Murr Kitty

We adopted Pancho last year because we "needed" another cat, according to EG. I can see "needing" a root canal or "needing" a new transmission, but not "needing" a new cat. If you say "need", I think expensive and/or painful.

As a joke, EG had started calling Amber the So Elusive and Horribly Paranoid That People Think We Made Her Up, "Miss Kitty," kind of a takeoff on Gunsmoke, I guess. So, it followed logically (or at least as logically as things get around here) that Pancho became Mr. Kitty. The kids, of course, pronounced the Mr. phonetically, and he became known as Murr Kitty or Murr-Murr.

Mr. Kitty gets up with me each morning and accompanies me into the bathroom, where he aids in my waking up attempts by chomping on my big toes. If you have trouble rising in the morning, I do recommend this technique--nothing like sharp little canines covered with cat saliva to thrust one into reality in the darkness of a weekday.

Then he "murr"?s at us all until someone (EG) fills his bowl. I do not understand why Mr. Kitty doesn't take the more expedient route and bite EG's toes, but who am I to discern the finer workings of the feline brain. Upon dining, Mr. Kitty zooms hysterically around the house until Amber hisses at him and the dogs bark frantically, and then, having accomplished his work for the day (saliva on toes, check; get bowl filled, check; make sure Amber is awake, check; exercise, check; frustrate large stupid non-feline creatures, check, check, check), he will loudly state "Murr-OW," flick his tail at us, and vanish over the baby gate to the upstairs to sleep with the dust bunnies under Nita's bed until she gets home from school.

Periodically, we will do something different and throw off his routine. For example, Saturday mornings are a bit challenging for him, as EG will wake up earlier than I do on those days. Let me digress and add here that "earlier" is a relative term, as I get up at 5:45 on weekdays and sleep in to the decadent hour of 6:30 on Saturday. Anyway, Murr Kitty will forego the formalities on the weekend and focus on the important stuff: getting himself locked in the basement, where he can cry loudly and rattle the door and make all three dogs bark at once. This getting locked in the basement technique requires great precision, so he times his approach with impeccable finesse, sitting on one of the kitchen chairs under the table, behind the veil of the tablecloth, and waiting for one of the kids to go downstairs for bread, cereal, or something from the freezer. Then he launches himself off the chair and swoops into the stairwell. This is the dangerous part, as the girls like to slam the door if they are in a snit, so more than once Murr Kitty has had a close call with his tail.

While down there, he uses our auxiliary litter box, as it is cleaner than the one upstairs, and doing his thing there prevents anyone from grabbing him and hauling him back up. Generally, I will sweetly ask, "WHAT on EARTH is KEEPING you so long?" in a shrill tone of voice, and the kid who had the unfortunate job of retrieving whatever will announce, "Murr Kitty is down her, and he's going to the bathroom." Then I utter those magic words he is waiting for, "Just leave him down there and GET BACK UP HERE."

Every great once in a while, Mr. Kitty will decide he needs a day off, so we waste an inordinate amount of time looking for him, as we are afraid the dogs have gotten him or he is locked in the attic, another of his great pleasures. Of course, the dogs are then dysregulated and barking, we are all awake, and Amber has filled in and complained until the bowl is full, so he managed to get it all done while lying someplace secluded, squeezing his eyes shut in satisfaction, and undoubtedly pleased with his delegation abilities.