- Joined
- Aug 8, 2005
- Messages
- 11,048
First, meet our cat, Gnarly. Named when she first squeezed out, the runt and last of the litter. Being partially composed of Siamese heredity she has that nerve rending siren like quality to her meows. To this she has added an extensive repertoire with her making 17+ syllable comments about everything on the planet roughly 8 times per minute, 18 hours a day.
So I'm sitting here at the computer as always in the morning and Gnarly is out on the porch serenading the world as usual. She only has three occupations in life which is all her minuscule brain could possibly handle. (She makes Pooh, the bear of very little brain, look like a nuclear physicist): Shredding the couch, chasing geckos and dreaming of catching one of the birds she can see from the porch. Fact: she sometimes forgets to eat then gets startled when she hears her tummy rumbles. She has also fallen off the porch roof 4 times and, not being an upstanding member of the Intrepid Feline Expeditionary Forces she climbs the nearest anything then meeeeeeeeeews piteously for rescue from the dog who would like nothing better than to roll her around in the dirt with his nose.
I hear Gnarly as I tripe/type. Something is wrong. Her meews are truncated to one syllable affairs, rather muted, and extremely repetitious. Looking out the window all becomes clear. The Myna birds have finally figured out she is the penultimate clutz of the feline world and poses no threat whatsoever to them on their lofty perches. One in a tree and two on the overhead eave of the roof are catcalling her mercilessly. Gnarly, hunched and affronted to the degree that for the first time in her life she is unable to voice her own comments sits on the hip of the porch roof looking miserable.
I rescue her from the bird tirade and she hurries downstairs to sit hunched up in the cat time out basket, unable to even get up the oomph for a mini serenade and refusing to look out the window at the Mynas zipping past making cat calls.
Gnarly. If anything, even gnarlier once she grew up
Awwww! Did your parents lose a bet with god?
Crooked nose, bug eyed, bald faced, ... what else could you call her?
So I'm sitting here at the computer as always in the morning and Gnarly is out on the porch serenading the world as usual. She only has three occupations in life which is all her minuscule brain could possibly handle. (She makes Pooh, the bear of very little brain, look like a nuclear physicist): Shredding the couch, chasing geckos and dreaming of catching one of the birds she can see from the porch. Fact: she sometimes forgets to eat then gets startled when she hears her tummy rumbles. She has also fallen off the porch roof 4 times and, not being an upstanding member of the Intrepid Feline Expeditionary Forces she climbs the nearest anything then meeeeeeeeeews piteously for rescue from the dog who would like nothing better than to roll her around in the dirt with his nose.
I hear Gnarly as I tripe/type. Something is wrong. Her meews are truncated to one syllable affairs, rather muted, and extremely repetitious. Looking out the window all becomes clear. The Myna birds have finally figured out she is the penultimate clutz of the feline world and poses no threat whatsoever to them on their lofty perches. One in a tree and two on the overhead eave of the roof are catcalling her mercilessly. Gnarly, hunched and affronted to the degree that for the first time in her life she is unable to voice her own comments sits on the hip of the porch roof looking miserable.
I rescue her from the bird tirade and she hurries downstairs to sit hunched up in the cat time out basket, unable to even get up the oomph for a mini serenade and refusing to look out the window at the Mynas zipping past making cat calls.
Gnarly. If anything, even gnarlier once she grew up
Awwww! Did your parents lose a bet with god?
Crooked nose, bug eyed, bald faced, ... what else could you call her?
Last edited:
