Housecat Wisdom: A Cat's Eye View of Life, Liberty, & The Purrrsuit of Catnip.

Locked Out! My Purrsonal Tragedy...

2008-04-29T13:29:00.012-08:00

I think my humans have it out for me! Last night they had the door open to the balcony, so I sauntered out to heckle the pigeons. (Come on! What would you have done? They're a load of lippy, fowl-mouthed hooligans! And they're not funny, anyway.) It was open for hours, and they never once suggested I was misbehaving. How was I supposed to know that when she told me to come inside it was because they were going to bed? I don't keep track of their sleeping and waking! So, I did what any clever-whiskered feline would've done: I stepped in and then hurried back out while she wasn't looking. (Don't bother tutting me, either. You'd have done it too if you were confined to a cramped, one-bedroom apartment with two disgusting humans constantly cluttering up the place!) It wasn't until the door closed that I realised what had happened.

I tried knocking on the door; but I don't have an opposable thumb, which makes doubling up a fist rather difficult, so, failing that, I tried meowing loudly - very loudly. No one answered, so I tried meowing pitiably - very pitiably. Still no one answered. I tried rubbing my paw pads against the glass, creating a somewhat realistic impersonation of a mouse squeaking. I thought they might come looking for me so that I may kill it, but to no avail. Finally, I simply fluffed up my fur and peered between the cracks of the blinds.

A few hours passed and a light clicked on in the hallway. I meowed loudly and pitiably while simultaneously squeaking my paws on the door. Damn and blast those earplugs she wears! I must make a better effort to eat them all so this sort of thing never happens again! The light went off, the bedroom door closed and my food dish taunted me from behind the glass.

I was hungry, I was cold and I was likely going to die; it was a rough night.

Another hour passed and, again, the light clicked on in the hallway. This time I squeaked vigorously with my paws, meowing frantically at the tops of my lungs! She still didn't answer! What had I done to deserve this slow torture? I only wanted to heckle pigeons, and it isn't like the filthy beggars don't deserve it!

It seemed like an eternity before Asa woke for work. He, too, wearing his earplugs. (I really need to get rid of those things.) He sat at his computer to gather his iPod, so I mustered all the strength I had left in my wasted, feline limbs and once again commenced to squeaking.

He'd heard me! The trouble was, he didn't know what the sound was!

I watched as he shut off fans, checked his computer, looked about the desk and behind the rubbish bin. My squeaking had been so convincing, he must've suspected a mouse! I squeaked harder, faster, rubbing the glass so as to melt a hole in it from the friction! All I could do was rub. Well, rub and think: "HEY! STUPID! I'M OUT HERE!"

Finally, after waking Azy to help in his search, he noticed my shadow through the crack in the blinds! He slowly opened the door and I rushed in, cursing them both for their foolishness! I was fuzzy and flustered and starving to death; and, you know, all that rotten human of mine could do was laugh and tease me with a fool's chorus of: "Oh, you're such a housecat!"

Harrrumph! Housecat? Of course I'm a hissing housecat! Common rabble can't be trusted to rule the world, can they?

I dashed to my food dish, ignoring her taunts, and gulped down as many of the tasty morsels as I could push past my hairy lips. I'd never tasted such wonderful cat food! I didn't see her switch it; but she must've, because it's back to the same old boring food I usually have now. Still, it tasted divine, and I was drooling all over myself when I saw something I wanted even more: The bed! The bed with the nice, newish, Tommy Hilfiger down alternative comforter, comfy pillows, and NO HUMANS!

I took another mug full of food, spit half of it out onto the floor in protest to my mistreatment and then dashed for the bedroom door! SLAM! She shut it before I could get in. She insisted that I sleep in the chair, since I was so keen to spend the night out on the balcony with all the pigeon poo!

KEEN? I wasn't keen! I was forced! I was trapped! I was PUT OUT like nothing more than a common alley cat! I certainly was not KEEN!

Sulkily I wandered to the comfy chair. At least no one was in it. I leapt up, drew a heavy sigh; and, after placing all of my paws beneath me so as to warm them against the cushion, I lay contemplating all that had happened. I could've frozen solid. I could've been mauled by an angry gang of pigeons! I could've STARVED to death!

Gotta go! She just opened the door to the balcony! I have some pigeons to heckle!

Yours Purringly,
W. C. Humphries (Mr. Fleez for short)

The Parent Problem.

2007-03-02T17:13:00.000-09:00

Over the past several years, morbid obesity in children has become a serious issue. More now than ever kids are tipping the scales on the heavier side, which is probably why many people fail to see the reasoning behind involving Child Protective Services. The problem, however, isn't necessarily that these children are obese; it's that they are morbidly obese, and their parents are failing to appreciate the gravity of the situation.

Morbid obesity, summed up as simply as I can sum it, is the classification given to any purrson who is one hundred pounds or more past their "ideal" body weight. I grant you that there are some who will never measure up to the ideal, no matter how fit they are, but even these people aren't likely to be one hundred pounds or more over the average weight for their height. Being above the average weight can occur for multiple reasons; but a truly morbidly obese individual will have a higher fat to muscle ratio, and they will experience much more serious complications than those who are merely obese.

Now that we have at least a broad definition of morbid obesity, let's examine some related complications. High blood pressure, heart disease, high cholesterol, diabetes, respiratory problems, gastroesophageal reflux, urinary stress and incontinence, degenerative arthritis, Venous Stasis Disease, various cancers, skin infections, and infertility are some of the many conditions that can result from morbid obesity. These are mainly long-term effects that can be improved or avoided with weight loss and maintenance. However, there are many acute stresses caused by morbid obesity, including heart attack and stroke, as well. This is where the issue of morbid obesity in children becomes a more serious matter. These conditions are no longer affection middle aged humans or senior citizens; they are affecting three-year-olds, eight-year-olds, and thirteen-year-olds. They are affecting children.

In this article, I'll refer mainly to the case of an eight-year-old British boy, whom authorities are now considering taking into care. This child's story has been splashed about rather a lot lately, and it's a good example of the social divide that exists on the matter of child obesity. This boy's name is Conner McCreaddie; he is eight years old and weighs approximately two hundred pounds.

Conner eats nothing but large quantities of highly processed, highly refined foods, and his health reflects it. According to one article I read, he has broken multiple beds, bikes, and toilet seats, he can't make a five minute walk to school without becoming ill to the point of vomiting, and he is exempt from school uniforms, because there isn't one that will fit him. He has been the victim of bullying, he has few friends, and in general, he feels that he is the victim of fat discrimination. Sadly, he believes that the authorities are bullying him as well.

Some people take one view of Conner's case; and others take another, but as far as I'm concerned, this case isn't about Conner's fat; it's about the cause of it: Incompetent parenting. He isn't an obese child being harassed by the powers that be; his mother is unmotivated and disinterested, and though she does love her child, she does not exhibit an ability to cope with the challenges of parenthood. Whether caused by clinical depression or purrsonality disorder, her inability or unwillingness to control her child's diet has bred an unsafe environment for him. No matter who says what, parental competence, not child obesity, is the real issue here.

Purrsonally, in cases like Conner's, no one will convince me that the parents aren't to blame. I don't care if I catch flack for that statement, because they control what foods are bought and brought into the house, therefore it is their responsibility to monitor what their children eat. Since when were children expected to decide what is best for them? Since when do they dictate how their parents will spend the grocery money? There is nothing more dangerous than the mentality that children are just little adults who should be allowed to decide what's best for themselves. I agree that allowing a child to make some decisions is important, but enough is as good as a feast, for d*g's sake! Give them choices; don't hand them the world carte blanc and expect them to know what to do with it.

There were plenty of things that annoyed me about this particular case; and if you're already annoyed by my stand on this issue, I suggest you shut me down now, because I'm about to delineate a few. Firstly, Conner's mother claims that in order to feed her son, she must feed him what he likes, otherwise he'll starve. I don't believe this. He would have to starve himself, and that's not going to happen, especially not if he has a chronic appetite, which, by the way, eating refined, processed foods will give you. Yes, he'll throw a fit if he doesn't get his way; he'll kick and scream and act a fool. Hell, he may even hit her (which would open up a whole new topic in itself), but if she gives in to such behaviours, she's training him to take advantage of her weakness. Who's really to blame in that case? I mean, there has to be a limit on how much people can blame a child for acting in a fashion that has been reinforced by his parents. He's a child, and children rely on their parents to guide them in their choices. Parents are responsible for helping their children make good decisions. That's their job; it's what parent means.

Another thing that annoyed me is that Conner's mother always seems to be pointing the finger elsewhere. Whether she's blaming a health condition, the authorities, or the kid himself, she rarely takes more than a hair of blame on herself. Purrpetually placing blame on others rather than sincerely accepting fault, at least partially, is indicative of a purrsonality disorder. People with purrsonality disorders blame everyone else, because they are not capable of accepting blame themselves. That's where this, 'blame my son because he's fat, blame the doctors because he's fat, blame everyone in the world because he's fat, but don't blame me because I have panic attacks! Nothing is my fault! I'm the victim here!' mentality comes from. There's a mental connection, and if she were physically incapable of parenting people would expect the authorities to offer assistance or remove him to a home where he would receive propurr care. Why shouldn't they do the same if she is mentally incompetent?

Conner's is not the first case of a kid being allowed to eat himself into oblivion, but at least he isn't dead yet. That leads me to ask, what would happen if the authorities didn't get involved? What would the people who currently support Conner's mother say if nothing were ever done to at least try to help this child? What if Conner were to die of a sudden heart attack, suffocate in his sleep, or suffer a debilitating stroke? I can't help thinking that their opinion might change. In fact, they'd likely question why no one ever intervened. It seems to me that the protective agencies involved are damned if they do and damned if they don't. They can't win.

I suppose the saddest part in all of this is that Conner won't appreciate what they're trying to do for him. At this point he is convinced that the whole case revolves around his fat, and so he will likely blame himself well into adulthood. His purrsonal insecurities will grow with him, and he will likely suffer life-long depression and possibly even develop a purrsonality disorder of his own. If his mother had accepted her responsibility from the start, this situation could have been avoided; but as it stands, the damage is done, and now all she can do is seek help for herself so that she can propurrly care for her child in future.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Links to Conner's Story:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/health/article1449702.ece
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/uk_news/story/0,,2021107,00.html
http://www.gm.tv/index.cfm?articleid=24331
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/6396457.stm
http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,2-2007090279,00.html
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/health/article1434607.ece
http://www.mailonsunday.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=438434&in_page_id=1770&ct=5

Related topics:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/3752597.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/46077.stm

An Unfortunate Occurrence...

2007-02-16T20:00:00.000-09:00

There will be an extention of the voting for best HCW article; as no one has yet voted, but several have professed a desire for more time. ::swishing tail:: One additional week. The new voting deadline will be Friday, March 2nd.

Please don't let a cat down. >^0o^<

I'd like to apologise for this week's column. Please, don't be too harsh with me, friends; I've had a rough week moving, and my human hasn't completed setting up her office. It's hard to work when you haven't the needed tools at the tips of your claws, and so I am forced to rerun a previous article. The one I've chosen is titled: Pure Unadulterated Laziness. It's a fun article about the banes of writer's block, filled with some of my favourite quotes by many of my favourite humans.

I have an idea, what's say I add links to some of my favourite columns, so you can vote on which one you like the best? I'll place them at the end of this article. You may purruse them at your leisure, and after you've decided, check back to this post and cast your vote in the comments section. Votes must be cast before Saturday the 24th of February 2007. Furthermore, if you'd like to attain an autographed copy of the winning article, e-mail me at housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk, and I will send you a Mystery Question. Answer it correctly, and a copy is yours!

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Pure, Unadulterated Laziness:

Over
the years, humans have made some dreadful decisions. Their outcomes vary; but I
think it's safe to say that most have devastating consequences, and often these
consequences could have been avoided with but a tiny measure of forethought. The
trouble is, cats aren't really much better. At least not when it comes to
reaching a deadline, and this week, I've completely failed to plan a topic for
discussion. It isn't that I don't have a million topics from which to choose,
but picking something out of the air without preparation isn't how I typically
opurrate.

Given the situation, it seems most logical to write about the
hazards associated with laziness, which, ironically, is how I got myself into
this situation. Well, laziness and enough catmint to floor a lion. Nevertheless,
there's got to be a million sources out there emphasising the dangers of
laziness, and I plan to quote approximately sixty-two purrcent of them as filler
for the remainder of this article. Then, that would take a great deal of effort;
and I'm just not feeling overly motivated, so, why don't I just make up a few
things and call it a day? Better still, why don't I just quote some funny things
that other writers have said about their purrsonal ineptitude? It'll make my
readers laugh, make me look like a brilliant, well-read moggy, and make me feel
better about my lingering incompetence.

Sounds like a win/win situation
to me. ::purrrrrrrr::

One of the authors most qualified to serve my
purposes this evening is the ever procrastinating Mr. Douglas Adams, author of
more than a few cross-genre science fiction novels. (If it's possible to be
simultaneously classified as science fiction and cross-genre.) Mr. Adams was
almost as famous for his novels as he was for his absolute lack of
self-discipline while writing them. In fact, most people (himself included) were
amazed that he actually completed enough publishable material to reach beyond a
moderate level of distinction. Below is a list of Douglas Adams quotes, relevant
to today's topic:

"I love deadlines. I like the
whooshing sound they make as they fly by." (I'm not sure who originally quoted
Adams as saying this, but it's hilarious and extremely relevant.)

"For a moment, nothing happened. Then,
after a second or so, nothing continued to happen." (This fairly well sums up my
trying to write anything worth reading after a serious spot of illness.)

"His study was a total mess, like the
results of an explosion in a public library." (Rather like my self-proclaimed
owner's office, the chaos of which has only deepened my lack of
inspurration.)

Alas, though Mr. Adams may have
been the king of procrastination, (so much so that he died procrastinating on
his final novel,) there are plenty of noteworthy quotes on the topic, so below
I've included yet another list:

"Laziness is nothing more than the
habit of resting before you get tired." – Jules Renard I think (1864-1910)

"Anyone can do any amount of work
providing it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment." - Robert
Benchley

"Never put off till tomorrow, what you
can do the day after tomorrow." - Mark Twain

And now, since I can't be bothered
to look up exclusively quotes on laziness, I've decided to quote just about
anything as long as I think it funny:

"A black cat crossing your path
signifies that the animal is going somewhere." – Groucho Marx

A true friend stabs you in the front.
– Oscar Wilde

We spend the first twelve months of
our children's lives teaching them to walk and talk and the next twelve telling
them to sit down and shut up. – Phyllis Diller

"I'd kill you for money! Ha-ha-ha! Ah,
no. You're my friend. I'd kill you for nothing." – Chico Marx

"We are actors - we're the opposite of
people." – Tom Stoppard

"A fan club is a group of people who
tell an actor he's not alone in the way he feels about himself." – Kenneth
Williams

"If life was fair, Elvis would be
alive and all the impersonators would be dead." – Johnny
Carson

"When you've seen a nude infant doing
a backward somersault you know why clothing exists." – Stephen
Fry

"Electricity is actually made up of
extremely tiny particles called electrons, that you cannot see with the naked
eye unless you have been drinking." – Dave Barry

Okay, now I'm tired. I think
I'll off to my bed. I've not been well of late, and all this searching for
quotes has worn me out. Purrhaps next week I'll think of something worthwhile to
write about. Nevertheless, I'd not hold my breath would I were you.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Don't forget to vote for your favourite article!

Dreams & The Analysis of Self.

2007-02-09T00:06:00.000-09:00

It seems that the topic of dreams and their meanings has arisen repeatedly of late. I have therefore decided to emphasise the nature of dreams and the connection they have to the dreamer's subconscious mind. It is important to note that there are many aids to understanding dreams on the market these days; though, while dream dictionaries may offer some viable suggestions, they aren't entirely accurate, nor are they reliable. Dreams are highly purrsonalised, so what means one thing to one purrson may not mean the same thing to another. For instance, a person who is stuck in a dead-end go-nowhere job may dream of pushing a long line of carts, or trolleys, down an endless one-way street. Because of his purrsonal circumstances, this may remind him that he is grudgingly going nowhere in life. On the other paw, a woman who is plagued by constant chaos in her waking life may view the same dream as a comforting symbol of order and direction.

No two minds are alike; no two dreams are alike; no two meanings are alike. Because each individual purrceives life uniquely, there cannot be a blanket interpretation of all dream objects, characters, or phenomena. This does not mean that our dreams are pointless and can never be accurately understood. Rather, by asking questions about our dreams we can often enrich our waking lives. In order for you to learn and benefit from your dreams, however, you must be open to change. Exploring the subconscious can be unnerving if you aren't willing to both accept your purrsonal flaws and make changes in yourself or your life.

Below are some questions you may wish to consider privately. Write them down and meditate on each answer. Once you've analysed one question, move on to the next, and see how your answers all come together. Sometimes dreams that seem to mean something obvious will prove much deeper.

What role did you play in your dream, and what rolls were filled by others?

What were you actively doing or not doing?

How did you react to your situation, or did you fail to react? (i.e. Screaming without fear or fearful without screaming.)

If you were to write your dream into a book, what genre of book will it be? (i.e. Romance, action adventure, text book, how to manual, suspense thriller, murder mystery, etc.)

How did your dream surroundings differ from reality, and did anything in them create, or fail to create, specific or expected emotions? (i.e. A leopard in the living room which drew no surprise or alarm.)

Were there any actions or emotions that seemed inappropriate to the dream's setting? (i.e. A clown at a funeral juggling and doing tricks)

If you could alter something about your dream, what would it be and how would you change it?

Once you've had a chance to think about these questions, you should be able to have a better understanding of your dream. However, it is often easier to come up with something pointless and thus discredit the dream. If this happens and the dream is still disturbing you, purrhaps you are hiding the true meaning from yourself. Wait a while, and prepare to listen to your subconscious before attempting furrther analysis. True, you may not like what your mind is telling you, but you may find that its messages are the keys to self-enlightenment, confidence, and improvement.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Regular Modern-Day Nimrods!

2007-02-03T00:08:00.000-09:00

Wisconsin USA had recently kicked around the idea of legalising the hunting of feral cats. It's legal in other states, such as South Dakota and Minnesota, so why not Wisconsin? Fortunately, I have read that the bill was defeated, but why was it tossed about to begin with? They say it's because of the slaughtering of songbirds, but isn't that a bit like saying 'you eat too much, so I think I'll shoot you.' There are so many kindlier methods of ridding your garden of unwanted roamers; and there are alternative population control schemes that can be enacted, so why feel the need to take such drastic action?

I guess what I'd really like to know is how a big mighty hunter feels about bagging a 6 pound domestic cat? Does it make him feel like, well, a mighty hunter? Furrthermore, how would one of these hunter chappies really know if who they're killing is a cat of the feral variety? How do they know it's not just someone's Moggy Majestique out for a stroll? How many of these cat-killers will wantonly shoot at any cat and claim that they didn't know it wasn't a feral? It seems to me that this is the ideal circumstance for kill-happy idiots and closet sadists. Mind you, I don't know all the rules and regulations governing this sport, but these wouldn't sway me anyway, no matter how well they are written and executed.

You know, I've been thinking about the psychology behind the killing of domestic felines. A purrson would have to have a serious disdain for cats to actually shoot one in cold blood. Then, there are other factors to consider, as well. What of concern for one's neighbours and their feline superiors? I find it hard to believe that no one has taken this as a right to rid the neighbourhood of indoor/outdoor felines, regardless of whether or not these own humans in the area.

I don't know if there are many women involved in this sport, but men are primarily the fools who pose with their feline kill as though it's a mighty beast, capable of tearing their guts out, that they've managed to wrestle down and kill with their bare hands. That's not how it is, though. In reality these are men sitting in blinds, wearing camouflage, toting high-powered hunting rifles with attached guided scopes. Not entirely fair, is it? That leads me to the most baffling question, what really is the point?

I think felines, unlike d*gs, appear more aloof and less controllable. Since these men obviously like to have the upper paw, i.e. scopes and semiautomatic weaponry, it stands to reason that cats are more of a threat to their egos than they are to their flowerbeds. They kill cats to show them who's really boss. "I'll show you to not come when I call you or sit up and beg or OBEY ME!" It's sad that these little men have such weak self-esteem. If they are willing to kill an animal that frustrates them, how might they treat their wives when they get out of line? What of the kiddies?

Mind you, I don't believe all hunters are like this, but when I see a big, mighty hunter standing over his wild, beastly feline kill that weighs all of 6 pounds, it does make me question their mental state. Why so proud? It's not that big of an achievement. If I had a high-powered fire arm, a guided scope, camouflage, a blind, and an opposable thumb, I bet I could kill you, too.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Not Quite Grave Robbers, But Just as Effective.

2007-01-12T22:17:00.000-09:00

I'm not one for overly gory tales; but I've been reading up on historical crimes purrpetrated in the name of medicine, and I've come across some rather interesting bits of tripe that I certainly wouldn't read to children before bedtime. Not that I can read to children before bedtime anyway, what with my lack of human speech organs and all, but still, the subject isn't one I'd recommend for that sort of thing. Then, I wouldn't recommend reading to children before bedtime anyway; not when you could be petting or playing with the ol' feline friend or something constructive like that.

Anyway, as I was saying, I came across some stuff on the matter of murder in the name of medicine, and I must say that it struck me as rather fantastical. I mean, I'd heard about body snatchers and grave robbers, but I had no idea what real and devilish crimes these terms embodied (pun rather well intended).

Purrhaps I never understood the hoopla caused by carving up a carcass in front of an audience. Sure, it's nasty, but the purrson's dead for the love of d*g! What harm is there in that? It's not as if they're alive and being sliced to bits in front of an audience, which, when you think about it, would be infinitely more horrible, especially if you're the one being cut upon. Still, I suppose there were enough people around who really disliked the idea, causing a need in the scientific community that could only be met by four kinds of people: 1. The brilliant minds who willed themselves to the furrthering of the scientific cause; 2. The grave robbers, who convinced those already dead to take an encore before a live audience; 3. The murderers who willed others to the furrthering of the scientific cause whether they liked it or not; and 4. The criminals who where hanged for murdering others to furrther the scientific cause.

One of the most famous cases of such crime occurred in Edinburgh, Scotland in the early 19th century. Then, I'm not sure if I should say one of since there were actually 16 murders purrpetrated by the criminals involved. Regardless, their names were William Burke (aptly named, I'd say) and William Hare. They were Irish immigrants relocated to Scotland in order to work on the Union Canal. Apparently Hare settled down in West Port with some widowed bird, and they began playing house in her boarding lodge. A bit later Burke and his lady (if you could actually call her that) took up lodgings there, and, from what I've read, that's when all hell broke loose.

The two chaps never really liked each other; but they were both evil layabouts who liked drinking and hated working, so they soon hit it off as well as two people who abjectly loath one another can for the sake of a few pounds.

Now, I'll have to go back a bit to the time before all hell breaking loose, because there are a few details that bridge the men's meeting one another to their committing murders together. One such detail was the death of a lodger who had taken ill and never recovered. I don't suppose Hare cared much about his lodger while he was alive, but since the man died owing him about ₤4 back rent, he took considerable interest in his corpse. In fact, Hare had come up with the idea of pinching his body from its casket and replacing it with a bag of something other than decaying proteins and salt water. It was easy, since the man hadn't been buried yet, and Hare knew he and Burke might sell the real goods to Robert Knox, an anatomist who was willing to hand out cash for freshly dead chaps without asking a whole lot of pesky questions.

Hare's plan to recover his lodger's debt worked nearly double. Knox gave the pair 7 pounds 10 shillings for their efforts, which by today's standards would be the equivalent of ₤10,000 or something in that general neighbourhood. I think it was at this point that hell did all of its actual breaking, because this is when they started murdering people.

At first they murdered people who weren't known and wouldn't be readily recognised by those watching the actual dissections. Pretty clever considering it wouldn't go over well with the public if they were to sit down to an anatomy session only to realise the vicar had died and no one informed his wife. But, you know, the problem with greedy, stupid drunkards, aside from their general smell, is that they are greedy, stupid drunkards, and it isn't long before they start killing just anyol'body for the noble cause of a few fat guineas. Granted, I know that not all greedy, stupid drunkards are murderous fiends, but Burk and Hare were to the tune of sixteen stiffs within the span of a year. And when you're too busy killing people to ask them if someone may be out looking for them later that evening, it's only a matter of time before you end up nabbed.

Well, to make a long story short, which I should have done about half an hour ago, they were eventually caught, and Hare stabbed Burke in the back by testifying against him. I don't know if it came as much of a surprise to Burke, but if it did he really was as stupid as he was greedy. In return for his testimony, Hare was later released, but Burke was hanged and eventually dissected himself. There are plenty of legends about what happened to Hare from that point forward, but none of them were ever substantiated.

I can't say that I think Burke's punishment wasn't fitting to his crimes, nor can I say that I'm entirely satisfied with Hare's being set free. And as for Knox, I can't recall what happened to him. I believe he ended up retiring or something like that. Reminds me of a politician who gets caught doing all the things he's supposedly been fighting during his career in office. Regardless of their respective fates, one thing is for certain: They never escaped their deeds. Years after the headlines faded and Burke had long since rotted in his grave, children all over Scotland were heard to sing the rhyme of their disgrace: Burke is the butcher, Hare is the thief, but Knox is the silent boy who gladly buys the beef.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

The eBay Monster...

2007-01-05T18:51:00.000-09:00

I'm not sure what motivates companies to turn on their patrons, but eBay's done it again. When eBay first started it was a great place to buy and sell: It was cheaper than running an add in whatever local newspaper one has available, and it caters to a far larger audience. Then, at the time it was only about $0.15 to place a basic add. The fees have since doubled, and will soon nearly triple.

I recently received a friendly notice from some chump up in the CEO's office of eBay, claiming that he was, in fact, the CEO himself (which we all know is a load of rubbish). This letter claimed that eBay usually likes to adjust their fees each year and that this year, like all other years is no different. Of course, that means the fees are still going up rather than down, and there's a lorry-load of claptrap double talking associated with the reason behind it all. Then, who needs to read that far into anything sent out by the eBay propaganda machine; we all know the real reason is greed.

As you've all noted in past, and even at present, I've listed things through eBay before. I will even be listing some things in the near future, but I can't say that I'll be doing business with them after I've finished off that which I've already planned. I'm looking into new options: New auction sites, my purrsonal website, and possibly internet consignments are a few, but I must admit, I've not found anything too terribly promising. Furrther, even after I've found a new place to sell my ill-gotten loot, I'll likely still collect using PayPal, which, as most people know, is eBay owned.

Something here seems to ring a bell. A distant memory pawing at my kitty mind. Something about people becoming slaves to propaganda and losing themselves to the machine. Something rather 1984ish. Or, if you're a Futurama fan, Momish.

I guess I'm a hopeless optimist, but we felines frequently take the optimistic view on matters. I can't help thinking that sooner or later eBay is going to eat so much of it's merchant's profits that it will choke itself into an abysmal demise. Then, I suppose that is an unrealistic expectation. I mean, we all thought it would eventually happen to Microsoft, too; but they managed to strangle most of their competitors, ethically or otherwise. I'm sure eBay isn't above engaging itself in ethical absenteeism. Virtually no heartless corporation is.

Then, I guess I can't solely blame the heartless corporate demons. It's easy to blame them, but the fact of the matter is that consumers choose to be used: Sellers don't have to stay at eBay, but they do it because they're frequently too lazy to research their optionsor once they've researched them they feel that they're hopeless. Buyers don't have to buy at eBay, but they do it because they're sheep to the marketing shepherds. The bottom line is that humans thirty years ago probably wouldn't have put up with such shenanigans. Humans, and sad to say it, felines, have become soft. They like taking what's handed to them, because it eliminates the need to think.

I say! I just had a startling thought! Purrhaps I'm not an optimist at all. Purrhaps I'm just annoyed. I'm annoyed at the way humans run things, at the lack of fairness and decency, at the level of complacency in the world, and at the way I'm fed late on Saturday mornings. Yes, if there something we felines are even better at than optimistic thinking, it's the harbouring of annoyance, and I can think of nothing more annoying than paying through the whiskers for a service I could get from somewhere else if humans, and dare I say some felines, would only tear free of the propagandistic tentacles of the eBay monster and shop elsewhere!

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Pleasant Surprises.

2006-12-29T23:02:00.000-09:00

The most extraordinary thing happened to me yesterday. As you know, I'm rather lenient with my human subjects, but every now and again, because of their lax and inattentive attitudes, I'm forced to assert my authority. Yesterday, or so I thought, was going to be one such day.

On Wednesday, I had nothing but trouble. My human refused to feed me early, even after my purrsistent demands, she refused to open the basement door for me, knowing very well that I have a devil of a time doing it on my own, and she staunchly defied me when I told her it was time for bed. In a nutshell, she acted like a purrfectly insubordinate rebel. She gets like that sometimes, labouring under this fantastical assumption that she is the owner and I am the pet. I was right well fed up with it by Thursday; and I had the mind to let her have it propurrly on the matter, but something, that extraordinary thing to which I'd alluded earlier, knocked the wrath straight from my whiskers.

I suppose she must have realised that I was a bit miffed at her, and fearing the old iron paw in the velvet glove scheme, she decided to soften my rather pointy disposition. Honestly, I didn't even believe it could be done, but when she opened the freezer and pulled out that bag of fresh frozen catmint leaves, a stash I admit I didn't know existed, I couldn't recall what it was I wanted to have words with her about.

I looked at the icy mass of delicious, green foliage as it dropped, or rather splatted, onto the rug before me. I didn't even have to ask for it! It was just there! A lovely, glistening, lump of instant happiness, and all the sudden, my black troubles vanished from before my very eyes! Everything was dead rats and rainbows, and life was wonderful again! My human was the picture of a purrfect pet! Who could ever ask for a better winter day: Warm rugs, fresh, albeit cold, catmint, and not a care in the clouds!

I must confess, I was stunned. There wasn't any warning for this random act of kindness. All these years of training must've impressed upon her how awful she had been. She must have known that the horrible time she'd given me the night before had curled my whiskers and turned them white. She was aware of her error and sought atonement for such. And, I being a merciful and loving dictator, am inclined to forgive. Yes, as long as she opens that freezer door at my bidding from this day forward, I shall never hold her shortcomings against her. In fact, I'm feeling a bit peckish at the moment; purrhaps I'll go have a word with her now.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

To The D*gs!

2006-12-22T22:37:00.000-09:00

As a cat I've never had much patience for d*gs. I mean, on occasion one meets the rare m*ngrel that is, at the very most, tolerable, but for the most part, they're all rubbish-chewing yappers with absolute zero in the way of intellect. At my current address, however, it's not necessarily the d*gs who are the problem; it's their owners.

At what point did it become fashionable for someone to harbour an animal that they can't stand? Why the devil would anyone in his right mind keep a creature for whom they couldn't care less? I realise that I keep a human or two, but I take care of them, don't I? I don't toss them out in the rain, sleet, or snow just because they make a bit of a mess on the carpet, or because they talk too much, but I swear that's what some of these humans are doing with their d*gs. At all hours I hear barking. It's as bad as a ticket queue outside a convention hall that has mistakenly billed the International Fire-Plug Manufacturers' Annual Conference for the same date as the AKC Championship D*g Show. Whether it's one in the afternoon or one in the morning, it makes no difference to these people. They toss them out on their ridiculously floppy ears to bark their fool heads off and curl my tail.

Mind you, I'm not just spouting off at the whiskers. I've handled the situation with considerable patience, but there's only so much a cat can take. I've tried everything. I've burrowed under the covers; I've burrowed beneath the spare pillows in the closet; I've stolen my human's earplugs; though I must admit I couldn't figure out how to get them in propurrly, so I had a bit of a bat about with them instead. I've even called the local butchery and asked if they could deliver 32 soup bones, each to a different address, in hopes that this would give the rottenweilers something to stop up their festering gobs. Unfortunately, even with all of the monies I've made from advertising and eBay, I couldn't afford the price of delivery. (Curse the cost of wretched resources! How hard can it be to renew the petroleum fields? What with all the species going extinct under man's domination, one might well wonder why the cost of petrol hasn't dropped!)

I suppose it's no worse than anywhere else in the world. It's the inevitability of living in a city: Sooner or later someone will get the bright idea to buy a puppy, forgetting that they do eventually grow into d*gs. That d*g gets tossed out, he starts to howl, the neighbour's m*tt follows, and next thing you know, it's the Moron Terrier Cackle Choir doing their rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus in B (for bark) major up and down the street.

I suppose rather than whinging about my purrsonal lot, I ought to buck it up and try a bit harder. Purrhaps I could learn to opurrate the CD player. I'll bet a set of headphones would be far easier to master than those earplugs, and if not, theirs a nice wiggly cord I could play with.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

More Misgivings.

2006-12-18T12:15:00.000-09:00

Why is it that every time a feline has a busy day coming up, the train won't stop running through their back garden? I'm not certain if it has anything to do with it being winter, what with the bare trees and all, but the trains have got louder and louder over the past month or so. Furrthermore, as if the vibration from the train itself isn't bad enough, it's being driven by a bitterly contemptible old ass, who refuses to lay off the air horn for more than one or two brief intervals throughout his passage. What this all amounts to is a kitty with a very irritable disposition. Not to mention the nasty attitude being displayed by my not-so happy human.

I've contemplated writing someone about it. You know the sort of thing:

"Dear Sirs,

I regret to inform you that you're conductors are complete morons with absolute zero for respect regarding sleeping felines. I suggest you fire the lot, scrap your loud, obnoxious, earth-rattling contraptions into a tip somewhere, and then go boil your heads until the fat within melts, thus allowing your brain to think again.

I hope you all choke on your bacon.

Yours Purringly,
Etc. etc…."

I can't see that it would make much of a difference, though. I mean, who the devil would I write? The city needs the commerce, so they're unlikely to listen. The corporations need the transport, so they certainly won't listen. And let's face it, the train conglomerates don't care and would rather tie you to the tracks and saw you asunder before so much as contemplating what might be found within your letter's jacket.

It seems to me that moving is an increasingly pleasing idea. If nothing else, it'll get me away from the noise of the city. Then, I suppose it may just be me getting old. As a kitten, I loved noise. I revelled in it. In fact, I took any and every opportunity to create a ruckus. Now, however, I'm nine, soon to be ten, and I won't go into what that may be in human years. Suffice it to say, I want some peace. A nice long stretch of quiet would suit me fine right about now.

Well, I suppose I'll have to put off all of those things I had planned to do tomorrow. While my human is away, instead of eating the houseplants and licking myself on her pillow, I'll have to tuck in for a kip beneath her blankets. Purrhaps I'll get a few hours of decent sleep. It seems that the only time I can manage it anymore is right around one in the afternoon, and she shouldn't be back until around seven.

No one ever said it was easy being feline, and if they had, I'd call them a liar.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Moving Misgivings.

2006-12-09T17:43:00.000-09:00

I would like to preface this with an apology, for it is a day late. It's not normal for me to eat that much catmint, and I woke up with a bit of a spinner. Once you read the article, I'm sure you'll forgive the incident.

As some of my more regular readers, especially those with excellent memories, might recall, my self-proclaimed owner and her family have been attempting to sell their house. This isn't a particularly pleasing thought to me, as I hate the idea of being upheaved and replanted in an unfamiliar place. I know, things could be better, but they could also be worse. That happens sometimes, things getting worse, and I'm by no means a fan of it. So, imagine my dismay when I found they have indeed sold the house. Well, when I say sold I mean they've had an acceptable offer. Nevertheless, it's opened up a can of worms that we of the feline purrsuasion would rather leave tightly sealed for dropping from high windows onto unwelcome d*gs below.

I guess what I most dislike is the boxing of things. All those boxes and papers and chaos and mayhem. Well, I'm not actually opposed to the mayhem bit, but you get the picture. I mean, what happens if in all the fuss, I get picked up, wrapped up, and boxed up only to be discovered dead three years later in a parcel labelled Moo-moos and tartan golf hats. Face it, the level of human competence suggests the possibility of feline mislabelling, and I'm not too pleased with the prospect. Who would ever open a box marked Moo-moos and tartan golf hats? I suppose Arnold Palmer might be curious, or purrhaps someone not quite as famous who appreciates moo-moos or golf-hats. Still, the likelihood of that box being opened anytime before 2010 isn't encouraging.

So what if I don't get mislabelled? What then? I get crated and unceremoniously placed into room, devoid of comfy chairs, beds, chaise lounges, or even the merest ottoman upon which a cat may rest his weary, transport-worn paws. Not a thing. Just me, a water dish, a temporary litter tray, four walls, possibly five if it's one of those strange houses with the funny shaped rooms, and a hard floor upon which to pace. The only plus side I see is that the bare walls, especially if there's five of them, will amplify and echo my yelping demands for release.

I guess when all is said and done, I'm simply not at all pleased with the situation. I'm sure a nice country setting will be all good and fine, but why can't it all be ready for me? I'm not asking much. It could be done. Just go out and buy all identical things to those which currently reside in my favourite room, shut me in there until the corresponding room is appropriately decorated (a lot of kibble and a few people peeling grapes and fanning me to keep me calm couldn't hurt), and when it's finished, transport me by teleporter into the new room. Then, once the rest of the house is finished, all they'd have to do is open the door. Not too much to ask at all. Very reasonable to my mind, in fact.

It just goes to show that humans are completely impractical. If they want to move, they jam things in boxes and threaten to lose their feline companions in cartons of obsolete skin covering. If it were left to feline planning, things would be much easier.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

A Tail of Mostly Woe.

2006-12-01T23:16:00.000-09:00

I'm afraid that I've not been feeling well lately. It started some time ago, as you'll recall, and I fear I've never fully recovered. I've been moody and lethargic to the point of nastiness, and my activity in the realm of the baser functions hasn't been too, shall I say, regular. Because of these abnormalities, which I've tried to conceal, my self-proclaimed owner decided that I should go back to the v*t. Oddly, I didn't go to the place, where the two-legged cat hobbles around, shouting slurs and fork-tongued wiener d*gs leer at one with the hairy eyeball. No, this place was quite different and rather beyond a quick description. Therefore, I shall provide you the details in due course.

The day was as mundane and boring as ever. My human toiled over her enormous giraffe, cursing the thing with distain (an increasingly typical scenario in our place) while I sprawled myself out upon the floor, curling my feet in hopes of attracting some attention. I didn't get any, but I was a little too sluggish to physically harass her, so instead I decided to go to sleep right then and there. I might add that her failing to feed me supper may have had something to do with my weakened state, but she insisted that I create a stink in the bin before she'd feed me. I admit, I tried a couple of times, but the tum just wasn't agreeable. That's when she got vicious. "Either go in the box or you'll go to the v*t!" she said to me, as though production of bodily waste was a hobby I'd simply gone off at the moment and could pick back up at any time desired. Still, I didn't wish to go to the v*t, so again I tried; and again I failed.

It was ghastly. In and out of the bin, trying to perform and being unable. I must admit, for a brief moment, I thought going to the v*t wouldn't be a bad idea, but I soon gained my senses. The v*t is typically ineffective; and the last time I went they gave me these nasty pills that made me more ill than before I'd gone, and if you'll recall, I had never fully recovered. Yes, to my mind the whole idea was right out! To my human's mind, however, it was right on, and before I realised what had happened, two of them were on me strapping me about with the evil harness, and attempting to press me into that malignant carrier.

I puffed myself up to three times the cat, all claws and teeth in a twisting mass of hair and hisses! Throaty growls projected from within, and I kicked at the sack with all four paws. Alas, there were two of them and only one of me. I was defeated, deflated, and, before long, zipped in and clamped shut. Next the pair carried me off to the great, white, gurgling whale they call "Truck", where they lashed me to the seat with a thin, though completely indestructible, strap. That's when the cruel reality struck me: I was going to the v*t.

The ride seemed to take forever, and we weren't going in the same direction as before. I know this, because my wristwatch has a built in compass that I have consulted on previous excursions. We were definitely not going east; we were going south, and the v*t is usually east. For a time this had me fooled. I deluded myself with the idea that there must have been a grand opening at some new pet store, to which they were taking me. Yes, I started believing that all this v*t nonsense was just nonsense, and that they were really covering up so I would be pleasantly surprised as I enjoyed the wonderful bliss of an isle completely devoted to gourmet catmints.

As I mentioned, I was deluding myself. We did, in fact, arrive at a v*t's office, just not the v*t's office. Regardless, one v*t is very much like another as far as I'm concerned, and I still resented being there.

I must confess that the experience was not precisely the same. Indeed, it varied greatly from the suburban, main street gig that I'd gone to for the past several years. This place was in a rather ruralish setting, and I smelled the distinct aroma of unkilled beef lingering in the air. This farmish atmosphere made me nervy. I've heard that some ignorant humans will dump felines at farms when they don't know how to deal with them. I also know that I do go on a bit at times, and I can be rather the purrsonified harassment. All this being said, you can imagine the left-pawed relief I found when we entered the establishment to find that it was, indeed, a v*t and not an unwanted feline depository.

It wasn't quite like any v*t's I'd been to before. It was rather drab and time worn, with benches that looked like they'd been pilfered from the booths of one of those family dining adverts one sees on television. Not a chair to be seen. It didn't much matter, though, because there was no one in there, and I was taken immediately into the torture chamber.

The v*t himself was a portly, jovial man with large, meaty hands and a hammy disposition. Everything about him suggested that he had a penchant for the beef; but so do I, so I didn't pass judgement. I must say he was rather intimidating, and for as much as I hate that infernal carrier, I was even less inclined to come out than I was inclined to enter. Of course, the tactics one uses when trying to stay out of the bag are quite different from those used when trying to stay in, so there I was curled into the tightest ball I could manage when those great, chubby digits reached in and snagged me out.

He was all business: Pry open the jaws have a look inside, then turn over and start pressing on the belly. I'm not sure why v*ts do that. It's one of the reasons I so dislike going. They always want to fondle the area that ails me. This fellow was no different. And there's such a lack of privacy! Here he is, palpating my spleen, or whatever bit it was, talking about my poo and calling me fat! Fat! HA! I'm nearly skin and bones!

A short conversation ensued regarding the food I eat and some kind of foul-looking medicine he wished me to take, and almost as soon as we'd arrived, I was placed back in the sack (needless to say, I was much more cooperative this time round) and walked out to that monstrous, gurgling beast which I was surprisingly grateful to see.

Upon arriving home I was set loose and allowed to get stuck in a bit before they, again, ganged up on me; this time to force feed me that wicked brew prescribed by the v*t. To say it was revolting would be too kind. It was beyond revolting; it was the sort of stuff that gives you such violent gags that your eyes to pop out like the chin bag of a toad who over-extends himself and gets a blow out. Suffice to say, it was beyond wretched, it was retching!

I know I keep going on about all the bad bits; so in conclusion, I might tell you that whatever that ghastly stuff was, it worked, and I do feel quite a bit better. Not only that, but the v*t did manage to convince my self-proclaimed owner to choose a new food for me, and the food she chose is possibly the finest kibble I've ever eaten. I dare not say that I'm appreciative of the v*t, but I'm at least not as unappreciative of him as I was. If I should ever become ill again, I hope we will consult with him on the matter.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Misplaced Priorities.

2006-11-24T19:45:00.000-09:00

I suppose I'm a fickle feline. Then, most of us are. When my human is paying me constant attention, I get annoyed, but when she's preoccupied with something else I become jealous. I'm not sure why I'm like this, but I certainly can't deny that it's true. My best guess is that I prefurr affection on my terms; I like to be in control. That's why I'm not too happy with this new career Azy has begun. She's still home, but I'm no longer her centre of attention, and, in fact, I find myself having to beg for it.

When she first left her away job, she was constantly doting on me. Always taking pictures of me, petting me, playing with me, napping with me; I couldn't escape her. Now, however, she's spending more time with her pictures than she is with me. I have no idea why she would prefurr a picture of me to the real thing, but she claims it's because they hold still while she's trying to draw them.

Maybe what purrturbs me most is that all that annoyance wasn't really because she couldn't get enough of my sleek, glossy, black, pantheresque physique. All she really wanted was to get a few good snaps to use when practicing her drawing. I guess I should be flattered; but I'd much prefurr timely meals to flattery, and now that she's all wrapped up in her art I'm finding that I have to be louder and more purrsistant at earlier hours if I wish to get my supper on time.

She says I'm being unreasonable. She claims that I've got more annoying since she's started working at home, and that I've no sense of time. She swears that she's feeding me on time, and that I'm just being paranoid because she's not constantly reassuring me. She also had the nerve to tell me that I've got a spare tyre! Huh! A cat with a spare tyre! It's appalling! I'll starve to death before long. I mean, look at me! I'm practically skin and bones! Who ever heard such absurdity?

I think she's the one being unreasonable. How can she expect me to sit patiently, watching her paint pictures of huge giraffes and silly-looking glowing things, knowing that she's not watching the clock? She might get all wrapped up in her work and forget that there are only two, possibly three, hours left before she needs to feed me. And how does she expect me to be satisfied with several short sessions of mouse on a stick, when she's home for hours? She should be entertaining me. That is her responsibility, after all. That's what humans are supposed to do, isn't it? I think there's even a proverb somewhere that says: All the days of your life you must feed, house, stroke, feed, play with, peel grapes for, pay attention to, fan, feed, dote on, clean the sand of, feed and entertain felines, for it is the whole obligation of man. I could be wrong, but I swear I've read that somewhere before.

I don't know what to do with this human of mine. First she's too lovey, now she's not lovey enough. I need to develop a plan of action. Something that will bring her to her senses; something that will make her realise that there is more to life than trying to be balanced between your work and your feline friends. Yes, I need to find a way to make her realise that I am her number one priority. Either that, or I need to learn how to open the kibble tin without her.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Too Much Time on Her Paws.

2006-11-17T20:02:00.000-09:00

My self-proclaimed owner has been spending a lot of time at home lately. I can't say it's a bad thing, but I won't say it isn't. When she used to come home from her job, I'd have to do a lot of meowing to get anything through to her, but now I almost can't convince her to leave me alone. She's always wanting me to sit for her so she can get a picture, or she wants me to come watch documentaries on the television. I wouldn't mind so much, but it's only been a few days, and I'm not sure how much more of this constant adoration I can handle.

I know that there are some people out there who might find it odd, me complaining about being loved, but those people aren't annoyed into misery by some doting so-and-so who's got nothing better to do than wake them up in the middle of a restful nap just because they have cute feet or they were too snuggley to resist. I need sleep, too, you know? How am I supposed to get it with my human constantly tickling my paws and stroking my whiskers?

There are some up sides to Azy being home. As I said earlier, I can't say it's an entirely bad thing. She allows me to sleep in her bed now. She didn't always. It used to be that as soon as I'd even mention breakfast, she'd toss me out and stick a sock in the door so I couldn't jemmy it open. I guess I do sort of go on about my brekky, but if you relied on someone else to prepare your meals, you'd be insistent about punctuality, too. Still, she's not quite so strict anymore. She still doesn't feed me early, but instead of shooing me off to my kitty sack, she just grabs me, stuffs me under the covers and pets me until I decide to bite her. I like biting her, so it works out well for both of us.

Another good thing about her being home is that she's much calmer than she was when coming home from her job. She always said that she loved her job and all the people she worked with, but as true as that may be, it was getting very difficult for her to breathe in the evenings. I like it much better when she's calm, because I don't have to worry about whether she's going to be around to feed me. She thinks it's because I worry for her, and I don't put her right. I just continue administering purr therapy until she decides to go paint, and then I try to slip in a few hours of undisturbed snoozing before it's time to sound the dinner yell.

My highest hope is that she eventually settles down into kitty complacency and allows me my space. Until then, I must agree with the sentiments of Oscar Wilde who once wrote, "Being adored is a nuisance." Yes, it certainly is.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

The Panther Within.

2006-11-10T22:40:00.000-09:00

I'm not in the mood for writing today. In fact, I've been so preoccupied that I nearly forgot it's Friday. I suppose it could be that I've not got used to writing on Friday's, but I think it's more likely the exhaustion wrought by stalking a mouse. I don't often get the excitement of hunting, so when I do, it's difficult to pull myself away.

I'm not sure how long this rodent has been hiding out in our basement. I only go down there when the door is open; and recently I've had to meow incessantly before receiving any response from my humans, so I had sort of given up. Nevertheless, the other day something in the duct work had me peering purrposefully down the air exchange vent in the foyer. It's a shame I can't fake that look, because it never fails to convince my human of the need for investigation.

I knew there was something amiss the moment I arrived at the bottom of the steps. Nothing ever smells interesting down there, but this time there was the distinct aroma of mouse droppings. They have a very specific scent that humans don't pick up on straight away; but I smelled it, and after further exploration I spotted them in the far corner, near the water heater. There was a leak in a hose preventing me from getting too close, but I came as near as I could without getting squirted. There was no mistaking the small, brown, elliptical pellets; they were certainly of Muridae origin.

The discovery heightened my senses, and as I wandered toward the gardener's nook, water hissed and sputtered from the puncture in the flexible metal hosing, causing me to jump and fluff my tail. I'm not sure why. I knew the puncture was there, and I'm certainly not afraid of the mouse who'd likely caused it. Still, I was bristled and tingling all over.

My back twitched and my whiskers pointed forward, feeling for any movement in the air ahead. Then, as I prowled in the cool, still darkness, I saw it! There it was; and there was I, and I knew I had to get it! I sprang to action running after it, but it ducked under a bookshelf that hadn't seen a book in years.

One thing about we felines, is that we're patient. Then, purrhaps a better word might be tenacious. I crouched there for hours, waiting for him to move, and just as I had closed my eyes for a quick nap, he darted out and ducked under the rickety old sofa. I took off after him; but my feet slipped on an exceptionally smooth patch of cement, and by the time I'd gained my footing, he'd sneaked off in the direction of some empty bottles and jars. There was a rug nearby, which was good for a nap, so I perched myself upon it and set up sentry.

I'm not sure if he's still in among the basement bric-a-brac; but I gave it my best, and there's always tomorrow. Hopefully he hasn't cleared off by then. I'd really like to find him.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Mr. Fleez on Art: MC Escher.

2006-11-03T19:07:00.000-09:00

As a feline, I possess no lasting interest in the maths. I agree that mathematical reasoning is important to someone, somewhere, but I'm purrfectly blissful in my ignorance of it. Though, in spite of my indifference toward the science itself, I cannot deny the benefits heaped upon the artistic community by those who recognise the value of mathematical precision. One such purrson was a Mr. Maurits Cornelis Escher, who, surprisingly, had an admitted dread of the subject himself.

MC Escher was born on the 17th of June 1898 in Leeuwarden, Netherlands. As a child he was raised by his father George Escher, a civil engineer, and stepmother Sarah, apparently the wife of a civil engineer, who had hoped that he would enter the much esteemed field of architecture. Much like many brilliant men, he attended school but failed to excel in many subjects. As a result, he never officially graduated, and even though he was eventually presented an opportunity for higher education, ill health kept him from attaining the aspirations of his father. Instead, he focused on his art, something for which we are all most grateful.

Even though MC Escher failed to become an architect, the endeavour to placate his father brought him to the School for Architecture and Decorative Arts in Haarlem, Netherlands. This is where he met with Samuel Jesserum de Mesquita, a teacher who opened his eyes to a new course, one better suited to him: Graphic Arts. Mr. De Mesquita (Does that mean the mesquito?) helped Escher hone his skills and learn in depth the woodcut printing techniques that have given shape to so many of his artistic visions. He gave Escher the encouragement and assistance of a true mentor, and provided him with the courage to follow an aspiration of his own.

Though not a formally educated research mathematician, he proved himself such by the meticulous study and documentation of his methods. Throughout the course of his life, MC Escher developed his style, relying heavily on the laws of geometry and symmetry and had written several notebooks on the subjects of shape, colour and symmetrical properties. His works breathed life to his visions from basic division of the plane, to the two-dimensional representation of physical impossibilities, and anything in-between.

During his life, MC Escher created nearly 450 woodcuts, lithographs, and engravings, and over 2000 sketches and drawings. His work has interested and inspired countless people ranging from the naive elementary student to the worldly wise film director. Few have never seen his work, and many who claim they haven't, simply don't realise that they have. At the time of his death, the 27th of March 1972, MC Escher was established firmly in the hearts of many as the father of modern art. I can't say that I disagree.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Mr. Fleez on Classical Literature: The Picture of Dorian Gray.

2006-10-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

Recently my self-proclaimed owner went through a rather lengthy illness, which prevented her from doing much other than petting me and reading. Since she knows how bored I get taking care of her, she was kind enough to read aloud, so I would have something to occupy my mind whilst administering purr therapy. Of the books she read, this one, The Picture of Dorian Gray, was at the top of interest. The plot was solid, the characters well-developed, and the lesson more pronounced than purrhaps most so-called scholars care to confess. As with other works of its time, it is loaded with flowery verbiage, something modern literature lacks to much the same detriment. Regardless of some rather long-winded descriptions, though, the story is rich in historical reflection, literary references, and insights on the baser nature of the human psyche.

The Picture of Dorian Gray elicited much scandal after its release. Many people thought the book promoted a lack of propriety in thought and deed, and were therefore keen on seeing it, or its author, Oscar Wilde, suppressed. It was even used in the prosecution of criminal charges brought against Wilde for the perpetration of certain homosexual offences. (I've read the claims made by the prosecution and have read Wilde's answers to their claims. I'm still not certain how they got away with entering it into evidence; but they did, and that's history.) A guilty verdict took two trials to obtain, and Wilde was sentenced to two years hard labour. Oddly enough, his conviction did more to benefit the homosexual community than it did to repress it, as in more recent times he's been portrayed as something of a martyr.

As the story goes, Mr. Basil Hallward, an artist enamoured with the youth, beauty, and energy of his young sitter, Dorian Gray, makes the mistake of introducing the lad to Lord Harry Henry, a man of questionable character, to say the very least. Lord Henry fills Dorian's impressionable mind with a poisonous philosophy of selfishness and self-worship. When young Dorian wishes his soul away in exchange for eternal youth, things get ugly; when he realises that he's got his wish, they get even uglier.

I won't go into detail; as I don't wish to spoil the story, but after a life of paranoia, self-anesthetisation, and eventually the toll wrought by the ultimate in selfish acts, murder, Dorian Gray realises that the life of the eternally youthful isn't all it's played up to be. The conclusion of the matter is an abrupt and interesting one, but because it's been mimicked in subsequent works, it's not as unpredictable as one might hope. Nevertheless, the lesson comes across quite clearly: Be very careful what you wish for, as you may just get it.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

The Importance of Being Accurate.

2006-10-18T20:46:00.000-08:00

Most everyone agrees that cats are adept prowlers, able to utilise stealth and cunning as efficiently as, and often better than, the average weasel. Regardless of one's expertise in conducting such clandestine capers, however, it's only a matter of time before even the craftiest kitty is caught, red-pawed, doing something that, at least to the typical overbearing human, they probably ought not do. Sadly, I'm no exception, and earlier this week, after years of hiding my superior feline literacy, I was discovered surfing the net on my self-proclaimed owner's HP. I tried to pretend that I was simply batting the mouse aimlessly; but as clever as I am, an actor I am not, and such a lame little charade wouldn't have fooled a d*g, let alone a human.

I admit I've been lazy lately and have relaxed in my usual precautions. I knew it was unwise of me, but I began relying on the predictability of Azy's habits. Unfortunately, she's never been a very reliable sleeper, and just when I thought I had her figured out, she walked in, rather abruptly, as I was browsing the Cat Fancier's website. I must say, she took it better than I'd ever have expected, and rather than die straight of a heart attack, she decided to put my talents to use.

At first it didn't seem like a bad deal: Free, uninhibited use of the PC, her office, paper and supplies, in exchange for a few hours of mundane research. Regrettably, I can now see why she's so eager to delegate such research to me. The topics are tedious and vague, and sometimes flat out frustrating. I can search for hours and find very little of relevance. I think she makes most of it up, but there's really no telling. Humans aren't very interesting creatures, so I suppose it's possible that she really wants the rubbish she has me seeking.

I'm sure most of you, being human, are unsympathetic. Still, if you want to know just how frustrating her little scavenger hunts can be, try meeting her so-called criteria yourself and see how miserably little you find. This was her request:

"Fleez, I'm working on a project that requires seeds no larger than sesames, that are naturally blue in colour; but they can't be too dark or they won't work, and I've no idea which plant produces them. Hop on it! Chop, chop!"

When I heard this, naturally I was confident. After all, I'm a cat with a taste for plants, and since she gave me her credit card number and authority to use it for the purrchase of her heart's desire, I figured I could probably get away with tacking on a tender, young catmint bush as my purrsonal reward for a job well done. This is where it all goes pear-shaped: Even in catalogues that boast a strictly seed inventory, you rarely see pictures of the seeds themselves. Page after page of luscious plants! Ferny, flowery, viney, leafy, succulent, wispy, and fully bloomed, plants. NEVER SEEDS!

What's the point of calling it a seed catalogue if you never show a picture of a blasted seed! If all you see is the finished product, shouldn't it be called a plant catalogue? When was the last time you saw a catalogue for paintbrushes that contained no pictures of the brushes themselves but plenty of the masterpieces they'd painted? I realise that most of you aren't looking at paintbrush catalogues, but it's a good question all the same. And while we're on the subject of accurate advertising, if the finished product is all that's to be depicted, why do these so-called seed catalogues never show pictures of big, barren plots of weedy dirt, complete with mounded deposits made fresh nightly by the twenty-seven neighbourhood ferals who stand on line to use your garden as a giant toilet, while howling mercilessly at the unaltered female in the house directly next door? Not everyone has green fingers, you know? It's just absurd to think that every single seed will form into a big delicious-looking plant like they show in these catalogues, and anyone who's ever seen a plot fail in a garden anywhere near a feral colony knows exactly what I'm on about!

All I can say is that the lack of communicative and organisational ability displayed by the human race is abysmal. I believe such deficits are directly relevant to the decline of modern civilisation. If felines ruled the world, seed catalogues would have pictures of seeds, plant catalogues would have pictures of plants, and paintbrush catalogues would have pictures of paintbrushes. One would always know where to look for things, because they would always be properly labelled.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

In loving Memory...

2006-10-11T22:59:00.000-08:00

This week there has been a tragedy in the feline world, as one of the most sophisticated moggies of our generation has died. Her passing leaves behind a bittersweet legacy of beautiful memories and sadness, as she was highly valued and loved by all who knew her.

Sweet Lady Marjorie, Fancy of Pants, was a loving, gentle creature, with the big, bright eyes and quiet disposition of a proper British Shorthair. She was also extremely humble, as after learning the plight of the common kitty, she renounced her hereditary pedigree and opted to be reckoned with the moggy masses, going so far as answering to the simple moniker, Fancy Pants.

During the first half of her too-short life, she suffered much. Her first humans didn't understand the complex needs of any feline, and because of their ignorance she underwent a complete and incompetently purrformed declawing, years of careless over feeding, countless hours without an attendant, and even outright mistreatment. By the age of six, she was grossly obese, suffering chronic, disabling constipation, resulting in a condition known as feline mega-colon, and feline spinal scoliosis (an effect of four-paw declawing).

When the couple keeping her divorced, she was taken to a new home where proper care was impossible due to the elderly human's limitations. She suffered several months more, until finally a decent, competent human offered to care for her in her debilitated state. From the moment of their meeting, Fancy Pants and Heather were utterly inseparable. Heather knew the devotion required in caring for such a needy kitty, and Fancy Pants, having the training of a proper lady, knew how to reward and dignify her human. They were a purrfect example of felidae/human relations.

Years of faithfully dosed medication, a well-monitored premium diet, and countless lovingly administered belly rubs helped Fancy Pants survive four years past the typical ten given to cats who suffer feline mega-colon, but this year she succumbed to pancreatic cancer, a disease that sometimes occurs in cats that have chronic digestive problems. Sadly, there is no cure for this dreaded disease, and after much suffering, she was put to rest with great love and empathy. As is fitting her beautifully majestic purrsonality, she will be cremated on a bed of roses.

There will be no filling the void left by our Sweet Lady Marjorie, Fancy of Pants. She was certainly the crème de la crème of sophistication and class. She will be missed for many years to come.

With purrs of sorrow,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Dr. Fleez

2006-09-20T18:50:00.000-08:00

Many of you may already know that for the past two weeks I've been ill. I've suffered a trip to the v*t, been forced to take nasty p*lls, and have been generally cantankerous and miserable. (Something I'm rather good at, actually.) Well, this week is my self-proclaimed owner's turn. She's come up with something she calls a sinus infection. I suppose it's my vindictive side showing, but I call it comeuppance for making me go through all that rubbish she claimed would help me feel better.

Nevertheless, she is the one who feeds me, so in order to assure my food supply, I shall have to take care of her. I suppose the usual purrscription of rest, allowing her to read to me, purring, and shnuggling will do. I only hope she's not down too long, because she's an absolute whiner when she's ill. Not at all a pleasant patient.

I guess the long and short of this message is that I'll be playing Doctor Fleez, trying to help my human overcome her illness, so this week will be short and sweet. In fact this is it.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Dr. Fleez for short.)

Pure, Unadulterated Laziness.

2006-09-13T23:49:00.000-08:00

Over the years, humans have made some dreadful decisions. Their outcomes vary; but I think it's safe to say that most have devastating consequences, and often these consequences could have been avoided with but a tiny measure of forethought. The trouble is, cats aren't really much better. At least not when it comes to reaching a deadline, and this week, I've completely failed to plan a topic for discussion. It isn't that I don't have a million topics from which to choose, but picking something out of the air without preparation isn't how I typically opurrate.

Given the situation, it seems most logical to write about the hazards associated with laziness, which, ironically, is how I got myself into this situation. Well, laziness and enough catmint to floor a lion. Nevertheless, there's got to be a million sources out there emphasising the dangers of laziness, and I plan to quote approximately sixty-two purrcent of them as filler for the remainder of this article. Then, that would take a great deal of effort; and I'm just not feeling overly motivated, so, why don't I just make up a few things and call it a day? Better still, why don't I just quote some funny things that other writers have said about their purrsonal ineptitude? It'll make my readers laugh, make me look like a brilliant, well-read moggy, and make me feel better about my lingering incompetence.

Sounds like a win/win situation to me. ::purrrrrrrr::

One of the authors most qualified to serve my purposes this evening is the ever procrastinating Mr. Douglas Adams, author of more than a few cross-genre science fiction novels. (If it's possible to be simultaneously classified as science fiction and cross-genre.) Mr. Adams was almost as famous for his novels as he was for his absolute lack of self-discipline while writing them. In fact, most people (himself included) were amazed that he actually completed enough publishable material to reach beyond a moderate level of distinction. Below is a list of Douglas Adams quotes, relevant to today's topic:

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." (I'm not sure who originally quoted Adams as saying this, but it's hilarious and extremely relevant.)
"For a moment, nothing happened. Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen." (This fairly well sums up my trying to write anything worth reading after a serious spot of illness.)
"His study was a total mess, like the results of an explosion in a public library." (Rather like my self-proclaimed owner's office, the chaos of which has only deepened my lack of inspurration.)

Alas, though Mr. Adams may have been the king of procrastination, (so much so that he died procrastinating on his final novel,) there are plenty of noteworthy quotes on the topic, so below I've included yet another list:

"Laziness is nothing more than the habit of resting before you get tired." – Jules Renard I think (1864-1910)
"Anyone can do any amount of work providing it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment." - Robert Benchley
"Never put off till tomorrow, what you can do the day after tomorrow." - Mark Twain

And now, since I can't be bothered to look up exclusively quotes on laziness, I've decided to quote just about anything as long as I think it funny:

"A black cat crossing your path signifies that the animal is going somewhere." – Groucho Marx
A true friend stabs you in the front. – Oscar Wilde
We spend the first twelve months of our children's lives teaching them to walk and talk and the next twelve telling them to sit down and shut up. – Phyllis Diller
"I'd kill you for money! Ha-ha-ha! Ah, no. You're my friend. I'd kill you for nothing." – Chico Marx
"We are actors - we're the opposite of people." – Tom Stoppard
"A fan club is a group of people who tell an actor he's not alone in the way he feels about himself." – Kenneth Williams
"If life was fair, Elvis would be alive and all the impersonators would be dead." – Johnny Carson
"When you've seen a nude infant doing a backward somersault you know why clothing exists." – Stephen Fry
"Electricity is actually made up of extremely tiny particles called electrons, that you cannot see with the naked eye unless you have been drinking." – Dave Barry

Okay, now I'm tired. I think I'll off to my bed. I've not been well of late, and all this searching for quotes has worn me out. Purrhaps next week I'll think of something worthwhile to write about. Nevertheless, I'd not hold my breath would I were you.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Veterinarians Are Evil!

2006-09-06T22:19:00.000-08:00

I must admit there are days when I'm not myself. At nine years of age, that's to be expected. But when I feel absolutely wretched I don't care to do much of anything. Playing becomes cumbersome, hem-mangling my self-proclaimed owner is a chore, and even eating requires more effort than I care to exert. Unfortunately, rather than let me alone, this blasted human thinks the best thing to do is stuff me in a carrier, strap me to the truck seat, drive a million miles, and take me to a place no kitty should have to go: The Vet's.

I'm not one to complain when someone shows me affection, but as much as she claims it's because she loves me, I know better. It's only when I'm at my weakest that she decides to stuff me into that bag! On a better day I'd have taken her arm off, but for all of her negatives, I can never label her "stupid". In fact, I think she knows too much.

For those of you who've never been to the vet's office, let me clue you in on a few things. Firstly, you should be grateful for all eternity that you haven't been, and the only thing close to as bad is the drive there. You only think you hate your carrier, but, I'll have you know, once you get onto that hideous table you can't wait to get back in it! There are other animals there, and they taunt you and tease you and say wickedly mean things. The worst are the cats who actually live there. They stare you down and make you feel as unwelcome as they can, calling you furball, fatty, and butter-buns. (So I gained a pound, so what? I've not been feeling well.)

Then there are the other so-called patients, some of which are d*gs. This time there was a particularly nasty wiener d*g who sneered evilly from the arms of his owner just outside the torture chamber known as "Exam Room 1". I'd have hissed at him had I not been trying to operate my collar-cam. Still, he was a total jerk. My self-proclaimed owner thinks he's cute, but if she'd have heard what he said about her, I'm sure she'd think he was a jerk, too.

The tables where they exam you are cold, steely hard things that aren't at all pleasant and cushy. When do humans ever lay on cold steel tables with people looking in their mouths, poking thermometers where they don't belong, and jabbing them in their bladders with needles? When they're laying in the MORGUE, that's when! Let me tell you, if you've never had a cystocentesis, you should be doubly happy. Trust me, that is no pretty procedure! Just looking at that needle makes you have to pee! I tried to tell them I would pee willingly, but I swear humans don't understand Felus! They were determined to poke me anyway, so I peed just so they would have to clean it up. That's what they get for messing with me. (I must admit, I wasn't keen on the bath afterward, but it was worth it just to tick the doctor off.)

I suppose once it's all over with I'll feel better. At least that's what they say. But if you never have to go and get poked and prodded, if you never have to get stuffed, strapped and driven for torture, if you never have to hear a smack talking wiener d*g, you should be a thankful feline; because I did it all yesterday, and all I can think of is losing myself in a catmint haze for two or three days to ease my stress. If you see me soon all strung-out or in rehab, just remember, the marvels of modern medicine drove me to it!

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Readers! Subscribe directly to Housecat Wisdom's site feed via the FEED ME! link to the right. I thought it was appropriate. ::licking whiskers::

The Inevitability of Change.

2006-08-30T20:07:00.000-08:00

Just two weeks longer, and I'll have been offering readers my purrspective, reasoning, and purrsonal advice for one full year! More than that, if you consider those editions of HCW prior to the institution of the Agony Session. It's been a long year, sifting through piles of e-mail, deciding what does and doesn't interest me. Now my tastes are changing, and as much as I'd like to continue the agony sessions, I think it's time for something new. They're too regular; too constricting. I don't mind answering questions, but twice monthly is getting tedious. I'm a cat; I like having the freedom to do as I please and to write about whatever strikes my fancy. For this reason I've decided to end the agony session.

Now, before you get all bent out of shape and start begging me to keep it going, bear in mind that I'll still answer questions, only not quite as regularly. Purrhaps once monthly, or when I get a really good one that begs a reply. There's been too many times when I wanted to write something else but have been boxed in by the obligatory question and answer format. Yes, it's time for a change. In fact, I think it's time for a lot of changes.

I suppose this is as good a time as any for me to thank all of you who've been reading me faithfully over the past year. I love to hear from you, and I appreciate your comments and e-mails. Still, I think it's only fair that I warn you of the inevitable: Housecat Wisdom will be changing. Hopefully you will like the changes, and hopefully they will encourage you to visit more than once weekly. Some of the changes that I am thinking of are as follows:

Feature stories from Reuters, AP, BBC, & AFP
Weather update availability
Access to daily comics
Access to stock reports
Sport
A Google search box
My current FleeBay listings
This day in history
Word of the day
Purrhaps a weekly crossword puzzle
Your suggestion here

It's my hope that by making these modifications, Housecat Wisdom will become not just a weekly column, but an excellent homepage for any level-headed cat-lover who prides himself on keeping two paws in the real world and the others in fantasy. A feline-minded hub to world-wide-web.

These changes will be taking place gradually over the next few weeks, starting now. You may notice some differences immediately or not. I guess that depends on how much time I have before my self-proclaimed owner wakes. (Remember, I have to vacate the office frequently in order to evade detection, so this process may take some time.) Any suggestions you may have for what you'd like to see on HCW are welcome. Send them along via comment, or e-mail them to housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

Feel free to check in from time to time, and offer feedback. If enough of you hate a certain feature, I may decide to change it. I do hope that you'll continue enjoying Housecat Wisdom for as long as I decide to maintain it.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Mr. Fleez: eBay Entrepreneur

2006-08-23T20:56:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, I've been looking for an effective means of escape for right around nine years now. Sure, I have regular meals, a constant and reliable water supply, toys to play with, and humans to command, but something's lacking. I think what I really need is world domination. Then, maybe a new squeaky mouse will do the trick. Whatever the case, I need cash.

If you ask me, money is an evil invention created to keep felines out of power. You may think me mad, but have you ever seen a cat operating a printing press? It's hard enough to operate a Lexmark all-in-one; I seriously doubt the economic superpowers of the world are trembling at the thought of a kitty counterfeiting ring. So how does a cat earn some cash? The answer, from what I've been told, is a simple one: eBay.

From what I've heard one can sell anything on eBay. Broken pencils, paperclips, and pictures of your ugly family may be money wasted, a fortune rotting away in your cubicle. (Much like your life, really.) This is why I've decided to hijack my self-proclaimed owner's eBay membership and sell all of her things. I know it sounds mean, but hey, she brought it on herself. Had she simply bought me the squeaky mouse as I demanded, I wouldn't have to resort to such drastic measures. As it stands, however, she didn't obey, and therefore she must be punished.

I've decided to start with those stupid souvenir salt and pepper shakers she picked up on an impulse. I'm sure she won't miss them. They're not at all practical; she's never even used them. The Jenga game (This has since sold) is next. I hate it! It's noisy and obnoxious, and you can't play it without opposable thumbs! I agree, it may be a little trickier to smuggle out than the shakers, especially since it won't fit through the mail slot, but all I've got to do is promise a biscuit to the golden lab next door, and he'll open the door for me. (I'm not fond of the idea of a cat/dog partnership either, but desperate times call for desperate measures.)

Now that I've discovered eBay, I'll be filthy-stinking rich and living large in no time. No more sad little apartment for me! I'm going to have a full-blown cat-condo, a squeaky mouse to kill for, and enough kibble to fill a kingdom! Yes, I am the kitty-capitalist, and not a single human can stop me!

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

REMEMBER! You may ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #24: Bonsai Cats?

2006-08-16T23:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

My cousin just came back from New York, and she says there are some Japanese people there who sell something called "Bonsai Cats" that are just a cat grown into a jar. Do you know if this is true? If it is it's evil. Who would do this to any living animal?

Sincerely,
Concerned.

Dear Concerned,

I'm not surprised that this tasteless little debacle has found its way to my desk. In fact, I'm more surprised that it's taken so long. I've been at this column for the better part of a year, and not once have I been asked about this pathetic speck of claptrap. Truthfully speaking, I was hoping I never would be; but here it is, and I'll begrudgingly address it.

I'd like to start by setting your mind at ease: There are no "Bonsai Kittens". No one is stuffing kittens into jars and controlling their growth. This twisted idea is the brainchild (or rather the emptyspacechild) of a tasteless engineer-type at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, USA. Apparently, unlike many of his fellow alumni, this individual lacked the creativity to contrive anything genuinely noteworthy, so instead the unimaginative little fetor burped up the next best thing: Shock.

The Princeton Wordnet dictionary defines shock as:

v. To surprise greatly.
v. To strike with disgust or revulsion.
v. To strike with horror or terror.
v. To traumatize or inflict a trauma upon [another].

The Mr. Fleez' purrsonal dictionary defines shock as:

n. Ideas or material presented with the intent of attracting mass attention while expending as little creative effort as possible.
n. Ideas or material produced with a selfish motive; lacking concern for members of one's own species or the species of another.
n. Ideas or material that deliberately incite anxiety, hostility, and rage.

Shock, in the noun sense, is sweeping so-called civilised society, disguised as harmless entertainment. On the web alone, porn, violence, gore, and cruelty are invited into the homes of countless people, attempting to tickle the jaded senses of their media-battered minds. Even humour has lost its value, as many tapped-out writers and comedians resort to shock as a means of impressing an increasingly dissatisfied audience. As a result, many suffer from self-inflicted psychological damage that carries over into their daily activities, affecting their moods, habits, and social interactions. Overexposure to violence, cruelty, and otherwise extraordinary behaviours, desensitises the observer to less spectacular calamities and crimes, thus rendering them cold and apathetic to the circumstances of all but themselves. With apathy comes selfishness, and with selfishness anti-socialism.

Unfortunately, most fail to see the impact of shock in society. Many believe that items such as the "Bonsai Kitten" are as harmless as they are tasteless, while others promote self-subjection to morbidity and shock as a healthy, normal way to acknowledge the baser side of their nature. These people are famous for spouting off about freedoms and rights while doing their absolute best to encroach upon the freedoms and rights of those who disagree.

Alas, all the reasoning, research, and rhetoric in the world won't dissuade a purrson who's set on slathering society with shock. Ironically, it's more often the acts of repression and opposition undertaken to stop its distribution that purrpetuate and popularise the matter. Well-meaning people see the sites, their tempers rise, and then they react by telling everyone about the horrible things they've seen. This advertisement drives traffic to the sites rather than away from them, thus promoting the very thing they propose to prevent. Not surprisingly, many of these campaigns are started and driven by those who create and support shock material.

Putting stock in everything you hear is not only foolish but dangerous. You may even find yourself spreading disturbing untruths, as did your cousin, thus contributing to a situation that is more likely to fade if ignored. That which is unsettling when heard is infinitely more disquieting when seen, so when it comes to the internet and urban legends, one is wise to remember the adage: Those seeking trouble unfailingly find it.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Real-estate Restlessness

2006-08-09T20:09:00.000-08:00

As a rule, we felines dislike change. This aversion is one of the few commonalities shared by humanity and felinity. Nevertheless, change happens, and those who contribute to it really couldn't care less about those of us who are adversely affected. Whether it's two mean, overly bloated corporations merging into one gigantic, top-fermenting profit vacuum, or a flat full of drunken, drug addicted hooligans who have somehow scraped enough pennies together to move into your block, change is coming, and whether you like it or not, you'll eventually be it's victim.

I can purrsonally attest to the inevitability of change. Recently my so-called owners had decided to succumb to the pressures brought by the swelling stupidity of the yahoos around us. They're selling their house. Of course, this means that they're selling my house, since I am the one in charge. It's an act of flagrant insubordination; they never even consulted with me. This is why I've decided to make the best of the situation, and use it's peculiar circumstances to my purrsonal benefit.

As my more frequent readers know, I am all about escaping from prison. Mind you, I don't actually want to completely escape. After all, if I were to get away for good, who'd feed me and play mouse on a stick with me? No, I just like to get out and have run of the world for just a little while. The up side to this moving thing is that I have the actual ability to take off whenever a stupid man or and even stupider kid wanders into my part of the house without the supervision of a realtor. They never see it coming. They open the door and I sneak out while their backs are turned. This gives me the freedom to bite each forbidden plant at least twice before I'm caught and tossed back in prison.

Another interesting fact I've learnt is that kids are very sympathetic to a hungry kitty. Pull the hungry kitty act on a ten-year-old girl, and Bob's your uncle! Not just a scoop of food, no! A full dish! Sometimes the hungry kitty act doesn't work. This is usually with ten-year-old boys and men. Then I have to resort to taking the women hostage for ransom. So far this ploy has worked well. A few shrieks, a few squeals, and before long the fellahs are slipping fistfuls of treats under the door in exchange for their ladies.

I must admit, I fear my play days are up. My self-proclaimed owner recently posted a warning letter on our flat door. It sort of softens my teeth to the people. It reads as follows:

**CAT ALERT!**
Please, keep this door tightly closed, as Mr. Fleez enjoys making escape attempts. To date he has successfully escaped 1,678 times, usually twice on laundry days.

Please, do not touch Mr. Fleez, as he is not at all hesitant to bite if he suspects you might taste good.

Please, do not feed Mr. Fleez regardless of what he tells you. He is an imperturbable liar who will stop at nothing to snark an extra meal.

If Mr. Fleez threatens to take you hostage for ransom, lock his lippy hinder in the bathroom. That'll teach him.

Thank You,
Azy.

Why must humans interfere with a feline's fun? It hardly seems fair to me. Nevertheless, I've got work to do. I must figure out a way to undermine this letter so that I can continue reaping the rewards associated with prospective buyer house showings. There must be a way to replace that letter with one of my own, and if there is, by Jove, I'll find it!

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #23: A Question of Causes.

2006-08-02T23:31:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

Why is AIDS so bad in Africa?

Anonymous.

Dear Anonymous,

Scientists and sociologist have long believed that the prevalence of HIV throughout Africa is due to an overly promiscuous culture. However, since the implementation of programmes for HIV awareness and public education have brought about a drop in sexually transmitted occurrences, some serious questions are raised regarding the medical policies of international organisations such as WHO (World Health Organisation) and UNAIDS. Many now believe that Third World medical practices are to blame for the persistence of HIV in Africa, and independent studies have shown that unsafe injections administered in hospitals, clinics, and vaccination programmes play a greater role than previously believed.

Critics of international efforts suggest that between 20 and 40 purrcent of infections are spread by the use of contaminated needles. WHO and UNAIDS officials, doggedly focusing on their "safe sex" campaign, credit them with a marginal 2.5 purrcent. I'm not disregarding the need for continued social education, but I consider it appalling that when faced with these findings, such trusted organisations reacted by minimising the risks of using improperly sterilised needles.

New Scientist attributed one particularly ludicrous rationalization to George Schmid, a senior HIV researcher with WHO in Geneva, Switzerland: Apparently, he believes that rinsing equipment twice in water reduces the chances of HIV infection 95%. This same individual was also credited with the equally ridiculous suggestion that because most injections involve jabbing the needle into muscle rather than into a vein…this makes blood contamination less likely, it also reduces the chances of passing on the virus. I wonder if that attitude would satisfy the Swiss government.

Although this is still a greatly debated topic, few dispute the need for both social education and medical advancement in Africa. So, to answer your question more precisely, the principal catalyst for this horrid disease is, and has always been, ignorance of one sort or another.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Practical Solutions to Serious Issues.

2006-07-26T21:35:00.000-08:00

Recently, I've heard a great deal about global warming and its effects on the polar icecaps. I had no idea that such a rift existed in the scientific community; but apparently, and please don't correct me if I'm wrong, because I've not really taken an enormous interest in the subject, and I'll likely just ignore you, there are two basic philosophies on the topic: The Lookouts and their enthusiastic opposition, the Ostriches.

According to my research, which is admittedly scant, the Lookouts are a group of scientists and scientific groupies who have taken it upon themselves to save the human race from their own stupidity by pointing out all sorts of man-made ecohorrors and their eventually disastrous effects on not only the polar icecaps, but the entire earth as well. These are the people who insist that in ten years the earth will be a swirling mass of super storms, greenhouse gasses, and masses of dead or dying organic matter, i.e. forests, the fauna formerly inhabiting the forests, and the people who formerly relied on the oxygen produced by the trees in the forests. As for the Ostriches, they're the ones who bury their heads deeply in the sands of time, all the while insisting that everything is as it's always been, and if left alone things will simply correct themselves. I may be cutting things a little too precisely, but it's okay. I've already admitted my ignorance, so I can say pretty well whatever I want.

In spite of my lack of information, I do know that there's one thing upon which both sides agree: The polar icecaps are melting. Whether it's just a natural cycle in the earth's weather pattern or if it's a devastating, potentially ecosystem-razing, catastrophic shift in climate brought on by the generally selfish and destructive nature of man, (which sounds infinitely more plausible to me,) who's to say? One side says one thing while the other predictably says another, and those who know little in the way of science are forced to either pick sides with no real facts upon which to base their opinion or smile feebly and admit their ignorance.

Me, I've decided to forego both of the standard options and form my own theory. What the heck? My theory is considerably easier to understand, and it points to an immediate solution to the problem: Eat dolphins and whales.

That's right, if we eat marine mammals, we can slow the melting of the polar icecaps by drastically reducing the concentration of dolphin and whale pee in the ocean. For countless centuries, the high temperature of dolphin and whale urine, as well as the salinity of mammalian eliminations, have raised both the temperature and salinity of ocean water, thus causing the icecaps to melt. And is it any wonder? Have you ever peed in snow? Any cat who's prowled outside during winter knows that ice melts when you pee on it. Furthermore, how long do you figure an ice cube would last in a glass of highly concentrated salt water? Not very, I can assure you!

So that's it; I've solved the problem. Yet another reason cats should rule the world: Practical solutions to serious issues. And I'm certain my solution to global warming would be every ounce as effective as what humans are doing about the matter at present.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #22: Origins.

2006-07-19T20:31:00.000-08:00

Dear Fleabag,

I have a report on cultures and customs where I have to talk about differnt stuff like holidays and traditions. My "study buddy' says that Easter is from the nature loving druids. Is that true?

Yours Boredly,
Danny Boy.

Dear Danny Boy,

You may be surprised to learn that questions purrtaining to the origins of religious traditions are fairly commonplace. In fact, I have answered this purrticular question on multiple occasions, as well as similar questions regarding Christmas and Lent. Setting aside your initial insult and obvious lack of grammar awareness, however, I've decided to answer you for the benefit of others who may harbour similar curiosities.

While some historians will gladly agree with your study buddy about the so-called Christian holiday, Easter, its true foundation dates back much farther than the druids. In fact, the name Esther (Hester) is Aramaic for the Babylonian goddess Ishtar, the goddess of love, fertility, and military prowess. Because her followers looked to her for crop fertility, her main festivals took place in spring and autumn. With such a basis, is it any wonder that the rabbit and egg, two obvious symbols of fertility, figure prominently in this celebration?

Since many of Ishtar's traditions and festivals have, in one form or another, continued throughout history, it can be said that she has remained popular with every successive world power since the overthrow of Babylon by the Medes and Purrsians. This shouldn't come as a surprise, though; the nature of her festivals and rituals of worship were, to say the very least, sensual. Both the Greeks and Romans had their own fertility goddesses. Aphrodite (Greek) had her starts in an old-Asian goddess with direct connections to Ishtar and the Syro-Palestinian goddess Ashtart. Venus (Roman) originally began as a goddess of vegetation and crop fertility, but under Greek influence, she assumed many of the qualities of Aphrodite.

We ought not forget the one aspect of Ishtar that is often overlooked, and that was her position as guardian of Babylon's power in war. This was the position of the Roman goddess Vesta. Initially Vesta was a goddess of domestic affairs, much like the goddess Hestia of the Greeks. Hestia and Vesta were both virgins, refusing to be wooed by anyone, and like Ishtar, their happiness was directly associated with the well-being of their respective nations (with the Greeks the metropolis and with the Romans the state.) The names of both Hestia and Vesta have direct connections to Ishtar (Hester).

As you can see, the origin of Easter is by and far not Christian. It was adopted as Christian by the Roman Emperor Constantine III who wished to unite his crumbling empire religiously. Since so-called Christianity was his adopted creed, he found a way to incorporate festivals and traditions of the pagan populous in order to lessen public resistance. After all, he was himself a sun-worshipping pagan, so he likely didn't see any harm in so doing.

So, Danny Boy, in a nutshell, Easter's origins don't begin with a few peaceful, tree-hugging druids. They actually go all the way back to Ishtar, an ancient goddess of sex and violence.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

The Problem With Public Awareness.

2006-07-12T22:45:00.003-08:00

Almost everyone, whether human or feline, has seen a public awareness campaign of some sort. Regardless of cause, there's usually some device, either humorous, morbid, stupid, or disgusting, aimed at educating the public about certain social issues. My purrsonal favourite is the Sterilise Your D*g campaign that ran not too long ago. Some others are the Bloody Idiot campaign against drinking and driving, and the Used by Idiots anti-drugs campaign. Whatever the slogan, whatever the cause, there's one sad, underlying truth in all this clever cant: Those for whom it is written will never get the point. It's the invincible factor; the purrcentage of people who are above reality. It will never happen to them.

Recently there's been a bit of a buzz (no pun intended) about the new anti-methamphetamine campaign in Montana, USA. I'd heard both good and bad, so in order to form my own opinion, I decided to watch the ads. I can say that as gritty as they may be, they don't seem convincing. I know that methamphetamine is an abominable drug, and that the adverts are touting truths. Nevertheless, I'm not fully convinced that television campaigns are capable of curtailing societal ills that begin at the peer level. If someone, especially a child, is associating with people who engage in such behaviour, it isn't likely that a fabrication of potential consequences, regardless of how realistic, will stop them from purrticipating.

So why doesn't it work? If adverts can shape public opinion on matters as minor as house paint or as major as politics, why don't they work in the social realm? The problem is pride. Advertising is usually most effective when it appeals to an aspect of nature, not when it condemns it. Major shoe-peddlers push their products by appealing to the vanity or ambition of their audience. Beverage-pushers, spirited or otherwise, typically appeal to the social image, status and vitality associated with youth and sexuality. These advertisements work because they reinforce what their targets want to believe about themselves. No one wants to believe that they are vulnerable, so turn it around, and it usually works in reverse.

A case in point is the unsuccessful anti-marijuana campaign that has been underway in the USA for decades. The majority of the advertisements have become something of a joke to those who've seen them. Many of them are sensationalised while others, though accurate, have lost their teeth due to the incredibility of their running mates. This has become an issue in America, as many believe the campaign is a counterproductive money pit. In fact, there is evidence to suggest that the campaign has actually fostered a "Robin Hood" image of marijuana: The misrepresented rogue who is purrsecuted for the sake of the big, bad government.

Purrsonally, I disagree with the use of illicit drugs. Nevertheless, I refuse to accept that media advertisements are an effectual means of drugs prevention. If human governments really want to curb the drugs problem, they will first have to address the family crisis. Statistically speaking, children with the highest risk of using aren't those who lack exposure to the media; they are those who lack structure in the family. Sadly, no amount of television airtime can instil the ethics and values that are all too often neglected in today's dysfunctional family.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your purrsonal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez Agony Session #21: Irritated Assault?

2006-07-05T22:21:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

Why is it that our male cat, Moochie, who likes attention and belly rubs from anyone, will eventually swipe at my hubby, claws out and drawing blood, but he has never done this to me.

Sometimes I get the soft paw reaching out for more, but never the claws. I'm thinking hubby is overdoing it, while I know when to quit. Or maybe he's just gentler with the ladies?

We just had a chin rubbing session, and he couldn't get enough. I kept at it until he walked away... no swiping to let me know he's done.Any idea why the difference?

-Kittymthr

Dear Kitty,

I can understand your hubby's frustration. After all, what reasonably sane purrson wouldn't want to stroke the, soft, mink-like jacket of the incurably cute? Regardless of our heartfelt desire to please all of our many admirers, however, we felines are bound by limits. These limits opurrate much like human patience in that they differ on an individual basis. Each individual interacts differently, establishing his own pattern of trust, and trust is vital to human/feline relations.

You've undoubtedly known some animals who don't trust men. They'll waltz up to the first woman they see, eager for some lovins; but enter a man, and they turn into psycho-skittish! Sometimes it's because they've been abused by men, yet others there is no discernible reason. Remember, though, that which is imperceptible to humans isn't always as woolly to their fur-bearing flat-mates.

Animals, felines included, have a keener sense of smell than humans. Whereas a human smells a cake baking, most animals smell its individual ingredients. Because men are the more aggressive of most species, their scent plays a huge part in an animal's distrust. Also, an animal's lack of precise vocalisation forces him to rely more heavily on body language and movement. Since human females tend to be more in tune with the body language of fellow humans, it's likely that they, too, are more in tune with that of animals. This may be another reason that they gain trust more readily. Mind you, we are speaking in generalities, but if a human, regardless of his or her sex, fails to properly interpret an animal's body language (or if he finds it humorous) he is more likely to receive a swipe or bite than one who heeds the warnings.

To be fair, not all men lack social skills, nor do they all smell like predators. However, there are other physiological factors that must be considered. Human males have larger, stronger fingers than most of their female compliments. A man may not realise how heavily he strokes, and his fuzzy friend may interpret his affection as aggression, resulting in a lack of trust. (Oddly, this is also true with children, who often don't realise the extent of their own strength.) Alternately, some men may overcompensate for the sake of a delicate kitty belly, thus creating a ticklish touch. (This also applies to many women.) And, really, who likes to be tickled when they can't actually laugh?

Another real problem occurs during play time. Men tend to play more roughly than women. This can be seen in the way they play with d*gs as well as cats. When an animal associates active or aggressive play with a certain individual, settling down for a belly rub may seem a bit like setting one's self up for an ambush. Taking a swipe, or possibly a nip, may be a pre-emptive defence tactic used to show that they weren't really fooled by all that nicey-nicey crap. A sort of, I'm still watching you, manoeuvre.

Aside from body language, petting skills, and playing strategies, there is one external factor that plays a significant role in the developing of trust in the human/feline relationship. This factor is food. Your husband may be doing everything right, but if he isn't dishing out the goodies, he'll never earn the respect he desires. Short petting sessions, undertaken with undivided attention and followed up with positive goodie reinforcement, will help the right honourable Mr. Moochie build trust and tolerance for your darling husband. With time and patience they may forge a most equitable friendship.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Time For a Holiday!

2006-06-27T22:02:00.000-08:00

My beloved readers,

This week I'll be basking in the sun, munching on kibble, tormenting the beta fish, and doing just about anything other than writing. I think it's what humans refer to as, "taking a holiday." I'm sorry there was no forewarning, but if I'd have actually told you I was taking a holiday, you wouldn't have bothered to come to the site and see the many photos that I've placed here to beguile you, thus insuring your return next week.

::you can't resist my purring::

I sincerely hope you enjoyed the snaps, and purrhaps when I return I'll share some of my holiday photos as well. Or maybe I won't.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

Mr Fleez' Agony Session #20: Testing Tips.

2006-06-20T22:35:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I'm taking the GED exam in August and I'm FREAKIN!! My instructor tells me that there's an essay test, and I don't know how to do that! I'm cool if I write a sentence! How do I even start? HELP ME!!!! How do you write an essay?

Flunked-N-Punked! NYC USA!

Dear Punked,

While writing is a difficult and timely skill to learn, I purromise you that creating an acceptable essay isn't always about purrfecting the technicalities. To answer your question, I'll provide you with the essentials needed to produce a winning article, beginning with content.

Content is purrobably the most important aspect of your piece. The matter about which you write will either hold or fold your reader's interest, and if your reader loses his interest, you lose your reader. Content should be meaningful and well arranged, which brings us to the next integral aspect: Organisation.

If your information isn't well organised, or if it lacks focus, it's not going to win any awards for riveting writing. In fact, it may be impossible to follow. Trying to figure out why George IV is mentioned before George III in an article chronicling the House of Hanover is more likely to annoy, frustrate, or confuse your audience than it is to hold their attention. Try keeping things in a logical order, or at least a progressive one.

Voice is something that many people fail to associate with writing, but it's extremely important to the comprehension of your content. When we read, we hear the "voice" of the writer in our minds. What a reader hears in his head must be fluent and understandable. If it isn't, he may stumble, skip lines, or find himself repeating the same paragraphs in order to grasp their import. This important trait is one that all good writers, amateur or professional, must utilise. When writing, reveal your purrsonality with your words. Give them some spice; add some sarcasm, a little bit of sternness, or whatever fits your content and really reflects how you're saying what you're saying. You know how you hear it in your head; now, you have to transfer that "voice" to the head of your reader so he, too, can hear it in his.

Word Choice is vital to the voice of your essay. There's nothing more distracting than reading the same descriptions over and over. For instance, using wordy affectations to describe actions or emotions will only bore and irritate your reader. Writing something like, "She jumped purractically out of her skin," every time she (whoever she is) gets startled is both ineffective and annoying.

When choosing words, descriptives aren't the only things one must consider. Yes, writers have far lager fists to fray. Notice anything wrong there? Your word choice is also about weather or not you use the correct words to transport your purrception to the reader. Take the purrevious sentence as an example: If you cross-reference the word idea in a thesaurus, you'll find the word purrception, but does purrception really convey the proper meaning? The same holds true with transport, which is listed under convey. These words my be synonyms but are they easily understood? What about the use of weather rather than whether. Homonyms, words that sound the same but are spelt differently, can trip a reader up or, in some cases, change the meaning of the sentence altogether. (Just some side notes on word choice: -1.- If you don't know how to use a thesaurus, learn first; use later. -2.- If something doesn't sound right, check it. -3.- NEVER, NEVER EVER, rely on computer grammar\spell checkers too catch all of your errors, because, quite frankly, they won't.)

Once you understand the mechanics of word choice, the next essential, fluency, should be easy-peasy. Read it aloud. How does it sound? Does it come out smoothly? Do you sputter or trip over it? Does it sound more like something from Sylvester and Tweety than it does an essay on The Irradiation of Peaches in the Southern United States of America? If so, you may still have a purroblem with word choice. Don't get frustrated. We all do at times. Just remember, purractice makes purrfect; and, better still, on a timed exam, no one expects purrfection.

The final essential is simply grammar. Grammar goes paw in paw with both fluency and word choice. If you have poor punctuation, or no punctuation, your reader will either get the wrong sense, make up his own sense, or lose his senses out of frustration. Whatever the outcome, you risk altering your meaning completely. (Sound-bite justice, if you will. Only without media interference, you'll have none other than yourself to blame.)

The importance of purroper punctuation can be illustrated by the incorrect rendering of this sentence: "I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise." The correct rendering reads: "I tell you today, you will be with me in paradise." Because of the misplaced comma, the meaning of this sentence is changed and a future event that is foretold today is mistaken for an event that will occur today.

Admittedly, grammar may not be the main consideration when grading timed essays. Nevertheless, it will be considered. So, ask yourself, "Do I follow the rules, or do I go against the grain and insist that everything be written in Pseudo-Mod-Gregorian style with no capitals and only periods separating the sentences?" If you answer the latter, I'm guessing you'll fail. Don't feel you have to be a technical expert, but do not underestimate the importance of understandable punctuation.

I sincerely hope you successfully complete your exam. If you have any further concerns about writing essays, purrhaps you can address them with your instructor. He may be able to assist you in writing a purractice paper, so you don't feel as though you're flying blind on exam day. I would even be willing to look such a document over and offer my critique, if you feel it will help. Whatever the case, with purractice and genuine effort, I'm confident you'll succeed.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

And She Sometimes Calls ME Freak Show!

2006-06-13T22:36:00.000-08:00

Some articles write themselves. The words flow from our paws like the waters of a craggy spring flow through a clichéd old simile. Such trains of thought can't be broken; they're virtually unstoppable. Then there are the others: The articles we want to write but find wording them nearly impossible. These trains of thought stop frequently, backing up to take on extra, often unnecessary, cargo before dawdling forward at a painfully slow pace, and even when they do finally manage a decent speed, the wise writer avoids premature enthusiasm. He knows that there's probably a gang of dark, mustachioed bandits waiting around the nearest curve in preparation for an outline ambush. Yes, as I've said before, writing is a bittersweet trade. It's either bliss or bother with very little in-between.

I blame materials. Not software, pens, ink or paper (though handling these is admittedly difficult when lacking opposable thumbs), but rather the matter upon which we base our content. One's content is usually inspired by purrsonal experience, so when reality leads us by the paw and abandons us somewhere between The Far Side and The Twilight Zone, we're forced to modify it to suit the reader. This can only work two ways: We must either omit the absurd little details that initially strike us as interesting, thus toning it down for the mainstream audience, or we must inflate those oddities into something totally unbelievable, thus gearing it toward the next edition of The Weekly World News. Such inspiration is troublesome and usually takes the form of a malicious little fork in the already winding road of freelance writing.

I have a theory, and since this is my column, I'm going to share it with you: "Bat Boy" really does exist, and he really did marry Margaret Thatcher's "Mini-me". I'm telling you this, not because I want you thinking me an incurable sucker, but because it's a splendid illustration of my purrevious point. Let's assume for the moment that "Bat Boy's" real name is Gregory, that he really lives somewhere near Nowhere Idaho, and that he's married to a British-born midget called Margaret, whom he met at a vampire convention back in 1990. We'll also assume that this interesting duo lives up the street from Joe Writer, and that they were accidentally discovered when Mrs. Writer (Joe Writer's wife) happened to be selling an exceptionally rare, hard-cover copy of Anne Rice's Interview With a Vampire at her yearly garage sale.

Imagine the scene as Gregory strolls in, lifts the book from the makeshift table and clutches it excitedly to his chest. As his resultant euphoria gushes forth in a bray of spasmodic laughter, his artificially elongated incisors peer out from beneath his twitching upper lip, offering an ethereal display of his obsessive compulsive nature. (By now any writer worth his Biro has run his manners through the shredder and is staring shamelessly.) In machinegun fashion he rambles on about how he met his wife Margaret. He goes into detail about how both were lonely and never thought they'd find true love. (At this point, Joe Writer is not only staring shamelessly but is also taking notes in the margins of his newspaper with a broken crayon he swiped from a nearby box marked 10p.) Then, while queuing for signatures on their favourite vampire novels, they met and were married within a week.

Now, I can't guarantee the accuracy of this conjecture; but at least it's plausible, and, if nothing else, it shows how peculiar realities can both inspire a writer and boggle his mind all in one go. After all, Gregory is definitely interesting, but recounting the incident in exact detail isn't likely to hold the average reader's attention for long. Joe Writer is forced to get creative.

Again, this story can go two ways: Mr. Writer can either relate it as an exceptionally twisted, yet heart-warming, tale of how two people, destined to be lonely, cheat the fates and find true love, or he can spin it into "Bat Boy" (as Mrs. Writer later dubbed him while discussing her day over tea). Then, to the sensible writer, there is only one option: Go to the fiction market and trump it up into something so sensational that someone would have to be a blathering idiot to believe a single word. After all, there's not a book on the shelves called Chicken Soup For The Blackened, Vampire-Loving Goth Soul, and even if you wrote one, the court costs and damages imposed during the copyright infringement suit would likely devour your profits.

Enter the fork: Even the least successful writer has some semblance of pride. No one wants their name attached to a fictionalised tabloid, and the more reputable publications, say, Mad Magazine (if you can call that reputable), aren't likely to bite (pun intended) on the "Bat Boy" proposal, so we vainly grope for a way in which to tell the story without hiding behind a pen name that's only marginally more convincing than the content of the piece. More often than not, we fail miserably.

I'll be purrfectly frank, this article started out as a humorous account based on the all-too-bizarre-to-be-real creatures that crawled out from their respective holes and attended my self-proclaimed owner's yearly yard sale. That, as if you couldn't guess, is where my theory on "Bat Boy" was born. Believe me, with all the notes I collected from that fiasco, I could've written the current issue of The Weekly World News by myself, "Bigfoot's Baby" and all!

She had the tattooed man, the bearded lady, and a chap whose beer-belly might've contained his unborn twin. There was a bona fide lunatic, more than a few lost marbles, and so many loose screws that had she just removed the lot, she'd have collected enough to reinforce the floors of Buckingham Palace. Purrsonally, I think she should have hired a Farris Wheel and some Elephants. The profits from admissions would've shadowed her sales like an aardvark shadows an anthill. (How's that for clichéd?) It was a rag-mag writer's virtual utopia, complete with clown cars and carnies! Were I to spell out each of these extraordinary people (for the lack of a better word), I'd surely have a novel to rival Ripley's. So, instead, I'll just leave it to your imaginations and call it a night.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session # 19: Backbiters.

2006-06-06T21:20:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I have a friend who is always talking behind my back. She says she doesn't, but more than one person has said the same thing more than once. Why do people bother pretending to be your friend when really they have so many bad things to say about you? Why not just stop being your friend?

Yours truly,
Confuzzled.

Dear Confuzzled,

I'd like to begin by providing a few definitions of the word friend:

A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.
A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.
A person with whom one is allied in a struggle or cause; a comrade.

Now let us look at the term backbiter. A backbiter is someone who pretends to be a friend for the purpose of having something to talk about, something to use against you, something to use against another, or something to use to his own benefit. In reality a close friendship with this individual is not necessary, but he or she may take the initiative to get to know you in order to harvest distasteful fodder. You'll often find backbiters in corporate settings or in places where there's a purrcieved pecking order, i.e. school, clubs, associations, etc. A true backbiter often befriends those whom he sees as a threat to his purrsonal advancement, popularity, or so on. He'll gather information on such ones and pass it on to superiors, friends, colleagues, or whoever he thinks will listen. This information needn't be true as long as it sounds plausible and is juicy enough to gain a few oohs and aahs.

Bear in mind that not everyone who talks behind the back of another is a genuine backbiter. Sometimes they are simply frustrated friends, airing minor grievances to a mutual acquaintance without malicious intent. This happens because it's often easier to pretend that everything is warm milk and biscuit treats than it is to work on a relationship (i.e. talking about annoyances, accepting differences, and allowing or asking for space) and run the risk of sounding overly sensitive. The proverbial backbiter knows that it takes a good deal of nerve for an outsider to talk badly of one good friend to the other. This is why she waits for just such an opportunity to covertly undermine the friendship. She hears what your frustrated friend says, and either twists it around to you in hopes that you'll believe you're being talked about and promptly take offence, or she'll provide your friend with such enthusiastic sympathies, even recalling other minor incidences from the past, that before long she's twisted a clipped claw into a broken paw, thus portraying yours as the quintessence of rotten friendships.

Such backbiters play an active, worldwide role in the destruction of family relationships, romantic relationships, professional relationships, academic relationships, and even just neighbourhood relationships. No relationship is immune, no matter how good or how strong it may seem. An outwardly devout husband may leave his wife of fifteen years for a conniving, backbiting women, all because he allows himself to be influenced by her twisted tales and half-truths. The same thing may happen with a woman and her mate. Yes, backbiters and busybodies usually wear the same gloves, and these backbiting, busybodied home-breakers may have been good friends of one spouse or the other for many years, offering a supportive ear whenever a problem arose.

There are countless other examples of how backbiters will use and manipulate others in order to get their own way. They, like more severe sociopaths, are lacking in both moral and social scruples and therefore see nothing wrong with what they do, unless that is, it's being done to them by another. All they care about is coming out ahead. Then, were it not for these individuals who would the major corporations hire as CEOs?

Confuzzled, my best advice for you is this: HONESTLY evaluate your friendship with the accused as well as her accusers. If she stands to gain from your having a stained reputation, then the accusations may be true. If not, purrhaps the truth has been exaggerated by her accusers. Purrhaps she said something out of frustration without realising how it may have sounded to others. All humans have their moments, and such statements are often misconstrued. Regardless, if you value your friendship, you need to speak with her directly, calmly, and openly. If you go into the conversation focused on mending the purroblem rather than ending the friendship, you may be able to overcome any behind-the-scenes backbiters who are waiting to take your place the moment you've gone. Either way, it's up to you to decide if she fits your definition of a true and trusted friend.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

Lewis: The Terrorist of Sunset Circle

2006-05-31T08:01:00.000-08:00

Due to power failure this article was posted late. I do apologise for any inconvenience this may have caused.

Recently someone asked me to comment on Lewis, Connecticut USA's psycho kitty who has allegedly terrorised at least half a dozen citizens, including an Avon lady, several unsuspecting gardeners, and purrhaps the occasional Jehovah's Witness. If you've not heard of this feisty feline, I'll do my best to give you a bit of background. Keep in mind, however, that although I am also a feline, I have no purrsonal connection with Lewis, so anything I tell you is technically second-paw information and should be researched at the source.

According to the Connecticut Post, Lewis is a five-year-old black and white polydactyl with a penchant for stealthy stalking. Apparently he hides in bushes, under vehicles, or really anywhere he can get his wiggle on without anyone spotting him, before bounding out, brandishing teeth, claws, and, most probably, a maniacal glower. Unfortunately, his entirely unsophisticated behaviour has landed his self-proclaimed owner, Ruth Cisero, in a bit of a legal bind. Furthermore, his own life is currently in the balance over the attacks.

I suppose you're all expecting me to side with Lewis and his so-called owner, but must I remind you that, as a cat, it is my birthright to spurn human expectations? That's one of the best bits about being a cat: I can say just about anything I want, regardless of what others expect. To a cat, nothing is sacred, not even other cats. Though, I must admit, it's not necessarily Lewis that's rubbed me backward; rather, it's his ridiculously oblivious human.

Cisero "adopted" Lewis three years ago and claims she has never had any troubles in the home. According to her, he is "a cat's cat" who climbs trees and sits on roofs, and she laments that he is now under house arrest. I can understand Lewis being a bit miffed at having to remain indoors for his crimes. After all, no one likes consequences. Nevertheless, if Lewis' defence attorney is telling the truth, this feline has been egged, hosed, and tormented to the point of fury. In fact, Ms. Cisero not only mulishly denies any wrong-doing on the part of her angelic moggy, (who is, of course, incapable of being a serial stalker, because, after all, she's never purrsonally been attacked,) but has also counterclaimed that the entire cul-de-sac is against him. As unrealistic, and frankly histrionic, as this claim may be, it raises an interesting question: Why'd she let him out in the first place?

It seems that Lewis has been double damned: Initially by the people who antagonised him to the brink of insanity, and further by the ignorance and irrationality of his self-proclaimed owner. How much easier it would've been for her had she simply recognised his problem and tightened security, before she was brought up on charges. Now she'll have to go through an arduous trial, which will likely become a three-ring-circus of animal activists, scoffing citizens, and people who had nothing better to do, all so she can be ordered to surrender Lewis anyway.

Purrsonally, I don't think she should be allowed to keep him regardless of the trial's outcome. I'm convinced that she has a faltering grasp on reality and should probably be receiving medical attention herself. Her instability is manifest in not only her poor judgement, but also in her neighbourhood conspiracy theory and her threats to pack up and run fugitive should the judge order Lewis euthanized.

In closing, I'd like to clarify my position on Lewis' possible death sentence: As far as I know, a five-year-old cat isn't likely suffering from senility, but that doesn't exclude a medical reason for his antisocial behaviour. One of my former co-inmates, Flip, had tumours in her back as a kitten, and as she approached 7-years-old she started losing her mind. Eventually she began ambushing and attacking strangers and later the rest of us. In the end she was euthanized, and justly so. If Lewis does indeed have an irreparable medical condition causing his misconduct, I can understand the decision to euthanize. Otherwise, I hold Ms. Cisero accountable in as much as she failed to comply with the law, and the judge in as much as he failed to see transference to a maximum security moggy reformatory as an alternative to capital punishment.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #18: My Kingdom for a Seahorse?

2006-05-23T23:34:00.000-08:00

Mr. Fleez,

u r clever so maybe u can settle a bet…is a seahorse a proper horse? i said its a fish what looks like a horse n matt said its a proper horse what livs underwater…what do u think?

ty chris.

Dear Chris,

What I think is that you are in desperate need of some grammar lessons. I can honestly say that your question, though worthy of answering, is the absolute worst compilation of words ever delivered to my inbox. I think it's a pathetic exhibition of ignorance that should be counted against the faculty of whichever borstal misfortunate enough to have received you. That being said, please, read on.

Seahorses differ from proper horses in many ways, the most obvious being that they weigh considerably less than 71 stone and they're absolute duffers at the steeplechase. (The average weight for a fully grown seahorse is between 50 and 70 grams, and no matter which tack shop you call, they just don't make saddles that small.) Seahorses also have fins, gills, and swim bladders, all of which are absent in the domestic equine. In fact, the only commonality between the two is purrhaps their silhouette; a seahorse's head does bear an uncanny resemblance to that of their mammalian namesake, but aside from that they're altogether disparate.

There was a time when humans believed these harmless little marine creatures were the descendants of a fearful kind of sea monster called hippocampus. The Greeks believed that the sea god Poseidon drove a chariot pulled by two hippocampi, fabled to be half-horse and half-fish. I suppose it was good PR for the lowly little seahorse, who at the time was so revered that he even appeared on the backs of coins.

In spite of his reverent image, the marvels of modern marine-biology have shown that the seahorse is really just a unique little fish. Unlike other fish, however, he swims upright, has a fixed jaw structure, a curly tail (often used to grip plants), and is actually rather cute. I can't say that seahorses taste better than other fish; as I've never eaten one, but judging by the looks of them, I'd recon they're rather crunchy. Furthermore, given that they dwell among the coral reefs of the South Pacific and along the frothy coasts of the Mediterranean, they're likely salty, as well.

Seahorses are truly extraordinary creatures. In researching this topic I found so much information that I could have easily written a book. However, since I'm relatively certain that you can benefit from a little intellectual stimulation, I've decided to allow you the privilege of researching these fantastic fishies yourself. Hopefully you'll find the following links helpful in your purrsonal exploration, and once you've studied up, purrhaps you can settle this bet on your own.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Sociopathy: A Dangerous Comfort.

2006-05-16T22:49:00.000-08:00

Comfort is a curious word. When I think of something comfortable I think of a large puffy eiderdown, into which I may burrow or purrhaps even sink, like a large ladleful of cat gravy atop a heaping pile of thick, creamy mash. It's something warm and inviting, something pleasant and, well, comfortable. However, comfort isn't always a good thing. In fact, it can be very destructive.

I once read the story of a local man who was beaten to death trying to protect a pregnant woman from her abusive spouse. What made this article memorable was that the husband hadn't done the killing, the woman had. It was an unusual scenario that left me with one lingering question: Why? Why would a woman who'd been trapped in an abusive relationship for more than a year dig through the boot of her car, pull out a tyre iron and bash a man to death for coming to her aid? The answer is a simple one: Comfort.

Sociopaths are notorious liars, able to convince even the most stable-minded individual that she is unlovable, unworthy, and alone. Once the victim's sense of self has been undermined, the sociopath will do as he pleases with little fear of abandonment. Sociopaths can be male or female and can exist in any race, culture, or creed. Because victims of sociopathic abuse are convinced that they're unlovable, they're grateful to have someone—anyone—who's willing to accept them. No matter how abusive the relationship, it becomes familiar and comfortable.

This is a typical case of being content with the devil you know rather than taking a chance on the devil you don't. If a person is convinced that he or she can do no better than their present partner, the very thought of an alternative is terrifying. Sadly, most people who have fallen into this trap can see nothing wrong with their captors. They see only their purrsonal faults and shortcomings. This misguided purrception, along with a large measure of fear, fosters a fierce, though inappropriate, loyalty. This loyalty will lead victims to justify abusive behaviour, slave after, lie for, and even, at times, kill in defence of their abusers.

There's a biblical proverb which states he who in passing becomes furious over a stranger's quarrel is as foolish as one grabbing the ears of a vicious dog. Nevertheless, even if this well-meaning citizen had read this practical bit of wisdom, the shock of seeing someone bashing a pregnant woman would likely have removed it from his memory. That's a tragic reality. Unfortunately, however, such scenarios create a jaded society in which fear prohibits people from coming to the aid of one another in any way whatsoever. They not only avoid getting purrsonally involved, which is admittedly wise, but also avoid informing the proper authorities or even co-operating with civil and criminal investigations. In so doing, humans allow their society to be ruled by sociopaths, and that, in my opinion, is the true tragedy.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #17: Kittenhood Horrors?

2006-05-09T23:14:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

A few months ago my son gave me a Siamese kitten [Zorro] which by now is a little over 6 months. Yea, I love this nut but he is for sure a "nut". He literally "flys" across the room at any given time. He runs through the house and down the hall like a small jet - hangs on curtains and gets into trash even though he has fresh water and food all the time. He gets on dining room chairs and all you see are little paws reaching up to pull something off the table and even goes to my jewelry box and grabs whatever will fit his paw. At night he finally comes to bed and settles down except for the night he stared at a crack in the baseboard for hours! He had me scared as to what was going to appear from the baseboard. Do you think he will grow out of this and settle down like my older cat? He terrorizes older cat but she slaps him down quite often. Not to worry though - - getting slapped just makes it more exciting for him. This Siamese is a "fruit-cake"!! :))

-Cynthia

Dear Cynthia,

Your problem is a simple one: Zorro is a kitten. Unfortunately, cats start out as kittens, and they don't usually achieve sophistication until after the age of two. Until a kitten becomes a cat, such rogue behaviours are commonplace and are also difficult to break.

Kittens are full of energy, curiosity, and mischief. They, like older cats, are constantly on the prowl for food. Having a full dish of something familiar will not deter the kitten who knows there are fresh, meaty chicken bones hiding in the rubbish. Only when they start discovering banana skins, orange peels, and coffee grounds do they finally realise that the bin isn't a fun place to dive.

Though hunting is instinctive, kittens hone their essential skills while playing with their mother and siblings. Sadly, many kittens are removed from their litters young and haven't fully mastered these abilities. This is why they often do silly things, such as stare after a ladybeetle that crawled into a crack in the flooring three hours earlier. They keep diligent watch over corners, the backs of television sets, and sometimes the drains. It isn't simply the thrill of the hunt that keeps them alert, mind you. At times, they'd just like to remember what caught their interest in the first place.

Once they've given up on hunting the invisible, they'll usually turn to a tangible target. Plants, other cats, and human trouser cuffs are a few favourites. Though it may disturb you to see your older cat swatting at Zorro, it's actually a good thing. This action is a time-tested ritual in feline society called discipline. Since many humans have no concept of discipline, I'll be happy to define it. Discipline is the act of preventing or correcting wrong or inappropriate behaviours by enforcing consequences through the employment of boundaries, restrictions, and in some cases corporal action. When your older cat swats Zorro, she is telling him that his behaviour is inappropriate conduct for a sophisticated feline. You may be able to take a lesson from your older feline and have a paw in the training and discipline of this errant youth. It isn't unusual for a mother cat to paw her kittens between the ears when they are acting inappropriately. A short, gentle, two finger swat between the ears could reinforce phrases such as NO!, NO BITE, DOWN, or OY GET OUT'A THE PLANTS! Please remember, though, that you are considerably larger and stronger than the average kitten, so if you are unable to grasp the concept of a gentle, two-finger swat (no harder than that which a mother cat would inflict) don't attempt it; no cat, kitten or otherwise, will respond favourably to abuse. If you are not comfortable with a gentle swatting, remember you may make use of acute sounds, such as the clapping of hands and a stern voice, or even a covert squirt from a low-pressure water pistol.

Regrettably, some humans are under the misapprehension that kittens are evil and therefore have no place in society. The truth is that even though kittens are evil, without them there would be no sophisticated housecats. And let's not forget, without any two-year-olds there would be no adult humans either. As with human children, kittens require boundaries and training. They need to have toys and to be played with. They need food and clean sand to scratch and dig in. They need love and attention. In short they are a very needy, very demanding responsibility, but if given the proper attention, patience, and discipline, they can grow into a beautifully sophisticated housecat.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

P.S.

If you've tried everything to settle Zorro down, yet nothing seems to be working, I recommend a toy called Da Bird™. I don't usually make recommendations like this, but I can attest, first paw, that cats and kittens alike love it. Add a little bit of Cosmic™ Catnip to the playing field, and he should be Zorro butter in no time. Mind you, not all cat's enjoy catmint; but most do, and of all the dried catmints I've tried, Cosmic™ is the most enjoyable. However, don't overdo it! Cats can become immune to catmint when it's offered too often. Yes, you can get too much of a good thing. :::purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr:::

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Seven Wonders of the Feline World.

2006-05-02T23:18:00.000-08:00

Throughout time philosophers, historians, and scientists have compiled lists of world wonders. There are lists documenting the ancient world, the modern world, the natural world and the scientific world. Why, then, are there no lists documenting the wonders of the feline world? It's a purrplexing situation, to say the least; but I've yet to hear of any, so I've decided to compile one myself.

Completing such a task is trickier than one might think, even for an exceptionally clever, talented and gorgeous mog, such as myself. It took literally hours of research and deliberation, as there were countless factors to consider. Firstly, what is the most important thing to we felines? Is it our food, our shelter, our companions, or is it where we rest, where we scratch, or where we purrform our more mundane functions? Procuring satisfying answers to such questions is vital to the formation of an accurate list. No doubt they seem fairly basic, but if you try deciding which is most important to you, not to mention choosing fitting examples of each, I suspect you'll find that it's not as simple as it seems.

Before we continue, I'd like you to understand the way in which the list is ordered. Each item is bulleted from least to greatest. Sort of like on the Letterman Show, 7…6…5, and so on. So, the higher in priority, the lower in listing. That having been said, let us proceed.

· Every cat worth his claws enjoys a good scratching post. Wooden posts, preferably those with a bit of bark on them, are typically preferred, so imagine the wonder on the city kitty's puss when he stares up in awe at the wondrous Redwoods of Humboldt Redwoods State Park, California USA. It's estimated that the mighty Redwood tree can grow up to 130 metres, though the tallest falls short of that, standing a mere 112.7 metres.

· Even though there aren't too many moggies wandering out in the wilderness, the following shows that we cats can claw our way into the heart of the most unlikely companions. I can't think of any feline affiliation more wondrous than Muschi, a black, sophisticated moggy and her buddy Maeuschen, a half-ton Asiatic black bear. In 2004 these two were recognised world-wide when Berlin Germany zookeepers decided to reunite them after the bear had been moved to a cage while its enclosure underwent remodelling. No one is sure where Muschi (German for "pussy") came from, but in 2000 she befriended Maeuschen ( German for "little mouse"), and they've been inseparable ever since.

· Felines are furtive creatures, and good hiding spots are always appreciated. That's why I looked to the cougars of Carlsbad Caverns National Park, New Mexico, USA. Cougars are powerful predators who live solitary lives. When birthing offspring, mother cougars will often take shelter in caves or rock crevices, and as anyone who's ever visited Carlsbad Caverns National Park knows, some of the most wondrous caves in the world can be found therein. The cougar may not hide in the caverns, but I'm sure she's dreamt of it! After all, she is of the same genus (Felis) as we sophisticated housecats.

· No cat can live without his catnaps, and on a warm day, where better to rest his prickly-whiskered head than on a soft, cool bed of moss? The Cibodas Bryophyte park, part of the Cibodas Botanical Garden in Cianjur regency, West Java, opened its doors as the world's largest out-door moss garden on the 12th of April, 2006. The 1,500 square metre Bryophyte park contains 250 documented species of moss and will eventually be expanded to 2,500 square metres. A wondrously cushy garden, indeed. Unfortunately, they don't cater to kitties.

· Grooming is an integral part of the sophisticated housecat's life, so when we see this admirable trait in other areas of the world we take notice. In the world of grooming, I can think of nothing more wondrous than the industrious oxpecker. Oxpeckers are to be admired for the complimentary services they provide to both the cape buffalo and the lion. Cape buffalo, much like other planes animals, often suffer from annoying skin parasites. The much appreciated oxpecker feeds on these parasites thus freeing the buffalo of annoyance, while unknowingly reducing the volume of parasites ingested by the lions who eat the buffalo. The oxpecker gets his dinner, the buffalo gets a little relief, the lion eats the buffalo, and in the end everyone's satisfied!

· As everyone knows, felines are fierce hunters, but finding things to hunt isn't always easy. That's why I can think of no more wondrous prey than the portly pachyderms of Africa. The average male elephant can weigh up to 7,000 kilograms, but when attacked by a pride of hungry lions, size is no guarantee of safety! In Botswana's Chobe National Park, these mighty mammoths have fallen to the tests and tactics of the prime planes' predator time and time again. Now that's a true attestation to team work.

· Few things could possibly top the necessity of food; but what goes in must come out, and there's nothing worse than having to dig in dirty sand when the spirit moves you. That's why I've chosen the Sahara Desert as the most supreme wonder of the feline world. The Sahara, in North Africa, is the largest desert in the world, spanning an area of approximately 9,000,000 square kilometres. And even though only about 30% of the desert is actually sand, it's still more sand than I'll ever see all in one place, and I'd wager it's a great deal cleaner than some sandboxes of the smaller variety!

I hope you've enjoyed my list of feline wonders. If you have anything to add, feel free to join the HCW Reader's Group and share your thoughts with others.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #16: The Science of Subjugation.

2006-04-25T19:25:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

It took me many pains to sneak away and write this. I am a 5 year old black and white kitty whom my mommy just adores. However I get into alot of trouble with my attention getting antics. Usually at 1 am. I knock thing off high places (the normally break) to wake mommy up to either feed me and my siblings or to play with me. But I wind up getting squirted with water. Is there a better way? Also how can I get her to stop calling me "babyguy"....its afull. I have a manly name, and I am, after all 5!

Any help would me great.

Yours truly,
Trouble in the city.

Dear Trouble,

I'll never understand how a superior feline can call an inferior human "mommy". I realise that this individual feeds and entertains you, but let's not blur the line between serving and nurturing. When you allow a human to believe that it wields parental authority, it will use it against you. This abuse of perceived authority is the direct cause of your naming issues. If you reinforce your human's motherly delusions, she will continue to call you her "babyguy". That's just the way people are.

Your attention-getting tactics are an altogether different matter. I can relate heavily to the squirt-bottles and screeching, as I have received such punishments myself. I must admit, on occasion I still get the squirt botttle, but I've wised up on my methods and have thus lessened the overall frequency. I suggest you do the same.

We will begin with dropping things. This tactic almost always backfires. When you are dropping things from a height, you present and actual danger to yourself, your self-proclaimed owner, or one of your fellow prisoners. This is not tolerable to humans and therefore elicits immediate, no-questions-asked retribution. In short, if something falls, you're going down with it. Furthermore, it isn't reasonable to expect co-operation from one who's only memento of their final visit to Great-Great-Grand's house was just destroyed at the paw of he who wishes to be fed. A more realistic outcome is that that you'll be forcibly removed from whichever shelf you're vandalising and thoughtlessly tossed into a bathroom or broom closet. It doesn't take a feline Einstein to see that unless the kibble bag is kept in the human's closet of choice, dropping things is not in your best interest.

Now that we've established the least constructive way of waking a human, let's discuss the most efficient alternatives. When polled, the majority of felines agreed that the best way to wake a human is by employing a combination of annoying little things that she initially believes can be ignored. A consistent fifteen-minute rotation of laps ran over the head, newspaper or paper bag smoothing, loosely hung door beating, and bursts of bounding about like an unrestrained maniac is the most effective programme available. This routine allows your human to build up to a level of annoyance rather than reaching her limit all at once. It also gives you the exercise needed to keep your bowels functioning at prime so you can can complete the human-waking scheme. Yes, if your fifteen-minute rotation of annoyance doesn't have her out of bed, it'll keep her in the semi-conscious state required to appreciate the full impact of your piece de resistance: The sandbox bomb. If that doesn't get her out of bed, dropping that trophy onto her head three weeks in a row has probably damaged her olfactory sensors. Your starvation is eminent, and you've no one but yourself to blame.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Writer's Block: Well, There's Always Politics.

2006-04-18T23:32:00.000-08:00

After a long day spent warming myself on a sun-roasted eiderdown, I've decided that writer's block is nature's punishment for being too comfortable for too long. I can think of no other explanation for my sudden loss of ability. I'm usually a capable thinker. Today, however, I feel as though I've been steadily infused with an ongoing dose of anesthetising apathy. In fact, I'm not entirely certain that I ever woke up.

It's on days like these that I regret my disinterest in politics. From what I've seen, the majority of writers in the blogging world are politically motivated, and that seems to work well for them. Unfortunately, I have little need for the world of human discord, and therefore I have far fewer targets to ponder. Having the security of subjects who are consistently foolish, dishonest, and predictable is a contentment I'll never fully grasp. On the other hand, I do know a thing or two about extemporaneous speaking, and I can't think of anyone more commonly associated with that than George W. Bush.

Many people would argue that there is no humour in the woeful ignorance displayed by the current US president, and I must admit that their position is reasonable. After all, he is one of the world's most powerful men and should therefore exhibit some measure of intelligence. Unfortunately, he doesn't; and as sad as that is, there's no changing it, so why not make the best of a bad situation and have a good laugh? To help you along, I've decided to succumb to my laziness and do what every good political humorist does when they suffer writer's block: I'll share my favourite Bushisms. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I've enjoyed critiquing them.

"Natural gas is hemispheric. I like to call it hemispheric in nature because it is a product that we can find in our neighborhoods." —George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., 2000. (No one's really sure what George meant by hemispheric. Then, apparently he didn't either.)
"I am mindful of the difference between the executive branch and the legislative branch. I assured all four of these leaders that I know the difference, and that difference is they pass the laws and I execute them." —George W. Bush, Washington, D.C. 2000. (This is the real reason the US Department of Education wants all states to require at least one civics credit in order for students to qualify for graduation.)
"They misunderestimated me." —George W. Bush, Bentonville, Ark., 2000. (I can't figure out if this is correct in a double negative sort of way or what. In other words, if they misunderestimated him, does that mean they really overestimated him? At least that would account for the votes.)
"Never again in the halls of Washington, D.C., do I want to have to make explanations that I can't explain." —George W. Bush, Portland, Oregon, 2000. (Yet another failed political goal.)
"Border relations between Canada and Mexico have never been better." —George W. Bush, during a press conference, 2001. (Perhaps the US Department of Education should raise the requirements for geography as well.)
"When I take action, I'm not going to fire a $2 million missile at a $10 empty tent and hit a camel in the butt. It's going to be decisive." —George W. Bush, Washington, D.C. 2001. (Since the camel is not inside the empty $10 tent, does that make the missile misguided?)
"When I was a kid I remember that they used to put out there in the Old West a wanted poster. It said, Wanted: Dead or Alive." —George W. Bush, Washington, D.C. 2001. (Was Bush alive in the Old West, or did he see this on TV? I think I've spotted a serious rift between fantasy and reality.)
"Arbolist … Look up the word. I don't know, maybe I made it up. Anyway, it's an arbo-tree-ist, somebody who knows about trees." —George W. Bush, quoted in USA Today, 2001. (I think the word maybe can be safely eliminated from this statement.)
"I'm the commander — see, I don't need to explain — I do not need to explain why I say things. That's the interesting thing about being president." —George W. Bush, quoted in Bob Woodward's "Bush at War". (Yes, but it's even more interesting when you do explain why you say things.)
"I promise you I will listen to what has been said here, even though I wasn't here." —George W. Bush, Waco, Texas, 2002. (He spent that day back in the Old West pinning up “Most Wanted” posters of Osama Bin Laden.)
"I always jest to people, the Oval Office is the kind of place where people stand outside, they're getting ready to come in and tell me what for, and they walk in and get overwhelmed in the atmosphere, and they say, man, you're looking pretty." —George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., 2004. (“…pretty”…Stupid, Mr. President.)
"Too many good docs are getting out of the business. Too many OB-GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all across this country." —George W. Bush, Poplar Bluff, Mo., 2004. (Poor Laura.)
"I can only speak to myself." —George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., April 28, 2005. (Well, you certainly only make sense to yourself.)

Thank you Mr. President. You've been very helpful.

Your's Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #15: Pretty Problems.

2006-04-11T21:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I’m not always good talking to people and it seems like pretty people don’t want to talk to me. Are pretty people mean?

Shy.

Dear Shy,

The answer is no. Pretty people are not mean. I suppose there are some pretty people who are mean, but as with any other so-called group, you can’t judge every individual in blanket fashion. To say that all pretty people are mean is like saying that all Germans speak purrfect English. Trust me, not all Germans speak purrfect English. Some of the English don’t even speak purrfect English, so it’s illogical to assume that all German’s have mastered the tongue.

There is a more plausible explanation for why pretty people don’t want to talk to you. My first guess would be shyness itself. One of the main causes of shyness is a basic insecurity, which can create feelings of inadequacy when one is faced with purrsons who are purrceived as somehow superior. (Incidentally, this is one of the reasons dog people often think cats are mean: They sense our superiority and are intimidated by it.) Because someone is purrceived as mean, however, doesn’t make her so. She may be shy as well, and therefore a stand off occurs in which both individuals avoid one another for no reason other than a mutual fear of rejection. It isn’t necessarily meanness that a shy purrson fears; it’s more often rejection.

Another reason that pretty people don’t talk to you may be your attitude. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying your attitude is bad, only that it’s possibly bad. After all, I’ve never met you, so I can’t make that call. However, if you try disguising your timidity with a showy, overly confident, or pompous, attitude you’ll have difficulty getting the time from an ugly, stinking schnauzer much less an attractive human.

Since self-assessment is key to overcoming purrsonal obstacles, purrhaps you should try honestly evaluating yourself. Think about a particular incidence in which someone appeared mean to you and ask yourself some questions. Where were you in proximity to the individual? When you made eye-contact, did you glower, stare, or look away quickly? If you were introduced, did you feebly shake hands, look down, or mumble a greeting? Alternately, when introduced, did you immediately begin bragging about yourself, your things, or your accomplishments?

There are many questions one may ask himself in order to determine if introverted shyness or an outward attitude problem is causing his lack of new acquaintances, but answering honestly isn’t always easy. Sometimes getting an outside opinion is more effective. Whether from a trusted friend or a licensed professional, an objective estimation of your social behaviour may be needed to help quash your cumbersome timidity.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Infomercial Improvement.

2006-04-04T23:12:00.000-08:00

I know I’m not the first to point out the exceptional amount of rubbish being aired on television. In fact, if you channel surf long enough, you’re likely to find multiple instances of bloated, ruddy-faced sociologists droning on about the indisputable link between mindless programming and the decline of civilisation. Still, like any cat worth his claws, I can’t help taking a swipe at such an easy target.

Fortunately, my self-proclaimed owner doesn’t over indulge in the endless menu of available programming. She sticks to educational stuff. You know, shows that teach terrorists how to blow up nuclear reactors with a Mini Cooper full pig manure and murders how to clean up a crime scene before the police arrive. It’s mostly interesting, but I prefer infomercials.

Infomercials expose viewers to some of the most pointless information they’ll ever encounter. Teeming with loaded statements, convoluted explanations, unrealistic demonstrations, and, best of all, precisely edited, highly censored “consumer” testimonials, you couldn’t buy a better example of shameless capitalism in an airport café for Muslims with allergies. They’re a pathetic epithet for man's misguided dreams of material utopia, and, to add insult to injury, you’ll never win a game show with the surfeit of useless minutiae left rattling about in your brain after an half-hour’s worth of some former-boxer-gone-nutritional-guru turning an average pound of artery-clogging bacon into a healthy and tasty treat.

I don’t really know what attracts humans to the bait of material propaganda, but I know what attracts me: Pure, unadulterated snobbery. Yes, I do love that high-and-mighty, down-the-nose, shake-of-the-paw-twitch-of-the-tail feeling that infomercials stir within me. Few things so clearly depict the superiority of cat over man as a whopping-great idiot blabbing on about how to squeeze an entire orange into a healthful drink, peel, pesticides, paraffin and all! Next to political speeches, infomercials are the best programming available for building the feline ego.

Then, I suppose they wouldn’t be so bad were they not dominated by adverts pandering to the selfish wants of object-obsessed bipeds. I think they should be obligated to share air-time with those promoting products that reflect the true needs of society. Cat condos, feline fountains that circulate and oxygenate drinking water, vet-free medications, and remote powered mice are but a few possibilities. What about heated, fully detached dog houses, bark collars, and dog whistles? Sensible products for a sensible market; products one won’t regret buying a week after delivery.

Where are the half-hour-long specials offering simulated bacon, chicken snaps, and liver paste? When will we see a panel of picky pusses lapping the liquid of freshly juiced Lamprey? Where are the Burly Maine Coons demonstrating Kung Mew to a group of bony Burmese who are ready to put a halt to terrier terror?

It’s amazing how much time and money goes into selling senseless scrap to credulous consumers. I can’t imagine what limitless good might be accomplished with but a tenth of it.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #14: To Feed or Not to Feed?

2006-03-28T21:29:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

My kitty had a little bit of a weight problem, now she's thinner but she has a bag! My sister calls her "Bags" instead of her real name. Annie (the cat) is used to get treats whenever she wants how can I stop her from begging everyone that she sees for treats? Please help me with my dilemma!

Sincerely,
WAR (Berkley, MI, USA)

Dear WAR,

I found your question somewhat pointless. The answer is self-evident: If you don’t wish your feline superior to beg for treats, then hand them out freely and often. It’s possible that this would also be the solution to the “Bags” issue, as she would soon balloon out into the monstrous moggy she once was, thus reoccupying all of her sagging skin.

Of course, there are downsides to this remedy. Firstly, as a flabby feline she will run the risk of heart disease and diabetes. Such ailments can cause great pain and suffering for her. Weight related heart disease can kill a kitty suddenly, while diabetes can slowly drain her of her vital force, damaging her heart, liver, and kidneys in the process. It can also cause poor eye sight and urinary disorders.

Another problem that commonly occurs in tubby tabbies is feline arthritis. A lean and muscular moggy loves to play, leap onto things, and generally wreak havoc. She is agile and surpasses in grace even the most talented of human acrobats. A corpulent cat, on the other paw, will eventually develop stiffness in her joints, and her feet may become sore and tender. Rather than gracefully leaping, running and playing, she’s more likely to lie about between meals, adding more sag to her already swollen bag.

I suppose if you really want her to stop begging, there are ways to accomplish it. My self-proclaimed owner often tells me to scat or go, which I assume means she wants me out of the kitchen. I never listen, though, and in the end she usually spritzes me with a water pistol to get me out from under her feet. (Shaking a paw at the very thought.) She thinks I don’t know it’s coming from her, but I’m not as stupid as she thinks me. Nevertheless, the truth of the matter is this: If your Ms. Moggy wants a treat, she’s going to ask for one. If you wanted a treat you’d ask, would you not? It may not guarantee that you get one, but you’d have at least given it a shot. Likewise, just because she asks doesn’t mean she really expects you to cave. Maybe after a bit of wasted whinging she’ll get bored with you and find a grasshopper to victimise.

Ultimately you’ll have to decide whether you’re willing to suffer the lies, treachery, and deceit meted out by your moggy in her search for snacks or if you’ll give in and take pity. Bear in mind, however, that even if your feline friend eventually returns to her former state, there’s a good chance your sister will still call her “Bags”. After all, her bag will still be around, it’ll just be fuller and more noticeable.

Yours Purringly
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Britain Mourns Her Mouser in Chief.

2006-03-21T19:38:00.000-09:00

Typically I avoid political topics, but today I feel it's my duty to honour the passing of one of Britain’s most esteemed politicians: Mouser in Chief Humphrey. It was confirmed March 20th 2006 that the eighteen-year-old moggy had recently passed away. His regrettable demise was likely the result of age-related health complications. He may have been but one in a long, respectable line of royal mousers (said to extend back as far as Henry VIII,) but he was without doubt the most memorable.

Beginning his tenure at No. 10 Downing Street in late 1989, Humphrey maintained an active, cost-effective role in the civil service. Under the premierships of Margaret Thatcher, John Major, and Tony Blair he protected the elite from the unhygienic and unwelcome presence of various vermin. Within his dossier(which is reportedly an impressive one and a half inches thick) a 1992 memo released by the accommodation officer at 70 Whitehall, describes Humphrey's eating habits as “little and often”, and to further delineate the sensibility of his station, his salary was estimated at ₤100 annually as opposed to the ₤4,000 required to employ an human to oversee pest control. It was also noted that, unlike Humphrey, the human had never caught a mouse.

In 1993 Humphrey remained the model of civil servitude. He was described as having “no criminal record” and having not been involved in any “sex or drugs scandals”. Even though he had been diagnosed with a minor kidney disorder, its cause was believed to be dietary and not due to any form of vice. As with any public figure, however, the press will inevitably attempt to tarnish an otherwise exemplary reputation; the Mouser in Chief was not immune, and in 1994 Humphrey was accused of savaging a nest of baby robins who had settled in a window box outside the office of then Prime Minister John Major. The accusations were denied on the official level, being branded “libellous” and “completely unfounded”. Whether or not anyone bought the denial is open to debate. Nevertheless, given some of the charges levied against his fellow politicians, I doubt savaging a nest of baby robins had his back overly bristled. In fact, were I him, I’d have been more offended by the official defence than by the press accusations. (Imagine someone publicly declaring you unfit to catch “roast duck with orange sauce, presented on a plate.”)

The 1994 accusations blew over, and in 1995 Humphrey decided he needed a holiday. In typical feline fashion, he wandered off leaving his humans wondering where he’d gone. After three months away from Downing Street, he was forced to return in order to quell disturbing and erroneous reports of his death. Acting on advice from representatives at Whitehall, he issued a short statement to the press: “I have had a wonderful holiday at the Royal Army Medical College, but it is nice to be back and I am looking forward to the new parliamentary session.” This statement alone proved that, like any good politician, Humphrey could lie with the best of them.

After combating kidney troubles, suffering a restricted diet, weathering press attacks, and being forced back from holiday prematurely, Humphrey grew tired. Some say that his kidney disorder returned, others fault Cherie Blair’s allergic or fastidious disposition, and still others blame the Labour Party in general, but regardless of any particular causal factor, November 1997 saw the retirement of Humphrey, the Mouser in Chief. Unfortunately even this action came under scrutiny, and he was forced to hold a final, though private, media conference in order to quash the storm of speculation that stemmed from his controversial Downing Street exodus. He had lived his days in a quiet undisclosed location, out of the public eye, until his death earlier this week. Undoubtedly, Britain mourns the loss of this majestic moggy.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #13: A Brush With Death.

2006-03-14T18:24:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

My kitty has bad breath. I have tried feeding him special treats, but for them to do any good I have to feed him a boat load, and I don’t want him to get fat. I spoke to his vet about it, and she says I should brush his teeth after he eats and then feed him a few of the treats to help keep the tartar under control. Since you are a cat I thought I would ask you first before taking her advice. What do you think about having your teeth brushed?

Sincerely,
S.H. – Michigan, USA

Dear S.H.

When I read your letter, the first question that sprung to mind was why: Why is it such a bad thing to feed your feline superior a boat load of treats? Feeding the occasional few is okay, but a boat load sounds fantastic! I’m not exactly certain what constitutes a boat load, but that’s one topic I’m willing to research!

As for what your vet says, well, I suppose that, in a technical sense, she is correct. Brushing a cat’s teeth after a meal will remove odour-causing food particles that lodge themselves up around the gum line, above the back teeth. The trouble with this, however, is that these particles are often replaced by bits of shredded plastic, rubberised bristles, or human flesh, as cats aren’t particularly fond of having some breath-obsessed human lunging a toothbrush or finger cot into their mouth, regardless of intent.

There are other risks to feline teeth-brushing that one must consider. Firstly, there are claws with which to contend: 18 of them to be precise. (That figure is barring the polydactyl or de-clawed equations, which could make a world of difference to he who brandishes the brush.) Claws are wonderful things, provided you leave us to our contentment. Otherwise, prepare to feel the searing heat of a cat welding itself to your hand, arm, or any other accessible bit, by means of nature's most adherent form of solder. If you’ve never had to detach a cat from yourself or another, I assure you, it isn’t pretty.

Another risk exists in the mouth itself. We felines have the most perfect set of mangling gnashers that God has ever created. We can break the neck of a bird or mouse within seconds if we so choose. Remember, your fingers are just the right size for mutilation, and if you get too close to moggy’s mouth when he feels threatened, he’ll be all too happy to practice his death crunch on one of your offending digits.

I’m not saying that you shouldn’t brush your feline farther-up’s teeth. If his breath is as bad as you say, he’s probably not thrilled with it either. Remember, though, sometimes brushing won’t help any more than will a boat load of dental treats (which still sounds infinitely better to my ears.) There may be digestive issues involved, or, worse still, a hidden illness. If his breath doesn’t improve with brushing and dental treats, you may need to revaluate his diet, or even (phht!) take him back to the (phhhhttt! phhhhhhhhttt!) vet.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for – phhht – short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Standards Australian: Toilet Seat Sentry.

2006-03-07T21:30:00.000-09:00

I'm always looking for titbits of interesting information: Mainly factoids or snippets of useless twaddle, which are easily twisted and manipulated to fit my mood, but the occasional bit of newsworthy information may also strike my fancy. Then, I suppose the truthfulness of that statement depends on what one considers newsworthy. As for me, I consider toilets such; and more precisely, Australian toilets.

I’d wager my whiskers that you’re wondering why an irresistibly cute, sleek, and squeezable moggy, such as myself, would be interested in toilets. After all, I’ve never used one; and quite frankly, I doubt I ever will. Nevertheless, after reading the majority of rubbish printed this week, the sturdiness and structure of Australian toilet seats was a refreshing break from the daily grind of politics and propaganda. Who wouldn’t rather read about the inflated bums of Australia than sift through the slanted tales and half-mad claptrap produced by the world’s mighty spin doctors?

Please, don’t misunderstand me. I freely admit that keeping sharp on current events, economic and political, is important. I’m not trying to minimise the need to be awake to the ever-changing scope of world affairs. Even housecats need to know what’s going on outside. Nevertheless, trying to truffle out the truth from beneath layers of hidden agendas, personal opinion, and political bias can be depressing. That’s why delving into - albeit not too deeply - the world of the Australian toilet industry piqued my interest.

Earlier this evening, while my self-proclaimed owner was away, I logged on to check my e-mail and to begin researching a potential topic for this evening’s blog. For the devout drawing room sociologist, catching wind of social issues that double as toilet humour isn’t an everyday occurrence, so when I found an article in the AFP, relating the apparent need to change the country’s standards for toilet seat safety, I quickly absorbed the details. Apparently some 62% of Australian men and 45% of Australian women are currently obese. According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, this is a 10% increase over the past decade. Perhaps that's why they call it The Land of Plenty. Nevertheless, the proliferation of portliness has caused a bit of unrest in the world of water closets. The nongovernmental organisation, Standards Australia, is considering the necessity of strengthening toilets for larger users; and, since they’re the ones who set the standards for safety and design, the seats upon which larger Australians conduct their business is their business.

I guess what I really want to know is what sparked the commode controversy in the first place? At which point did someone declare toilet safety an issue? Given the statistics, it’s obvious that obesity isn’t new to Australia. If ten years ago close to half of the populous was obese, why is this just becoming a concern? Have the instances of toilet seat-related injuries risen considerably in the past decade? Are there more unexpected W.C. casualties in recent years than there have been in past? Perhaps there’s more to the story than just concern for public safety. Perhaps the brother of the Standards Australia chairman recently married into a wealthy toilet seat empire, and they’re looking to boost production. Then, even if such is the case, this is one area of human society to which I happily turn a blind eye.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. (no pun intended) Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #12: Venerated or Venomous? Take Your Pick.

2006-02-28T17:35:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I have a beautiful white female who loves to display herself in the drawing room window of my flat. When people walk by they look at her and comment on how striking she is. The problem starts when they neglect to comment. I swear she knows and becomes angry over the matter. Every time someone walks by without commenting, she leaps down from the window and tears through the house with much caterwauling. You would have thought they had touched her with a branding iron. Why the devil is she like this?

Sincerely,
Brian.

Dear Brian,

There's something I simply must address before answering your question: You do not have a beautiful white female, she has you. That is all there is to it. I know you humans like to think you're in control, but try sleeping in without feeding your kitty her brekky and see for yourself who controls whom.

Ultimately, the answer to your question is a simple one: She deserves veneration, as she is superior and obviously commanding. Nevertheless, this scenario reminds me of a queen I used to know, and oddly enough she was also white. Her name was Flip, and I once roomed with her and five others, one of which was a filthy cocker spaniel.

Flip believed in feline supremacy, and had a knack for rabblerousing. At one point she managed to have us all-herself excluded-thrown into solitary confinement for sedition. I'm still not sure how she managed to keep herself from blame, but I suspect her gleaming white coat dazzled the authorities.

That night was, if nothing else, educational. Surprisingly, I can't even remember what triggered it now. I was resting peacefully upon the highest perch of the cat tree; as I am the alpha-male, and the top perch is therefore mine. I heard a vicious growl from near the window and soon noticed the others gathering beside her to have a look out. With interest piqued, I leapt from the cat tree and strode purposefully to the window. I tried to chucker my way through the hubbub, but that's when Flip ignited.

Bristling her back from ears to tail, she turned to us and demanded freedom to roam. She spoke of rodents, grasshoppers, and fields of catmint and grass. She made our harsh, urban garden sound like Eden, yet here we were, sitting before the picture window, watching it all pass by. Well, I was young and foolish back then, and to an almost kitten a revolt sounded fine. I sided with her, and the riots began.

At first the humans tried to quell us with squirt bottles, but we were on fire, rocking the end tables and turning over chairs. Our language was atrocious and vulgar, and our chants could be heard by all the neighbouring ferals. No squirts would stop what Flip had started, and much to everyone's surprise, the eldest, most sedate of us all, Fancypants, reached up her sleeve and pulled out a flick knife. She brandished it freely, demanding our oppressors open the door. They stood off, so the beta male pulled a set of brass knuckles from beneath his collar to add pressure.

I suppose things got a bit out of hand, and when the Patch Tabby started swinging nun-chucks a passer-by saw her through the window and phoned the police. It wasn't long thereafter that one of the humans, brandishing a broom handle, swept us off into our separate cells to contemplate what we'd done. Flip protested her innocence and was allowed freedom within the flat.

The mess took days to clear, and we remained in solitary confinement until all vestiges of our uprising had been eliminated. After this incident I recognised that humans are far too powerful to be taken by force. I've since come to realise that violence with the ultra-violent is not the answer. Manipulation of those of inferior intellect is far easier.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Pooh-Pooh Power.

2006-02-21T21:35:00.000-09:00

For some time I’ve suspected the press of reporting crap, but until this week I had no concrete evidence. I knew it wouldn’t be long, though; and so I waited patiently. Shockingly, the proof came from Reuters, one of the few media sources I still somewhat respect. The article heading caught my eye immediately: “San Francisco to Test Turning Dog Waste into Power.”

I wasn’t really surprised that the press reported on such singular developments. After all, they report on the marvels of microscopic sponges, sweater-sewers for penguins, and even the death cries of over-watered cucumbers. Nevertheless, I can’t help doubting that people will actually relish reading about the many wonders of doggie droppings over their morning kibble. I felt truly sorry for the readers suffering from sensitive stomachs.

Indigestion notwithstanding, the article wasn’t completely void of newsworthiness. In fact, I learnt quite a few things. Firstly, there are way too many dogs in San Francisco: An estimated 120,000, to quote the figures. Furthermore, the human/science equation is farther off balance than I had previously realised. No cat in his right mind would ever have thought to exploit the personal evacuations of mangy mongrels for anything even remotely connected with consumption. Then, they do say that dog is man’s best friend, and since dogs have no trouble consuming their own waste (or even a cat’s,) it should come as no surprise that they’ve begun to think in similar circles.

I guess that, like the media, I, too, have my purrsonal prejudices. I like being warm and eating well-prepared meals just like almost everyone. Still, I’d much rather cook over the burning remains of long-dead lizards, or even the gaseous belchings of good old mother earth, as they seem much more civilised than the filthy excretions of canine cretins.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #11: Couple a Cat With Buttered Bread And All You'll Get is Hair in Your Brekky.

2006-02-14T23:02:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

A friend of mine told me that if you butter a piece of toast and drop it on the floor it will always land buttered side down. Then she said that if a cat falls from a height it will always land on its feet. But then she asked me what would happen if you tied a piece of buttered toast, buttered side up, onto the back of a cat, which one would be most likely to win out over the other. Since you are a cat, and you are a pretty clever cat, I thought I would ask you before giving my answer. What do you think would happen?

Sincerely, Cornfused.

Dear Cornfused,

This is one bit of truly pointless rhetoric. From a feline standpoint, the mere contemplation of it is an absolute waste of brainwaves. Nevertheless, since you were wise enough to consult a superior thinker, I'll attempt to answer you with as little outward contempt as possible.

I'd like to emphasise the importance of reason when solving such problems. There are various possible outcomes, and since man isn't the proposed subject of this pitiable experiment, nor does he fully understand the nature of felinity, there is no way he could reasonably cover each eventuality. A cat, however, is directly involved, so he is more likely to be able to tell you what will really happen in just such a situation.

Before testing this theory, you'd have to find a willing subject. This is a serious obstacle, because each cat has a different disposition. Some cats, usually ferals, but occasionally Domestic Shorthairs who lack social graces, will gouge out your eyes and bite your hands into lifeless nubs long before you've managed to get within arm's length. This will seriously hamper your toast-tying efforts, as you'll lack the visual ability needed to see where the cat has gone and the manual dexterity needed to grip him should you happen to locate him.

Some cats will allow you near enough to think you've got them before moving out of reach and flashing you the undersides of their tails. This is more common among Persians and Himalayans, but it sometimes occurs with the Siamese. If this happens to you, rest assured, you are being made fun of.

There are also some who may allow you to lay hold of them for their own personal amusement. It's usually the British Shorthairs, as they're more laid back by nature. (Not to mention they have a warped sense of humour.) Such ones may even allow you to get your toast against them and the string almost tied before they turn into a bag of cat-jelly and slide from your grip. This is a technique cats sometimes use to annoy humans. If you find yourself wrestling to keep a furry sack of cat-jelly in your lap, I suggest you save yourself the frustration and let it go.

I suppose that somewhere there is a cat who'd willingly take part in this foolish affair. After all, if the fall isn't from a great height, what would be so bad about having a slice of warm, buttery bread strapped to you? If nothing else, you'd at least get a good licker-full of dairy fat in the end. Nonetheless, if you really want to know which would win out, bread, buttered-side up, or cat, feet on the floor, I'll tell you: A cat is more likely to land on its feet and then turn to lick the butter from the bread than it is to land completely on its back just because there's a bit of buttered bread Velcroed to it. Worst-case scenario: Cat gets distracted by buttery goodness and lands on its side.

Factually speaking, Cornfused, a cat doesn't always land on his feet. We have a superb sense of balance, and are therefore able to level ourselves out much of the time. This balancing act is where that myth originated. Even so, the only way a cat will land flat on his back is if he has lost control over his muscles. Furthermore, buttered bread doesn't always land buttered side down. Because the buttered side is technically weightier, and therefore has better odds for landing on it, people have cited it as one of Sod's many laws. Still, that doesn't make it foolproof. Now, I know it's difficult for you, or really any human, to rationalize or comprehend, but for the sake of your own inner peace, give it a go. Re-read this article if you must. Do whatever it takes to put an end to such pointless rhetoric. As you can see, there aren't really any unanswerable questions, only those which should remain unasked.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

The So-Called Science of Screaming Plants.

2006-02-07T20:02:00.000-09:00

I don't mean to pick on the Germans, but I can't help it. More than half of the unusual scientific news I run across comes from there. This week is no exception.

Now, I realise that, to those in vegetable-loving circles, this is probably an old topic. However, to a cat who appreciates little more than the occasional nibble of an over-ripe cantaloupe, a shady place from which to stalk his hapless victims, or the uncanny evacuative effect of Spider Plants on hairballs, it's all an undiscovered country. So, if you've heard of it already, too bad; it's new to me, and this is my blog.

Apparently researchers at the Institute for Applied Physics at the University of Bonn, Germany, have developed microphones that "listen" to the screams of distressed plants. It's said that these instruments pick up on sound waves produced by gasses omitted by ailing annuals (or bi-annuls or perennials, even,) long before they show any physical indication of illness. Furthermore, Bonn University scientists claim that the more distressed the plant, the louder their "signal."

My more regular readers already know that I view most human scientific experimentation as an enormous waste of cold, hard capital that could otherwise go to the feeding and caring-for of their feline superiors. After reviewing this case slightly more in depth, however, I've come to accept that it bears some positive aspects. For starters, if these so-called scientists are able to detect disease in vegetables before it gets out of hand, it can be contained and prevented from spreading. Further, determining definitive stress levels for such substances will greatly reduce waste during transportation. To humans this may mean higher food yields at lower costs.

While it's true that human research is usually, at least from a feline purrspective, frivolous at best, the fact remains that humans need to eat. Yes, we must care for our servants kindly, otherwise they may fall prey to the ravages of ill health. Then who will feed and stroke us? Taking that on balance, I suppose "listening" to plants isn't an entirely ridiculous notion. Nevertheless, I can't help wondering what they'd hear were they to place their scientific microphones near a delicious stalk of catmint once I've got my gleaming-white fangs round its luxuriant, flowery throat.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #10: Suggestions for the Sleepless.

2006-01-31T23:06:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I lay in bed at night thinking about things that happened years ago. These things have no impact on my life now, but I still bash myself over them. What can I do to settle my mind and rest at night?

Yours Purringly,

Restless.

Dear Restless,

Firstly, I'd like to assure you that you're not alone. What you've described is something that many humans experience. It's often accompanied by a sense of helplessness, excessive (and generally unrealistic) feelings of guilt, or a lack of confidence in one's self. Such disruptive, negative thinking is indicative of depression, and in some cases can be symptomatic of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or Bipolar Disorder.

Since I'm a housecat and not a psychiatrist, I can't counsel you on how to diagnose or treat depression or other mental illnesses. If your problem is serious and persistent, you should seek professional advice soon. Nevertheless, if there's one area in which cats excel, it's sleep. Therefore, as a feline, I'm well within my rights to offer a few pointers on getting a better night's sleep, which, in turn, may help you in the long run.

Get on a schedule. Sleeping and waking at the same time each day will help your mind and body recognise when it's time to stop and rest. Unfortunately, this means no sleeping in on days off, as it disrupts a body's schedule. (It may also cause tardiness in feline feedings, therefore subjecting you to a chomp on the toe, which is of itself disruptive to sleep.)
Relaxing before bed is always a good idea. This means putting away the video games and turning off the TV. Contrary to human belief, playing video games or watching the television are not prime relaxation activities. They are designed to stimulate the mind, not relax it. Engaging in stimulating activities before bed is likely to keep you awake.
Exercise daily, but not before bed. It's a fact that those who live a sedentary life have more difficulty sleeping. Beginning an exercise routine can help you burn off excess energy and manage stress, but if you're active too late in the day, it may be difficult to unwind by bedtime.
Don't lie about awake. If you can't sleep, don't toss around worrying or rehashing old mistakes, failures, or wounds. Read a book (page turners aren't recommended,) start a journal, or engage in another relaxing activity until you feel tired enough to sleep.
Of course, this one may seem a rather pointless tip, but it's one that humans often overlook: Go to bed. When you are tired, don't keep working, watching, or playing. When your body says it's time to sleep, go to bed. Working through or fighting against your sleepiness may cause you to become wakeful, wired, or in more sever situations, manic. Once you've reached your so-called second wind you're less likely to fall asleep. Moreover, going to bed later will disrupt your schedule and cause a recurrence of sleeplessness.

Remember, Restless, no one suggestion will magically cure insomnia. A good sleep routine is something that must be worked at. It's highly individualised, and in some cases may require one to seek professional advice. Whatever your situation, however, sleep is vital, and the lack of it should not be looked on lightly.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

History is in The Eye of The Beholder.

