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.