Food Ninja

Though I constantly refer to my stripey cat as Fatty, FatPants, FatFat, FattyFatty 2x4, Chunk, or any other name with a similar reference to obesity, he's actually quite the picky eater.  Now, Fidget loves cat food of any variety; wet, dry, expensive or cheap--there is no cat chow that he will not chow.  Henry, on the other hand is much more selective about his cat food.  He prefers Blue Buffalo, but will choke down Nutro if he has to.  When it comes to people food, Fidget is skeptical, and very much a snob.  However, Henry. Loves. People. Food.

Yes, my little ninja loves people food in all forms, and I indulge him with little tastes of things from my diverse American diet.  Yogurt, pasta, pizza with pepperoni, carrots, oranges, hummus, lettuce, black olives, ice cream, potato chips, cauliflower, and even my chocolate protein shakes--Henry loves it ALL.  If I am in the kitchen, Henry is at my feet.  If I am snacking on the couch, he is sitting next to me with one paw on my arm.  If I am sitting at the desk DRINKING A GLASS OF WATER, he is on the desk trying to stick his head into whatever vessel is holding my beverage.  He cries pitifully for his treats (dehydrated shrimp), and watches my fork intently while I'm eating dinner.

 NOMNOMNOM

Fidget, as I mentioned, does not like people food.  He would much rather stick to his tried and true bowl of crunchies, and is perfectly content with a much more restricted diet.  But Fidget is also an exorbitantly dominant cat, which makes his situation a little complicated.  He does not like people food...but Henry eats it.  Therefore, Fidget must eat it as well (or at least pretend to).  It's a sad sight, really.  Henry gets a tiny piece of whatever I'm eating (popcorn is a prized item), and Fidget will immediately try to take it away from Henry.  So I will give Fidget his own portion of a kernel, and he will...analyze it.  First, Fatty will cautiously sniff the popcorn (something that he has sniffed 10,000 times before), as if it may detonate in his mouth should he simply just eat it.  By the time the sniffing is done, Henry is usually on his 3rd piece of delicious, buttery goodness.  Then, FidgPants will swat at my hand until I deposit the suspicious piece of popcorn in front of him for further inspection.  Then he will stare at it.  He will scowl at that popcorn as though it has done him wrong and he's waiting for an apology.  Once Henry is on his 5th piece or so, Fidget will begrudgingly try to eat the popcorn.  He will chew it once, spit it out, and then try to take Henry's piece from him once again.  I say, "No, you have your own, FatCakes," and give him a different piece, only to witness the same buffoonery.  Chheeew, spit.  Cheeeew, chewchewchew, spit.  Sniff.  Stare.  Chheeeeeeew, chew, spit.  This will continue until the end of time, or until I finally tell Henry that he's had enough and I take Fidget's saliva-softened piece of once-perfectly-good popcorn away from him.  Henry is usually contented and will go bathe the last bits of salt and butter off of his face.  Fidget, however, is convinced that the rations were not divvied up fairly, and will follow me around until I have put everything away and show him that it is GONE, no more.

I hope to one day find some food article that will appease both felines, successfully eliminating Fidget's dumb charade.  But knowing my cats, I think that even if I gave Henry a live grenade, Fidget would still want to steal it from him.

The Cat Who Hates Hygiene

Fidget is just like every other cat in the sense that he very clean.  He spends obscene amounts of time during his day bathing himself, and even assists Henry if he needs a little extra saliva.  Even though he despises his arch-enemy, the brush, I've found that if I brush him outside he's much more complacent (except for the times when he gets excited and wishes to leapfrog every flower and bush).  But when it comes to MY hygiene, BeastlyFidg is extremely pushy.  He abhors the fact that I take showers daily, and employs a similar sequence of deterrent tactics each time I turn the water on.

Stage One: Blockade.  Fidget will try to boldly guard the shower, so as to deter me from entering it all together.  Obviously certain methods of this must be achieved before the water is on, so Fidget has picked up on triggers that I must subconsciously do before I shower and is able to beat me to the tub nearly every time.  FattyPants tries to usurp the walkway to the shower, thus inhibiting me from reaching it.  He will usually do this by stretching out to his full 3' in length across the bathroom floor, or ravenously attacking the towel I place on the floor to step out on.  He will often try to guilt me into not showering by standing on the edge of the tub and giving me a remarkable impersonation of Puss N' Boots, as if to say, "Please, don't go.  It's scary in there."  In moments of excessive attitude, The MeatPie will plant himself in the tub, daring me to turn the water on.  I haven't had the guts to douse him...yet.