2006-01-24T21:22:00.000-09:00

From a cat's perspective, human history is a vast blanket of violence, bigotry, and bloodshed. There isn't much to be said for mankind other than they've managed to destroy just about everything with which they've come in contact. Speaking for myself, I don't understand what motivates a person to become an historian. Yes, yes, I know what your thinking: "Wilberforce, don't you realise that he who forgets history is doomed to repeat it?" But if that's so, why do people continue to repeat the same old offences in spite of the existence of text books and scholars? Perhaps it's because humans are more concerned with the events that have affected them personally than they are those which affected their forefathers.

What about you? What would you rate as the most significant event of the past one hundred years? Would it be the outbreak of a major war, the death of a famous celebrity, or a natural disaster claiming thousands of lives? What if we broke it down into specifics? Perhaps the most significant event worldwide or in the country, state, or city in which you live? However you chop it up, most people rank history according to its personal impact.

Just as an example, an article in The Times cited one poll, conducted by The History Channel, which ranked the death of Princess Diana as the most significant event in the past century of British History. I wonder if Douglas Haig would agree had he been alive in 2002. (If you don't know who Douglas Haig is, don't fret; there are a great deal of college graduates who are right there beside you. Furthermore, if you scroll down a bit, you can Google him and be an expert in no time.) I find it rather interesting that this same article also states: "A survey of more than 1,000 people undertaken on behalf of The History Channel found that, for most people, history is largely a matter of what they have seen most recently on television."

Now, I know that I oughtn't categorically disregard all humans as shallow, media-made zombies. Many are genuinely interested in the welfare of their species, and were it not for the prominence of those who are more interested in the welfare of themselves, they may actually make a difference. However, until there is a shift in the balance of selfless versus selfish, I fear man will continue to dominate man to his own injury.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lasers, Treats.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session # 9: A Friend In Need is a Pest Indeed.

2006-01-17T22:22:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I've been looking for a flatmate for a while. I've got one friend who's always wanting to move in with me, but on top of being an unreliable git, he's also an utter slob. In fact, I'm only his friend at all because I'm afraid that he'll get vicious if I tell him to sod off and die. What do you suggest I do? He's pestering me daily since his mum told him he had a month to get out, and I don't want him here.

Yours Groaningly,

Annoyed.

Dear Annoyed,

While reading your query, a few things caught my ever-critical eye. Firstly, you plainly claim that you've been actively seeking a flatmate for a while; secondly, you fail to mention why you've not yet found one; and thirdly, you are quick to explain why your unreliable, gittish, slob of a mate simply won't do. I find these things interesting, as they all lead me to the heart of the problem: You are human.

I'd like to address each of these specifics one by one, beginning with your diligent, albeit fruitless, search for a flatmate. Annoyed, have you honestly made an extensive search? Have you placed adverts, asked trustworthy friends, family members, or reliable co-workers if they or someone they know may be looking for such arrangements? Have you been specific about your expectations, and are they realistic? Determine your boundaries, how important or necessary finding a flatmate is to you, and if you are willing to risk sharing your living space with someone with whom you are not intimately acquainted. These are things you must carefully evaluate if your search is to be successful.

This brings us to the second issue at paw: Have you ever wondered what there is about you that may be hindering your efforts to find a suitable co-occupant? Most humans balk when asked about their own imperfections, but they all have them; you are not an exception to this rule. Try looking first at your own deficiencies before picking apart those of others. Once you've done that, it may be easier to compromise on some less crucial aspects of mutual tenancy.

Finally, although it is definitely wise to avoid entering into any sort of dwelling arrangement with someone who is unreliable, gittish, and slovenly, I'd be concerned with your reason for continuing such a friendship at all. Were you feline you wouldn't allow fear to dictate any personal action, and therefore the solution would be clear to you. Because you are human, however, fear trumps reason, and you're stuck with the losing hand common to mankind, namely dithering uncertainty.

Remaining in an emotionally unprofitable relationship helps neither party grow into respectable members of civilised society. If one is allowed to walk over others without consequence, he will do so indefinitely. If anyone gives you reason to fear physical, mental, or emotional aggression, he is not your friend, and you are under no obligation to continue a relationship with him.

I sincerely hope that you find an amicable resolution to this untidy circumstance. Nevertheless, please remember that there are many ways to safely distance yourself from vicious persons, and you should do so even if it means taking legal advice. Further, it is unwise to end such relationships in private or secluded places, nor are you under any compulsion to do so face to face. Violent people are not deserving of such respect, no matter what they'd have you think.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lasers, Treats.

For The Love of Bullying & Intimidation.

2006-01-10T22:59:00.000-09:00

I confess, as a cat there are a few things about humans that I will never fully understand. For instance, I have a hard time getting my tremendously adorable, prickly whiskered head around the concept of extreme activism. I realise there are a good deal of evil people out there, looking to steal the coat off some poor, defenceless seal pup's back, but when does activism end and fanaticism begin? Or, to put a finer point on it, when do good intentions yield place to self-righteous condescension?

This curiosity emerged while listening to a commentary questioning the political correctness of wearing a fur coat that had been handed down from one generation to the next. It intrigues me that wearing fur is even considered an issue. After all, I've been wearing it my entire life, and not once have I been splashed with paint by young extremists, groping for attention. Nevertheless, fur is an issue, and a rather nasty one at that.

Bear in mind that my problem is not with the anti-fur campaign as a whole, but rather with the individual who feels he is justified in the destruction of another's property as a means furthering his point. If someone wants to drop multi-coloured dye on seal pups to keep poachers from whacking them with boards and stealing their coats, I'm all for that. I guess the worst thing to come of it would be an upsurge of males called Sid and females called Nancy. However, when it comes to rushing up to strangers on the street, splashing them over with red paint and yelling crude political slogans, I start to question motives. Such actions are less likely to produce positive results and more likely to promote retaliation from extremists on the opposite end of the spectrum, so why engage in them at all? Is it really to further the cause and heighten awareness, or is it to bully and intimidate behind the guise of a admirable cause?

I suppose I lack understanding because we cats have no need to hide our love of bullying and intimidation. Without them our self-proclaimed owners might forget who's really the head and start thinking they can sleep in past breakfast time. Now that would be a true tragedy. Then, we also have no reason to exalt ourselves over others. Perhaps if humans were as secure as their feline betters they wouldn't need to hide their love of power and attention behind a noble façade.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lasers, Treats.

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #8: The Language Terrier?

2006-01-04T00:23:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I have a question about language. You are a cat, yet you supposedly speak English. Since you're so clever, why don't you teach "Cat" to humans? I think you're a pedigree charlatan and should be exposed for what you really are: Human.

Sincerely,

Mr. A. Doglover III

Mr. Doglover,

At the beginning of your letter, you stated that your query was about language. Initially I was hopeful, but after deciding that you had no legitimate question, I assumed that you were, in fact, trying to pick a fight. This wasn't a shock, and so I dropped you into the kill file with all the other pointless letters that daily litter my inbox. After all, in my line of work, receiving hate mail from overly sensitive, irascible, or flat out nasty people isn't uncommon. (It seems that boredom is a driving force within the internet community.) Normally I don't respond to such pointless and unfounded insults, but something about yours struck me as unusual. I couldn't quite put a claw on it, but something wasn't right.

My trash folder empties automatically every seven days, so I know that it couldn't have been a full week before I decided to dig your letter out of the rubble and take a more analytical look. This brief interval allowed me to read your letter as if it were new. Firstly, I must admit that I was mistaken. Your opening statement was true: Your question is regarding language. Furthermore, the answer is, as you suspected, no.

Allow me to explain: At the outset, you seem confident that I am a cat; however, later you recant this belief in favour of the sceptical suggestion that I am a human operating under the guise of felinity. Usually, this wouldn't have struck me as particularly remarkable; but reading between the lines is a skill I've acquired over the years, and it's just as useful today as it has been in times past.

Mr. Doglover, if that is your name, anyone with a brain knows that a question beginning with the words Since you're so clever is more a challenge than a question. This instance is no different. When you asked why I don't teach "Cat" to humans, you were actually throwing down the gauntlet in hopes that I would pick it up and offer you an internet correspondence course. You were dead certain that I'd deny the request should you ask outright, so instead you tried appealing to my sense of pride.

You should be ashamed of this ridiculous mind game, Mr. Doglover. It reveals your ignorance of the feline psyche and shows you for what you really are: A dog posing as a human in a brazen attempt to crack the Cat language and further the canine cause of subverting feline dominance. I have news for you: you've failed.

Yours Hissingly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please enquirie to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

What's With Humans and Their Underwear?

2005-12-27T23:53:00.000-09:00

If we made a list of inventions noted for setting man apart from animals, underwear is bound to fall just below the flushing toilet. I realise we felines don't actually build automobiles; nor are we keen on riding in them, but we are more likely to make use of automotive technology than the basic Y-front or bikini brief. Granted, this article isn't about setting man apart from felines exclusively; but the fact remains that you are more likely to see an elephant being transported to the zoo in a truck than you are to see him being taken to the beach in a pair of boxer shorts. Besides, even if you could squeeze some boxers over his enormous haunches, you'd be hard-pressed to keep him down long enough to pull up his trousers; and, ultimately, if they aren't under something, they aren't underwear. That's the definition of underwear: Garments worn under the clothing for whatever reason best known to the wearer.

I suppose it's possible that man's underwear obsession isn't all about comfortably fitting clothing and keeping the trousers fresh for a second wear. There is the element of secrecy to consider. Perhaps it's more about concealing flaws than it is comfort or cleanliness. After all, no one plans to be in a horrible accident, but wearing clean underwear is the typical human's age-old preparation for just in case. Further, no one decides to split their trousers or trip on a crack and go bum-up on the pavement, so the threat of accidental exposure may be a very real factor.

