to keep it warm for him.  5 minutes before Chris came home, I was forced to send a text to him that read, "Nevermind, dinner doesn't exist anymore.  Cat destroyed it."  It looked as though Fidget had taken both front paws and forcefully pounded them into my casserole, such as a child might play in a rain puddle.  Fidget knows damn well that he's not supposed to be on the counters in the kitchen, but he simply doesn't care.  If I spy him stalking a food item, I generally say, "Fidget!  Get down, you wretched little beast!"  He responds by pinning his ears and flattening himself against the laminate.  The next step is usually some sort of threat, such as, "I'm serious, young man!  Don't make me come get you!"  Fidget's response:  a well-executed stink eye tossed over his shoulder.  The next excalation:  "Fine, you little monkey!"  As I start to stand up to toss his fat fuzzy rear onto the floor, he takes off at a pace no cat that large should be able to achieve.  I am left standing in the middle of the room, ousted from my comfortable position on the sofa with no cat to flog.

I have begun stalking Fidget in order to fix this pattern of delinquency.  If I catch him going after another cat in order to protect his kibble bounty, I will pin him to the floor and chastise him.  He then squishes his ears against his head and begins to blink melodramatically, as if I've just backhanded him and he's waiting for the room to stop spinning.  I have also started lobbing things from across the room to discourage his counter-surfing habits.  This seems to be ineffective...mostly because my aim is on the level of any 3 year old girl.  My next plan:  Saran-wrap on the countertops.  If that doesn't work, I will up the ante to tin foil.  If that doesn't work...he will have earned himself some hot sauce on his most frequent landing surfaces.  I hope he doesn't push me to the Tapatio point, but I wouldn't put it past him.  It's hard to believe that I am fighting a legitimate battle with my cat, but I suppose he's no ordinary cat.

Social Complications

Fidget's world has been turned fairly close to upside down this week, but he's coping wonderfully.  I would even go as far to say that he's not even coping, he's *embracing.*  There have been some new additions to the family; Fidget now has THREE cat brothers instead of just Henry.  Chris (boyfriend) and I decided that in order to be able to spend more time with the cats, we should just move them all to the same place.  When we met, I had two and he had two.  Therefore, now all four of our cats are habitating in his apartment.  Now I know what you're all thinking, "Four cats?!  You must be mad!"  While we're not entirely normal, I believe the decision mostly came out of Chris' wonderful pursuit of *my* happiness.  He knew I missed my boys when I wasn't home+he got tired of me complaining about it=he will tolerate having four feline children in the house.  I'm such a lucky girl. =)

Meet the new guys:

Moose, "The Daddy's Boy."  a.k.a. Moo-moo, Moomookron, Moozle Bamboozle, Schnoozle, The Prince of MooMooshire and Mr. I-Ruin-Everything:

Buck, "The Mama's Boy."  a.k.a. Bucky, Buck-Buck, Buck the %$!*, Dreamsicle Cat, You-Stink-Cat, The Prince of Buckington and Snuggle-Bucky:

And for those of you that have not seen Fidget's older brother Henry, here he is.  Also known as Ninja-Cat, Ohn-ree (french pronunciation), Henry-Muffins, Stealth Unit 5, Where-The-Hell-Are-You, or Henwee:

So all three of these cats AND The Fidg are now co-habitating in a one bedroom apartment.  Yeehaw!

The first night was a little rough, but everyone seemed to adjust much more quickly than I had anticipated...except for Moose.  Moose was not a happy camper.  He hid under the Christmas tree for about a day and a half, hissing and/or growling at any other feline that meandered by.  Buck and Henry were fast friends, taking a nap under the bed together within the first 2 hours of meeting.  Fidget was entirely more interested in the new surroundings than his new siblings.  He spent a good 4-6 hours inspecting his new living quarters before even a sideways glance was made at another cat.  Once he noticed the other cats, Fidget was in pine-cone mode for a short time, and then eventually decided he really didn't care enough to be nervous.  The very next day, Fidget was leading Buck and Henry in a rousing game of "let me chase you up and down the stairs," the way an ambitious 8 year-old leads all the neighborhood kids in a parade down the block.  And...Moose was still under the Christmas tree.  It took Moose a good 3 days to really warm up to the idea of having two more brothers, but he's now in a normal Moose-like state, once again begging to drink out of the faucet and making biscuits on his favorite blankie.  Buck seemed to have almost no difficulty inviting the Fidget and Henry into the house.  His demeanor seems completely unchanged, probably since he rarely has any idea of what's going on around him.  And Henry, my little Ninja, seems to be completely comfortable in his new surroundings.  He has enjoyed laying in the sun coming in from the patio doors and has claimed the back of the couch as his new throne.

