January 24, 2012 by sledpress
Upstairs: it is only my bed when they allow me to use it.
Downstairs: it’s not my footstool, either.
(Well, to be fair, it started life as a cat condo, but he’s rather too big for it.)
I guess I’ll go do a few sets of pushups.
I grump. I live for books and barbells. If you were born after US President Nixon resigned, I am old enough to be your mamma, but I will still arm-wrestle you. I am a Woman Of A Certain Age with an Interesting Past, and you have been warned.
If you remain intrepid, you can reach me at
A few years ago I did something silly. But darlings, it was fun.
See, kitties know best. You didn’t want to have a rest, anyway.
They often think I don’t want to work or go online, either. Awkward.
Confirmation , if ever there was one, that cats control a household.
Dogs have owners, cats have staff…
I don’t know why your cats look different each time. The couple on top, this time, for example.
Mercurial creatures, aren’t they?
What, you mean to say you believe you’re entitled even to live in your own house at all? I think not.
But the cats have to have live-in help.
Gatsby has decided that my bed becomes his trampoline at 2AM, so I’ve had to shut him out of my room at night. It’s really scary having a mini-tiger bounce off your head.
Love the pics!
My gentleman friend lives in a house with nine cats, one of whom is a twenty pound yellow-tiger behemoth who chews leisurely on his head at night. Until he is dumped off the bed. Whereupon he comes back for more. “Oops! Sorry, I slipped off!”