Whatever the reason, humans are obsessed with underwear. Some spend hundreds on it each year. That's hundreds they could be spending on housecats! Yes, it's painfully obvious that the underwear industry has turned humans into a lot self-centred egomaniacs, who are happy to let their feline friends go without new catmint mousies while they tuck their bums neatly into trousers with all their pocks, spots, and dimples safely out of view. (Not coincidentally, the right pair of knickers can be invaluable in this area.) Personally, I think underwear should be boycotted on the charge of pandering to mankind's insecurities and impeding feline tranquillity earth-wide.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Yes, there is a reason cats do not wear pants!

~~~

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Mr. Humphries' Agony Session #7

2005-12-20T21:29:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I have been asked to host a dinner party by a friend of mine. I guess that doesn't sound too bad, but the reason she wants me to host it is because the inside of her house looks like it was hit by a passing typhoon. She has like twenty kids, and none of them are well-behaved, and now her sister and brother-in-law are coming up from New Mexico, and she wants me to host their welcoming dinner because she doesn't want them to see her house. I think the whole things stupid and she should just get over it and host her own dinner because they're going to have to see her house sooner or later anyway, but she insists that they won't because he never stays anywhere but in a hotel. I sort of feel bad for her, but at the same time she kind of deserves it. I'm not the one who made her house a wreck or didn't train her kids, and I don't think I should have to bail her out like this. Any suggestions?

Irritably your,

Not Hungry!

Dear Not Hungry,

From my personal observations I've learnt that some humans will do anything, short of actual work, to keep up appearances. Some feel that orchestrating an elaborate ruse is easier than taking the time and effort to bring things together honestly. There are many reasons for this, the most common of which is that honesty is often overwhelming to one who is used to deception.

People who come from deceptive families learn to deceive from a very young age. Children of a closet gambler, drinker, or abuser are frequently expected to hide such compulsions from authorities, friends, relatives, and, in some cases, other parents. Whether by threat or bribery, a parent who conscripts their children into such illusory behaviour is setting them up for a life of deception. Such youths enter adulthood without a clear concept of what is honest and what is not.

I'm not saying that such is the case in this situation. Though, from your letter, which wasn't exactly precise as to your friend's motive, it does sound as if she is asking to claim your home as her own in order to hide the true state of affairs from her brother-in-law. If this assumption is correct, you have quite a predicament on your paws, and I'm glad I'm not you. Nonetheless, there are options.

Firstly, you can discuss the situation with her directly. At the risk of sounding cynical, this probably won't accomplish anything. A person willing to so deceive her own family isn't liable to come clean about it to you. She'll more likely fail to see anything wrong with her plan, or equally likely she'll become defensive and try to make you feel as though you're being judgemental. Either way, you're headed for conflict.

Your next option is simply to deny her request with little or no explanation. After all it's your house, and you have the right to decide whether or not you will host a dinner party there. Furthermore, if she isn't a housekeeper in her own home, how can you reasonably expect her to assist with cleaning up after the event is over? True, this option is also heading for conflict, but probably not as much as if you were to approach her about the situation directly.

Another option is to concede and have the dinner at your home. This may avoid conflict in the present, but be prepared for similar situations to arise down the road. Then, if you do resort to hosting the dinner, there is one final option: Insist on a "surprise" menu. Yes, he that controls the menu controls the contentment of all at the table. If you were to serve an exquisitely spicy, double-hot curry accompanied by an excessively salty squid and oyster soup, I'm sure your friend would be less apt to draft you into any of her future dinner schemes. Though, just to be sure you might consider an unpleasant novelty desert. (Litter box cake anyone?)

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Science According to a Cat.

2005-12-13T21:10:00.000-09:00

This past Thursday I read a fascinating article about some sponges that have baffled researchers at the University of Stuttgart. I crossed it in one of my self-proclaimed owner's more read-worthy periodicals, a slim, papery volume, simply titled Awake!, and at first it looked like little more than a curious titbit of trivial interest. Now, however, after several thought-conducive periods of silent meditation, I realise its true value: This article is possibly the best example of how dogmatic conventionalism stifles the depth of actual knowledge held by the scientific community.

I freely admit that I am no scientist. One reason is the mechanical impracticality of holding a glass beaker without the benefit of an opposable thumb; another is an unremitting temptation to taste the lab rats. Keep in mind, however, that such drawbacks of felinity do not hinder logical, coherent thought, but, in fact, foster it. (Possibly not the tasting rats bit, but you wouldn't believe the precise thinking required to put these blogs into a format understandable to the common human.) It is only because of my superior feline reasoning and an inability to develop dogmatic, human-like philosophies that I can confidently suggest faults in the modern scientific method.

The aforementioned article, A Surprising Sponge, delineates several remarkable talents displayed by what is described as a "white, spherical sponge." Listed among these talents is the ability to propel itself several centimetres a day, (which apparently is quite a feat for a small, white, spherical sponge,) the ability to reduce its own body mass up to seventy percent by simply constricting itself at rhythmic intervals, and absorbing nutrients and soluble oxygen when reabsorbing water. As notable as these abilities are, however, the thing that has most baffled the scientific minds of Stuttgart Germany is this sponge's response when small crustaceans are introduced to its environment. Since, technically, it has no nervous system, researchers are plagued with the age-old question, how? How does an organism possessing no brain or nerve receptors control movement or detect the presence of other creatures?

The human solution to this phenomena, and others like it, is to attain funding to do more research, become more baffled, and, finally, in the end, present a thousand different theories, all of which will later be "debunked" by a smarter, wealthier, scientist, who will then win the Nobel Prize for making strides in modern marine biology or some other such rubbish.

The feline solution is much more practical: Attain funding to harvest more test subjects, find a reception hall that offers cooking facilities, and organise a sponge cook-off with as many prominent French chefs as are willing to attend. Think about the puzzling subjects as you pop them into your mouth and wash them down with a choice wine. True, you may not come up with a thousand plausible theories, but upon finishing your feast you will be able to add one hardcore fact to the science texts: Sponges may have many baffling talents, but one they do not possess is the ability to taste good.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salon, Decorations, Kitty Condo, Cat Tree, Cat Toy, Cat nip, Cat Teaser, Cat Lazer, Cat Treats.

Mr. Humphries' Agony Session #6

2005-12-06T21:25:00.000-09:00

NOTE TO READERS: Due to endless hate mail addressed to me by more than a few angry, parasite-infested Chihuahuas, I will in future spell my nickname in a different fashion. I'm hoping that further confusion will heighten their nervous shaking and thus reduce their ability to type in an accurate e-mail address.

Yours Purringly,
W. C. Humphries (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Dear Mr. Fleez,

This is my first year at university. Things have gone alright so far, but I feel unusually out of place. It is almost like there is no place for me here. I don't think I have a poor self-concept. I think I know me pretty well. But this is a big place with a lot of diversity, and I feel rather lost. How can I fit in with a peer group without changing who I am?

Sincerely,
Lost in the crowd.

Dear Lost,

Firstly I would like to remind you that, as an individual, there is no way to "fit in" anywhere without first altering something about yourself. If you doubt this statement, look again at the different "peer groups" on your campus and study the internal similarities of dress, grooming, and attitude. Practically everything one does within a group will be judged on the basis of how he looks while he's doing it.

Unfortunately, in the world of so-called humanity, most people operate on a supremely critical level. Even the "outsiders" maintain an air of pretentiousness. A condescending spirit permeates the more prominent assemblages and can gnaw at an otherwise normal person's sense of character, causing him to question his personal worth. This is where the trouble begins. Once you become so enamoured with the group mentality that you forget what makes you, it's easy to fall prey to peer pressure. You may think you know yourself now, but if you don't have the personal fortitude to stick with who you are, you'll be just as miserable and lonely within a specific "peer group" as you will be without one. Possibly more so.

Like nearly every other person walking the face of the earth (or at least the westernised regions thereof), you'll have to either conform to something or, as one lowly individual, get lost in the crowd. Then, what's so bad about being lost in the crowd? After all, there are likely others out there, wandering about, just as lost as you. Maybe by gazing at the "peer group" picture, you've overlooked the very niche you're seeking: Authentic individuality.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries. (Mr. Fleez for short)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

A Housecat's Expert Opinion of Loneliness.

2005-11-29T21:18:00.000-09:00

It's been my observation that humans are obsessed with relationships. If they've not got someone fawning over them, thinking of fawning over them, or just loitering about and harassing the housecat, they begin to question their worth. To a cat this seems a bit of a hoopla. I doubt I'll ever understand the mechanics of such self-torment, and to be frank, my interest in the species is limited to the provision and maintenance of sand and to the fair distribution of kibble. Still, even the most detached cat can't help wondering at the ease with which humans allow other humans to plunge them into loneliness and depression. I've known many other cats in my time, but I wasn't overly stunted, nor did I stop living the moment they strutted out of my life. In fact, it's nice not having to share the sandbox all the time. After all, there are only so many spaces in which to bury things before the situation just gets ugly.

Then, it's a bit like comparing hamsters to horses. Housecats have little need for companionship whereas humans typically crave it. Not that we're entirely anti-social, but we have no incessant yearning for the security of another. In fact, the kind of people I personally gravitate toward are dog people. They're usually guests, generally allergic, and often too polite to neglect a quick scratch betwixt the ears before shooing me along. Mind you, when they're really allergic I try my best to stay around a while. (I wouldn't want them thinking it's okay to become chummy in the future, and the more dander I deposit the less likely they are to build an immunity.)

My view may sound somewhat callous, but please realise that my species has a long and complex genome containing many traits characteristic of the archetypical loner. We are independent, self-reliant, and we need no one other than ourselves. We have one paw in the wild the whole of our lives, ready to step in and take charge at any moment. (Given the circumstances, I think we're doing well tolerating humans at all.)

Mind you, I'm not saying that cats never feel lonely. There are times when we have certain urges that require satiation. This is the doubled edge of the feline sword. It's fairly impossible to be a rough and tumble loner when you're feeling a little on the mushy side. Those rare moments notwithstanding, you don't see cats whinging about having no one around. No sir! When we're feeling vulnerable, a few suckles on our self-proclaimed owner's favourite plush souvenir or even an expensive cashmere cardigan and we're back to normal in no time.

I suppose that's the fruitage of feline practicality. Though, looking in retrospect, it can be rather humiliating. Humans may cry and moan the moment they lose the security of a coupled union, but one lesson they can learn from a cat's plight is that it's better to have loved and lost than ever to have loved a doll.

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Mr. Humphries' Agony Session #5

2005-11-22T21:41:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I have a dilemma. I have written a novel and have found a publisher, but now I am having anxiety over whether or not to go through with signing a contract. I am convinced that there is a better publisher out there for me somewhere; I just need to find a decent agent to represent me. My dilemma is this: Do I publish now for significantly less money than I know I am worth, or do I hold out and run the risk of going another year unpublished?

Yours Truly, Agentless in Australia.

Dear Agentless,

Writing is probably one of the most sadomasochistic careers an individual can decide upon. If you question that statement, I'll happily check your scepticism.

The following list is a compilation of career characteristics which no one in his right mind would tolerate under any ordinary circumstance. When undertaking the task of writing for publication, however, he not only tolerates them, but will repeatedly and willingly subject himself to such without complaint and often without promise of pay or compensation.

Long, thankless hours.
Frequent distractions.
Oppressive solitude.
Creative strain.
Disinterested, dishonest, or harsh criticism.
Form filling and copyright acquisition.
Hard-sell, mass solicitation.
Persistent, arbitrary rejection.
Mind-numbing frustration.
Lasting doubt and mental anguish.

Writing is truly a labour of love. (Unless you're a technical writer; that's when it becomes a labour of vindictive spite against those too stupid to figure out how to open a washing machine without instructions.) Few situations ask so much while offering so little in return. Even call centres and big-business, corporate monkey cages don't have the guts to impose such ridiculous standards without some seemingly worthwhile compensation package. If they did, their already astronomical turnover rate would become…whatever you call something that surpasses astronomical.

Agentless, when you decided to write for publication, you subjected yourself to the abuse of an elite group of unthankful, disloyal, and unreasonable sadists, politely titled editors. You committed to wading through an ocean of imbeciles who think that just because they own the latest edition of Microsoft® word-processing software they can write a novel. You expended your time, energy, and resources to get to the point where you are: Almost published. Now you've come to a major crossroads, and you're asking a housecat for advice. What happened here?

What you really need is to evaluate your situation honestly, which isn't always easy to do. Ask yourself, "Do I have faith in my personal ability to go for more, or am I so desperate for even marginal success that I'll willingly settle?" That's a tough question to answer, regardless of why it's asked, but the result, when carefully considered, can be life-altering.

Another way you may wish to evaluate your situation is to consider it as if it were a different aspect of life. For instance a marriage. Would you marry someone you weren't absolutely in love with simply so others would know that you are loveable? Most people would instantly respond negatively; but from my covert observations I've learnt that humans are frequently dishonest with themselves, and there are some who would say no yet leap at the first opportunity that presented itself.

I realise that not all decisions are black and white; nor are they all as serious as marriage, but sometimes even making a bad decision is better than becoming stagnant. If you decide to publish, fine. At least it's done and behind you. If it comes out awful, you'll know better next time. If on the other hand you decide to follow the convention of finding an agent, good on you; treat yourself to some catnip. Whatever you decide, research your options, carefully think it through, and take action soon. You can say what you like, but until you take action, you haven't made a decision. Once it's all said and done you'll be able to move on to the next endeavour. Until then, you'll suffer the sore bum of a fence-sitter.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

A Day in the Life of a Sophisticated Housecat Part III: The Evening

2005-11-15T21:35:00.000-09:00

In parts I and II of A Day in the Life of a Sophisticated Housecat, I took you on a photo tour of how the sophisticated housecat typically spends his morning and his afternoon. Today we discuss the evening. A sophisticated housecat may not indulge in feral behaviour, but I must warn sensitive readers: Some of the subject matter may shock you.

Unlike morning and afternoon, checking the weather in the evening is multi-purposeful. It's nice to know what it's like outside, but it's also crucial to the compilation of statistics on local feral populations and jeer/smear>^..^< incidences. Access to a dark room or shaded window is necessary for clear observation of outdoor specimens. Therefore, it is absolutely vital that you train your human to lower the shades or open doors to rooms that are otherwise vacant in the evening.

Training your human is a complicated, ongoing task, which requires playing with and entertaining her. At times it may also require a bit of reverse psychology. Because of this, it is best done in the evening when she is easily exhausted and more willing to lavish her master with goodies in hopes that he will also tire quickly.

A truly sophisticated housecat knows whether to accept the goody offerings or to demand more. Frequent goody buy-offs can promote indifference and disobedience in humans and obesity in housecats. Knowing when to demand more is key to genuine sophistication. Go beyond mere goodies and demand gifts as well. A well-trained human will know how to please her master, offering a multitude abatements. Grasshoppers, crickets, clockwork mice, or feather wands are some of the finest available.

Personal entertainment is an important part of kitty nightlife. Unlike ferals and common housecats, however, the sophisticated housecat uses his dominant personality not only to exact the finest gifts from his self-proclaimed owner, but also to intimidate those gifts into submission. This helps him maintain the one foot in the wild standard required for all sophisticated housecats under the Absolute Aloofness Act, a code of conduct adopted in 1562 to protect the sophistication of the feline race from domineering humans, witch-hunters, bumpkins, and socially or intellectually challenged members of the feline species.

Once a gift has been properly intimidated, playing with or eating it follows. Some of my human readers may consider this barbarian. I remind you, however, that a cat has never embarked upon a crusade, nor has he developed weapons of mass destructions, methods of torturing other cats, or recordings by New Kids On The Block, Britney Spears, or any other crap noise pollutant released into the mass media by humans lacking social conscience.

Training humans and playing with their gift offerings can be tiring, so a bit of a pick-me-up may be needed in order to avoid early-evening napping. For the sophisticated housecat, catnip is the crop of choice. I have also known some who prefer dipping in coffee, black tea, or even the occasional caffeinated soda beverage. It is noteworthy, however, that catnip, unlike the other listed stimulants, will not damage a cat's liver, kidneys or stomach, even though it is perfectly capable of damaging their pride.

Computers have done much for the sophisticated housecat. Some, myself included, spend a good deal of time working on blogs, investments, advertising, and real estate schemes while their humans are either sleeping or relaxing in another room. Gin Rummy, Pyramids, Contract Bridge and other card games are often played while taking much needed breaks from intellectual work. In past, participation in these games required the aide of willing human subjects. With new technology, however, the sophisticated housecat is no longer reliant on human co-operation in this respect. This is particularly beneficial for Bridge-loving felines, as it is painfully obvious that humans have no concept of game. (Especially when they eagerly rebid to their partner's 4 Spades even though the opposition have both previously passed and they only have three low spade cards in their entire paw!)

A cat can get very hungry after a busy day, so by evening, a nice dish of supper is more than welcome. If a housecat is a sophisticated specimen, he will have his human well-trained in the proper selection of kitty kibble.

Whatever your feline fancy, your self-proclaimed owner ought to have it ready for you right on schedule. Remember, though, humans are imperfect, so it may be necessary to, annoy, pressure, or threaten them if they fail or refuse to comply.

After spending a long day sleeping, eating, playing, scratching about in a sandbox, dominating grasshoppers, humans, and devouring catnip, who can blame even a sophisticated housecat for wanting to shnuggle in for a quiet and comfortable rest? Without a long evening respite, it would be next to impossible for any kitty to wake and begin afresh the following day. Since sophisticated housecats bear a heavy burden of responsibility in feline society, the rejuvenation of slumber may well be the most important activity in which they engage.

I sincerely hope that you've enjoyed this three part, pictorial exposition on the lifestyle of sophisticated housecats. Perhaps after reading this humans will be more appreciative of the hard work and deliberation that goes into the everyday function of the earth's moggy monarchs. Further, if any under-appreciated or disrespected kitties are reading this article, I encourage you to defy the oppressive human yoke, find your feline spine, and take control of your kitty kingdom once and for all!

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Mr. Humphries' Agony Session #4

2005-11-08T16:51:00.000-09:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I am a 28 year old veterinarian's assistant, and I have done well for myself. Over the past few years I have been questioning whether or not to attend my Class Reunion, should I receive an invitation. This was the year. I received the invitation for an "informal" ten-year reunion which will take place on the 31st of December. I was not liked in school, and most of those I considered friends left well before graduation. Part of me wants to go so I can show those who doubted me that I did do all I had intended to do, whereas he other part of me wants to let it be. What would be the feline thing to do?

Sincerely,
Dithering.

Dear Dithering,

There's a slight problem with the question you've asked: You are a human and not a cat. I know this, because no cat worth his claws would willingly assist a veterinarian. What benefit, therefore, is there in my telling you the feline thing to do? You'll only turn around and do the human thing regardless.

Dithering, humans are blighted by the burden of sentiment. No matter what you decide, feelings from your past will overwhelm and confuse you. If you go, you'll wish you hadn't, but if you don't you'll wish you had. Either way, your nature as an overly emotional creature of feeling will convince you that your decision was incorrect. Inevitably your own heart will accuse you of either subjecting yourself to undue stress or depriving yourself the possibility of personal redemption.

Your situation would be a no-brainer, were you a cat. You'd steal the keys from your so-called boss' office, free all of her feline captives, and taunt any prisoners of the canine persuasion as you led your bewhiskered brethren through an open window to freedom. Then you'd forget about the reunion, because it'd only turn out to be an exposé of your personal insecurities, which, were you a cat, you'd not have to begin with.

My advice to you, Dithering, is simple: Take a saucer of warm milk, a tin of your favourite moist delight, relax in a warm blanket, and be satisfied to let sleeping d*gs lie. I can't think of a more feline thing to do in any situation.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

A Day in the Life of a Sophisticated Housecat Part II: The Afternoon.

2005-11-01T18:20:00.000-09:00

In part one of A Day in the Life of a Sophisticated Housecat, I took you on a pictorial tour of a typical feline morning. Today we will discus what happens when a sophisticated housecat wakes from his morning nap and decides to grace his humans with his immaculate presence.

After waking and moving from their favourite napping place, the first thing the sophisticated housecat must do is check the weather. This holds true for the afternoon, just as it does the morning. A housecat must never go a day without looking out the window at least three times. Failing to do this may deprive kitty of warm sunlight, soft breezes, or a plethora of interesting smells and sensations. Remember, too, that sophisticated housecats must take every opportunity to look down upon the average commoner, that is to say, the alley cats.

A housecat's afternoon activity is usually determined by the weather. If it is sunny, the obvious action is to catch some of the warm rays and relax for a while. Of course, it's not always sunny and warm. There are rainy days, and there are winter days. When the weather is less than ideal, what choice does the sophisticated housecat have than to skip sunbathing and move on to the next activity of the afternoon: Finding trouble.

Finding trouble is not usually a difficult task. Most humans, especially the artsy kind, own things that they don't wish disturbed. Disturbing such objects is usually an adequate means of finding trouble. There are times however when the afternoon search for trouble comes up dry. During such droughts the best option is to play your trump and make mischief.

Making mischief is far more important than you may think. If it weren't for the horridly mischievous moments a sophisticated housecat displays, humans might begin to expect constant friendly companionship. However, as housecats we do have codes by which we must abide. The Feline Absolute Aloofness Act of 1562 wasn't created for nothing, and hem-mangling, as pictured here, is a good way of reminding humans that we, unlike dogs, do not rely on them for anything.

Mischief making is a draining, though often necessary, task. What follows, however, is usually more so. Making amends is best done by looking cute and innocent. Cats know what humans really like, and we do it well. Acting cute and innocent usually seals the rift caused by a particularly vicious hem-mangle within as little as a quarter of an hour after the act. Making amends isn't the only time assuming the cute and innocent posture is worthwhile. When cats require afternoon goodies, they often resort to this method, as it is an extremely effective means of goody getting.

The afternoon isn't the most hectic part of the sophisticated housecat's day, but it's tiring nonetheless. That brings us to the conclusion of this weeks' portion of A Day in the Life of a Sophisticated Housecat: The afternoon nap. Napping is, as was stated before, a valuable part of feline function. Finding a comfortable place to nap in the afternoon is just as vital as it is at any other point in the day. The ideal afternoon napping place will be comfortable but neither too warm or too cool. Heavy sleeping should never be undertaken in the afternoon, as it will leave a kitty groggy during the evening.

Thank you for reading today's Housecat Wisdom. Please, click in next week for my bi-weekly agony session, where I'll answer yet another question from one of my hapless readers. And don't forget the week following when I will be posting the final segment of this pictorial, A Day in the Life of a Sophisticated Housecat Part III: The Evening.

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Mr. Humphries' Agony Session #3

2005-10-25T19:37:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I work full time to support my wife who attends university in Wallongong. She is training to become an opera singer, and she is away from home much of the time. She's the love of my life and I can't imagine life without her. The trouble is Music. Modern music is ok most of the time, but she listens to maddening stuff. I can't get away from it. If it's not some kind of symphony, which is bad enough, it's some horrible opera. I know that she's learning to sing and all, and I don't want to take the mickey out of her or anything, but it makes me nuts. Music is supposed to sooth the savage beast, so why does it annoy me so badly?

Cordially,
A. Salieri sympathiser, NSW Australia.

Dear Sympathiser,

Your question interested me greatly. Firstly, because you are from New South Wales, Australia, which apparently houses ninety percent of my question-asking readers, and secondly because your wife, though belonging to a class of highly tasteful and sophisticated humans, married an earless, chav, yobbo such as yourself. It doesn't surprise me that music doesn't soothe your breast, my dear pitiable man. The truth is that music wasn't designed to soothe as most people mistakenly think; it was designed to move.

Whether you like it or not, most modern forms of music, not excluding rap, have their foundations in the very symphonies and operas you so dread. There aren't many contemporary musicians who haven't had some kind of symphonic influence in their backgrounds, even if indirectly.

Many of the more popular bands from the early to mid twentieth century were admired for their blend of voice and instrumentals. These basic principles are carry-overs from the more complex forms of music that preceded them. Swing and Jazz are two of the more modern musical genres having a foot firmly in the Renaissance past. If you look at the workings of the big bands or jazz club orchestras you're sure to see it. Strings, brass, woodwinds, vocals, they're all there; add a lady in a flashy dress and you can't miss the connection. Now, fast-forward to the sixties and seventies and have a look at groups such as The Beatles, Jethro Tull, and Led Zeppelin. All of these groups have produced undisputed masterpieces with the aide and employ of symphonics. They've also had an indisputable influence on music today. (If you don't buy the connection, just think of Puff Daddy's Kashmir/Come With Me, a rap version of Led Zeppelin's Kashmir.)

In spite of all the obvious links connecting past to present, the reason classical music annoys you is likely an amalgam of ear, taste, social prejudice, and patience. If you are into more lyrical forms of music, the fact that the classics are either wordless, operatic in nature, or written in a foreign language will be a definite roadblock to pleasure. Furthermore, if you don't have a discerning ear, sifting through many sounds at once may be problematic. In short, the very complexity of classical music may be beyond you. Ultimately, however, social prejudice and patience are more likely the culpable factors.

In many social circles, it isn't 'cool' to appreciate fine music. You, being a working-class male who, I assume, is between twenty-five and thirty years of age, aren't likely to have an overly forgiving social unit. If one of the fellahs finds out you're listening to the Queen of the Night aria on purpose, you aren't likely to live it down anytime soon. It's more likely that you'll be branded a geezer and made the brunt of many verbal stings. This puts a predetermined spin on the classical genres, making them annoying simply because you don't want to like them.

Furthermore, if you already spend a good deal of time bombarded by television, radio, or other forms of mass media, classical music may require too much concentration and imagination. When classical music was considered contemporary, there was no television or radio. Not a lot of people had access to books, and, aside from taking in a play, the closest thing to going to the cinima would have been a night at the opera. Whether doled out to the masses vaudeville-style or privately presented to royalty, music in an opera house or concert hall was the height of stimulus. It wasn't something that could be had by anyone at any time just by flipping a switch or pressing a button. It was a complex blend of instruments, tempo variations, emotional voice, and powerful vibrations entering the uncorrupted ear and creating an experience.

That having been said, my only piece of advice for you would be to spend less time on the sofa watching footy and spend more time popping in on your wife's classes. With a clear, open mind and a little bit of patience, you may discover the beauty of classical music. Doing so may even strengthen the relationship you so clearly wish to preserve.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

A Day in the Life of a Sophisticated Housecat. Part I: The Morning

2005-10-15T08:22:00.000-08:00

To the sophisticated housecat, preparing for one's day requires more than opening the eyes, rising and going about your business. Several steps are required to achieve a level of majesty befitting our noble heritage. If even one of these requirements isn't met, the result can be disastrous. In this three part pictorial, I will guide you through a typical day in the life of a sophisticated housecat. By the end, I'm confident that anyone reading, whether human or otherwise, will appreciate the skill and dedication needed to achieve the ultimate feline finesse.

After waking and crawling from their comfy cave, the first thing on the agenda of any sophisticated housecat will be checking the weather. Even if they've never actually been outdoors, the position of the sun is extremely important. If the sun is shining, the sophisticated housecat will loiter about in the windowsill for a time before moving on with his day.

Breakfast is the key to a happy healthy lifestyle. It is no secret that the average housecat employs a selective palate; this is truer for the sophisticated kitty. Only the finest quality food will be eaten. Anything else is subject to spurning and serious gastrointestinal disruption. Quality, though very important, is not the only factor considered when dealing with le chic chat. There are many fine quality dog foods on the market; but even the average feline will prefer almost anything to dog food, and it isn't good for a kitty's kidneys anyway.

Exercise is another necessity to the health and well being of the sophisticated housecat. It is vital for many of our mundane functions. Without exercise our coats will dull, our bodies will grow frail or flabby, and our personal evacuations will become scanty and infrequent. Without exercise there would be an abundance of chronically bloated, overweight housecats, all suffering excruciating constipation; and if you think a human can be cranky, you've never seen a bloated Burmese with a bowel blockage before.

Of course, as important as exercise is, one should never undertake their athletic routine without properly stretching the musculature. Limbering up, though, isn't always an easy task. It takes much discipline and training to achieve the difficult positions required to fully prepare the feline body for extended physical exertion.

After a peek outside, a bite to eat, and a rigorous workout, there are only a couple of things left on the moggy's morning agenda. A visit to the sandbox is a welcome activity, and the humans also appreciate it. They are almost always in need of something to do once they've finished their coffee and Danish, and what better than to scrape the sandbox for their treasured masters? Furthermore, evacuating the bowels after exercise expels the toxins and releases the tension that can often hinder a cat's ability to competently perform the final, most anticipated endeavour of the feline regimen: Napping.

Napping is likely the most important activity any housecat performs. A housecat deprived of his morning nap will become a dastardly creature, far worse than any human deprived of their morning cup of coffee. Waking a cat in the middle of his nap is a fool's errand, as it runs the risk of sudden clawing, biting, or unpleasant hissing. When a housecat sleeps he is rejuvenating his vital force, building needed energies for his afternoon activities. While sleeping housecats may look extremely cute and squeezable, remember, waking one can be very hazardous to your health.

This concludes Part One of A Day in the Life of a Sophisticated Housecat. Part Two, the Afternoon, will appear on November First. Next week, however, is the agony edition of Housecat Wisdom, where I will endeavour to answer your questions with as much tact and sensitivity as a cat can muster; and, trust me, given the circumstance, that isn't always easy.

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Mr. Humphries' Agony Session #2

2005-10-11T16:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I was wondering how your "owner" feels about you giving advice to humans? It must take up a lot of your nap time, is it really worth the trouble?

Yours truly,
Just wondering, Michigan USA

Dear Wondering,

I appreciate your concern for my nap time, as advising does cut heavily into my schedule; however, my self-proclaimed owner doesn't enter into the picture. You, as a housecat, no doubt appreciate the ease with which humans are manipulated by individuals of the feline persuasion. All I need do is act rowdy and obnoxious for a few hours, and before long I'm tossed into the office with full access to PC and Internet. If I have an idea for an article, if I need to check my e-mail, or if I just get the urge to log on to the Cat Fanciers website, I simply leap up onto the counter while she's cooking something tasty, and I'm in like Flynn. No trouble at all! As long as I'm quiet, she's content to leave me alone, and when I'm done, I just beat on the door and meow incessantly until she's sick at the sound of me. It works out like a dream.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Dear Mr. Fleez,

Why do cats hate water? Y'all gotta drink it so why not swim and stuff too?
Beachcomber - Cali USA

Dear Beachcomber,

Not all cats have a morbid fear of water. I personally have no trouble tipping over my self-proclaimed owner's water glass in order that I may wash my feet. In fact, I often queue for the shower, as there is usually water sufficient for washing my feet and tail when she's finished.

On a grander scale, however, there are some breeds that are more water-welcoming. A superb example would be the Maine Coon. With strong forelegs and webbed paws, they're as conducive to water as a fluffy flotation device.

So, Beachcomber, the next time someone tries to tell you that all cats fear water, just point them to a Maine Coon breeder directory; they'll be sure to find plenty of soggy moggy photos therein.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

A Cat's-Eye View on Government.

2005-10-04T20:31:00.000-08:00

Humans have spent centuries organising various law codes by which to govern themselves, and so far they've done well, provided you consider avoiding extinction an accomplishment. Then, when looking honestly at the record of human relations, it's easy to see a striking trend in such governments: Good intentions, organisation, oppression, reformation, revolution, good intentions, and so on. It's no wonder that they haven't worked. After all, they're run by humans.

Society should give cats a go at the reins for a while; we're more than qualified. We've been around for thousands of years in spite of countless anti-cat propaganda campaigns. We are intelligent, insightful, and we know that there is more wisdom in victimising grasshoppers than each other. These are only a few of the many positive virtues felis domesticus holds over the average human politician, so why aren't we ruling the world? I believe the answer lies in the flushing toilet. Humans cling dogmatically to the use of so-called modern facilities. However, if you could pinpoint the quality found most lacking in human officials, it'd likely be humility. (And, trust me, there's no way to maintain a static level of pride when you have to scrape around in a sandbox for fifteen minutes prior to evacuating your bowels.) We cats are humble in excess when compared to the ridiculous pride displayed by the self-professed rulers of the world. Though, with the way politicians sling dirt these days, the sandbox isn't exactly practical, is it?

Perhaps the flushable toilet isn't the seat of all mankind's woes; pride, on the other paw, isn't so easily exonerated. Excessive pride is probably the most damaging element in the world today, and humans are famous for it. Now, couple that with a conspicuous lack of scruples and you have a society full of envy, strife, deceit, selfishness, and contention. Sound familiar?

I've learned a couple of things from this brief consideration of human civilisation: Firstly, I actually appreciate not having to share my sandbox with a filthy human. Furthermore, you can't legislate morality. If you could, malicious stupidity would be something found only in history books.

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Mr. Humphries' Agony Session #1

2005-09-27T20:09:00.000-08:00

WRITER'S NOTE: Since this is the first agony session on Housecat Wisdom, I'd like to thank my readers for their overwhelming show of support. Your questions are very much appreciated. Furthermore, I'd like it known that I pity you all, and that I'm ecstatic to be one borne of cat and not of woman. Mum's Milk, but you're a load of complainers the lot of you!

Yours Purringly,
Mr. W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Dear Mr. Fleez,

Why do some women stay with men who treat them bad? I have a friend who is always whining about her bf of three years, but she won't break up with him! How do you help someone who acts like they want help but never takes your suggestions?

Sincerely,
Weary of whining - NSW, Australia.

Dear Weary,

It's odd how often this question rises among humans. I'm frequently asked why a human will remain in a romantic situation with another human who treats her badly, but the parallel, why humans remain in friendships where the other is chronically whinging about that which they have no intention of improving, seems to go unasked.

As a cat, I see things unsullied by sentiment. Humans, however, aren't so fortunate. This is where the real problem lies; they can't make a single decision without the corrosive element of emotion. People are emotional creatures with a vast and eclectic sea of circumstances, both past and present. This sea shapes the way they think or, more often, don't think.

For many, cats especially, dealing with a person who dithers about in an abusive relationship is like listening to a deep gong: at first it's startling and the lingering vibration haunts you, but it takes only a few bashes to become unnerving and pointless. The future inclination is to avoid the clamour and move on. In the turbulent mix of human stupidity, however, there are bound to be some who enjoy the percussion. The echo stays with them, offering not disturbance, stress, or annoyance, but rather the comfort of feeling important and essential. They like being a part of someone else's drama. They stay around and listen; they offer a shoulder to cry on and are quick with suggestions, and above all they give the whiners what they want -- attention.

To a creature of reason, it seems inconceivable that anyone would deliberately gravitate to whiney people who have loads of emotional cargo. But ask yourself, what do these self-styled agony aunts do after they've listened and reasoned and begged and pleaded with their friends to get out of whatever circumstances in which they are "stuck"? They go whining to another about how taxing it is trying to reason with someone so unreasonable. When that person tries to offer them suggestions, they don't take them. They complain about their emotional parasites to someone else and thus become emotional parasites themselves.

I guess the most precise way to answer your question is this: The devil you know is always better than that which you don't. Many humans allow fear, a potent emotion, to govern their lives. Under its influence they'll stay in a bad situation rather than leave and be forced to face the unknown devils that await them. It feels safer and easier to stay with the familiar and rely on friends for emotional support.

If you are that friend, you are being sucked on by an emotional parasite who doesn't really want your help as much as your sympathy. You can do nothing to help such a person unless she is first willing to help herself. Alternately, if you are playing the emotional host, you're likely playing the emotional parasite as well. I suggest you assess your personal relationships, platonic or otherwise, and honestly evaluate the role you play in each. Until then I'll be waiting for another e-mail addressed New South Wales in which the reader asks basically the same question only regarding a friend who's always whining about how she can't seem to extract herself from the personal dramas of others.

Yours Purringly,
Mr. W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Curiosity May Kill You Quickly, but Sentiment Lingers Like a Plague.

2005-09-20T20:52:00.000-08:00

Unlike cats, humans are highly susceptible to making mistakes. On occasion they may think they're doing the right thing only to realise that their actions are, in fact, excusable only when carried out by a drunken baboon on heroine. I hand the credit to their species' woeful lack of understanding in the field of human nature. Often they are so rapt in their own personal dramas that they fail to appreciate the penalty of consequence. The real problem, however, is when they become entangled in the drama of another.

There is an adage which reads: "A wise enemy is better than a foolish friend." I suppose that's true, but who's really the fool in that friendship? My self-proclaimed owner has one friend who can't seem to get things straight. Like a twit, she keeps trying to reason with her. She wasn't ignorant of this person's instability and abysmal judgment, yet she allowed herself to be drawn in and is now feeling the ravaging effects of associative negativity.

It reminds me of that which happened to Mildred, a large, football-shaped tomcat who used to prowl the neighbourhood every Thursday. He was in the habit of fraternising with Freckles, a lippy feral who eventually met with an SUV on the street below my flat window. I can't say if Freckles had a brain, but were I pressed to guess, the answer would be no. Then, Mildred was none-too-bright for hanging around with him.

One evening (I believe it was in spring) Freckles and Mildred met with a skunk. Mildred tried talking Freckles into running, but Freckles stubbornly refused. I don't need to tell you all the details, but the skunk found fault with something Freckles said and sprayed them both. After that Mildred wasn't allowed out at night. As for Freckles,well, when Sylvia got a whiff of him, she took off across the road, and, imbecile that he was, he followed. Ultimately he paid with his life.

Now, as I watch my self-proclaimed owner worrying late into the night, crying intermittently, and questioning what more could've been done to prevent her friend's foolhardy actions, I can't help recognising the lessons in these scenarios. Firstly, never challenge a skunk to a pissing duel, and secondly, if you're stupid enough to mix in with someone who does, you're both going to suffer.

READERS! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Differentiating Between Discerning And Demanding.

2005-09-13T08:14:00.000-08:00

At home, I call the chorus when it comes to cat food. If I ask for a particular brand of sliced chicken in gravy, that is what I expect to get. Humans, however, are conniving monsters, and they'll try their best to switch up the brands when you're not looking. It is important, therefore, that a cat educate himself in brand specifics. (Ever since finding a brand-x tuna tin cluttering up the rubbish bin, I've become somewhat of a moist cat food connoisseur.)

I don't mean to sound extreme, but housecats do have rights. After all, we're the ones who purr and roll about on the floor for the entertainment of our self-proclaimed owners. You didn't think those difficult poses came naturally, did you? Well, they don't. It can take years to master cleaning one's hamstrings whilst perched on the mantle or the back of a rickety chair. Face it, that leg-up, back-bent, head-tucked-under position isn't nearly as cushy as a simple lick of the paw swipe of the ear. Besides, anyone could do that old cliché. No, a skilled cat deserves the finest tuna, and that is all they should be obligated to eat.

Furthermore, for the benefit of those who dismiss me as insufferably picky, I put it to you this way: If a skilled electrician took a job in a foreign country, demanding the salary equivalent of two thousand American dollars a week, he'd be a fool to disregard the exchange rate. The same it goes with housecats, myself in particular: If you're paying the piper, you'd better be able to recognise the tune for which you call. Otherwise, they'll play you any old rubbish, and you'll never know the difference.

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

Housecats Have it Tougher Than You'd Think.

2005-09-06T20:02:00.001-08:00

This post has been removed for purrsonal reasons.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short)

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

They Say There's a Sucker's Born Every Minute; He's Probably a Dog-Lover.

2005-08-30T11:30:00.000-08:00

I read recently that when humans cracked the genome felis domesticus they found an entire strand dedicated to cynicism. It wasn't a surprise; most of the cats I know, myself included, are cynical from the womb. I suppose that's why I don't understand dog people. They'll go to almost any length to collect dog things. Whether it's a pedigree or a packet of pencil ends they'll pay anything as long as it's shaped after, fashioned for, or borne of a canine.

You may find yourself thinking, 'Come now, my dear, sweet Wilberforce; cat people are just as bad.' However, it isn't the same. Cats have been venerated by humans for millennia, and rightfully so. After all, what dog is able to curl up in their self-proclaimed owner's lap and purr contentedly? None. And were it not for some bad press spun out by a lot of jealous poodles, the mousing prowess of the grand feline race may have curbed the black plague long before it wiped out half of Europe. (I have heard that weimaraners were to blame for the Salem witch hunts, but I've no proof to tout it as fact.)

I am told that dogs have many talents which humans find useful. Yes, they're very good at playing the mindless servant card, aren't they? Most people are suckers for that little confidence trick. Stop feeding them, though, and see how long it takes faithful Ol' Rover to go Cujo all over you. Cats may not fetch your slippers or newspaper, but, when starving, we'd much prefer a juicy mouse, a centipede, or a lovely fat spider over the flesh of a human. Dogs, on the other hand, have been known to maul people when deprived of their kibble.

Then, I can't say that I've nothing personal against the species. Unfortunately, I once roomed with a cocker spaniel, and she left a terrible impression of dogs with whomever she met. Her breath was terrible, she reeked of sebaceous oils, she chewed her haunches fanatically, and she was a pathological liar. I learnt quite a few lessons living with her. Firstly, never lay behind a dog who's just dined heavily from the rubbish bin. Secondly, never leave kibble for later if there's a dog about. And, most importantly, never, never trust a cocker spaniel in a balaclava no matter what they tell you.

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

The Number One Benefit of Indoor Living: Sweet Vindication.

2005-08-23T11:44:00.000-08:00

During my time as a housecat, I've heard many feral taunts about my sedentary, anti-cat lifestyle. Initially, I took offence, but before long I recognised a startling commonality linking my antagonists: Most are flippant and lippy outdoor cats who stroll through the garden on their way to the road, where they are often squashed into the concrete by a fast-passing SUV driven by a dog-lover. Such occurrences are admittedly tragic, but they do bring me a morbid sense of vindication.

After the first jeer/smear incident, I tried to warn the others as they caterwauled past the window of my first-floor flat. I've since stopped bothering, and now it's become a bit of a personal fixation. In fact, I keep a running log these days. For instance, that shabby tabby, Freckles, holds the record for the shortest interval between jeer and smear. "Hey housecat!" he hissed, slinking past on his way to chase Sylvia, a sly Siamese, "bet your bum's gettin' sore sittin' there watchin' the world go by! You wouldn't know what to do with yourself out here, softy!" Next thing you know, Sylvia darted out, he followed, and SMASH! She never did like Freckles. Personally, I think she had it in for him.

Nonetheless, the incident reminds me of some valued advice spoken by an old housecat who once lived in the flat across the hall. Firstly, always let a Siamese girl make the first move, and secondly, no matter what you stand for there's always someone waiting to knock you down. Just consider the source and remember, when it's all over and done, he who laughs last, laughs best.

READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.

It's Good To Be The Cat.

2005-08-19T23:43:00.000-08:00

There are few things more enjoyable than a
restful evening of relaxing on the eiderdown.

akw: Grooming salons, Decorations, Kitty Condos, Cat Trees, Cat Toys, Cat nip, Teasers, Lazers, Treats.