Oxbow's World

Ha! I got your attention with that silly statement, didn’t I? Well apparently someone out there didn’t think such logic was silly because if you’ll notice that photo montage that hangs behind my basement perch, you’ll see that it reads Cats are people too! It’s full of photos of my predecessor, Carrot.

I don’t know how Carrot felt about it, because I never met the elderly gentleman, but I sure object to being lumped in with a species that has committed the sort of atrocities and misdeeds that humans have!

Now don’t get me wrong: I know that not all humans are bad. After all, I was adopted by two of the most wonderful mamas a guy could hope for. And I know there are many more out there like them, including my godmother Joyce. It’s just that ridiculous statements get my fur up.

If I could, I would take some paint and change it to read Cats are family too! because I think that’s the sentiment that was intended. Mama G would be proud, since she used to be an editor.

And I am definitely proud to be a part of this family.

So what’s wrong with this picture? I’ll give you a hint: It’s August, and the window is closed.

Those of you who live in New England know what I’m talking about. It’s been pretty darn cool most of the summer!

And that got me to thinking about something. I’ve heard humans talk about the “dog days of summer” — those incredibly hot, uncomfortable days, often occurring in August — but there is apparently no similar phrase involving cats. Now I don’t want to sound like a victim, but I think we cats are underrepresented in language and popular culture. This is especially true when you consider that an estimated 85.8 million cats are owned in the United States, compared with 78 million dogs, according to the American Pet Products Association. Not that you can ever really own us, but that’s another story.

So I’m proposing that we start referring to unseasonably cool days during the summer as the “cat days of summer.” Because we cats are nothing if not cool, right?

Mama C snapped this photo this morning while cleaning the deck with water and vinegar. Call me strange, but man, I just LOVE the smell of vinegar! I hear it does an excellent job, too, on most cleaning projects.

And yes, I am a very big boy! If only I could learn how to work that handle …

Astute readers may have noticed that I didn’t say “steps to recovery,” and kudos to you for noticing! My word choice was deliberate, because this post has nothing to do with addiction. Rather, it is about this little game I like to play, which goes something like this: Whenever I see one of my mamas about to descend the stairs, I bolt down them first, aiming right for her ankles, then zigzag back and forth. And then — and this is the best part — I wait for her “recovery”! It’s always especially entertaining if she happens to be carrying a laundry basket!

Yeah, I know, it sounds a little vicious, but that is not my intention. I think all cats like to play this game. We’re just kind of hard-wired that way. I guess maybe this post is about addiction after all!

Oh, and for the astute folks again, yes, there are only 7 steps visible in this photo, but trust me, there are 12 in all. And why wouldn’t you trust a guy like me?

You are absolutely correct, that is not me! So what is this feline interloper doing on my blog? Well, there’s a story behind it, of course.

My mamas just got back from another one of their getaways. This time they were spending a night at an inn in New Hampshire to celebrate Mama G’s birthday. Happy birthday, Mama G! She’s about 253 in cat years, so I guess all those veggies and exercise are working!

Anyway, I can tell when Those Two have missed me during one of their adventures, because they always come back with a photo or photos of cats they met along the way. The handsome fellow above is Yoda, the resident cat at the Chesterfield Inn in West Chester, New Hampshire. Now I’m not sure I’d like inn living, since I’m pretty shy around people I don’t know, but the job apparently suits Yoda quite well.

Besides Yoda, Those Two are still talking about the delicious dinner they had at the inn and the wonderful hospitality there. I’m glad they had a good time, but I’m also glad they’re back home with me, where they belong. I’m pretty spoiled, too.

First of all, I have to say that if Mama G is going to pull this kind of stunt, she really needs to invest in Photoshop. Sometimes cut-and-paste just doesn’t cut it! Maybe I need to find a new publicist. I sure do look dashing in uniform, though, don’t I?

Anyway, the point of today’s post is to tell you about how I feel a certain kinship with the late Princess Diana, even though I never had the pleasure of meeting her.  Like Diana, I am constantly hounded by paparazzi! Well, actually I am mostly hounded by a single photographer, which would be paparazzo, but that just sounds too weird for my ears.

So yesterday, for example, there I was, lounging in my favorite chair, when Mama G suddenly appeared, camera in hand, and stuck a freshly sliced lemon right in my face! I mean, c’mon! And it didn’t stop there. I fled to the basement, where in a little while Mama G, the camera and the lemon all reappeared in my field of vision, apparently because she didn’t get the results she was hoping for the first time.

This scene repeated itself a third time, upstairs in the window, where Mama G, while still not exactly satisfied, finally gave up. Jeez, you’d think she’d know by now that I’m a cat, and I’ll do what I want!

I know she’s just trying to help me here, but sometimes a guy just wants some peace and anonymity. I can only imagine how difficult it was for Diana.

The Human says …

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

Oxbow says …

When life gives me lemons, I have a right to be a sourpuss.

So I’ve heard my Mama G talk about a game that she and the other humans at her former workplace used to play in which participants would decide which actor or actress would play whom if ever there were a movie made about the place. Apparently Mama G’s coworkers thought Jamie Lee Curtis would be a fine choice to play her, and she was OK with that.

It got me to thinking about who I would like to play me in the hypothetical movie, and it only took me a second to come up with the answer: Sam Elliott. Why? Well, there’s the obvious: his voice! I mean, who can resist that, man or woman? OK, and he has a fine set of whiskers, too. But mostly, it’s the voice.

You see, I have this problem. On the outside, I’m as manly as can be. I look tough, and buff, but the minute I open my mouth, the jig is up! I let out this tiny little kitten squeak. It’s really embarrassing!

So when I hear Sam speak, my tail just tingles. Wait, is that a little too weird, as in “the love that dares not speak its name”? Oh well, whatever … it is what it is.

And for those of you who aren’t familiar with Sam’s voice, here’s a video of him talking about what else: his voice!

And just for the ladies, I’ll add this photo of him in his younger days.

Maybe if Mama G’s dream comes true and I’m famous someday, he can be my voice in the animated movie. Are you listening Sam?

I should mention, too, that Sam has a new movie out, The Hero. Go see it, and revel in that voice!

Is anyone else as bothered by recent headlines as I am? I mean sometimes I just want to scream! Day after day, just when you think it can’t get any worse, it does! It’s like the world has turned into the Theater of the Absurd. Truth is fiction, fiction is truth. I keep hoping I’ll wake up from this dream and find that saner heads are really in charge, but then I remember that we are, after all, talking about humans.

So I just looked up “fox” to see what the definition is, since the word keeps coming up in connection with the news. The definition is kind of interesting:

I’ve noticed for a while now that Those Two often use a completely different voice when they speak to me. Sometimes it’s a pleasant, high-pitched, singsong kind of voice, and at other times its a humorous voice that sounds as if they’ve been inhaling helium.

And then there’s that really creepy voice they use when they’re greeting me after an absence, usually first thing in the morning or after one of their vacations. They drag out one of my nicknames in a voice that sounds like it belongs to a drunken, deranged clown who’s been a chain-smoker for years.

“Mr. Jaaaaaaaangles!” they growl.

I know they’re not the only humans who do this kind of thing in the presence of cute animals — and babies — because I’ve witnessed it in others as well.

Well, there was really no point to any of this. Just wondering what makes those wacky humans tick …

Oh, and I hope that last image won’t keep you up tonight. I’ve been told humans aren’t terribly fond of clowns.