Tag Archives: cats

Chicks dig it.

Found in a 1903 issue of Life magazine.

Odds and ends:

A portière (mentioned at the bottom of the ad) is a hanging curtain placed over a door or doorway. I am not sure if a beaded curtain officially qualifies as a portière, but why not, eh?

Online, I found a couple of variations of the Lewando’s mother cat delicately and lovingly hanging the chicks up to dry, and when in color, each of the clothespinned chicks is a different color. Probably because of their dyeing services, but maybe just because it’s cute. Dye hard.

“Cleansing” sounds much more elegant and thorough than “cleaning”. You can probably charge more for it.

Sometimes Lewando’s has an apostrophe, and sometimes Lewandos doesn’t have an apostrophe. Lewando does what Lewando wants.

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Wisdom

Whisper admonished me for failing to reach a zen state because I stress about things I should no longer care about.

“If you give somebody a perfectly grilled steak and they take it and slather shampoo and gravel all over it and then complain that it isn’t any good, that’s on them, not you. Meow.”

Whisper is wise.

Inceptional!

Whisper the Wonder Puss achieves the legendary Cat in a Box in a Box in a Box in a Box position.

So many boxes, so little time.

Toitoitoi

Time to learn a little German — a German cat food (I hope) magazine ad from the 60s.

Toitoitoi — You’re going to like this word.

Goodnight, Sweet Vixen

vixenatshelter80

I wasn’t supposed to like her.

I had gone to Central Dakota Humane Society looking for a calico, and there were a few. It was great fun meeting them all.

And then I was told there was one more in quarantine along with a sister and two brothers. They had been abandoned during the night at the shelter.

The calico was Patchie — You know her as Cricket these days. There was a black and white boy with an impressive overbite named Sylvester. There was a tumbly orange fella named Nipper. And lastly, there was an adorable doof with orange and white fur and a single canine tooth named Sophia.

I wasn’t supposed to like her.

As I sat on a chair inside the quarantine, Sophia came right up to me, stood up and put her front feet on my leg to check me out, purred, hopped into my lap and then hopped on my shoulder like a parrot.

And then she hopped into my heart. Continue reading

Cricket is very brand-conscious.

cricketdocmartens

And always stylish.

Cricket Discovers Tchaikovsky

‘zausted

Cricket and Vixen doing what they do best.

Kitty Noir Excerpt with Cricket and Vixen (photoset)


“It’s going to take both of us to finally bring down El Dyson.”


“I.. I don’t know if I’m strong enough, Cricket. Remember what El Dyson did to me in Madrid?”


“Of course I remember Madrid, Vixen. I also remember you saying El Dyson must be stopped. I… I can’t do this without you.”


“Let’s do this thing. But first, a nap.”
“Of course. And then perhaps another nap.”
“Of course. For strength.”
“For strength.”

A Fluffy Farewell

Today my family said goodbye to our huge and fluffy country cat, Fluffy. He was 16.

Actually, he was Dad’s cat, selected from a litter of feral farm kittens somewhere up North not long after I had moved back to Bismarck.

My fondest memories have to be from the late 90s when Dad would occasionally drive into town, come in through the side door of the agency, walk up the stairs while carrying his surprisingly-well-behaved Fluffy in his arms, and look for me. Just to say hi.

Because that was the sort of thing that Dad did.

Dad and Fluffy made quite the pair. And Fluffy managed to live on for over eleven more years after Dad passed away. Mom took over where Dad left off.

But Fluffy had grown old. Limping. Confused. Mom called me during the day to tell me it was time. I agreed, but it still hurt.

I like to think that somewhere high up above, Dad heard a quiet mew that he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. Smiling, he turned around and looked down to see Fluffy staring back up at him. Dad bent down, scooped Fluffy up into his arms, and started walking around to show Fluffy off to his friends.

Because that’s the sort of thing that Dad does.

Rest in peace, Fluffy. And no bitey.