There ain't nothin' bettah for a broken heart than an extra long cat nap.

We alls gots our down days, and even though I likes to think of myself as a cat who would ratha meow in the rain than uh, use an umbrellah, I ain't budgin' from my bed today.

Last night, in tha middle of rehearsin' for the lead paht in this new drama abouts a cat who fights adversity cause he ain't got no tail, a real tear jerkah it's supposed to be, I hears some knockin' on my door.  Ends up being Puddles, one of my most loyal nip transportahs.  Ain't much between those eahs, but man, Puddles is fast with the nip, whewie!

Anyways, Puddles looks kinda upset, hes actin' like the cat gots his tongue or somethin', ha ha Mrow!  Then he tells me Loretta justs gots engaged to Rocco.  When I hears this, I acts all tough; there ain't no way I am cryin' in fronts of ol' Puddles.  I may be down, but I gots a reputation to maintain.  I tells him it ain't no big deal, even yawn and stretch for emphasis.  Once Puddles leaves, somethin takes ovah me, I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't even clean myself.  The broad tries to talk to me but I locks her out of my room.  Tells her i'm sleepy. 
When i finally gets to sleep, I have dreams all night, dreams of the time Loretta and I first met.  I was on the island of Roatan, Honduras, makin' a big nip deal,Lloretta was there having a quartah life crisis, trying to find herself...Well she found something', and it had to do with me, if ya knows what i mean, ha ha Mrow!  We were inseperable evah since, until the bottom fell out and i finds myself out with tha alleycats and her in Rocco's paws.  

So here's I am.  Loretta-less, living with the broad, and chasing the oaf out of my bed.  Ay yi yi!

If there's one thing a cat needs in this world, it's a bed, and uh, maybe some tuna snacks.

So, uhs, I gots a problem.  Well, ok a few problems.  It’s a regular dog day aftanoon over here, ha ha Mrow!   Whewie.  If living with the grabby broad who likes to swing me around and call me “cuddle pants” isn’t enough, I now gots to deal with this oaf.  Likes to sleep on my side a da bed, in my spot.  Doesn’t even leave me my pillow. And just between youse and me, I don’t think this cat is getting a Harvard degree or nothing anytime soon, neither.  I mean, he ain't seem to realize that I used to run this town.  So bein tha persistant type, I gives him my look.  The look I used to give to those no-good alleycats when they were tryin to get some nip for free.  Tha look that earned me the nickname “ironjaws kitty cat.”  Then I thinks taht will do it, hes gonna recognize me.  But ya know what, he didn’t.  Sos I's composed a back-up plan.  It required a lotta brain powah and even more ingenuity, but I thinks its gonna work.

1.       If stare fails, jump into oaf’s face.  Try to sit on it.  Give a wahning meow that youse are heading in.

2.       If the sit does not seem to move the oaf, start to walk on certain parts of his body.  Recommendations include the head, the back, and the sweet spot, if ya know what I means.  Ha ha mrow!

3.       If oaf is still noncompliant with your wishes, use the ol’ lick and breath technique.  Lick any parts of tha oaf’s head, especially the eyes.  Be sure to eat some tuna beforehand to make sure your breath is particularly ripe.  I likes to call it the one two punch, haha, mrow!

4.       If the lick and breath does not work,  it’s times for tha all nightah.  Only use this, I repeat, only use this, if no otha prior techniques ain’t workin.  Prepare yourself for eight hours of no sleep. Rotate from jumpin on the bed, knockin things off tables, and meowing.

5.       If this ain’t workin, go see a therapist.

Before ya gots your own tropical island, ya gots to spend some time in the kiddie pool.

My agent told me dat dese modeling shots were da first step to makin' it big.  After a few glasses of scotch, I got around to seein' her point of view.  She says, first comes Play Kitty nudie mags, then comes kitty international stardom.

I hears Garfield did it, and look where he is now.  A comic strip, movies with that heartbreakah, Jennifer Love Hewitt. Anyday now, Ima gonna be getting fed chicken livahs by Angelina Jolie and Loretta will be begging for me to take her back.  Ha ha.  Mrow!

Life Ain't Peaches and Cream All of the Time.

Ay yi yi, I didn’t think ol’ windbags was evah gonna shut up.  I felt sorry for the broad, she ain’t come from the same background as I do, doesn’t garnah the respect that a famous cat like me does, so  thought I’d be nice, let her write a few lines.  Next thing I know she’s writing a sermon or sumthin’ and has gots the whole room asleep.  Just goes to show, ya give sumbody an inch, she'll take a mile.

Anyway, back ta business.  Some of youse might recognize me from a few yeahs back.  I was one of tha real high rollahs, the what da ya call it, the crem de la kitty cream.  I was wheelin’ and dealin’, couldn’t nobody else in the catnip bidness touch me.  Tha nip ya needed, I hads it.  Salmon flavah, tuna flavah, even had a lobstah and haddock combo.  Coulda had my pick of the prettiest Persians, but I had my girl, Loretta.  Ain’t nobody got me bettah, and mrow, she was a beaut.  We were invited to all tha big parties.  Life was grand.  Loretta was on my arm and the dough was flowin claw ovah paw.  Then wes all know what happens, the mahket falls out.  Suddenly , every feline out there is cutting backs on their nip supply.  I have to sell tha gold plated littah box I gots.  That was the last straw for Loretta.  Next thing I know, she leaves me and starts prowlin around with the new guy in town, Rocco somebodys.  I can’t even gets a room at tha sphinx hotel anymore. 

From 1,000 count bed to sink.  Ay yi yi, but a cat's gots to do what a cat's gots to do.  i'm tellin ya though, that silver thing ain't too soft on the tooshie, whewie.

An old colleague slips me a pictuah of Loretta's new guy, Rocco.  Supposedly he's gots a few nightclubs downtown.  Sheesh, Loretta doesn't even like grey hair!

After a few nights finishing off my nip supply and hangin with the alleycats, I decide I gots to do sumthin.  I gotta, whats it called, reinvent myself.  I gots to be a renaissance cat.  Whewie, I ain’t gots to the top of the nip bidness without having sum smahts.  Plus, not too many cats out there gonna rival these whiskers.  So, I swallow my pride and move in with tha abroad above.  Staht to consider acting.  I means, whats it gotta take besides good looks and a few flicks of the tail?  And those two things I gots.  Start pouring ovah scripts, holding rehearsals in my new place.  Realize I need an outlet for my emotions.  Staht writing my thoughts down.  Realize that otha people need to know all this wisdom I gots up in tha ‘ol noggin.  Realize maybe that Loretta will see tha real me again, and leave that slob, rocco whatshhisname.  As that saying goes, us cats, wes got nine lives, and well, I gots at least that many.

Bernard Nies: An Unlikely Muse

Welcome to Chronicles of a Bad Kitty, my foray into the online phenomenon we all know as blogging.  My cat Bernie was generous enough to let me post an introduction before he starts enlightening the masses.  At first, the Bern man was hesitant that I would muddy his reputation or misrepresent him in some way, but after I told him my intro would be only to prepare the audience for his unrivaled grandeur and insight, he decided that a post by me would be fitting.

I wanted to provide a little context to the origins of this blog and my history as a cat owner, or in Bernie’s humble opinion, a cat houseguest.  I promise it won’t be TOO much of a snore.  I adopted Bernie in August 2009, after finally wading through the sorrow of having to put my first cat to sleep, Mr. Whiskers (R.I.P. ol’ buddy.)  Anyhow, being a humane society feline, Bern presented himself as just the type of cat I was looking for.  He was male, a bit older, and just the friendliest thing.  Within 5 minutes of meeting Bern (previously named Tiger, I know, THANK GOD I name him Bernie…), I was entranced.  He hopped right up onto me, nuzzled my face, and even threw in a convincing roll-around with a toy.  Due to this behavior, Bernie was in demand.  Finding out that I was not the only one lined up for his affections, I left work midday and adopted him immediately.  Whiskers, my old cat, had been the quirkiest, sweetest, fattest specimen, and I was sure that Bernie could live up to expectations.  Although he was younger and slimmer than Whiskers, whose body shape made you wonder what happened during the birthing process, I saw the potential in Bernie’s eyes.  The mysterious rip in his ear further solidified this potential. 

R.I.P Mr. Whiskers.  In his heyday, Whisk was a ladies man.  This is his profile picture from an online dating site.  Trust me, it is VERY slimming. 

To me, the first few months with Bern were great.  It felt like a match made in heaven.  We learned each other’s sleeping and eating schedules, we bonded over lazy Sunday afternoon lolls, and my roommate, Mandy, even approved of him.  Despite my sunny perspective on the situation, Mand now tells me there were red flags, that my Eve “Love is Blind” demeanor could not recognize.  At a housewarming party, Bern unexpectedly scratched two guests.  I immediately took this as him being overwhelmed with new people, the noise created by the event.  Surely, this was just an error – a minor glitch on the pristine behavioral report that I had in my mind for Bernie. 

Before it all started. Feline/human companion bliss.

Then things started rapidly changing.  Bern started acting like he owned the place.  From plopping himself defiantly in the bathroom sink to refusing certain types of cat food, me and Mand were beginning to feel like tenants in HIS apartment.  The most significant change that followed was Bern beginning to view my roommate as a large, glistening pork chop.  A statuesque six feet tall, Mand was now being chased randomly by Bernie, just waiting to get a delicious taste of the prime meat makeup of her calves.  Although alarmed by this traumatic turn of events, I could not help but adore Bernie, as he loved to be held like a baby and insisted on sleeping curled up next to me every night.  Seeking advice, I called my vet and the humane society.  The humane society graciously agreed to put him under observation for two weeks.  This was a nail-biting time for me.  Anxiety filled my brain, as I wondered how my sweet, misunderstood Bern Bern was handling life back at the humane society.  He surely missed me, so much so that I convinced myself that he was staging a starvation protest until he was back in my arms.  After two weeks were up and I could get the report, I was confronted by a bunch of crazy looks from the humane society employees.  Apparently, Bernie had charmed the pants off of every worker there, sidling up for head nuzzles and even handing out a few licks to the lucky ones.  He even looked a little, PLUMPER.  Something CLEARLY was wrong with me.  Head down, but happy to have my Bern back, I went home, cat carrier in hand.  That day was about a year ago.  To this day, Bern continues to rule the roost, busting into the bathroom when he pleases, leaving presents around the house when he is mad, and finding time to still harass Mandy, although with much less frequency.  80 percent of the time though (ok this might be a slight exaggeration), Bernie is a needy doll, ready to sleep in with me, furiously lick my forehead, and guard the premises. 

The beginning.  Of the end.

Awhile back, as a joke, I started posting random pictures of Bernie on my Facebook page under an album called Chronicles of a Bad Kitty.  I envisioned Bernie as a self-absorbed, arrogant gangster type, down on his luck due to the economic downfall.  The permanent rip on his ear from a mysterious scuffle that to this day we do now know about.  People started to tell me to turn it into a blog.  At first I laughed it off, I am not much of a blog person, and well, did I REALLY want to present myself so transparently as a cat lady?  This hesitation lasted for about...two days, and then I was like, what the heck, I should give it a whirl.  And this is how Chronicles of a Bad Kitty came to fruition.  I hope you enjoy Bernie, or at least have a hearty chuckle at my expense.