After I transfer him out of my way, he will attempt Stage Two: Complaining.  Loudly.  He will cry and bitch consistently until I reprimand him for being a loud, obnoxious thing, which usually sounds something like, "Shut up, you horrible feline!"  He will glare at me for a moment, but he knows that I'll flick water on him if he doesn't shut his trap, so he ceases.  This gives me a sliver of a window of time to jump into the shower, while dodging his flailing paws.  He never fails to try and claw me while I'm getting in the shower, and will often try to claw me through the curtain while I'm in there.  This makes shower time feel more like I'm in an Indiana Jones movie, constantly dodging the spikes that are hydraulically punched through the walls.  I knew I shouldn't have leaned on that lever...

Once I've survived my shower, Fidget moves on to Stage Three: Domination.  As I pull back the curtain, I am greeted with a very unhappy cat.  He expresses his disdain for my disobedience with cold silence.

That cold silence is quickly broken by more whining.

And as soon as I step out of the shower, FatFace will leap zealously from his porcelain throne and throw himself onto my feet, proceeding to lick them furiously.  Why this is important to him, I'll never know, although I'm told this is a dominant cat behavior.  Great.

This routine has quickly become stale since all I want to do is take a damn shower, but FidgPie has continued this routine for a year now, and I have been unable to convince him that showers are a necessary part of life.  So until my cat wisens up and learns that I *will* take showers when I please, I will continue this ridiculous hoe-down with my ridiculous cat.

Playtime with Fidgy-Pie

For FattyPants-Fidg, playtime can come in an infinite number of forms, ranging between the categories of "mild intrigue" to "hey cat, that's a really bad idea."  There is no object that cannot be considered a toy, and no living being that cannot be clawed, licked, bitten or meowed at to the point of breaking down and involuntarily becoming a playmate.  Henry's idea of playtime is much more sedate.  It consists of  watching birds out of the window, and staring at the ceiling, where the baby geckos who have infiltrated my house like to taunt him from.

Fidget, I'm fairly certain, would either cry until he was hoarse or try to pull his own fur out if I tried to get him to sit still and simply look at something.  Instead I've come to realize that calmness and peace are not attributes that Fatty will ever possess, therefore I embrace him for who he is and indulge his weird taste in toys.

Fidgy-Pie has only one favorite toy, and remarkably, it really is a cat toy.  It's a toy from several Christmases ago, one that was given to him by a friend and former roomie.  One that has been chomped on, drooled on, stomped on and thrown about so fiercly it's an entirely different shade of green than when it first was presented to him.  I refer to it as Fidget's "Number One," or will tell him to "go get his Riker."  He has an oddly obsessive relationship with Number One, and rarely goes to sleep without it, the way a child might demand a particular teddy bear at night.  It is a frequent occurance that I'll find Number One under my pillow or in my blankets in the morning.  There was also one time when I woke up with it in my hand.  Here is Fidget and his beloved Riker:

But Fidg-Face, being ever unconventional, refuses every other toy I've ever bought him.  Henry will occasionally go pick something out of the toy bin, but Fidget merely stalks by the little wicker basket in disdain.  Instead, he prefers to play with things that were never meant to be used as toys.  In the past month, some items and activities of choice have been...



My dog:

 

(I don't know why these videos are sideways, I have no idea how to fix them and I'm tired of wrassling with it, so STHU.)

Concrete Forming Tubes:

Clothes hangers:



My hand:



The blankets:

Getting creative with his stroller (No, I did not put him in there.  That is all Fatty's own doing.):

Trying to take my phone while I'm trying to take pictures of him:





Even while sleeping, his favorite game is stretching out to his full length of almost 3 feet, bracing himself against the wall and kicking me repeatedly--sometimes to the point where I wake up entirely sideways, sleeping horizantally while Fidget rests comfortably on my pillow (my pillow is the brown blob to the right in the photo):



What does Henry think of his baby brother's incessant antics?  Ridiculous.

The only good thing about Fidgy-Widgy's unbounded supply of energy, is that by the end of the day, he's completely exhausted, and sleeps all through the night, only waking up when my alarm clock goes off.

While Henry-Muffins is most certainly not a morning cat, hating to be woken abruptly, and not *truly* awake until around noon (sort of like my sister...), Fidget is not a night cat.  When it's bedtime, it's bedtime, and Fidget is the sole voice of when "bedtime" takes place.  He lays down, closes his eyes, purrs for almost 4 minutes exactly, and is then gone.  Gone to some wonderful dream land, where he is King of the Front Yard, and can chase and chomp on as many crickets and leafy objects as he wishes.  If by some regretable circumstance I have to disturb the Stripey Beast, he is generally quite crabby.

Such is the hard-knock life of my certain stripey cat.

Cat Not Included

Spring has sprung in the great state of Florida, with lung-constricting pollen levels so high you'd swear you were in the Michael Crichton novel, "Prey."  It is also the time of year when my Mom and I get an itch to "simplify" our lives and downsize the volume of useless material things that we've accumulated over the years.  What does that mean?  A garage sale.  We have a rule:  If I haven't touched it or missed it in 2 years, it's gone.  My old pink SCUBA diving fins, the reptile habitat I once put a Cuban tree frog (Louie) in for 3 days (to save him, of course), and even my $85 Steve Maddens--all sold for an embarrasingly low price.  The sale was a smash-hit, and before the day was over, we had collectively sold over $500 worth of "merchandise."  However, there was one showcased item that was most certainly not for sale, although we had several offers...

Yes, Fidget joined us in the garage sale fun, by either sitting/napping in the stroller, or walking amongst the patrons on his leash.  Henry joined us for a brief moment, but he's by no means a "morning cat."  We began at 730am, and Henry had his fill by 800am and was dumped back in the house.  Fidget helped to sell his old scratching post, which he couldn't have cared less about since I brought it home, as well as his toy tunnel, which he only used as a small kitten to hide in before ambushing Henry.  He greeted small children, and made many new friends.  He ate a bug, and sat directly on an ant pile (which I removed his fat ass from immediately).  He rolled on the driveway, sticking as many leaves and sticks to himself as possible and chattered at the birds.  I think it's safe to say that Fidget enjoys garage sales.

One customer came to take a peek at the bounty we had to offer, and instead found great enjoyment with my cat.
     "What's his name?"
     "His name is Fidget," I replied.
     "Oh, hello Midget!"  She continued to pet the cat as if that was a perfectly lovely name for a cat to have, and we giggled at her honest mistake.
     "No, actually it's Fidget," said my Mom.
     "Oh, well Gidget, I'm sorry!"  The water I was drinking almost came out my nose, and she continued to pet the cat.  And then tell us about how her son owned a comedy club in town, and that we should go there, and they have specials on Tuesdays.  Mom and I gave up in correcting her, and resolved that his name would temporarily be "Gidget" until she left.

The rest of the day went smoothly, and Midg...er...Gidg...er...Fidget eventually got tired and crabby, ready for a nap.  That, or he was offended by the man who offered to give me 50 cents for him.  I took him inside and he curled up on the top level of the cat tree.  He was almost instantly asleep after some revving of his purring mechanism and I'm sure he went to sleep dreaming of price points and bargain signs...

Spider Wars

I suffer from Arachnophobia.  I. Hate. Spiders.  When it comes to the dealings of things that are not human, I have a rule:  four legs or less.  No legs?  No problem!  Snakes and eels and anything else that can be dragged don't freak me out in the least--I even like them, I think they're cool.  But if the 4-leg mark is crossed, forget it.  Things that have more than four legs are weird and scary and otherwordly and completely not worth my time.  Spiders clearly fall into this category, which is why I have a deep and impenetrable fear of them.  I've had friends who own tarantulas say, "Aw, but they're fuzzy!  You like fuzzy things!"  Trying to pull the Fuzzy Card does not negate the fact that they have WAY more than four legs, which means I will likely run away screaming if you try to hand it to me.  I am 100% sure that Fear Factor is the most ridiculous television show on the planet, due to the sheer percentage of things that they use arthropods for.