Overall, the felines seem to be adjusting quite nicely to big family life.  Now if only I can keep all four of them away from the Christmas tree and the tissue paper...

Fat-Fat's Grand Adventure

Over the last week or so, The Fidginator has had some serious cabin fever.  He's been pawing furiously at my window and crying by the front door every time I come within 5 feet of it.  When it's nice outside, he greatly enjoys sitting outside near the garden in a large, wire dog crate.  He also has a stroller, in which he sits for lovely walks around the neighborhood.  His favorite activity, however, is going for walks on his leash.  Well, and by "walk" I mean he scampers 4 feet and falls down...then scampers 4 feet and flops over...then scampers 4 feet...anyway, you get the picture.  Regardless of his choppy exercise style, he loves being outside, and will bury himself in the middle of bushes if I'm not paying attention and gets the opportunity.  Have you ever tried to extract a 13.5 lb. cat from the center of an Azalea bush?  It's a tricky process.  Especially when said cat is crying as loudly as possible because he doesn't want to leave, and all your neighbors come outside to make sure you're not strangling that poor kitty.

Anyway, because it has been a whopping 40-60 degrees Fahrenheit here in Florida, it's been too cold for my little Indy Jones to spend much extended time outside.  To solve this problem and to get Fidget some time to lark about, I thought I'd take him to our local Petsmart.  It's warm enough in there, and he can run-and-stop-and-run-and-stop all over the damn store if he likes.  Turns out, we had a great time.  My *very* patient boyfriend (Chris) came with me to assist in wrangling the Fidg, and together we were able to let him explore quite a bit of the store.

We walked Fidget through the door of Petsmart in his stroller to let him get acclimated, but after 5 minutes he was pawing to get out and walk around.  I went to put his harness on him and...it didn't fit.  Hmm.  Apparently Fat-Fat has gained some fat-fat, so he had to stay in the stroller until we could buy him a new harness.  We wheeled him over to the cat section and found (big surprise) that NONE of the cat harnesses fit him.  Not one.  Plan B?  My cat can wear a dog harness, then.  We found a harness that is meant to fit small-medium dogs and it worked wonderfully.  One of the staff members even told us that Fidget weighs as much as her dog does.  Great, thanks, that's...embarrassing.  Once the new harness was bought and fitted, he was allowed on the floor to slink around.

First stop:  the pet training ring:

Fidget thought that little cubby hole was pretty cool, and sat nicely for several pictures.  However, he soon became bored of the enclosed space, so we opened the door and he army crawled his way to the next interesting thing.

For those of you that don't know, Petsmart does a "Santa Claws" event a few weekends in December.  They bring in a dude in a Santa suit and you can get a picture taken with your dog and Santa.  Santa didn't happen to be there at 7pm on a Friday night, but the DISPLAY was still set up.  After a few fruitless attempts at getting an adorable holiday picture of Fidget, I gave up and told my boyfriend to hold the little monkey down and sit with him.  Here is a picture of Fidget not giving a rat's ass and Chris looking sincerely annoyed with me:

Chris then thought it would be entertaining to introduce my cat to the finches and canaries.  I believe "entranced" would be a good word to describe my stripey cat.  He was grabbing the bars with his claws, and did...not...blink.  Not once.  I almost expected his little jaw to drop to the floor and his tongue to loll onto the tile:

We let him stay there for a few minutes, and then started to fear that he would have a fit and try and eat them.  Since I didn't feel like paying 30 bucks for a masticated canary, we left and took him to see the fish, which I felt were a little safer for him to view.  Fidget cared about the fish for about 0.75 seconds, and then wanted to leave and see other things.  He gazed at the fish as a person might stare at a piece of modern art while thinking, "this is so stupid."

After being in the store for about 45 minutes, it seemed that Fidget had had enough sensory overload.  We headed toward the checkout where Chris kindly gave Fidget his credit card to max out:

Overall, it was a good day for the fat, stripey one.  Petsmart may have to be a more regular outing, especially since the staff and the other customers loved him (and by loved, I mean they pointed and laughed at him).

Cats Are Gross

Fidget role-played as Lassie this week.  He skillfully alerted and led me to a ghastly situation--although I'm fairly sure his motive for such an act had nothing to do with bravery or love for another living thing.  At times Fidget seems to operate out of extreme egocentrism, with little concern for anyone else's needs...or gag reflexes.

