Here’s my entry for next week’s The Carnival of the Cats. Don’t read if catblogging’s not your thing. Don’t even look at the picture. Just…just…go away. But if catblogging is your thing, here you go. It’s okay. You can look at it.
The tortoiseshell at the top with the glowing eyes is Moku, a.k.a. Baby Moku. She’s the CI’s (Civilizing Influence’s) cat. She’s afraid of me and doesn’t much care for the other cats.
The marmalade tabby on the left is Conroy, a.k.a. Connie, a.k.a. Furry Con. He’s twenty pounds, all (beer) muscle. He’s not afraid of me, but he’s mad at me (and not the CI for some reason) because we got the third cat.
The third cat is Cyrus, a.k.a. The Worst Cat in the Whole World. He’s about a year old now, but childhood illness stunted his growth. His best friend is Conroy, but Conroy doesn’t know it.
Cyrus got his nickname (WCitWW) quite recently as a direct result of his behavior when I was painting the guest bathroom. The other cats were somewhat frightened at the loud noise of the plastic dropcloth crinkling so they stayed away from the room, but Cyrus’ curiosity overcame his fear just as I was painting the baseboards. He’d apparently jumped up on the sink where the roller pan (full of paint) was sitting, and when I turned around, I saw that he’d literally stepped in it and was peering at the identical cat in the mirror. When I quickly stood up to grab him, Cyrus panicked, made a quick turn (smearing paint all over the mirror in a vaguely Cyrus-shaped splatter), and ran out of the room, leaving yellow cat-prints on the floor. The carpeted floor. “Jesus Christ!” I shouted, chasing him down the stairs, into the kitchen, and down to the family room. Thoroughly terrified now, Cyrus jumped onto the sofa, and when I saw Humble Gold footprints on the armrest, I couldn’t help it; in dismay I hollered, “Stopppppp!” an exclamation that failed to impress upon the cat the idea that I’d prefer it if he’d quit running around. A moment later, as he paused to see which way he should run next, I managed to calm myself and make nice “sssppsssppss heere kitty kitty” sounds, which calmed him down, and got him trotting happily over. “See? Daddy’s not mad any more. Cyrus is a good cat,” I murmured, and when he got within range, I snatched him up, wiped him off with an old dishcloth, and imprisoned him in the basement so I could clean up the mess.
Luckily, I caught him as he was doing it, instead of discovering cat footprints all over the house two hours later like those moronic “This is where Billy went today” Family Circus comic strips. Hence, the paint was still wet, and with generous applications of paper towels and water, the mess was cleaned up fairly well. The color and weave of the carpet hides the rest. My first instinct was to dip the rest of him in paint and use him as a paintbrush to finish the bathroom, but my better nature won out: I washed him off in the shower. None the worse for his harrowing experience, he forgot all about it once he dried off. He still has a tiny bit of paint on his front claws, but that should wear off in the coming days.
From now on, he stays in the basement when we paint.