Fidget and Henry, on the other hand, are the opposite.  Bring another cat into the mix and all of a sudden everyone puffs up like a raccoon and are hissing like a nest of cobras.  But bring a creepy-crawly into their world and they are consumed with curiosity and prey drive.  I learned the hard way not to try and pull Fidget off of a spider or bug--as I tried to wrap my hands around him, he snapped his head around and YELLED in my face, as if to say, "MOM, I'M BUSY!"  He then proceeded to flail his claws in my general direction, so I released the fuzzy monkey.  He is like a tiger stalking a herd of gazelles...careful not to spook it, but completely focused and un-blinking.  Henry prefers to surprise-bomb things that he's interested in masticating.  He will sit on the dresser or bed, several feet above his target, and then leap directly on top of it.  He also does this to me while I'm sleeping, by jumping off of my headboard and pounding his whole body weight directly onto my solar plexus.

Last night, I remember waking up several times with an itch on my face.  It didn't bother me too horribly, and I fell back asleep each time with little trouble.  This morning I wake up to an accursed SPIDER BITE on my FACE.  Not only do I want to toss my cookies at the thought of a spider being on my face, but it also makes me infuriated with the whole damn spider population.  How long had they been planning this?  Why was I their target?  Spider logistics and rationale have never been my strong suit.  Nevertheless, I stormed away from the bathroom mirror with full intention on finding and killing my assailant...by, you know, throwing a shoe from 12 feet away.  I began gingerly searching my house, and eventually found that my cats had avenged me in the night!  There it was, curled into the "Grim Reaper's Ball," and completely lifeless.  I immediately scooped up Fidget and hugged him, telling him what a good cat, brave cat and precious cat he was!  ...And he responded by shoving a paw against my face and complaining loudly that I should put him the hell down.  Fine, I'll go hug my other hero.  Henry was much more accepting of my praise and wrapped both paws around my neck, returning my embrace.

Now that my revenge had been exacted, I was only left to deal with the giant corpse of my nemesis.  No, really, it's huge.  Like the size of a quarter...  Anyway, I couldn't quite decide on how I wanted to dispose of it.  Do I vacuum it?  Sweep it out the door?  Burn it?  Dump it at sea...*ahem*  I admittedly took the coward's way out and resolved to putting my backpack on top of it and leaving.  That backpack will probably sit there for at least a week and a half before I get up the nerve to send it to the depths of my vacuum.

To my brave heroes, I am forever indebted to you and will...oh, wait.  I feed you and house you and play with you and snuggle with you and let you sit in the shower with me and take you for walks and give you tuna on your birthdays.  I suppose I will just continue to do all of that as long as you both continue your creepy-crawly patrol.  The two defending Spider Gladiators:  Fidget the Crusher, and Henry the Ninja.

What Fidg Did On His Winter Vacation, Part Two (finally)

Fidget had a peachy time exploring his little cabin in South Carolina, but the highlight of his trip would have to be our tour of the tree farm.  Amanda and I packed a picnic lunch and brought the cat along to an area they call the "Kudzu Patch."  The road up to the Kudzu Patch and through the whole tree farm is as treacherous, violent and mountainous as you can imagine.  Perfectly doable for a human in a seat belt, but it's a hell of a workout for a little cat.  Nevertheless, Fidget had his usual "gung-ho" spirit about him and he handled the terrain like a champ.  He really does laugh in the face of danger...literally.

We wound our way over the land, dodging pot holes the size of Connecticut, and eventually arrived at the Kudzu Patch for our luncheon.  Amanda and I set up the chairs and started in on our lunch while Fidget decided that he would guard the vehicle, lest any bears came traipsing around (although I'm sure Fidget's only motive was staying close to the food...).

Eventually, he relaxed his watch a little and decided to come laze around with us, just enjoying the scenery and taking in the day.  He found himself a comfy chair, and settled into share some sandwich.

After lunch, the adventure began again, as we bounced and jarred our way through the South Carolina back country, all the while sharing stories and enjoying Fidget's company and antics.  There were a few times where Amanda wasn't sure that we'd be able to get up the road, even in her 4-wheel drive truck, but in every instance, we both decided, "Ah, what the hell.  Worst case scenario, we back up."  So we plowed ahead through some even denser brush and some very tight spaces.  There were a few passages we came across where Fidg looked at me as if to say, "Holy crap!  We're going up there?"