It all started when I came home and greeted my cats as I usually do:  I said hello to Fidgy-Head and informed him that he was a "little chunky monkey," and then moved on to pick up Henry because he was crying.  As I bent to pick up my little ninja, I stopped dead when a whiff of some heinous, putrid smell hit my senses.  I gingerly inspected Henry to discover some wet spots on his tail and feet...brown wet spots.  I then realized that Henry was covered in cat diarrhea.  Disgusted, I danced around for a moment like a gay man celebrating a touchdown run in a football game while trying to put together a plan of action.  What do I do!?  Uh, clean the cat?  Yes, that seems to be a good starting point.  So after telling Henry to stay where he was (yeah, right), I gathered a dampened towel, my waterless cat shampoo and the bottle of Febreze.  Henry was not impressed and growled throughout the procedure, but I managed to get the mess off of him with minimal poo contact.  I then made a lap around my house looking for poo-ey pawprints and luckily found none.  Then, I knew the time had come...to change the litterbox.  Armed with nothing but a plastic bag and my arm over my nose, I entered the litterbox room.  It's a small room with concrete walls and NO WINDOWS.  The litterbox looked as though someone had tried to decorate a cake with a frosting bag...only they didn't use frosting.  At this point, I would like to thank my oh-so-wise mother for introducing me to the sifter-bag technique of litterbox maintanence.  Holding my breath, I quickly transferred the putrescence into my plastic bag and ran outside to throw it in the trash can.  Upon re-entering my house, I breathed a sigh of relief and immediately regretted it, realizing that I hadn't Febreze'd the rooms yet.  I gagged once, spritzed twice and was finally able to relax.

The end of the story?  Oh, if only I were as lucky.  Whilst I was changing clothes, Fidget/Lassie started to talk to me (I believe I'll refer to my cat as "Flassie" for the remainder, just because I can).  I replied to Flassie, telling him that he was a good cat, but that he should really just shut up now.  Flassie then developed somewhat of an urgent tone, as if to say, "Hey Lady, are you really this stupid?!"  Crying and bouncing all around the room, prohibiting me from tying my shoes, grabbing the strings on my hoodie, he flew into some form of a mild tantrum.  Finally tired of his caterwauling, I turned to the beast and shouted, "Holy crap, what!?"  I had no idea how right I was.  Flassie jumped onto the second of three shelves on their cat tree and continued his ruckus.  He then stood up and placed his front paws on the shelf above him and looked back at me with an expression of incredulity.  A chill ran through my spine as I realized my mistake.  I am only 5' tall--flat.  The cat tree is approximately 5'3" and I can't see onto the top level without standing on my toes.  So I did just that.  As I raised onto the balls of my feet, I came within point-blank range of a huge, steaming pile of cat diarrhea.  Oh.  My.  Gosh.  Fidget bounced across the room with an air of, "Ok, could you take care of that?  kthxbye!"  I begrudgingly moved to go get some cleaning supplies, debating on how exactly to pick up a pile of near-liquid foul matter.  The idea of calling my mom to come over and "help me find something" flitted briefly across my mind...but no.  Sometimes you have to fight your own battles, damnit!

Eventually, the mess was cleaned, the house smelled normal and I threw away a few towels.  This event has pushed me one step more toward the option that Fidget may be a genius cat with exceptional communicative qualities.  I wonder how long "the pile" would have stayed there if he hadn't informed me of its whereabouts?  I wonder how I didn't smell it?  I wonder if Henry and Fidget are secretly in cahoots with each other?  I wonder if my mom would have actually helped me clean that?  The future may never tell...

The Fluffinator

Fidget is considered to be a "medium-haired" cat.  Not short.  Not long.  Medium.  It seems to me as though this is just a nice way to say that he has short hair, but sheds like a Husky in July.  He has an extremely thick undercoat that makes him look sort of puffy (oh, wait...maybe that's just fat) and produces mass amounts of "fluff" every time I brush him.  We believe him to be a mix between a Siamese and an Egyptian Mau, and I'm fairly sure that neither Egypt nor Siam have extremely cold seasons where it would be necessary for a cat to have a built-in goose down vest.  Is Siam cold?  Actually, I have no idea.  I don't think that Siam is even a recognized place anymore--kind of like Persia.  Why do people say that they're Persian?  Persia stopped kicking quite a while ago...anywho.

Because of his extraordianary insulation, I have to brush Fidget quite frequently.  This, however, is never a simple task.  It's more of a conquest, really, because Fidget *hates* his brush.  He will lay there nicely for approximately 8 seconds until he realizes that his foe is touching him.  Fidget then morphs into a creature that I fondly call, The Fluffinator.  His only mission is to kill his target victim, ruthlessly.  Sarah Connor has no worries with that stupid robot compared to the wrath of The Fluffinator.  I've provided a few examples of the pitiless and cruel treatment of his brush:

Oh, he is a tireless beast!  The Fluffinator is eventually able to be subdued through a vice grip to the cranium and a stern talking to, but this is only a single battle won out of the 100 Brush War.

