Tuesday Afternoon Cat Blogging: My Kind

When I got home from the doctor's office a few minutes ago (regular checkup, nothing seriousy amiss as far as I know, right now). a dog out of sight but close by, across the creek, was screaming and yelling, while an accomplice of his farther up the hill kept barking and wolfing in return, thereby seriously disturbing the usually well-kept peace.

I picked up our 20-year-old surviving black tabby, looked him in the eye, and asked -- since he strongly resembles a miniature one -- why couldn't he shape-shift into a full-sized panther, if only temporarily, and go up there and tell those two curs to take it somewhere else, quick.

But as so often, Beauty just looked at me.

Cats are past masters, aren't they, at pretending not to understand plain English and so managing to avoid hewing to all good advice.


As lovable as they are, this made me wonder for the umpteenth time what good cats really are, if you can never get them to do even the simplest thing.