Even though we encountered some fallen trees we had to relocate, a flock of wild turkeys and a LOT of water bars, the 3 of us succeeded in reaching the pinnacle of our drive.

Some may think I'm crazy for bringing my cat off-roading in the wilderness.  Personally, I would hate to be a cat that lived cautiously and at the end of my life, realized that I still had 8 more left because I never took a risk.  Fidget enjoys his adventures, and I enjoy having him as my companion and constant entertainment.

What Fidg Did On His Winter Vacation, Part One

Fidget and I are returning home today, after spending a lovely 4 days along the Blue Ridge Mountain line in South Carolina.  Fidget is a wonderful travel buddy—he loves the car, is game to tag along on many adventures and takes care of any “bed bugs” in the sheets.  We went up to spend a few days with family, which gave me a chance to reconnect and gave Fidget the biggest adventure of his life (to date).  Our journey began with an 8-hour car ride.  Fidget told me *exactly* what he thought of spending 8 hours cooped up in the car:

This incessant wailing only lasted for about 20 minutes, after which he settled in to his official “co-pilot” seat (the center console).  Fatty’s preferred traveling space is on my lap, which wedges him firmly between my stomach and the steering wheel.  Since being able to turn the steering wheel with relative ease is sort of a must, Fidg was banned from his favorite spot, and resolved to be as close as possible instead.  He slept for probably a good 6 hours, dead to the world, with his butt in the passenger’s seat, his head on the center console.

After only a few stops for gas and/or a stretch break, we wound our way through Greenville, SC, finally to be spit out into the middle of the postcard-worthy back country.  My only regret is that we weren’t able to make our visit in the early summer (which means we may have to go back in a few months).  As beautiful as the scenery was in February, I can’t imagine what it must look like when everything is a vibrant and blooming.  The last time I had experienced South Carolina was probably close to 15 years ago, and it was even better than how I remembered it.

My great Aunt Amanda (yes, she really is great) has a wonderful house up in the woods, with an accompanying cabin, and a river house which is just a few miles away.  She and my great Uncle Dennis are tree farmers, and happen to be the best in the entire state of South Carolina (no, really--I’m not biased, they have a plaque to prove it!).  My furry companion and I stayed in the cabin, which is easily 100 years old.  It may be a little drafty, but I’m not sure that anything can beat being on the little screened-in porch and having Fidget catch sight of 3 wild deer, not 20 feet from the front door.  It is quaint, and quiet, and perfectly secluded from the outside world.  It was just me, the cat, the elements and whatever critters happened to be scurrying around on the other side of my bedroom wall.

Fidget spent most of the first full day exploring the little cabin and rubbing himself on every door frame, couch, chair leg, cabinet or bed post that he could find.  I’m sure that he made it very clear to all other cats that it was now HIS DAMN CABIN.  He also spent considerable time perched atop the microwave, looking out into the the woods in awe.  Since FattyPants seemed perfectly comfortable and entertained, I drove up the hill to spend the day with Aunt Amanda, sans cat.

Amanda and I had breakfast in Pumpkintown, SC.  I’ll say it again:  Pumpkintown, SC.  Affectionately referred to as “Punkintown” by the locals, Amanda informed me that we were going to a place that had wonderful, good ol’ fashioned biscuits and gravy.  En route, she assured me, “It won’t be like what you’re probably expecting it to be.”  In reality, it was precisely what I had expected.  Inside, we took a seat at the little diner-style bar, and gave our order to what seemed like the only waiter for the entire joint.  The gentleman asked if I would like coffee or tea, and I told him that I would like tea.  Amanda quickly leaned over to me and clarified:  “You’re in South Carolina, tea means sweet tea.  Did you want hot tea?”  Not a lot of people know, but I’m probably the only Georgia-born girl that doesn’t like sweet tea.  Ah, well—my sweet tea came, and I dealt with it.  It wasn’t really that bad.  We ordered our biscuits and gravy, and aside from watching a woman in the floral shirt slave over a hot griddle, I began to notice the assorted knick-knacks that were nailed to the wall:  a decorative hand saw, a sign that reads,”Our coffee’s so good we drink it ourselves…on occasion,” and even a taxidermied bear head that was pitifully subjected to wearing a cowboy hat and had a hotdog bun stuck in its mouth.  As our food came, I also noticed that the Griddle Slave was squirting butter out of a ketchup bottle onto someone’s hot n’ ready grits.  Dang, I should have ordered that.