Fidget's brother, Henry, is actually quite pleasant to brush.  He lays quietly and purrs, and generally turns into a ragdoll that I can turn around, upside down and backwards.  The only issue with Henry is somewhat of a phenomenon:  my pitch-black cat sheds white.  However, I'm content with having some kind of weird codominant gene in one of my cats rather than having them both with delusions that they are the cat equivalent to Rambo.  It is not a brushing day today, thank goodness, but I am prepared for my next encounter with The Fluffinator.

Mr. Photogenic

     It's a rare occasion that I get a really good picture of Fidget.  He has great markings and beautiful coloring with his blue eyes and little pink nose, but he always seems to pull off an air of...obtuseness, perhaps?  He frequently exudes either an oblivious or indifferent attitude which somehow always seems adorable and endearing (except if he is in a situation where food is involved; then he morphs into a prowling jungle cat with scary-fast reflexes).  I have tried for quite a while to get some artistically inclined photos of The Fidgmeister, but he is consistently able to foil any attempt at artistry with a ridiculous expression.  A few examples being as follows:

A lovely picture of a stripey cat gazing out of the window...ruined by Fidget's inner gangster.

What would have been an adorable picture of Fat-Fat snuggling with a toy turned into:

Second attempt at snuggle picture:

Honestly, Fidget, not even the third time was a charm?:

Also tried to get a cute shot of a sleepy Fidgy-Head.  Skunked again:

DAMN IT FIDGET, CAN'T YOU LOOK LIKE A NORMAL CAT?

I have many other absurd depictions of my cat, which I will save you the pain of viewing, but I believe I've made my point.  It's almost as if it's intentional--a purposeful sabotage of art or even a true-blue insult in the face of my camera.  I have often pondered the possibility of my cat being a super-brain, capable of toying with the simplistic intelligence that we humans possess for his own entertainment.  Surely he would be completely self sufficient...if only he had THUMBS.  Damn his little stripey paws with the precious pink pads!  GOOD FOR NOTHING--NOTHING AT ALL.  Ah well, for now he will continue his personal entertainment by watching his food-giver become emotionally distraught as he makes odd faces at her piece of machinery with the obnoxious bright light attached to it.  Yes, that will have to do for now...

...hey, never say never.  It could happen.  However, until I can confirm my theory, I will continue to try and capture a somewhat relaxed and "cat-like" look on Fidget's deceptively cute punim.

In the beginning...

...there was "FIDGET."  *insert four dramatic musical chords in a minor key*

     No, actually, my love for cats started at a young age (age 3-ish) with origins at my grandparents' farm.  Cats could be found in any crack and crevice of that farm, from the barn to the pasture to the greenhouse, and my sister and I loved them all.  Well, actually we loved them all except for Fran, who not only was disgraced with such a name, but was apparently bitter about it and would attack without warning if any living thing encroached too closely on her space bubble.  Later in life, we would encounter and likely try to lovingly squeeze the souls out of Milo and Winkie, Canuck, Neko, Pikachu and Chibi.  Pikachu and Chibi are still around to this day and living in my mother's house.  After entering/exiting our college days and moving to separate cities, my sister and I both acquired our own cats.  Mothra and Newt were two purebred Siamese cats that belonged for a while to my sister and are now living in Colorado with a dear family member.  I encountered Henry through sheer accident while working at an animal hospital in Las Vegas.  Henry was found under a dumpster on the *one* night it actually poured rain in the desert.  He was about 3 weeks old and a creepy, ugly little malnourished pile of bones and ringworm.  I had intended to nurse Henry to health and then eventually him find a new home, but he grew into a beautiful, pitch-black ninja-cat and...yeah, whatever--hindsight is 20/20, I'm a sap, blah blah.  Henry is still living with me quite comfortably.  Yes, he's quite comfortable, except for when his little brother comes around:  Fidget.

   Fidget was born in the middle of the desert (so I'm told) along with 4 other siblings.  His littermates were quickly snatched up at the Humane Society because the people were looking for "a more docile kitten."  Through a series of fateful events, I wound up paying $80 for a runty, cross-eyed, LOUD kitten that melted my heart in an awkward and wonderful way.  I brought him home, introduced him to Henry s-l-o-w-l-y and soon was laughing hysterically at his non-stop playfulness and his misjudgement of depth and height.  Henry adjusted to the new baby in the family, but his tolerance for Fidget seemed to diminish gradually as Fidget grew to weigh 1.5 times what Henry does as an adult.  Whoops.

     So, here we are--present day--and Fidget is a loud, bumbling ball of ever-flying fluff (think PigPen, from Charlie Brown) who keeps me constantly entertained, annoyed, horrified and completely confused.  He is currently 1.5 years old, and I have absolutely no clue whether he is a genius or genuinely mentally challenged (although I'm sure he's one of the two).  So, I invite you to share in the experiences that Henry and I share while trying to..."maintain" Fidget.