Wordless Wednesday

A Couple of Tasty Morsels

For a year and a half now, as I lounge on the deck, I have heard the lady talking to someone or something inside the house.

As you are probably aware, I am an outside cat except for at night, when I am secured in the garage (with food, water, litter box, and a choice of beds to rest in). So, as you might imagine, I was very curious about the creatures inside the house. One day, the lady let me inside for my afternoon snack because the yellow jackets were trying to get at my food. I took a good look around and saw these birds (birds!!) in the "office" aka "bird room." I only got a quick peek because the lady closed the door so I couldn't harass or scare them.

Oh, mustn't disturb the spoiled birds. I mean, seriously? Keeping food as pets? I am very, very disappointed in the lady. She actually named them! Lulu and Mr. Eddie Green (guffaw!). And, now that she has them, she feels bad because she realizes that birds should not be in cages. She said she will take care of them until the end of their days (which, if I had my way, would be sooner rather than later), but no more birds in cages. She got them the largest cage she could find, so they can actually fly a bit, and they have plenty of toys and things to do.

They seem happy as they talk and whistle much of the day. And, she feeds them good seed, broccoli and an egg protein supplement.

To be perfectly honest, I'm a bit ticked off about the whole thing. No one consulted me, the King of Everything, about keeping perfectly good food in a cage. What a waste! And, my research reveals that the Aborigines of Australia agree with me about these birds. Parakeets are also called Budgerigars, which is sort of the English version of the word the Aborigines use for "good to eat." Well, I'll never get to taste them, but I can dream.

Taco on the Roof; Butters in a Tree

The lady was taking care of the landlords' property recently. I usually sneak up the hill to spy on her because I know there are two cats that live there.

Apparently, the boy-cat, Butters, does not care for the girl-cat, Taco. I think this Butters character has some deep-seated psychological issues revolving around food and territory. And I don't mean the run of the mill issues that all cats have. He seems a bit over the top. Whenever he see Taco, he chases her and she runs up a tree and jumps on the roof. For some reason, he doesn't follow her up on the roof. He just sits in the tree watching her until Woody the dog barks at him, and then he comes down.

Now, I don't want either of them in MY territory (even though I sneak up the hill, I'm just out of their range), but I do feel sorry for Taco. She seems a harmless enough feline. She is very small and Butters is a big cat, so she has no choice but to run. The lady thinks if she gives Butters a lot of special attention, then he will realize he has no worries and will relax. Me, I'm not so sure. Some cats don't like other cats. I don't like other cats. Butters is a loner, like me. Don't get me wrong. I'm no psycho. Butters obviously is. I'm just making the observation that he is a loner.

Okay. Enough of the feline Bickersons. I'm just chilling on the balcony. All by my lonesome. Nobody bothering me. Just wake me when dinner is served.

Shady

It is hot. I don't like hot. I have a black fur coat which is a wonderful thing to have in the winter. The summer, not so much. I've made many complaints to the lady about turning down the heat, but for some unknown reason, she refuses to do anything about it. I don't understand this, because she usually indulges my every whim.

My dog-neighbor Woody came for a visit. If you remember from a previous post, we have a somewhat tenuous relationship. We don't quite trust each other. But, as you can see from the photo, we try to get along. We are sharing the shade of an umbrella (although why he gets a bed to lay on and I don't is a mystery to me). There is a nice bowl of cool water nearby. It is a pleasant way to spend a summer afternoon.

A Taste for Quail

Although I was found with a baby quail in my mouth, there is NO proof that I ate said quail. This is my side of the story (and the only 'side' you'll get).

The lady glanced at me and saw two small bird feet sticking out of my mouth. I heard the words, "Oh, no!" and then a demand that I drop it. It was peeping so it was OBVIOUS I hadn't harmed it. The lady made me drop it and then it ran off. She tried to "rescue" it but it ran under some plants and then I got it in my mouth again. The lady couldn't watch, so she left.

Look, I was only playing with it. I let it go. The lady has no proof to the contrary, and there was no physical evidence linking me to anything. No blood or feathers. And, she tells me I can only kill mice and gophers and I left a gopher on the patio for her last night as a sign of good will.

If I ever develop a taste for quail, the lady will know because I will be sporting a smoking jacket and ascot, will hang out in a mahogany-lined library, and I'll be sipping single-malt scotch.

He Who Must Be Obeyed

Here I am checking out the chickens up-close and personal. They seem very interested in me, but not scared (as they should be when a panther is watching them). They sure talk a lot. And that rooster, Nigel. He sure thinks he's something...crowing and strutting around. I'd put him in his place if he wasn't behind that chicken wire. Yeah, I'd put him in his place alright.

Mr. Black is still the King of Everything

Hello everyone. I'm still around and kickin'. Elvis Pussley passed away in December of 2010.

We don't have an internet connection at home, but do visit the library and use the free WiFi. The lady has promised me that she will try and do an update once a week.

I now have chicken tv (heh heh).