We finished breakfast, and said farewell to Oreo, Pumpkintown General Store’s mascot cat.  Amanda and I then went on a tour of Pickens County, including a tour of the river house and a drive up to Caesar’s Head State Park, to get a real feel for the topography of South Carolina.

Immediately following our scenic tour, we returned home to check on the Fat-Master.  Fidgy-Head had clearly had a ball in the cabin while we had been gone.  I walked in the door and was greeting by a fat, stripey cat writhing on the floor in bliss.  I picked up the purring beast and told him it was time for bed.  I snuggled into my wonderfully cozy bed, and Fidget promptly leapt out of my arms and scurried over to the window to watch for any other signs of movement in the woods.  I decided my cat doesn’t have to have a bedtime, and went to sleep, preparing myself for the next day of adventure.

To be continued...

Breakfast at Fidgany's

Yesterday I decided that I deserved to have a relaxing and delicious breakfast before I went to work.  It was 65 degrees F and sunny, and I thought to myself, "Self, I think it would be a lovely morning for a breakfast croissant."  However, my plan to simply walk out the door is never quite as simple as I should hope.  I noticed Fidget eyeballing me as I put on my shoes and picked up my purse.  We had a sort of stare-down in the hallway...an awkward silence.  He non-verbally challenged me, unwavering, almost as if to say, "I'm going with you...RIGHT?!"  After a very long two minute pause, I finally caved and invited him to accompany me to breakfast.  After all, I prefer not to eat alone.

We wound our way through the quaint, although painfully pretentious shopping center that is adjacent to our apartment.  Passing by the outdoor seating of restaurants and ridiculously overpriced retail stores, we received looks and gawks from the stoic, corporate gentlemen bickering over the check, as well as the flocks of spoiled trophy wives, who I'm certain are at least 40% plastic.  I parked Fidget in his stroller at the most pefect outside table (half in the sun for me, half in the shade for Fatty) and went inside to order our...uhm...my breakfast.  I returned with a cup of hot Earl Grey and a cup of water for my feline breakfast companion.  While waiting for my croissant, I hitched Fat-In-The-Box to his harness and retractable leash and opened the stroller for him to explore.  The ladies sitting inside the cafe were observing through the window in what can only be described as shock and awe.  I checked my email on my phone and Fidget padded around the patio.  He got his leash tangled in a chair, spilled the entire contents of his water cup, ate a bug, played with some mulch, and then eventually settled down a few feet away from our table to watch the traffic go by.

Suddenly, Fidget began...dancing?  He was up on his two back legs, flailing like a freshly caught halibut.  This continued until I realized...he's trying to get his harness off!  And goshdarnit, before another moment had passed, I watched my robust cat slip out of his harness like he was a greased pig.  I ran to him, and he ran from me under a table.  So I ran over there, and he ran from me to a different table.  So I ran over there, and he ran from me beside a bush.  I finally composed myself and walked over to him slowly, nonchalantly--he didn't suspect a thing.  I snatched him up just as he was about to nom on a tasty leaf, placed his lard-ass back in the stroller and gave him a healthy talking to.  Do I care if I look certifiably insane because I talk to my cat, who walks on a leash and has his own stroller?  In truth, no.  But I'm well aware that I was outside the realm of  "normal."

At long last, my croissant arrived and I enjoyed it while sharing tiny pieces of ham with Fat-for-Brains.  During this time, Fidget made several new friends, including the waitress, some dude who yelled out, "cool cat" from his camo-lined F-350, the busboy, and a nice couple from Louisiana who told me all about their two cats at home (Louie and Linus, I believe).  In addition to being my ham-loving companion, Fidget is also a wonderful conversation piece.  He's drawn a crowd more than once, and people seem to immediately bond with the big stripey cat who demands to see as much of the world as possible.  I have to say, I appreciate that my cat and I share a similar sentiment on life:  No man (or cat) can experience the world through a window.

