We have a new rug in our living room. Paul Drake approves:
We have a new rug in our living room. Paul Drake approves:
The title is, of course, nonsense. Paul Drake is a cow cat, not a lion. He’s never been confused with Peter O’Toole. And we’re having a mini heat wave in January. In short, it’s a tissue of lies; much like every word uttered by the Impeached Insult Comedian.
Anyway, here’s a picture of PD reclining on my fleece robe; that’s pretty wintry.
Paul Drake’s gotcha season continues with this early picture of the boy on the bed.
I had an epiphany this morning and realized it’s Twelfth Night. Just kidding. I knew that already. Saints fans are drowning their sorrows with King Cake after yesterday’s loss to the Minnesota Vikings. Oh well, what the hell can ya do? Not a damn thing.
In addition to kicking off the Carnival season, Twelfth Night is also Paul Drake’s Gotcha Day. We adopted the mischievous bugger in 2018. Here’s PD’s adoption day picture with Dr. A:
He’s a lucky cat and I’m a lucky man.
Are you ready for some lagniappe lagniappe catblogging? Dennie the Den of Muses Cat has retired from her duties. She’s living at home with her human. Here’s a blast from the past of Dennie with the Spank flag:
The last word goes to Al “Carnival Time” Johnson:
Paul Drake doesn’t like to eat tomatoes unless cheese is involved. He does, however, like sitting on a box of RO-TEL tomatoes, which makes him a spicy tomato box boy.
The last word goes to the Jolly Boys:
I ran this picture back in 2016 of Oscar and Della Street glaring at a faux reindeer. I don’t recall if they pounced but they were certainly riled up. A dirty look from Della was no big whoop but Oscar used his large cartoonlike eyes to charm, not scare.
Meet Flip. His cat guardian Maureen is one of Dr. A’s colleagues. As you can tell from the box, she’s Canadian.
This picture poses the eternal feline question: What’s better than a Christmas tree? A Christmas tree box. I stole that from Maureen’s Facebook feed. Thanks, hon.
Paul Drake lost his collar under something or other. One of these days, we’ll hunt it down but for now he’s a nekkid cat:
Dr. A messed with Paul Drake by obliging him to face the face of a fake feline.
The last word goes to Pete Townshend:
We all still miss Della Street. Here’s a picture Dr. A found on her iPad of Paul Drake grooming his big sister.
Paul Drake is food driven even for a cat. He knows the sound of the refrigerator door opening and shows up just in case there’s something in it for him. Life is a Beggar’s Banquet for PD:
Since I stole the title of my favorite Rolling Stones album, it’s only fitting to post a song from Beggar’s Banquet:
Thing One and Thing Two here have been INCREDIBLY obnoxious the past couple of weeks due to having exhausted the fun possibilities of their scratchers and toys, so we got them some new ones to keep them OFF THE GODDAMN TABLE SLADE:
You’ve heard of double-dipping and double-bagging. Paul Drake is into double-boxing.
Last week I wrote that post about what a bitch Ada was and how she never shuts up about anything ever, so I basically deserve what happened yesterday.
It had been raining all day so Kick and Mr. A and I took advantage of being forced indoors to clean out closets and prep the house for an onslaught of holiday visitors and figure out where the mates to all our gloves had gone over the summer. The cats get profoundly, comically offended when we clean, as if us moving things is a personal affront to them and they were very, very close to the dust bunnies we just cavalierly hoovered up.
Which is why it took me a while to figure out something was up with Ada. She was yowling. Not her usual “hey, pay attention and pet me” yowling. She was YOWLING. “Hey IDIOTS something is WRONG here” and so I spent a good 60 minutes roaming the house with her at my heels. Was her brother trapped in the bedroom? Had she shoved her mouse under a closed door? Had a critter gotten in somehow? What was happening?
Finally I went down into the basement to see if her food bowl was empty again somehow and the moment I stepped off the bottom step onto the floor … squish.
Our basement had flooded before after a torrential downpour, but the rain yesterday wasn’t anything like that. And this wasn’t really a flood, just a damp-ish spot near one wall. Mr. A and I checked the perimeter of the rest of the basement. Nothing. Just this one spot, and Ada looming above it, meowing her best “YO MORONS WHAT DO YOU THINK I’VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU” indignancy.
We couldn’t figure out if the water was coming in or up. It didn’t appear to be spreading, so we went outside, walked the perimeter and discovered a whole-ass swimming pool’s worth of filthy rainwater that was backing up because its normal route out was clogged with leaves and roots and dirt. Mr. A and I got flashlights and shovels and a bucket and started digging and bailing, and pretty soon, all was well.
We might have to replace a small spot of carpet pad, but thanks to Ada, that was it. Our heroine, still not ready to stop saying I TOLD YOU SO:
It’s finally cooling off in New Orleans so it’s time for Paul Drake to decamp to the bedroom and investigate the bedding.
Paul Drake’s love of boxes is well-known. He also likes bags.
Dr. A bought a large cloth tiger head. I had hoped that it would be of interest to Paul Drake. He wasn’t having it. PD was all like: “I refuse to co-operate with your pitiful scheme, human.”
This is the first in a series. When it comes to messing with my cats, I’m persistent.
Slade HATES being brushed. Just hates it. He tries to bite the brush, runs away, yowls as if being tortured, whereas Ada will come running if I wave the Furminator and say “brushy brushy!” The result of which is that she has absolutely no hairballs and a lovely plushy coat and he sits in the corner angrily licking himself and making hork motions.
Dumbass. I love him so much.