The Last Fatbender

Even though we refer to Henry as, "The Ninja," Fidget still sometimes has his moments of physical prowess and agility, despite the fact that he weighs more than most bowling balls.  He can be seen army crawling across the carpet towards an unsuspecting jingly toy with surprising speed, and at times seems as light as a feather while I'm chasing him from the kitchen countertop, to the couch, to the cat tree, to the window sill.  We often joke that Fidget is much more liquid than he is solid, since he can take the shape of any box, bowl, sink or drawer with ease.  And when motivated enough, Fidget has a steel trap of a mind and WILL get what he wants, no matter what it takes.  I admire this trait in Fidget, and wish that a larger percentage of the world's population had such moxie.

One of FatFat's most favoritest things is his stroller.  Stroller?   Yeah, stroller.  Like a baby stroller?  Yeah, but for cats...and stuff.  I'm certain the pet stroller was intended for the most spoiled of Yorkie-Poo's and Malti-Poo's and Other-Poo's, but I do not have a dog that fits in this stroller.  I had immediately wanted one specifically for my Fatty-Poo, to enhance his life experience and indulge his love of the outdoors.  Fatty-Pants adores his stroller, almost to the point of having a weird possession of it.  He would very much prefer that no other cat occupy it, and prefers to ride alone in his most prestigious of vehicles.

It has gotten to the point now that if Fidget sees me putting on shoes of any kind, he will stick to my heels like a Chinese finger-trap that you just can't shake.  He will talk to me as I put on my makeup, pick up my purse and look for my keys.  "I'm going too, right?  Can we go back to Steak N' Shake?  Tell Henry he can't come with, he just cries the whole time.  So, your car or mine?"  When the moment comes for me to descend the stairs towards the front door (which the stroller is parked next to), Fidget will take off like a cheetah on the hunt.  He jets down the stairs, bouncing and slithering, until he reaches the third step from the floor.  Without pause, he takes flight and leaps, momentarily channeling Dick Button performing a perfect double axel.  He lands (less than gracefully) on the platform of the stroller, and spins around to let me know that he's now ready to be zipped in.  The thing Fatty usually doesn't realize is that I'm just going to the store and he will not be joining me.  Dejected and sad, he looks out the window of the door and cries as I walk to my car and get in.  It's really a depressing sight.  BUT, Fidget also knows to listen for those magic words, "does the Fidgy-Muffin wanna go for a ride?"  If any variation of that phrase is spoken, the entire ordeal begins all over again with a much more desirable outcome for Fatsies.

                                                                     Fidget's whip:

Do I get weird looks on the street?  Yes.  Do people think I'm ridiculous?  Absolutely.  Do people stop me and ask if Fidget is a ferret?  All the time.  But is it worth the confusion and harrassment?  Definitely.  Fidget craves his adventures outside, and I know he loves to pretend that he's King of the Jungle, sitting in his blue nylon throne.  Maybe one of these days I'll get him one of those little kiddie cars that look like a Hummer...

Fast Food for Fidget

Chris and I are the kind of people that really enjoy cooking at home.  We grill, we sautee, we bake; we'll try almost any recipe once.  Considering our frequency in the kitchen, the other night we decided that a little fast food was deserved as an alternative to playing chef.  I volunteered to make the drive to one of our favorite indulgences:  Steak N' Shake.  Oh, how I adore their Hershey's Special Dark milkshakes and their little sliders with buffalo sauce.  Since Chris is a sucker for a side-by-side, banana/strawberry shake, it was an easy decision.  So, I slipped on some tennis shoes and headed to the front door...only to come across a large stripey barrier.

Fidget had positioned himself next to the front door and looked up at me with those big doe eyes as if to say, "Cheeseburger, please?"  I explained to him that kittens generally did not digest steak well, therefore he would be sampling none of our dinners that night.  Then suddenly, Fidget turned into a fluffy vortex and *threw* himself against the glass of the front door.  He began crying and pawing arduously at the transparent force field in front of him, pleading for...well, something.  After a few minutes of failing to get out the door peacefully, I caved in and made a pact with Fidget that if he could come along for the ride, there would be NO BEGGING.  Fidg was thrilled, and the journey began.

So there I was, in my cute little yellow VW Beetle, trying to manuever a manual transmission with a 13.5 lb. cat on my lap.  Fidget *insists* on sitting in someone's lap while in the car.  When he was a kitten and 1/4 the size he is now, it wasn't a big deal.  But now, his love for car rides has grown, along with the size of his ass.  It's difficult to turn when he has wedged himself between my body and the wheel, but I managed and we soon made it across town to the drive in.  *Disclaimer*  While I'm a horrible example, I do not recommend driving with fat cats in your lap.

We pulled up to the speaker, I rolled down my window, and began with:  "Yes, could I please get a #3 withMEOW!...uh, with a side-byMEOW!...Fidget, shut up!  With a side-by-side shake..."  I suppose The Fatmaster could smell the titillating smell of fries wafting through the air and just couldn't help but exclaim his desire.  I was able to barricade Fidget into the passenger's seat for a moment while I ordered and then continued up to the window.  We rolled around the side of the building to receive our bounty, and Fidget usurped my lap, once again.  Turns out, the employees of Steak N' Shake are some serious cat people.  The window attendant took my money and then proceeded to yell to the rest of her staff, "Hey, ya'll!  There's a cat in the window!"  Fidget was a celebrity for approximately 4 minutes of his life.  One grease thrower told me that he had a cat that looked *just* like Fidget.  Right, thanks, kid.  A server said that she was impressed by the color of his lovely blue eyes.  Yes, his eyes are pretty and he knows it.  The manager of the establishment, a large, grease-stained gentleman with a considerable amount of ink in his epidermis only managed to squeak out, "oooOOOH!  Look at the kitty!"  Fidget basked in the glory, talking to the staff until our food was cold and the shakes were half-melted.  They even gave me a free Coca-Cola glass as part of a "promotion."  I finally pulled the plug on Fidg's brief shining moment and rolled up the window, much to Fidget's distress.  We sped home to share the news (and our fries with Henry) and true to his word, Fidget fell asleep and partook in absolutely no begging.

Fidget's Crime Ring

"Where on earth is my Chapstick?"
"I could have sworn I had a pen in there."
"Honey, have you seen my earrings?"

These are common phrases at our house.  Having already entertained the idea that we have a poltergeist in the house or that we are developing Alzheimer's at the age of 25, it has been uncovered that Fidget is a devious little thief.  This is not to say that the other felines in the house don't have a part in stealing/hiding/shredding/knocking things over--but I imagine it is probably Fidget who runs this circle of organized larceny.  I think they should all have little kitty mugshots hanging on the fridge and if they are "arrested," they will be thrown into "The Slammer," which is the large dog crate we have for Tuxedo.

Moose, a.k.a. "Stoneface."  Most recently arrested for loitering in the sink and possession of a controlled substance (catnip).

Henry, a.k.a. "Ninja."  Last arrested for breaking and entering the cabinets and assault with a deadly weapon.

Buck, a.k.a. "Stinky."  Last arrested for excessive flinging of litter and participation in gang activity.

Fidget, a.k.a. "Boss."  Last arrested for organizing crime, 206 counts of theft, resisting arrest, agg. battery and hoarding food.

Fidget is by far the bravest of all our little fuzzy criminals.  It takes a lot of guts to boldly search through someone's purse in search of the good stuff.  Fidget is quite skilled at diving head first into my bag and goes straight to the bottom for the pens, coins, receipts, etc.  He knows exactly which pocket the Chapstick and lip gloss is kept in as well, for maximum efficiency.  I have found him sleeping on the job, however, on more than one occasion.  Head and front paws in the bag, butt and tail outside the bag.  Now *that's* a hardened criminal.

Now, I know you're all probably thinking, "wow...this girl is way too imaginative with her damn cats."  But no, in all honesty, the Fantastic Fuzzy Four do work together as a team to make our lives just a little more annoying.  In fact, Chris and I recently had a very successful sting operation.  We found the motherlode, the cache, the stash, the HQ:

We will continue our constant fight against crime, and we are always on the lookout for "probable cause" to detain these unlawful little critters.  One day we may be able to take down "Boss" and his army of minions, but until that victorious day, we'll continue to pull the 200 lb. refrigerator out from the wall on a regular basis.